Bhagavad Gita as the 'National Book'?

This piece of mine has appeared in CRI. It has been reproduced here with their consent. Not to be reproduced anywhere else without the same.

“The Bhagavad-Gita is a true scripture of the human race a living creation rather than a book, with a new message for every age and a new meaning for every civilization. – Sri Aurobindo”

Let’s be clear at the very outset that this piece arises from a premise that India/Bharata/Hindustan is an intrinsically a civilization whose roots are in Indic traditions and essentially should be a Rashtra  where its citizens are guided by the essence, ethos and ethics espoused by Indic philosophies.

Sri Krishna himself, in what is among the best creations of a mind ever – the Bhagavad-Gita, eschews from making exclusivist claims about the best path to tread and instead relates the various paths that can be tread to perfect oneself – Bhakti Yoga, Karma Yoga, Jnana Yoga, Sankhya Yoga etc.

For me personally, the Sankhya Yoga, especially the part where Sri Krishna obliges Arjuna’s request to narrate the nature of the ‘SthitaPrajna – The Equanimous’, represents the pinnacle of all our civilization and its thought. My father, on the other hand, thinks that the Karma Yoga represents the ideal way to live. Then again, there is an elderly uncle, who thinks the Thirukkural is wisdom extraordinaire, above all else. My erstwhile landlord, an ardent follower of Basavanna, thinks that the Vachanas are a man’s best friend, philosopher and guide through all the crests and troughs of life.

Likewise there are many who would swear by the Vedas, the Upanishads, the Ramayana, the Mahabharata-as-a-whole and many other such creations of exalted minds, as the ultimate. Shakti-worshippers, Shaivites and other such schools of thought would probably subscribe to a different world-view which is also essentially Indic.

If naming the Bhagavad-Gita our ‘National Book’ is a way to show the nation is proud of such a gem, are we not equally proud of other creations of Indic thought?

If having a ‘National Book’ is about having a philosophical benchmark that the citizens and the State have to strive for, then why just the Bhagavad-Gita?

Superficially speaking, one may be able to portray that some of these varied schools of thought are mutually exclusive of, or better than others. The Bhagavad-Gita looks better and representative of our civilization to someone because that suits the conditioning of their mind. Ultimately all these are products of the same civilization and the same higher levels of intense thought. They are intertwined and derive from each other.

The wonder that is called Sanatana Dharma, thrives despite endless efforts from various quarters at finishing it, because it has not been built around a rigid framework of assertions pushed top-down from a central authority. It is a loose framework of schools of thought that have sprung up from a bottomless well of philosophical constructs which, at their core, have maintained the essentially Indic ethos and are not antagonistic or exclusive of each other, despite impassioned claims to that effect. Once we start dishing out the pride of this book or that school of thought over other ones in an institutionalized manner from the top, we are automatically doing a disservice to other branches that are as representative of our civilizational ethos.

How sensible is it to isolate the Bhagavad-Gita from the other strands of philosophy that added to it as well as our national character?

It can be said that the Western mainstream thought, limited in its capabilities of perception has reduced this gigantic banyan tree of Indic philosophies to the concepts of Karma, Re-incarnation and lately, Yoga.

We would be guilty of doing something similar by surrendering to such symbolism as making the Bhagavad-Gita our ‘National Book’ reducing the Indic nation to be represented by only the Bhagavad-Gita, while the reality is that it is one among the many shining jewels in the heavily bejeweled crown that is Bharateeya civilization.

This call to ask for the Bhagavad-Gita to be declared the ‘National Book’, is at best unnecessary as well as ill-informed and at worst harmful.

“Let’s not forget that we weren’t and should never be one-book civilizations.”

Bhyrappa - The Colossus

This piece of mine has appeared in CRI. It has been reproduced here with their consent. Not to be reproduced anywhere else without the same.

Few are the men who render effulgence to an award, rather than the other way round. Santeshivara Lingannaiah Bhyrappa, popularly known as S.L.Bhyrappa needs no introduction as a doyen with that particular ability. He was recently awarded the Saraswati Samman for his novel “Mandra”, in which he delves into the world of music and the lives of musicians through their own eyes.

Here is his excellent speech on receipt of this award. A must read, like all his other works.

