Namaste guruji

I recently got a bit caught up in a conversation about gurus on Chronicus Skepticus' blog. I usually hate doing that, i.e. using someone else's space as a soapbox. It is sorta pointless because Blogspot offers you unlimited space right here; to be an asshole on your own time, in your own space, and on your own account. Blogspot is so neat I could have kids with it.

Over the long eons, Hindus have vomited up this busload of gurus, ok? And even bigger busloads of Hindus flock to these gurus. Ostensibly to learn how to live their lives. I would have thought that even a nominal adult would have some sort of a clue about living his OWN frickin' life, but then again, not everybody has a quarter [**]. Some of these gurus are out and out con men specializing in the long con, some are unapologetically misogynistic creeps, and some are marketing geniuses. None is especially holy. All are in it for the money or the adulation, bar none.

But people often go to great lengths to justify a choice. It's part of our psychology. This is why people talk up a moneyshredder portfolio that they have bought into. Or stick with redneck husbands who kick the shit out of them on a regular schedule. Or rationalize indefensible habits. So it goes with gurus too. There is a certain kind of person who will readily join the party in bashing a wide spectrum of gurus, but demur when it comes that special one. Some people, like my mother-in-law (yes, somebody was actually stoned out of her mind enough to allow her daughter to get hitched to me), will not tire of telling you that their gurus aren't like all those other riff-raff, carpetbagger gurus. This is the classic cop out: Oh, but MY guru is "not like that". No sir. He is "modern". He is not the usual gender-biased caste-coddling attention whore.

Yeah, yeah, maybe there is a point in there somewhere, but screw that shit, I say. Why settle for a better guru when you can have the best? You know who the best, most enlightened guru in the world is?

The best guru in the world is the guru, who when you enter his home for the first time, tells you to fuck off and go learn to think for yourself and never darken his doorway again.

Why this is not obvious to anybody with an IQ higher than that of a dung-beetle is not obvious to me.


[**] To buy the clue.

can't go back home this a-way

If you miss the train I'm on, you will know that I am gone
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles
A hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles, a hundred miles
You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles.

Lord I'm one, lord I'm two, lord I'm three, lord I'm four
Lord I'm five hundred miles away from home.

--500 miles, Traditional folk song

Moral of the story: You can sorta-calypso damn near any song.

High flyers, wailing birds
I'm so far out to sea
Ships are passing every night
Oh, all my boyish dreams

And your every melody
With the sea tides tossing free
Never, never holding back
Rock and rollers drift by

Turn to summer, goes so fast
Seems I'll never see you
One weekend and a photograph
Oh, all my boyish dreams

-- UFO, High Flyers

A song from eons ago and ages lost. There's almost nothing you cannot find on youtube. Everytime I hear the words "rock and rollers drift by", I can see boats rocking on the waves and I can smell the sea. Daft, maybe. But so there.

The Song

In my college days, I used to take the train from Bangalore to Calcutta to go spend time with my family during the hols. There was this beggar-man who I have seen at least three or four times on these trips. He used to get on the train somewhere near Bhubaneshwar and he used to sing for coins. Some of us used to give him money, and he used to get off the train a few stops later.

He was either blind or had the most mangled normal eyes that I've ever seen. He used to be on the arm of a little kid who led him through the crowded train. Whether the kid was his own, I don't know. The man always sang this one song. It was in Oriya. The romantic in me likes to think he came up with it himself, but it was probably lifted from some movie. Oriya is close enough to Bangla that I understood what he was saying. I can even put down the original words here, but I'm afraid that I'll mangle them rather badly.

Briefly, what he was saying is this.

Lord, you are cruel for having done this to me.
If you look inside my sad heart, you will see my pain.

He had a beautiful voice, and he sang this in a refrain. It wasn't boring. It was mesmerizing somehow; at least to me. And then afterwards, he finished the song with a few lines which said, essentially:

But Lord, you are good and merciful.
I know that you look over me and will look after me.
And for this, I love you and I worship you.

Sorry for the poor translation, but that is close enough.

