Atmanam Vidhi

Probably last month I was reading 'A Critical History of Greek Philosophy,' by W.T. Stace. It is one of the many books that attempted to simplify philosophical concepts for nonprofessionals like me. I enjoyed getting enlightened from cover to cover, although reading contextual philosophy has been so far probational on my part.

The book started out with a general commentary on the definition of philosophy and how it came to be regarded as a discipline in ancient Greece. It went further. Starting out with the Ionics and the Eleatics, it brisked through the Stoics and Neo-Sceptics. But for me as soon as I confronted the Sophists, who featured pretty early on, I took a detour. So far I was made to think my position to that of the universe in terms of the cosmos and God, which was a comfortable situation by all means since in Hinduism we relate ourselves with a cosmogonal philosophy. With the Sophists, concepts became more humanistic and ideas were interpreted through spectrum of materialism. This did not hold my interest. I was already immersed in the dialectics of man and nature intorduced by philosophies of Thales, Anaximenes, or the Orphic ideals of Pythagoras or by the later beliefs of Eleatic School that involved Parmenides and Xenophanes. Their ideas were in keeping with the transcendental views that we find in Hinduism.

The Sophists nearly approximated the 19th c. zeal of Friedrich Nietzsche. I have never been too enthusiastic with the concept of 'God is Dead,' or 'Ubermensch.' Nietzsche must had had reasons to relegate God to obscurity and promote 'man' as the measure of all things;but no wonder in the maze of his own reasonings he himself lost directions and failed to achieve the state of 'overman' and eventually turned insane at 45. A divine vengeance! But let's skip this.

The idea of man at the center of all things, I thought, was putting the cart before the horse and as I said, I changed my course.

In the Bhagavad-gita As It Is, the most authenticated and widely read version of the original text, Swami Prabhupada of ISKON has delivered the purport in exact spirit of the scripture. The introduction itself informs a lot about the underlying sturcture of the Bhagavad-gita and how one must begin reading the text. It also discusses the various religious ideas of the Vedas that are incorporated in the Bhagavad-gita. As I read thourgh, I realized that the framing is more scientific than religious and not only in it is dealing with God alone but also in identifying the position of man in respect to the totality, which is not limited to the idea of scientific universe only. It therefore becomes not just the Greek philosophy, or the Roman philosophy nor even the Hindu philosophy: it subsumes the philosophy of the whole and more as was understod by scholars like Emerson, Thoreau, Whitman, Eliot and many others.

Bhagavad-gita As It Is, can be read and re-read without detours. It is a document that will redoubtably change the perception of living. It is a reference to head off ignorance, which mires the present understanding of Hindusim. It is a living faith that surmounts religion itself. Bhagavad-gita As It Is, is a praxis on all branches of knowledge that exist and will exist.

For me this has been a comforting journey...starting out at the southern most dip of the Balkan peninsula and Pindus mountains to the battlefield of Kuruksetra. I will now leave you here and start off my spiritual tour from here at the battlefield.

sarva-dharman parityajya mam ekam saranam vraja
aham tvam sarva-papebhyo moksayisyami ma sucah

Bg 18.66

The English Egress

In an ironic piece de resistance by the British education system, it has again been proved that when it comes to acceptance of change, Britons are least welcoming, or so it seems. In what may be deemed as irony of fate, Indians examiners are given the charge of marking British 16-year-old school-leavers in their General Certificate of Secondary Education.

Assessment and Qualifications Alliance (AQA), the UK exam board that conducts school-leaving exams has confirmed that the one-word answers in 360,000 exam papers in eight subjects ranging from Biology to Spanish would be sent to India to be keyed in.

The news, worthy of sensationalizing the British tabloids, has vainly piqued the English modesty. The British media have lashed out criticism against the board, which claimed its decision to be ‘cost-effective.’

Oppositions also flowed in from parents and public who labeled the Indian examiners as markers who “can't read English.” At least, (keeping in mind the Westerners’ smug ignorance about India) they should have known that India has more English–speaking individuals than their counterparts in England. The incident has obtrusively pointed out the repressed racism that is far from being dying out in this little sceptered-isle.