If being born in a rural milieu, abject poverty, surviving a plague which takes away two siblings on the same day, losing one’s mother to the same plague later at the age of eleven, having to carry a younger sibling’s body on one’s own shoulders to cremate at the age of 15, later in life, walking all the way to Mumbai, begging for food, working as a coolie, yet completing a PhD, and going on to lead a life that includes trekking in the Alps cannot make a philosopher out of a man, what else can?

Here is a giant who is among the foremost philosophers of our time without resorting to sermons. He deals mostly in fiction, conveying profound philosophical journeys through the dialectics his characters indulge in. The striking factor of most of his writings are an apparent obscurity of the author himself or his opinions in a direct way (with the exception of his autobiography “Bhitti”), although the troughs and crests life threw at him lurk as an intense undercurrent in the experiences his characters undergo.

His constant quest for the truth shines through the intricacies that involve and encapsulate the characters in his novels. Rather than making characters ostentatiously behave in a certain way to achieve a defined goal, he extrapolates them onto a real canvas of relevant times through painstaking research and allows the society to affect the characters’ modalities.

His works usually are woven around macrocosmic and microcosmic dualities. For example, his “Gruhabhanga”, though on one level speaks of a rural woman Nanjamma’s travails in her setting of poverty, people around her and spousal indifference, it also speaks of a larger picture where Indic cultural values have been distorted to suit their own ends by different layers of the society.

He has a PhD in Aesthetics and his writings speak for themselves on the aesthetic front. Anyone who reads “Parva”, which many consider Bhyrappa’s greatest work, will vouch for how he recreates the Mahabharata, it’s characters, and gives new dimensions to them. Anyone who reads “Aavarana” will marvel at how he chooses to bring life to the Mughal era from the eyes of a neo-Islamic-convert-eunuch working at a Mughal noble’s harem, who had unhindered access to the minds of the Mughal women too. The predicaments of his characters and how he maps their thoughts onto the story he is creating makes him a treat to read. For some time there, you may forget someone has written this and begin thinking for the characters.

Bhyrappa has never allowed his own intellectual freedom to be taken away by either what the people ask for, or what other ‘secular intellectuals’ say about him or his work. He is much ahead of his time, in that, so far none has been able to slot him in any one flavor of modern Kannada literature like the Navya, the Bandaya or the Dalita sahitya. He remains free to write what he wants without ever being subservient to –isms and –ologies. Yet he is the best-selling author in Kannada in the last 25 years, the best-selling author in Marathi over the last decade and among the top 5 best-selling authors in Hindi.

Bhyrappa does industrious research about any subject he wishes to touch, and sometimes this research has run upto 5 years. Once he is convinced of something he says it like it is. Political correctness is another thing he abhors. A recommended read for all is his novel “Aavarana”, which has been translated to various languages. He rips the Marxist-distorted politically correct history apart with facts and figures and opines that the communal amity in India, if at all present, is superficial and cannot continue for long because it is not built on the basis of truth.

This, along with his no-nonsense stands and no-holds-barred opinions in favour of Indic cultural values, make Bhyrappa’s story vis-à-vis his peers and the powers that be, akin to the story of a few blind men coming across an elephant. Each blind man draws his own conclusion about the elephant. His sheer range, refusal to be immured by constrictions that ideologies foist on minds, versatility of themes and varied repertoire make him some sort of a litterateur-elephant in a society where lesser-gifted but more pompous and obstreperous ‘intellectuals’ abound. They are blinded by their ideologies and opportunism, and perceive him the way their obsequiousness to ideologies allows or disallows them.

That such elements oppose him, actually adds to his status of being one of the greatest exponents of the written word that Goddess Saraswati smiled upon.

Of slaps and a few chaps...

This piece of mine has appeared in CRI. It has been reproduced here with their consent. Not to be reproduced anywhere else without the same.

Everyone and their granny has damning opinions on….well everyone else and their grannies. In such vitiated atmosphere, one worked-up Sikh, Mr.Harbinger Singh (the only one in this piece to be prefixed with “Mr”) seemed to be the best orator among the non-BJP populace in and around the Parliament. He thought of taking on inflation, price-rise and corruption with his bare hands. Well, he literally did and ended up depositing his finger prints rather forcefully on the cheek of Shared Power, the Maratha “strongman” (for having withstood that resounding exposition of Newton’s F=ma on his cheek).