Some things stay with you. That song has stayed with me because I was simultaneously haunted and puzzled by that song. To be precise, I was puzzled by the words. My then young mind couldn't grasp the meaning of that song. (And I still can't grasp the meaning; maybe someone can explain it.) Here was someone who had a crippling (and how!) disadvantage. And in his mind, he had identified his god as the cause of his condition. He said so in as many words. He lamented this fact, at length, in a song, and then basically concluded that his god is really, secretly, verily, a nice guy. So what if this god has quite plainly screwed him over for life? Mere detail.

And oh by the way, that song is not unique in its sentiment. As I have lived and learned, I have heard this same idea expressed in poetry, music, and literature. And I wonder. Are we the only animals that do this? Are we the only species that identifies something that is causing us pain and then proceed to love that cause. Isn't that the dictionary definition of masochism?

I don't think a single other kind of animal does this. Even the puniest animal does something, ANYTHING when faced with a vastly more powerful one. It kicks, scratches, it tries to bite back. It reacts somehow, someway. Even at the most passive, it cowers and whimpers in fear. What it DOES NOT DO is stand in the corner and sing praises of its tormentor.

But humans do this frequently. Why?

And don't you think that a god, if he were around, would be amused by this a little? I mean, if there indeed existed a god and we were indeed his charge, then I can almost see him sitting in a comfortable chair somewhere, munching on a big divine bowl of nachos, nudging his beer buddies and going: "Get a load of this guys. I kick them in the shins, I pull their wings off and then push them with my finger to see how far they'll crawl...and they gulp it all down and still call me in the morning. Man, these men are stupid! And to think that they think that the other animals I put on that planet are dumb!! What a hoot."

That is why I take a different tack of course. See, here's what I think. I think that in a universe created by a benevolent god (or even by a neutral but competent god), no one should be required to stumble barefoot through a dirty train singing to keep body and soul together. Something doesn't smell right here. So it follows naturally that if there is a single architect of this world, then that gentleman is either glaringly incompetent or an irredeemable rancid cunt. There is no third conclusion. So cussing him out is the thing to do, really. It is what every believer should do, nevermind us atheists. Maybe that way, the prick will be stung enough to pay attention. So don't spoil him with praise, people. That way you are making him the exact opposite of what you want him to be. Now doesn't that make a lot more sense than what the men in frocks have told you?

Think about it. And have a good and drunken Fourth of July.

She

I don't right remember where I met her first. I think it was at the pool hall where I go to practise billiards. She was in the corner and seemed to be playing by herself. But oh of course she was with somebody! A gorgeous thing like her never roams the streets free. I don't think men ALLOW a gorgeous thing like her to roam the streets free. Not in this country.

I also don't quite remember how I got to know her better. I think I just walked up and introduced myself to her one day. We became friends. At first.

She has mixed ancestry, like most things American. All her parents and grandparents originally came from different parts of Europe, like most things American. And did I mention that she is gorgeous? Well she is. Head-turning, heart-aching, drop-dead gorgeous. Big hazel eyes; golden hair. Absolutely stunning.

We are very close now. It certainly seems that way unless I am reading all the signs wrong. We have eaten together a few times and I have seen past the looks. I now know that she has a golden nature to go along with that golden hair. A gentler soul I have not seen.

She is younger than me though. Almost embarassingly younger. I always knew that but I didn't know exactly how old she was until recently. It was of course impossible to get her to tell me, so I asked someone else. And just as I suspected, the difference is big. I mean, I'm not some creepy old guy, but by god, she is young. But you know what...it doesn't seem to bother her, so why should I mention it? She doesn't even seem to be aware of the difference, so why should I be?

We are very close now. There is just something about the way she looks at me with those big melting eyes that makes me just want to reach out and touch her. Everytime. And I do. I run my fingers through her hair when we think that no one is looking and that always makes her snuggle a little closer to me. The other day, she rubbed her cute nose against my face, shyly but playfully. A nose-kiss, if you will. And in front of everybody. Now if that isn't an open declaration of love and bonding, then I don't know what is. I hope she does that again soon.

We are very happy when we are with each other. But...there is just one thing that bugs me about all this. See, I don't think I quite love her. I mean, it's close, but it's not love. I just know it. Oh, I know that *she* is in love. Without a doubt. I see that in her eyes everytime she looks at me. But I can't return the favour completely.