After two-centuries of harrowing rule, the order of things have come full circle for Indians. Once, it was the time when India was raped of its resources to grist the mills of Manchester from where finished materials were exported back to India only to be bought overpriced by Indians. It was also the time, when Indians were being trained (either by choice or by force) to learn the language of the ‘sahibs.’ The effort, seemingly aimed to convenience the British at that time have now added to their consternation.

Although not the English, the English Language, known for all its superlatives, has rewarded India with ‘the envy of the world.’ In the face of brisk outsourcing, India since long has been capitalizing on its English language legacy and low cost. A combination, perfected and proved best is making India a global marketplace for skilled manpower with options unmatched anywhere in the world. The move by the British education board, AQA, in a way makes it further tenable.

The stuck-ups in Britain may dismiss the Indian contribution to their education system, but they cannot escape seeing their progeny being evaluated on their mother tongue by a slew of brown-skinned foreigners. If the past has made us learn English, the future will see rendering it-a ‘Reverse Colonialism?”

Let's Talk Cricket With Sense!

In India, people do not talk about anything else for much longer other than cricket or politics. Now, for a while, they are talking cricket, but not with much sense in it. Saurav Ganguly’s recent six-match ban by Chris Broad is making rounds around the coffee tables in India and the cricketing fraternity (in India) has reacted with the expected ambivalence. However, the moot point is whether the ban is a double –edged sword cutting the India captain from both ends.

There is no opposition in thinking that Ganguly has repeatedly strained the warnings, precisely five times in a row since 1998, for rule violations with over rate; a rap was only long overdue. He loused it up last November as well, when Clive Lloyd hastened a two test ban on him, which luckily did not hold up. This time the ban imposed after the Motera ODI against Pakistan came seemingly more heavily upon him because his performance, for over a year now, has been genuinely low, scoring a meager 48 runs in this series and a test-hundred from 2003. Had this been not so, many of his fans would not even bother a pout of doubt about his recall to the eves.

All things considered, the question remains if dada deserved the indifference of his colleagues and the wrath of BCCI. As the skipper of the team, certainly not; and as a player who contributed to the cricketing success of India, again a clear naught. Although, the likes of Charu Sharma, Ranbir Singh Mahendra, Bishen Singh Bedi and Navjot Siddhu have upheld subjective rulings against Saurav with pent-up ire, one could not miss the breath of blatant provincialism
coming from their concerning attitude. Their concern: Ganguly should not be reinstated in the team eleven.

Historically, Bengal or the East Zone has always been sidelined from the center of cricket consciousness in India. I’m not going to indulge in too much of remoteness here, but just a casual sneak in the last decade would make my point clear. Utpal Chatterjee, Subroto Banerjee, Lakshmi Ratan Shukla, and Debashish Mohanty- all victims of politicization of convenience. Again, the point is not about investigating their cause of expulsion from the national cricket scene but about realizing an operative bias against players from this part of India.

Saurav became the captain in February 2000, and since then he came under unprovoked attacks from almost every angle of the selection committee or the critics who sweated their lives over to find fault with the ‘prince of Calcoota.’ As such, a recent show of no-support was not unusual to perceive. On the other hand, men who had moved their arms on the field a wee bit more than Charu Sharma et al, have voiced their displeasure and concern at the present way Ganguly is being treated. Among them are Sunil Gavaskar, Ravi Shastri, Kiran More, Waquar Yunus and Inzamam Ul-Haq.

An unprecedented six-match ban is still sufferable, especially when coming from a man whose career is better known for a match referee than an opening English batsman, but a fifth-column act from our very own people is heartbreaking. A man who has given his team so much, a man who has always led from the front and a man who took the team into the World Cup final (first since 1983) deserved better than that.

1412 Bangabdo!

Of my surving memories of Polia Baisakh most are very gastronomic. The run up to the celebration in my home would invariably be marked with plans of a la cartes pullulating from dadu, baba, ma or thamma. No matter what comestibles were shortlisted, I was the winner. Dadu and baba would tread on the lard factor, while ma and thamma would encourage the 'green value' in 'sakh-sabjis.' The result: a rich bill of fare with test-bud teasing tastes. We usually had some visitors or guests to join us in lunch; a sort of Thanks Giving Day arrangement with a Bengali touch and a few chosen guests.