In my capacity as a leading opinion-maker, I happened to meet a few high flying chaps to ask ‘how they felt’ in true media ishtyle, about this incident and its ramifications.

After much tracking down, the former future Prime Minister Ra.Howl Ghandy was found, not in a beggar colony in Delhi or Mumbai, but in the still-in-one-piece Indian state of UP, putting his feet up at a desolate Dalit home. The Dalit inmates were amused at a white bird’s egg like structure (a Western-style toilet made of pure “Italian” marble installed for Ra.Howl’s convenience).

Out of nowhere, Ra.Howl’s personal security guards, Harp-Pee-Hen Singh and Pro-Mode Thieve-ari pounced on me. Kicks and shouts ensued till they were convinced my black shirt wasn’t a black flag and finally allowed me to approach Ra.Howl.

Me: Why did your security guards behave like goons?

Ra.Howl:  Hindu terrorism is the biggest threat to me and Diggy uncle. Why take a chance? My security roughs up everyone who approaches me. 99% of terrorist strikes can be stopped that way.

Me: Your feelings about the ‘Shared Power slap’ incident?  

Ra.Howl: There is a work that my father had started, a dream he had dreamt. I come to you today saying…allow me to turn that dream into reality………..

I scooted off before he could get all Palin-esque. Atleast Palin is a woman.

Then I met the secular liberal Diva-in-Chief Bakra Datta after one of her We-The-Pimp-le shows. Strangely, she was sporting a bindi (Yes. That Hindu symbol of female oppression).

Me: Ma’am, why a bindi suddenly?

Bakra:  You know this Marwadi SiriMed. I’m showing her she’s not the only Pakistani who has the guts to wear a bindi.

Me: Oh. Anyway. CRI folks want your reaction on Shared Power slap incident. Tell me what to tell them.

Bakra: I’ve heard that somewhere. (Staring at her mobile phone) Hmmm….. Never mind. These intolerant trolls, you know. We’ve created a rowdy society where one cannot discuss cabinet berths in peace without abuse from trolls. I’m sure this man who slapped Power was a twitter troll gone violent. This is why I block all of them.

Me: Ma’am. Ever thought of this huge irony staring you in the face? You were the biggest real life troll during Gujarat 2112 riots. You’ve been blocked in real life by Man-endra Modi for the same.

Bakra: (Giving that ‘I was at Kargil, you know’ look) You’re blocked now and beneath my contempt.

Next I thought of meeting the ‘made exactly for each other’ couple Raj-Beep Turd-esai and Fagarika Hose. As I entered their studio, I saw that Fagarika was on her F-the-Nation show, running ‘divine encroacher’ Rama’s war with Ravana live. Since she was busy, I went looking for Raj-Beep. I found him with a couple of half empty Old Monk-ey bottles and the Twitter app on his iPad open. Realizing he was in one of his murderous Good-Night moods, I tiptoed back to the safety of the road where other drunk guys looked a lot less perilous.

It was my lucky day though. PAnna Baja-re, the anti-corruption crusader had just come back from his village for another fast, to the national rape-it-all Seal-ah Dig-Shit’s Dilli. I requested for a short interview which he accepted.

Me: First of all, I want to commend you on the “Ek hi maara?” question on the Shared Power slap incident. It cracked me up. What a way to humiliate!

PAnna Baja-re: Thanks. I thought that comment would be apt for breaking my mauna-vrat. Cage-ri-Ball, my aide, sadly told me to withdraw it and issue a customary condemnation of the slap.

Me: Sad. Why doesn’t Cage-ri-Ball let you use your foot freely around your oral orifice?

PAnna Baja-re: Ah. He’s a control-freak. But he has his uses. Anyway. You look very tired. My secular buddy Imam Bukhari’s just next door. Can I ask him to get some Sherbet for you?

Me: Yes please. I’ve had a tiring day. Just saw the Old Monk-ey guzzling Raj-Beep Turd-esai and hoped he would serve a couple of drinks, but it was not to be.

PAnna Baja-re: (Gives that village rustic stare and rolls up his sleeves) Did you drink there?

Me: No. Raj-Beep was drinking though.

