The positivity of negativity

Believed 4 months, 2 weeks ago in Critical. 1 Comment

Also called the idealism of hypocrisy.

(This is a very simple story. One which has been playing in my mind for a few years now, but one which befuddled me as a defensive response to assessments by soul mates, made within yet without. Yet now, after having thought little butterfly spans more, i think i am ready to write. Perhaps i am wrong.)

Who do we call hypocrites? Yes, them who say something and in practice does something else. The category of hypocrites belongs to those who talk at length about a particular ideological stand, and in practice go against this stand knowing that they are going against the stand. It does not belong to those who are not aware that they are going against their stand; that is ignorance. Ignorance is not a sin; well, ignorant ignorance, where one is ignorant because one simply has not gotten there yet, is not a sin, yet selective or chosen ignorance, where one chooses to be ignorant, perhaps, is.

Hypocrites thus do know that their actions do not follow their words or thoughts. They are aware that what they do is contrary to their ideological stand.

But then, what make them thus? Is it because they have vested interests, and that what they say is for profit, whereas what they do is the real them? These people again are not hypocrites, they are liars. Their real ideological stand is what they do – that which they do because of something they think. Thus, though they are not true to their words, they are true to their thoughts. Thus, they are not hypocrites, but are liars.

So then what makes them thus? What makes them do something contrary to what they believe, when they know that they are doing something contrary to what they believe in? In my experience, perhaps, it is a wish to be that ideal that they believe in. Either, knowing that they are not that ideal, yet advocating that ideal in words and spirit, striving for that ideal, yet not having the energy yet to be it. Thus we see people who firmly speak and believe of an ideal, yet doing something else, for they have not yet the energy to be the change. Or, helplessly resigning to fate, letting what may be, mostly resigning to realities that are contrary to their ideal, but inside them, an ember which wishes for the ideal, which will catch flame and blaze when fuel for the ideal appears. Thus we see people who do something, but loathe what they do, yet resigning to doing it, perhaps even speaking against the ideal, or even loathe the ideal for their present circumstance, yet who shall hoist the flag and hold the line if fuel appears.

These people are the real hypocrites. Yet we see that they are not really bad people at all… They are rather, idealists in their mid-life crisis. Some, of course, probably will not emerge from their crisis, and be doomed in it. Some others, do come out and take their causes forward.

Thus, there exists the idealism in hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is because of idealism.

~

And the same with negativity. Them who are negative keep contradicting the present. Them who are positive find these negatives appaling. Yet, i believe that inside them who be negative, there exists a flame of positivity, or shall i call it, a positivity for an ideal. When the pessimist says that the glass of water is half empty, the pessimist wishes it to be full. And therefore calls it half empty. The pessimist wouldn’t call it empty at all if it is full, then it would just be a full with a smile on their face.

Agreed, one can just choose to be positive, see the glass as half full, cuddle in, and be happy. Yet, the negative does not wish the glass to be half empty; rather, it is wished that the glass be full. So the negative is not exactly negative, are they? And they are not eternally pessimistic – merely till their ideal is achieved.

Again agreed, one can keep being negative about one’s present, and the ideal could never be achieved. But when the ideal is indeed achieved, dear friend, it should be as beautiful for them as it is for a blind to receive sight.

~

These thoughts of mine give weight to intention and the wish of one deepest deep, more than action or words.

Ironically, these end up being thoughts and words…

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear

Believed 5 months, 3 weeks ago in My Life My Voice. 0 Comments

One begins to see it when one’s research papers begin to make one or two quit facebook or turn vegetarians. Or when one writes, and what one writes begin to make post offices function, or make Government buildings build faster. When one’s ‘social work’ hobby begins to help children get better at Mathematics. Or make the untalked talked…

change.
That six letter word which means so much, and keeps meaning so much more.

Who am I/i to be consciously responsible for an O/other’s change? Or, who am I/i to be responsible for consciously creating/attempting to create an O/other’s change? Unless I/i know for myself, and strongly believe. Who am I/i to K/know and believe? What do/can I/i K/know or believe?

When all these questions play, how can the butterfly still flap its wings and create that hurricane in the Amazon?

[ASIDE]It might seem just fine for me to be present in a Rajasthani village or a Copenhagen restaurant, but the jobs i make lose, and families thus affect, because of my presence ping stronger at my heart than the awareness of my then presence there.[/ASIDE]

Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear.

(and i, i chose to watch out; breathe in, breathe out; meditate. Om.)

Little shoes

Believed 5 months, 3 weeks ago in Lit Creeps and My Life My Voice. 1 Comment

for You, A

 

Little shoes, they lie outside the door; they sat and they sat, sun in and sun out. The door was always of wood, weathered by weather, and by the passage of use. Little shoes, they lie outside the door, they knew not where to go.