'Naba Barsha,' in home was also a day in cultural exercise. As the morning shows the day-I was not allowed to sleep in. Early shower followed by 'thakur pronam', then some specific ritual and finally touching the elders' feet. This was going by the rule book. In addition, there were some strict thumb rule impositions as well- soft speaking, avoiding argumentative situations, no self-brooding and many more...and all these were to be sustained with a mood of unaffected spiritualism in thought and action.

The day apart from the ingestion would be consumed in reading the bangla magazine
Patrika, published by the Ananda Bazar Patrika and leisuring in phone calls from frineds and relatives. The evenings were earmarked for 'special outing.' Although special, they eneded up calling on someone's place whom we had seen or heard from only the last week. However, it was special becuase we were served the 'naba barsha special dishes.' The rest of the evening would ease out with 'adda.'

This was also the day to wear the traditional 'panjabi and paijama,' which ma would get during the 'sale' (sic) month in Bengal!Usually I avoided wearing the 'paijama,' becuase it was a tangly business for me. But on this day even I had to wear the tradition with much huff and a drawstring. I thought I was never good at tying knots, until I did my best on December 28th and since then I had to change my opinion on that!

Now, for the last two years I have been celebrating 'naba barsha' with my Knot-the best ever!Last year, in 1411, 'naba barsha' came too fast for us. For the first time the entire onus to make the day appear quintessentially Bengali was tough for Oli and me. When the paraphernalia are missing the best you could do is to live by the spirit-that's what you do in America.

But 1412 has been markedly different. We planned ahead. The morning began with exchange of 'subho nobo barsha' and smiles of unmitigated hope. Oli slept in upholding the Bengali idea of lighting up the holiday spirit. Usually, our breakfasts are very uninteresting for time saving purposes, but she added some frills to it with 'rooti and alu-kopi r torkari.' A call-in to Salt Lake further lighted up the 'boishakhi' mood and left me completely nostalgic. Some of the untended desires were soon let loose. We immediately planned on the day's menu with the customary zeal that had been missed last year. Next we lazed about talking how we used to spend this day back home- an impassioned effort to hold on to the Kolkata years. We also watched 'Jana Aranya,' for a while and tacked on our routine evening walk in-between our exclusive schedule.

************

Life comes full circle. And without tainting the mores of 'poila baisakh,' Oli and I will soon feast on our grand meal with a 'poila baishak' fairness .

Subho Nobo Barsha!

Off With the Flying Colors

The world has few, India has fewer. Keoladeo National Park in Bharatpur, Rajasthan is one of the few world heritage sites designated by the UNESCO. It is not only India’s sui generis wetland world heritage site but also the haven for largest variety of birds on the planet. Despite its international distinction, the sanctuary is on the verge of closure.Water scarcity is virtually choking off the lives of hundreds of species of birds in the park. The mandatory annual supply of 500 mcft from Panchna dam is now reduced to a mere 18 mcft, hugely affecting the natural balance.

The crisis sparked off six months ago when the local farmers belonging to the politically powerful Meena and Gujjar communities demanded that they were being denied adequate irrigation water. Fearing electoral losses, the state government of Vijaaye Raje Sindhia immediately obliged, turning an area of over 11 kilometers of marshland into a square of less than 1 kilometer.Experts say the government plan to bring Chambal water to the park is unviable as birds don't need piped water, but fish, planktons and algae that flow with natural water.

Leaving aside the political smarms, it is overly understandable that in order to maintain the sanctuary natural flow of water is essential and piped water will eventually be rendered useless. Large areas have already been turned into grazing grounds for cattle affecting both bird count and the seasonal nesting.Given the economic cost of this negligence, the government should act at once.

The capacity of the Panchana Dam is 1760 mcft which if optimally used could head off the ciris. But the question is what is optimal, especially in politics? The government of Rajasthan knows that they need vote (more than water) to survive and birds do not vote. On the other hand farmers can hardly be blamed for asking water for their land and so the onus is entirely on the government to redeem this issue at its earliest.

Questions may arise about the water shortage which is only a six-month development. Had this been a protracted problem with the area, precedents would come handy; but given its political interpretation this impasse is far complex than any straight solution.