PAnna Baja-re: (Takes out his phone and makes a call) Arey Cage-ri-Ball beta… I forgot to get my wooden club from the village. Will you please get that here for me? Also, check if there are poles near Raj-Beep Turd-esai’s home, please.

That cheerful man..

So much for the demonization of drunkards, he was an extremely affable man even after he consumed copious amounts of arrack all day. People saw him and wondered how a man could operate in just one state – drunken bliss, despite his sordid profession.

When they were newly married, his wife objected to his being perpetually drunk. She had obviously grown up watching drunken men beat the daylights out of their wives and was pandering to the biases her own experiences had taught. He gave a single sentence answer  - “Do you want a sane husband? If you do, allow him to drink”.

As far as occupational hazards go, he had the worst of them. People wailing, crying, shouting, cursing, beating their chests and banging their heads was passé. There were those who’d maintain a stoic silence throughout the ordeal. He respected them. But the ones he despised were  the crazy ones who would even try to jump into the pyre, disturbing the perfect pattern he built so carefully for the body to burn properly and wholly. “Hysterical idiots who neither respect their own life nor another man’s professional diligence!”, he thought, about their emotionally charged acts. That was about the closest one could get, to seeing him angry.

He prided himself on being cheerful and having never cried. “I’ve seen thousands of dead bodies and not once have I cried. Why! I didn’t even cry when my parents died!”, he’d often tell people at the arrack shop and elsewhere.

For the most cheerful man in the slum, he had the most cheerful child too. His little one was the apple of his eye. She was born after 12 long years of marriage rife with wild rumour tinged talk, sometimes of his lack of manliness and sometimes of his wife’s infertility, invariably circulated by “them”. Yes. The same “them” who think that I am a show-off and you are a moron, behind our backs of course.

Despite all the death and arrack he was subjected to daily and his elderly age, he was an imaginative and energetic father. When he wasn’t spending money on arrack, he was getting her brightly coloured toys, sweets and chocolates of various hues. 

He even shifted his residence from a hut in the cemetery to a small shanty slum nearby, immediately after his wife told him that she was pregnant. All he had to do was to find a second source of income, which was duly provided for at the firewood dealers’. A few hours a day of carrying loads there, to raise some money for the rent.

Every night his daughter, all shining in a talcum-powder kissed pretty face and well oiled plaits could be seen sitting on her father’s broad shoulders, taking a survey of the slum. And during their sojourns he’d tell her jokes, stories or anything else that he could conjure up to hear her tinkling laughter and giggles, amidst the typically buzzing noise of a locality filled with labour class populace.

Once she slept, it was his daily routine, to let out deep sighs of relief and love, gazing at her serene face for about an hour as she slept, disbelieving his own good luck at having fathered such a beautiful little girl.

That his little girl soon became a teenager, all of 16 years, changed nothing. He was still perpetually drunk. The gifts had graduated from toys and sweets to clothes, bangles, flowers and earrings. Her place during their daily sojourns changed from his shoulders to his side. She still laughed loudly at his jokes. He still gazed at her face in awe every night, as she slept.

As he returned home one night, he found her slippers missing. He went in to find his wife weeping in a corner, burying her face into her knees. He implored repeatedly, only for his wife to let out a howl, “It seems she has eloped with the neighbour’s son! You spoilt her with all your pampering and see what she did to us”.

Tears welled up in the eyes of the man who never wept. And he understood what could make a man jump into the burning pyre of a loved one. 

It was now his turn, to sink to his knees. He has never smiled ever since.

"That" night....

That beautiful rainy night, all seemed surreal. 


Rhythmic patter emanating from the rains kissing the earth, hiss of the wiper brushing the windscreen, the craving in Kishore's voice from "Neele Neele Ambar Par" looping on the music-system, making me euphoric. 


There was not a soul in sight on the highway. I stepped out of the car to savour the moment. In seconds, I was drenched. I lay on the road feeling the full force of the rain-drops hitting me. 


Did I really want to get back into the car and drive home?


I shouted myself hoarse for no reason at all, sang aloud. Drained of all vocal energy, I became silent. The rain too thought likewise. 


Windy and blissful, it was. Despite all languages that man invented, he's still been unable to word, in any language, the soul-stirring beauty of a night just after a shower. This is just for the senses to gorge on.


