Letter to God

4th November, 2005.

Dear God,

I am not an atheist. But, I am not sure if I believe. After much thinking, I decided that it is wise to believe. Atleast, it is wiser than living as if there is no God, only to die and find out there always was. I write this letter as I have come up against a particularly complicated problem that I cannot extricate myself from. I write to you not only because of the dreadful lack of company but also because you are the ideal consultant in such matters. You have been highly recommended by my mother. Just kidding. I am not really sure what kind of humor they appreciate up there, so kindly forgive me if I miss the mark. I am trying to make the choice on my own, endeavouring to distance myself from bias and prejudice. But, from what I understand, so does everyone else with little or no success. You see, I find it hard to be as optimistic as my mother, always searching for the silver lining. She truly is one of your wonders. My father, however, thought it was a wonder you made her. He pointed it out everytime they had a conversation, which thankfully, was not too often. I'll get to the point. The problem is that I do not know if I should stay or just excuse myself. This day has presented to me, quite compelling arguments for both. Allow me to elucidate.

Today morning, my mother took my brother and me along with her to the hospital for a routine check-up. On the way back, she stopped for breakfast and fed us even though we were not really hungry. A few streets away from home, a poor old man stumbled at her feet. As soon as she helped him get up, he promptly proceeded to cough out blood. This went on for some time, and came to an end when he fainted. Now, naturally, such a situation can be rather disturbing. But she supported him on herself and began grunting her way back to the hospital carrying the weight of four people. Having the perennial luxury of a third person's point of view, I usually see everything coming. But, I did not expect this. The weak old man, who until then was as conscious as a doormat, made one swift movement. In a flash of well-practiced and acquired skill, he broke free, cut the gold chain off my mother's neck, left a neat scar on her left cheek and vanished round the corner. And so, once she had exhausted her tears, she lugged us back to the hospital.

At this moment, I must tell you more about my parents. My mother, you can guess, is what they call God-fearing down here. My father ponders over what there is to fear. Both of them are very cliched. So much so that interest in the truth wanes. She is the ever-smiling, compassionate, trusting, optimistic soul. You know the type. I have not spent enough time with my father to describe him properly, but he is nothing like her. He has a strong dislike for the concept of heaven and hell that my mother so faithfully believed. I must admit that his arguments are hard to refute. He once took the trouble of trying to convince himself and her saying,

"Let us for one moment assume the existence of heaven, ruled by God and hell, ruled by the Devil. We also consider that all evil men will be punished in hell and saints rewarded in heaven establishing the elementary fact that God supports the good and punishes evil and the Devil, otherwise. Now, why would the Devil trouble those with the very attribute that he thrives on? And if he did punish them and subject them to the known unpleasantries, he would be abiding by God's will, working for God. And THAT is not possible. Anyway, what would I do in heaven. You cannot expect me to go to a tea party and chit chat with the Pope now, can you? Agreed, I like the climate, but you know what darling, the company in hell is just so much better. Therefore, even if we were sent to hell, it would be like heaven. Get what I am saying?"

I did. God, why doesn't the bible make so much sense.