Before long the situation is resolved the Bharatpur sanctuary may well lose its UNESCO status adding further to its dwindling tourism business. A signature campaign is already underway that would address the issue at the national level for immediate resolution. If you strongly feel for this issue to be considered as a matter of national importance, then you can post your comments on the ndtv.com message board to generate awareness.

Surviving Rays

February 18, Minneapolis: Around 10.05a.m. a white Toyota Corolla was hit by a speeding Ford van near the Convention Center. No was reported hurt. According to the sources, the 2004 Corolla was being driven by an Indian youth with his wife, who were here for the job fair. The Indian couple was identified as Anirban Ray and Somshukla Ray, residents of St. Cloud, Minnesota. After overcoming the initial shock, the couple came back to St. Cloud where they are gradually coming round from the momentous experience. They are expected to resume daily activities from Monday the 21st. The couple could not be contacted for further details.

In Bewteen and Out: A Short Story

“I told you, it won’t be crowded now,” I assured.
“Hmm… when do you suppose we will reach?” nodded Grusha.
“If traffic’s going okay, by noon we will be standing at the gate.”
It was entirely my idea to spend my first meeting with Grusha at the Botanical Gardens; a time-tested bolt-hole for the romantics. Though at first, I planned for a restaurant, considering my depleting funds I switched to open-air, which she approved of with her reticence.
“How do you feel this Kolkata bus ride?”“Enjoying so far,” she said.
I was risking no effort. She is my first registered affair since past seven months and I am not letting it go, not in this life. Grusha is a domiciled Bengali from Delhi, whom I met in the chat room. She comes to Calcutta only to meet her grandparents once in every two years and meeting me was ‘just an opportunity to put me up for consideration.’
The moment I saw her, I felt anchored and proud at the same time, with a queer sense of belonging.
Now for all my karamfal, here she is with me, somewhere between Esplanade and the Gardens, enjoying the pleasures of Kolkata transportation system.
“Why don’t you take the seat, Ved?” she wondered, half knowing that going for the seat at the men’s side would spoil my comforts of hanging around her. To tell the truth, these private buses have very anti-romantic seating arrangements, especially for guys like me who cannot risk a taxi ride at the first date, lest be misunderstood as licentious.
“It’s okay…,” I replied.
By the next stop at the Dalhousie square, I imagined a good exodus of office crowd and fancied my chances at sitting on the ‘ladies’ (a ubiquitous caveat on every bus) seat beside Grusha. By this time, Grusha has gracefully managed to balance her attention between the passing images outside the bus and my expectant face, inside.
As a straphanger, it was not my call to initiate a poetic mood in the journey since for over 10 minutes an elephantine figure was indefatigably trying to edge me out from my spot. It was the limit, I thought. “Can’t you stop pushing me like that, I’m with her.”
The figure ignored my plea, and instead asked me to step behind the line so that she could secure the support offered by the back rest of a two-seater. I compromised, thinking that at the next stop I could come round her to stand sideways facing Grusha.
“Ved, have you read ‘Da Vinci Code’ yet?” Grusha attempted to make me feel ‘at home.’
My answer got interrupted by the conductor’s throwing, “Dalhousie, Dalhousie,” in a tone of professional repetitiveness.
“Ah!” I thought, time to make room for some romance. But foiling my beginners’ luck, a swell of crowd overthrew me creating a two-row gap between Grusha and my awaited answer.
“What happened?” she piqued. “You said it’s supposed to get emptier, Ved.”
I knew exactly what she meant, “You ripened fool, and didn’t you have any better plans, eh?” But the point was to make her feel the ‘quintessential bongo wont of serenading love,’ which typically takes place inside jalopies of this kind, albeit in a less interfering setup. The blooper was which I realized powerlessly, the wrong day to have selected this route. It’s a Monday, and of course ‘black’ one for me. How daft of me! It would get worse with more people onboard for the Howrah station. And busting my guts, as I was about to attempt a self-rescue, a virago materialized from nowhere and stomped my kolapuri-worn feet with her sheer 140lb presence.
The bus went on with Grusha, the crowd and myself.
Entrenched in response, I generalized, “Grusha I’m right here. Don’t worry it’s just a passing crowd.”