The only thing lacking at that moment was female company. Always a loner, while all my friends had their women, I had none. At that moment, there was a deep craving in my heart for that special someone.


After what seemed like an hour, I stopped my revelry and got on with my journey. My village was still 4 hours away. 3 more hours on this highway and another hour on the ubiquitous mud-paths that characterize journeys to villages.


I drove ahead and saw a small tea-shack by the roadside. A Godsend. An attractive young lady was sitting there, sipping tea. Her clothes and demeanour made it evident that she was from the city.
Our eyes met. Visibly worried, her eyes were expectant. "Sir may be able to help you. Why don't you ask him?", the shop-keeper pierced the silent reverie.
Jumping at it, I asked her, "Any problem? May I help you?". 
"I am hoping you can, but it depends on which way you're heading", she said. What a husky voice! She needed no effort to be sensuous. Lucky was the man with whom she would exchange sweet-naughty nothings.
"Any direction, if it helps you.", I smiled.
"My car broke down. You're the only one who has come here in the past one hour." Had to be me! Luck!
"I can drop you home. Come back in the morning with a mechanic to get the car repaired."
"We have a farmhouse nearby. Take a deviation to the left after a couple of kilometres and drive into the woods for an hour", she said. Excellent! A drive through the woods with a pretty lady!
"No problem.", I said.
"Please look after my car till the morning.", she requested the shop-keeper. He nodded.


Walking with upright womanly grace, she was just out of Ravivarma's paintings, neither slim nor on the heavy side. The kind that appealed to me. 


We were driving down a slope. Brushing away the locks falling on her eyes, her bangles made lilting sounds amidst the silence. She was exuding a fragrance like that of jasmine - one of the most seductive smells known to man. It filled the car. 
Luscious lips and big black eyes.....Boom! Shit! I missed a speed-breaker admiring her.
"I'm sorry", I said.
"It is better if you look ahead while driving", said she, sporting a mischievous smile.
"No prior experience of driving with a beautiful woman", I mustered.
"It is not even 10 minutes since we met, and the flirting starts", she said, clearly enjoying the attention she was getting.
"My eyes have never been this disobedient", I said.
"This is a treacherous stretch. Ogle later."
Encouragement for me to turn my wit on!


A flirtatious conversation ensued over the next half hour. 


Then there were "those" moments. Moments of uncomfortable silence when neither of us spoke, just enjoying eye-contact. Physically stimulating, she was turning me on with her intellect too. Was I falling in love? Was I simply attracted to her?


Breaking my chain of thoughts was her husky voice - "Can I have some water please?". I stopped the car immediately. Water was in the back-seat. 


After drinking, she got out of the car, inhaled the moist muddy-smelling air deeply, looked straight into my eyes and said. "Such romantic weather, a beautiful girl with you. I know what's running in your mind". Summoning all my courage, I went closer and said, "Whatever is running, I hope it isn't in vain". All she did in reply was, hold my hand ever so softly and whisper, "It isn't".


Impulsively, I planted a kiss, which she returned with full gusto. Then, in the back-seat of the car, the most exhilarating experience ensued. I couldn't believe this was happening. Thankfully, my car was a big one with generous space in the back-seat!


We made passionate love....and I've lost count of the number of times!


We lay in each other's arms for a long time after draining our energy out; exchanging soft, lovely words. She slipped into a nap, which made the moment all the more surreal. 


When a loved one sleeps, looking at them makes you fall in love, all over again. While sleep was dimming my senses too, I remember thinking that proposing marriage to her was on cards the next morning.


When I woke up, I found myself in the same state that I slept - not a single cloth on my body. She wasn't beside me! 
Here I was, thinking of marrying her. And this girl leaves me languishing in my birthday suit, in broad daylight. What could she be doing alone in the middle of the woods!


After getting clothed in a hurry, I searched around for about an hour. No trace of her.


Did she manage to call someone and take her to her car while I was sleeping? Going to the tea shack where I met her could help.


I drove back along the same road that we came and joined the highway. I couldn't see her car!


So she came and drove away??


Locating the tea shack, I enquired with the shop-keeper, "Did Madam come here and take her car?".


"Sir. please explain", he said.


I narrated my meeting with her at his shack.

"Sir. Neither was any Madam here, nor her car. My shop was closed yesterday night!"