Why? What is wrong with me? Makes me question myself sometimes. Why can't I love that bitch? The bitch loves me, practically dotes on me; so why can't I? Why can't I give my heart, completely and unconditionally, to that bitch.

Why? Why? Oh why?

Oh, and for those who like to keep track of these things, I think that she is part golden retriever and part collie. At least according to the owner.

And no, you cannot have the last ten minutes of your life back.

This song keeps getting played on the radio station I listen to during my rather long commute. I like it very much.

We never plagiarize, we are just "influenced."

We also know that some people are more influenced than others. An example would be, say, that tool called Anu Malik. Now that is some seriously rampant influence at work.

I don't quite know what it is about that Anu Malik guy, but everytime I see his mug on TV, I feel like smashing his fat, smug, lying, content face in with nothing but my blunt stiff dick. And then pissing on the result. I feel like turning off the TV.

I think there is a name for this particular disorder. I must look it up.

Sometimes though we take a work to be original for a long time till we find different. No prizes for guessing which Hindi song was "influenced" by this number called Return To The Alamo, originally played by The Shadows. I can't find the original on Youtube. If someone does, please let me know.

But whatever...it's great music, in whichever language.

No matter how jaded I get, I'll never hate music. A friend introduced me to this song and told me that I was out of touch.

The original is from a Punjabi Sufi poet, Bulleh Shah. The words are wonderful.

Not an Arab, nor Lahori
Neither Hindi, nor Nagauri
Hindu, Turk, nor Peshawari
Nor do I live in Nadaun

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

Secrets of religion, I have not known
From Adam and Eve, I am not born
I am not the name I assume
Not in stillness, nor on the move

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

I am the first, I am the last
None other, have I ever known
I am the wisest of them all
Bulleh! do I stand alone?

Bulleh! to me, I am not known

---

It is the song of the nowhere man.



[The translated lyrics are courtesy of this web site.]

sans un regard, reine de Saba

In Jean-Jacques Goldman's song Aicha, a man woos a woman and promises her everything: pearls, gold, treasures, fruits and honey, poems, the music of the skies, the rays of the sun...even his life and breath, to which she makes a simple but fitting reply.



Or, at:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gk8rmZH_oPY


Aicha

As if I don't exist
She was passing by me
With no regard, the Queen of Sheba
I said, Aisha, take this, all of it is for you.

Comme si je n'existais pas
Elle est passee a cote de moi,
Sans un regard, reine de Saba
J'ai dit: Aicha, prends tout est pour toi

Here, the pearls, the jewels,
also the gold around your neck
The fruits, well ripe with the taste of honey
And my life, Aisha if you love me!

Voici, les perles, les bijoux
Aussi l'or autour de ton cou
Les fruits bien murs au gout de miel
Ma vie, Aicha, si tu m'aimes.

I will go where your breath leads me,
In countries of ivory and ebony
I will erase your tears, your sorrows
Nothing is too beautiful for a girl so beautiful.

J'irai ou ton souffle nous mene,
dans les pays d'ivoire et d'ebene
J'effacerai tes larmes, tes peines,
rien n'est trop beau pour une si belle

Aisha, Aisha, listen to me
Aisha, Aisha, don't go
Aisha, Aisha, look at me
Aisha, Aisha, answer me

Aicha, Aicha, ecoute moi
Aicha, Aicha, t'en vas pas
Aicha, Aicha, regarde moi
Aicha, Aicha, reponds moi



Aicha replies:

"Keep your treasures
I'm worth more than all that
A cage is a cage, even if it's made of gold
I want the same rights as you
And respect for each day
I don't want anything but love."

Elle a dit: Garde tous tes tresors
Moi, je vaus mieux que tout ca
Des barreaux sont des barreaux memes en or,
Je veux les memes droits que toi
Du respect pour chaque jour
Moi, je ne veux que de l'amour

And the Germans killed the Jews
And the Jews killed the Arabs
And the Arabs killed the hostages
And that is the news.

--Roger Waters, Perfect Sense