Initially, she didn’t figure out my exact location, and realizing that I was dislodged from her civil audible range, she chose not to bother herself with a reply. I was not to be put down and genteelly requested a square-figured guy to lend me a ‘window of opportunity.’
He obliged. And as I stooped between the crook of his arms to catch a glimpse of Grusha, my sight collided head on with a dun-colored bald gracing lank and floppy bit of hairs that went right inside my nostrils. Goddamn!
The bus went on with Grusha, the crowd and myself.
I was getting impatient, knowing very well that all this is not impressive for a fist date and simpler arrangements could have been devised. By this time another thought crept in-pickpockets. Kolkata bus, pouring crowd and pickpockets are a lethal combination. I bent my arms to check my pocket and in the process I elbowed a stomach. The hit, an unintentional KO for the gangling, sporting amir-khan-beard guy, immediately triggered a ‘class- struggle,’ between the ‘have-Grusha’ and ‘have-not Grusha.’ And by the absolute strength of numbers, I was bullied further out of the domain.
The bus went on with Grusha, the crowd and myself.
I literally assumed the middle ground: support less, addled and adrift. At this point, I was exactly standing in-between, with the two doors on my either side, and Grsuha sitting on my left, next to the rear door. Any effort for communicating was simply unthinkable.
I felt hipped and sufficiently crossed with the goings-on.
I suddenly realized that even though I had been lurching between the ends for sometime now, there seemed to be no sign of the crowd mitigating. “Are dada, what’s this place now?” I conjectured, looking to a man whose face uncannily resembled Dominos’ six inch pizza, flat above, tapering below.
Blowing a thick mass of snout onto a white cloth, he replied, “Traffic jam, last twenty minutes.”
As it was, I was beginning to esteem myself like homemade sandwich paste; I felt a tug, followed by a bare sensation on my right side of the body. To my surprise, I saw the pizza-face man getting ready for his second blow with my khurta-end clutching firmly before his gaping nostrils. “Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” I protested. “Leave my khurta.”
With a rustic ease, the man replied, “Oh! I was thinking this was my kerchief, hehe…”
A clinker of a plan, a snagging kolapuri, mishandling by the crowd and now a snout-smeared khurta. I could not it take any more. I felt betrayed and alienated by everything that symbolized hope. “Now or never,” I resolved.
I immediately engaged myself: jabbing my way through the sweating, smelling and inconsiderate mass; “I’ll take them one by one,” I thought. But, lover proposes, commoner thrashes. Within a snatch, I got tonked like baseball and found myself before a rank of women who were standing in a baroque ensemble. For the first time I had to resort to a sexist stance. These days anything can pass for as a ‘sexual assault.’ At the most innocuous pretext I could be hauled up for a stark display of perversion if I contacted these baroque figures. Though I have been an optimist lover, no one has ever called me a pervert and thus playing to my reputation I assumed the shape of a parabola with my convex away from the ladies.
The bus went on with Grusha, the crowd and myself.
A fear overcame my present distress. “Is Grusha still on the bus, or did she get off?” I craned myself to see her on farthest end, and to my relief she sat there, however, completely lost. Naturally, she hardly knew Kolkata and moreover, even I was not very fluent with this stretch between the College Street and the Botanical Gardens.
At this end, near to the front door the crowd seemed less sportive and held their ground with martial precision. I felt little inspired and yapped, “Hi” at Grusha craning my neck to the limit. She heard me and with an effortless stare conveyed her total disgust toward the condition and at me. I returned a smile assuring that distance makes the heart grow fonder.
Now, we were right in the middle of the Howrah Bridge: “Into the last leg of our separation,” I thought. “Once this bus comes to a stop right after its descent, I will heroically walk up to her and even out all grimaces from her face.
The bus dipped down the bridge, unceremoniously curved around a pole, and screeched to a halt that centrifuged the passengers at my end, near the front door. As I surmised, the multitude poured out fast and thick, but in the event, like a tsunami drew me out from my niche, stood me before the door and chucked me out straight into the road. With that the junker took off, dumping me to the ground. I made a doughty effort to keep up with its gaining inertia but to add to my consternation, it sped off taking my ‘sixty-day hope.’
I was duly dumped the next day.