Anyway, she got her stitches done and we barely made it back home in one patched up piece. She had just washed up and made lunch when my father came in. I expected her scar to be a topic of discussion but it was not even mentioned. Something more trivial grabbed the spotlight. I did not know that peculiar red marks below the neck can be a big issue but apparently they can. My father was sporting a few of them and for some reason my mother did not approve of it. Always a man of few words, he did little in reply. He emptied his plate's contents on the person who made it and walked out of the house. She went in search of some more tears and upon finding it, promptly shed them as well. Tired of having to carry us troublesome brothers around all the time, she lied down for a nap. She had barely drifted away when my neighbour rang the bell. I quite like the boy, he's very sweet and hard-working. My mother thinks so too. They are not too well off, so whenever he comes asking for money to buy books or something, she gives him a little out of her savings. Today, she was reluctant to give him any because my brother and I are due to come out soon. This pregnancy business can be a costly affair. But, she gave in because his sister had been down with high fever for three days and he had to get something to alleviate it. By now, it was dinner time and any satisfaction my mother had gained from her benevolence had been quashed by the anticipation of my father's arrival. Preparing herself was a wise move. My father came back with six of his friends and as the company was insufficient, they dragged my complaisant mother along to the pub down the road. They were nice enough not to ignore her. They had a lot of fun at her expense. During one of the times when she squirmed and tried to look away, her eyes fell upon someone else she knew in the place. Someone, who was supposed to be at his sister's side but could not because he was restrained by all the revelry. When he saw her, the boy tripped and stumbled his way across the room to her. I assumed he was going to express his gratitude. I was right. He leaned close to her, raised his glass and said, "Thanks for everyth..thing, da..darling."

The mood at the table quickly changed from humour to that of passion. A passion for action. Recognising the need of the hour, my father, ever the man of few words, gave my mother one slap on her left cheek, which tore her stitches and one kick which sent her unconscious to the floor. Then, he dragged her to the car, dumped her inside and with dogged determination went back to complete the mission for which he came to the esteemed establishment.

Now here we are, three of us in this excuse for a car. I do not know when she will wake up, but when she does, she will go in search of some more tears. For a blow intended for my mother, fell instead upon her son, my brother. The only company I had is wasting away in front of my eyes. Thus presents itself before me, this predicament. I do not know if I should stay or leave, when I still can. Although the world itself is reason enough to stay away from it, my mother compensates more than adequately. Therefore dear lord, kindly reply at the earliest so that I can make necessary arrangements.

Thanking you,

(This is where my name is supposed to be)

P.S - How do I post this damned thing?
P.P.S - Kindly excuse the profanity.

Gotta feel, baby

It's been a while since I put a finger on the keyboard. I just did not 'feel' like it. For that matter, I do not feel like it now either. I'm supposed to be hitting the books; instead, I'm heading for the hills. So, what do I feel like now? I feel like hightailing it; take to my heels and run to the hills. So, in this utterly restless moment when I am in the process of flying the coop and I am desperately trying to bring my attempt at escapism into fruition, emotions escape me. I do not feel for anything at the moment. All my ideologies and noble concepts are taking forty winks. I am currently advising everyone to kindly refrain from discussing philosophy with me now, until and unless of course, they want to be drubbed by a very unbalanced man with a keyboard.

Phew! That feels a lot better. So, now....where were we? Yes.....unbalanced man with a keyboard. No...that's not the point. What was the point again? Ah... to feel. I find this feeling or rather, the absence of a feeling very disturbing. This is me. Short man, shorter fuse, very intense and devoid of patience are some of my better virtues. The combination, I am told can be rather difficult, but, I also happen to be highly inspired and from what I hear from those who love me, it is by all the wrong things. Therefore, one might not be incorrect in summarizing me as 'rather a hot-blooded ass, who has a rather weird-ass opinion on most things'. Such an ass cannot exist without feeling for a great many things. I grew up in a farm with the kind of asses that lauded the idealism of Marx and the intention of socialism just as we denounced the stupidity of Stalin. The worst thing that can happen to a philosopher is the successful implementation of his philosophy's mis-interpretation. Eventually, Marx refused to call himself a marxist. We asses looked up to those who were ready to give their lives for a cause, for a faith, for a belief; as long as they were sincere to it, even if it was absolutely contradictory to ours. Denounce them, fight them, but respect them. For, in the end, we don't know which ass is right until our meeting with that ass, St.Peter. We respected asses everywhere, it did not matter which farm they belonged to. We asses refused to be just another animal on just another planet and we thought the only way to establish that would be to live like Gods. To first become idealistic individuals and thereby achieve an idealistic society. And that, I am strongly led to believe, is why we asses remained just that....asses. Atleast, I believe it led to growth. We became bigger asses. Never mind.