“We have been through quite some bit” They pompously do purport. “From the colds of the north to the desert hots. From airplanes and glitz, to sand and plain tar. We have yo beheld the northern lights’ glow, and also the sun’s fourty-five degrees show. We have watched peacocks shimmer and dance, and also elephants in pampered trance; chickens cross the road and snakes chase, snails, slugs, and mongooses race. Oh have we been when ice creams and lollys rolled, rich and poor food, from West and East, North and South East, coffees, chocolates, fudges, and cakes, and the creamiest of milks, in shapes, sizes, colours, and flavours, just to quench the need to go on. To keep going on…”

And suddenly, both of them in that little pair, they fell a hush.

“To keep going on,” The curved right said. “Yes, indeed, to keep going on,” Agreed the curved left. “To keep going on indeed.” The right iterated. But the truth is, or if there is indeed such a thing, or perhaps, their truth is, that they knew not where to go.

“What frappity missense, oh author dear!” The right exclaimed, indeed, he was the noisier of the two, if I may, the squeakier. “What indeed do you mean squeakier! Oh bother, anyway, of course we know where to go. You speak of life, don’t you not? We have been when the richest has been said, the loftiest has been thought!”

“Indeed,” Added the left, “through the doors of libraries and spines of books. Through talks and trifles, debates and luncheons.”

“We have heard deep of Dante chanted aloud, and alike of Freud, Lacan, Beauvoir and Kant! So have we of Satre, Althusser, and Descartes if you would like. Plato through Foucault, we know of them all. Don’t go away, without Krishnamurti, and the Vedas to boot, and also of the thoughts of West Indian native roots.”

But, all for this, alas, the truth remained, these little shoes, they knew not where to go.

“Impatient brain, do you think we know any less of the miles we have walked? Steps beyond that which any man could count!” And what about the woman? “Of course the woman and the child too, dear friend! Each step we take, we reach an end, or make amends.” The left. Indeed it showed from their sentence thus, that they had walked paths in hand with human feet.

This was all too much for the right, who thus exclaimed, “Claim you to know of paths than we, we who tread paths even as we speak. If it is through the treads of feet that we gain of the paths you speak, we still know better, and our ways we do, oh dear lone writer.”

But their, oh no, our truth remained. Little shoes, and I, we lie outside the door, we know not where to go. As for the shoes, until some feet appeared, they, they just lie outside the door, they knew not where to go.

And when they did appear, then they let them slip in, and away did they go, across so many beautiful wonderful things, seeing, learning, so much, so much, and oh.

My school…

Believed 6 months, 2 weeks ago in Anecdoticals and Another Brick In The Wall. 4 Comments

Starting tomorrow, I will be heading off to a village to spend a month. The village in which my school survives, betwixt solemn juvenile neem trees who sway lazily and yet bureaucratically in sandy breezes. A school some 15-20 kilometres away from the place where I live now, a journey of blissful peace, yet with a grim undertonic omen. A journey through a road boulevarded by meadow grass and daffodil-like yellow blossoms, patches of ups and downs, hills and valleys.

My school is in a village called Gudda Deher. It displays the name “Rajakiya Uche Pradhamika Vidyalay” (Government Upper Primary School). Classes range from one to eight, students from three to seventeen years of age. Class one has a rather nomadic population. If you see one today, do take their picture for reference, for in all probability, you will not see her/him tomorrow. They are all rather smaller than half the required age to attend school – 6. The oldest in class one is probably five years of age. They all sit nonchalantly disinterested in the proceedings of the class, whether it be mathematics, or games. Hard to even classify them as children, for they seem to be of a lost lot. They sit with the weight of heaven knows what on their bodies, like the man with the hoe. They look not, see not, sing not, play not, colour not. Perhaps they be scared of their teacher-torturers?

They all speak a language which is a blend of Hindi, Marwardi, Shekhawati, and many others whose names I know not yet. Of course, I do not get a word of what they say, and thus, neither do I get a word in the proceedings.

Classes are clubbed, one and two sit together, so does three and four, five, six, seven, and eight have their own spaces to claim.

Teacher-torturers
These are individuals who wear costumes and ranks of servants of the Government, guised to ‘teach’. And what do they do? Or what do they do not? These individuals, most of them, barring two, love shirking classes, sitting under the neem trees sipping tea, unless there is an inspection from Sarva Shiksha Abhyan. Their second favourite hobby is torturing the children. They hit, slap, punch, kick, throw, pinch, twist, et al the children. The last day, one of them told me with a weary look, “What to do… The government has banned sticks also!” I don’t think they shudder have an idea of what the Government has and hasn’t banned. Their physical abuse would put to shame the fiery veer jawans of the Kannada Protection Sangha who prowl the streets of Bangalore to chance upon the hapless clueless (and all but money and gizmo less) immigrant software employee. Kids are just punching bags that throw a challenge to their worthy fists. *dish phtwack dhjung ptash*.

And the kids, they just wail, until the get a few more *pthacks*, and then, they just shut up. Numb in their existence. Beyond sorrow or fright. The child with the hoe.