If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me

Five hundred centuries after its composition, Macbeth cease to evolve. Members of the Scottish parliament are digging up evidences to show that this Scottish King was framed by the master-playwright Shakespeare. The crusade is being led by a senior Tory MP, Alex Johnstone, with a band of 19 loyalists from different parties. Their cliam: "Macbeth is misportrayed in the Shakespeare play of that name when he was a successful Scottish king."

On this 1,000th anniversary of the birth of Macbeth, king of Scotland from 1040 to 1057, it seems yet another Scottish offensive against the British dominance. The Scots have always been vocal about their contirbution to the wealth of English Literature. Over the centuries, writers, poets and philosophers of Scottish origin have held out excesses from their English counterparts and now once again time has bestowed a chance to salvage one of their figures who has inured guilt from the pages of a literary creation.

The crusaders have justified their stand with the research conducted by an American academic. Jhonstone has vehemently dismissed the literary notion of Macbeth and instead has upheld a very opposite perspective, so far unknown to the scholars and readers of the play by the same name.

Shakespeare's Macbeth was based on the Holingshed Chronicles of England, a definitive historical source at that time and which inspired Shakespeare in wrting many of his plays. However, the palywright, known for his grammatical and factual highhandedness, had distorted some of the facts to suit his dramatic needs. For instance, in Holingshed's account Macbeth is elder to Duncan;but Shakespeare reverses their ages. Again, the mention of the witches, presented as the three weird sister, is essentially Shakespearean.

The play was the last of Shakespeare's four great tragedy and is considered as the darkest of them all. In his famous, Essay on Macbeth, Coleridge points out that the opening of Macbeth shows the 'excited' state of a mind and atmosphere, which prepares the reader for an impending turmoil and turblence. He also mentions that the play is "wholly and purely tragic," thus sweep-ing any further doubts about its historical irrelevancy, except other than naming the characters.

Shakespeare's Macbeth is a dramatic masterpiece representative of the workings of human psycholgy at its best. The characterization of Macbeth soars above the temporal and factual urgency. The exegesis of his creation is not historical but literary and Johnstone's politiking of Macbeth is off the mark in saying that "Macbeth is misportrayed in the Shakespeare play."
Although Johnstones' Scottish sentiment is understandable, his Shakespearean interest is however, perceived as a spin-off for promoting tourism.

Vanilla Walk

It's been snowing for ten adament hours now and it is not even letting up. Outside temperature is twenty below the freezing point, and the area is covered by atleast 10 thick inches of snow. Streets are mere stretches of white, refelecting the sodium glow. Ruts of tires are the only attempt of human defiance at the face of nature's awaited indifference. Despite the odds outside, I returned-half, muzzy, frost-bitten, cold,groggy, and tired at my home in St.Cloud, Minnesota.

When it is winter, it is all about survival at this part of the world. For about 7 agonizing months, the only thing you care about is warmth. Starting late October, the weather here looks sullen. Although, it is fall on calendar your body starts feeling the sting of the cold. And when you think you are braving it out, the winter chisels in. By the end of November St.Cloud sheds the last vesitge of green and wears the dominant color of winter. It marks the beginning of a protracted struggle for survival.

St. Cloud is a small university town, where one can meet students from over 85 countires flocking around the campus. Most of these students have hardly ever endured a nip below 15 degees in their homecountires, let alone trudging the snows.And for them it becomes all the more severe without a personal transportaion. Students who manage cars, live to see the place differently;for others it is a matter of living another day. But with just a slitty opening around the eye-area, and sometimes with wet feet (despite putting on the best 'snow boots'), these 'no-car' students move around heroically. It is a mark that sfits the tough from the tender. For them, at negative twenty, life is just a drop of irony.

Don't know where I came from, can't figure out where I'm heading to

De Rerum Natura:On the Nature of Things

I finally managed to creep out. Making a web presence makes you feel the part of the bandwagon and sometimes it is important to be 'in the loop,'-that is the way the world goes round. However, joining the bandwagon of 'Lions, and tigers, and bears! Oh, my!' This is not an easy task. And those who care for me, persistently feel that I am a writer who has so much to write about but hardly anything to publish. This is an emerging fact, which you will soon realize.But despite all my earlier and (promising) reverses, I am unyielding.

I will continue...