I am moved by a great many things. Music, truth, beauty, courage, compassion and genuineness. Witnessing any event involving one or more of these, leaves a lasting impression on me. Which is why I like children. Almost every virtue, good and bad, can be found in them. That level of purity is a sight that fills me up all the time, everytime. Man, not spoilt by experience is just that: a child, an illogical, irrational ass. We'll reserve that for another time, another illogical, irrational blog. The point is, most people I know carry atleast one of these traits. Sometime back, in our favourite kind of sessions, a bitching session, we were listing down the people we hate and why. You know the gossip, the explosive type. Absolute dynamite. At last came my turn.

"Hmmm......Nobody really. Until and unless someone is positively scheming and intends to harm without reason, I cannot hold their belief against them. After all there is always their side to the argument."

"God. I don't believe you are being diplomatic now. Why do you always answer with a 'depends'? Just apply Ockham's razor and give a straight answer.", said a very disappointed friend, denied of his gossip, "Do you always have to be ambivalent?"

"Well.....Hmmm....Yes and No.", I put him down like a bedspread.

"There you go again. I don't believe this."

"Fine! There is this chap who I find very difficult to tolerate. As in, he's always out to give me trouble. But, mind you, it's only contradicting interests. In himself he's very genuine."

"So are you. You genuinely dislike him."

I gave my buddha-smile ( if I was capable of such a thing ).
All a person can do is try. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to meet my levels of tolerance, but I can atleast try. Sometimes, I feel as fake as the unicorn’s horn they sell in the market for it’s magical powers. The power is fake. And anyone who buys it, is going be faking fake bliss. But then, isn’t that what most of us do all the time?? Utopia, Aliens, World State, World Peace, Brotherhood, Unicorns, what’s the difference? Everything’s fine, all the time. Isn’t it? Feel boy, feel. But please feel, real.

I once knew a person who would pick up his guitar, clear his throat and begin. It was magical. There wouldn’t be a trace of music in either instrument or player. Yet, he’d close his eyes and sing and be immersed in it. Blessed is he. He doesn’t even need music to feel it’s bliss. The lamb who wanders and grazes without a care for the tiger is the wise one. The one’s like us who remain in the flock, realize the incompetence of the shepard, and look around for a predator, living in fear and hesitation is the fool. Ignorance is bliss. In a similar argument with such a wise person, I was told that I needed help. When I asked why, I was told, "You know, when you know that you know far more than you need to know, you know you need help."

It took me sometime to get it, but when I did, I knew that I did not need to know that.

It did not take me too long to realize that wealth is not happiness, and in the end a person only wants to be happy. Anyway, that is old philosophy, least realized but oft spoken about. But now I realized that information is not knowledge and knowledge is not intelligence. Intelligence is not wisdom and wisdom is not happiness. Therefore, how much you know will not make you happy and we have already established that how much you have will not make you happy either.

Which is where we come back to where we started. Feel. Bliss you can achieve only by feeling. So what is this feel? It’s well.... just a feeling. Intangible but it’s presence or absence is all-pervading. For me, God is just that. It’s a feeling. The concept of feel can be applied to anything. Haven’t you ever had the feeling that a person or an object is perfect in all respects but there is that something missing, something, you cannot pin-point. You know something’s missing, you just can’t say what. That quality, never quantity, is feeling. Apply it to anything. Music, an instrument, the player, bikes, cars, people, philosophy, love, sex, anything; it’s gotta have that feel. Your kind of feel. Or else it’s out. The feel, like life itself, never follows logic, its never rational. But without the feeling, life just is not the same. Without a feel for everything and everyone in your daily life, you can never be happy. Without a feel for anyone or anything, you are classified under the group titled ‘inanimate objects’. Sometimes baby, you gotta feel, just to feel alive.

Hmmm.....Time to hit the books again. God, I just don't feel like it.