The principal is a chilled out guy. He likes to sit in his office, doing nothing, discussing alcohol, nicotine, and sex. I should ask him for sex advice, he said. He’s an expert in the field, he said.

Let us talk about child labour
Oh how I remember how we used to fume over that lone child wiping tables in the restaurant in Bangalore. The poor child imported from some unheard of village in Tamil Nadu, now serving the wipes to serve his family. And how we used to dial 1098, and how we used to talk, fume and fiery. How we used to make presentations, show documentaries, write papers.

Here I am, in a school were child labour is a misnomer. If labour by default is to be borne by the child, one wouldn’t call it child labour, would we? The school children are forced to clean their school premises, cook food, clean up after the teacher-torturers, make tea, wash the teacher-torturers’ dishes, get water for the teacher-torturers, carry tables and chairs, etc. etc. etc. I do remember that we used to carry tables and chairs in our school for functions of sorts, but we used to do it with a joyful enthusiasm. We weren’t forced to do it. Here, they are. After a forced assembly, a Nazi type voice rings out, announcing thus: “Eight standard girls, clean up your school”, and off comes an army armed with brooms and wipes, cleaning out each class, the staff room, the school premises…

Any child who is a little slow at it, at brooming or at washing the teacher-torturer’s tea glass, gets a whack on the head. “Hurry up you donkey”.

This is a Government school. Child what did you say it was again?

The last place a child should be sent to – school
Magnanimous. An overstatement? Oh no. No child should ever be sent to any school. Forced to learn constructs of 1, 2, 3 and a, b, c, to conform and fit into society, schools are centres of brainwashing. They function to drain our children out of the energy, love and innocence that life bestows. Grouped together on the basis of constructs like age or IQ, shut off in classrooms, or at least in fixed sessions, mass produced, schools rape children. They rape children of their beauty, of their innocence, of their magic, of their amazingness, of their oneness, of their Nature, of their uniqueness, and impregnates them with the semen of conformity, of anonymity, of being seams in the stitches of our constructed systems (systems which has no meaning or purpose in themselves or at the product end of them), of being bricks in the wall. Whatever the school be, NCERT, GSCE, IB, ICSE, Montessori, Krishnamurti, or Steiner.

Or perhaps not? To prove or disprove, here goes my life. Hello world.

Existence

Believed 6 months, 2 weeks ago in Another Brick In The Wall. 0 Comments

We go with pompous hearts a beating, walk into classes, and start the bleating. We take and we race our hearts and sinew, to make environments for young ones to learn, to make the constructs that generations past hath made, again. And to bash forth into the world with the weighty momentum of all our knowledge repositories; to take our systems forward, to make new constructs, to pursue the pursuit of happiness.

Of course, none of us are on the pursuit of happiness… Are we? Who among us is truly, absolutely, completely, peacefully happy with our material pursuits of life? Then again, what is happiness…

It seems that we live for completeness. Even in pursuing the pursuit of happiness, we try to pursue that which completes our selfs, or selves. No living mind is complete without doses of the happy and the sad. We couldn’t live in a world of only happiness.

Then again, as I, day in and day out, bash forward with all the knowledge repositories that scores of teachers have left in me, to engage a newer generation in similar pursuits, I begin to wonder…

Why…

Its not a new thought. Why education. Why educate. Why be educated. Why teach. Why learn. We struggle so much to instill the absolutely abstract concepts of mathematics and language into young minds, apparently feeding the angst of a developing brain with an equal ratio dosage of brain food. To lead children into the beaten path of maths, language, and science, the so trained primary school teachers strive their life out. And as the child begins to write 1,2,3, and begins to say a,b,c, and begins to sing saa ree gaa, the teachers, their smile we should see.

At times when that smile blesses me, I look at myself with my inner outward eye, and begin to wonder… Why…

What goods we get through education? What goods we get through money, or a job? What goods we get through pursuing something we are made to believe we are made for? What does education of an individual make?

It seems to me that without Maths, there be no problems, without language no questions no answers, without constructs no cognitive dissonance. Why make we constructs on constructs to problematise our worlds, to make us wander for a meaning of life (when there is none), and ensure that our children are initiated into the same? Why construct we an existence, only to question it and exist all life to construct a ‘better’ existence.

Education has enabled me to think thus. Language helps me to construct these morphemes and syntax, has given me access to authors of thought, and have made me try and question the wall, and the bricks in the wall. But without education, would I be anxiously writing this, would I have lived a ‘happy peaceful’ life… Or not lived at all… Somehow, it doesn’t seem to make a difference.

You do not need to leave your room…
Remain sitting at your table and listen.
Do not even listen, simply wait.
Do not even wait, be still and solitary.
The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked.
It has no choice.
It will roll in ecstasy at your feet.

Franz Kafka (1883-1924)

But hey, a little last word, I know what I want to do with my life. I know what to do with my existence. And somebody else knows too. Don’t we teacup?

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