Merci Beaucoup, Albert

Albert Camus has to be one of my all-time favourite writers because he makes you aware of what literature can do, or at least that’s how he affects me. I’m not sure I entirely approve of the word ‘impact’ being used as a verb, but it’s an accurate description of the experience of reading Camus; he impacts upon me, leaving novel-sized marks stamped onto my soul.

In November this year, we celebrated his centennial year and several wonderful anecdotes about the man cropped up in newspaper pieces everywhere. The one that I liked most was the one given by Jean Daniel, who is a great French journalist and Camus's last living friend.

It’s the summer of 1951, and Camus’s book-length essay The Rebel will soon be published. The writer has taken his mother to a party with friends in Paris. After dancing with several women, Camus leans over and tells his mother that he’s been invited to the presidential palace. She is nearly deaf, so he repeats: “Mother, I've’ been invited to the Elysée!” Madame Camus is silent for a long moment. Then she takes her son’s ear and shouts: “Don't go, my boy! It’s not for us! It’s not for us!” .Camus never went to the Elysée, of course. The only palace this son of a cleaning woman ever entered was in Sweden to collect the Nobel Prize, and even then he went with much reluctance.

Born into extreme poverty, young Albert's family received a state pension after his father was killed fighting in World War I. He was a scholarship student educated by charismatic schoolmasters who had whisked him through the standard lycée curriculum, a writer raised by a grandmother who could not read and a mother who could not read and could scarcely speak. Although a socialist at heart, he was less prone to romanticizing the proletariat as his one-time good friend and later rival Jean Paul Sartre did, because for Camus words like “exploitation” and “subsistence” were gleaned not from revolutionary brochures but from life itself.

Camus was also a vigorous defender of human liberty, during the Algerian War of Independence he refused to choose a side between France which was his adopted homeland and Algeria which was the country of his birth. When he was heckled by an Algerian student in Stockholm, he said “People are now planting bombs in the tramways of Algiers. My mother might be on one of those tramways. If that is justice, then I prefer my mother.” Camus simply could not choose between the love of country and the love for his people. This reduced him to what he called an "Impotent Silence".

Camus taught me that in the hardest moments, one can do nothing but to keep on living.  Live the best way you know how. Move. Be kind. Be equanimous. Do what you can, but don’t waste your life feeling guilty or helpless or anxious. Get up in the morning and get your runners on and go outside and breathe the fresh air. Hug someone you don’t know. Practice acts of quiet rebellion in your everyday life. Rebel against anger, against traffic, against that wheel of thought that grinds you down. Rebel against your own mistaken beliefs about how the world is.

“My dear,
In the midst of hate, I found there was, within me, an invincible love.
In the midst of tears, I found there was, within me, an invincible smile.
In the midst of chaos, I found there was, within me, an invincible calm.
I realized, through it all, that…
In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.
And that makes me happy. For it says that no matter how hard the world pushes against me, within me, there’s something stronger – something better, pushing right back.

Truly yours,
Albert Camus”

Looking back..

As you make your way across the pebbles of a dry road that mounts and meanders like your lover’s mind, someone who you know comes and whispers---- you walk slowly nowadays. Is it the road; you wonder. Or the pebbles that break your pace? You walk fast. You always have. But what happened? somewhere down the line did the pebbles grow bigger? Or has the road become wider?

Suddenly you enter you room and start objectifying it. Instead of being a part of it, you start looking at it. You see it as your ‘young’ room. The room that witnessed a many of firsts. The first time you woke up embarrassed in the middle of the night, the first time you secretly hid the broken pieces of a vase and got away with it, the first time you put up a poster of Elvis and felt proud of it even if you didn't know who he was.The first time you watched pornography on the brand new computer which has now become faded, but proudly so.

This was the room that knew all your secrets. Like how you didn’t understand English songs, but felt intimidated when your school friends used to harp about them. This was the room that knew that the first thing you liked about your first crush was actually in your head, and you would never be sure if she was the same girl in real or not, and you didn’t want to. And now you see it as a room that saw all that. Now it has become the room you had when you were younger.

The leaves still fall from the bending trees in the dust stained roads of big cities the same way they had ten years ago. Cars honk, probably a bit more loudly, for they have gotten a little bigger. Children still run for their school buses and some parents still chase behind them.

School has changed too,certain teachers have retired though, some new teachers in the old schools walk around queerly in the same way as the old teachers did. Some old schools have a new coat of paint on them, but they would probably have the same scratches on the old desks. Streets tell the same stories and shops probably remain same, a thin line of silvery hair peeps out from the same shopkeepers but you don’t recognise.

The world often changes with a lot of pomp and show, but only when you change, do you realise, that the world that you think have been changing all along, must have changed a bit less than you have. And now you are old, but not that old. You just didn't realise it.

Suddenly elders don’t get surprised anymore to see you going to office in formals and how avoiding responsibilities isn't cute anymore. You didn’t realise that you probably tire out a bit too often, or your watchman is no more someone whom you can call “uncle” anymore. When while addressing you, a telemarketer uses Mr. (or miss) followed by your surname and your parents don’t tease you about it anymore.

Ahh,the parents..they don't change do they?The same mixture of childlike playfulness and ancient rigidity that both disgusted and enthralled you at different points of time. You remember the time when your mother became apprehensive about you spending nights out with friends, and the time when your father used to hold your hands to cross streets. In some years probably, you would do the same. On the same streets. Probably there will be a metro somewhere whizzing past above you. But I guess your father's hand would feel the same. 

I do know,that I miss my parents more than I let up.There has always been a barrier of sorts there. Maybe ,one of these days i'll call my dad up and tell him that I miss him and tell my mum how much i love her.

In the end,I realize that I am not so old,but the gravy train that's supposed to take me there is right on time.

The Long Vigil.

"For a while" is a phrase whose length can't be measured.At least not by the person who's waiting.

I'm playing the waiting game and I can't think of anything worse. I'm at that place in my life I always thought I'd enjoy being at.

In a few months, I could do anything I wanted to. I could choose to go to college near or far away or maybe not even at all. I could travel the world or go help a country in need. I could move to New York and try to make it big. In a few months, I could have the whole world displayed in front of me. So why am I not feeling as ecstatic as I thought I would? 

Fear,anxiety or insecurity.As I await a letter regarding my future, I can't help but to feel both anxiety and fear every day and hour of my life.

I hate that my whole future basically sits on whether or not some admissions counselor thinks I am good enough for them. 

It is the most paralyzing feeling,I cannot read or write in peace,laughter seems hollow and without meaning.I just want to scream: Pick me! Pick me!  Or a Jedi-mind trick: this is the person for the job.  You don’t need any other applicants. 

It is as Khaled Hosseini says "of all the hardships a person had to face none was more punishing than the simple act of waiting."

So,i wring my hands and wait.

Another day,another shooting.

It was just another day in Middle America. A man in Wisconsin shot seven people and injured a few others at  Gurudwara. Why am I not enraged by all this?Not because I don't feel any pain or sadness at this stupid act of violence.

I am not surprised at the fact that it does not happen more often.America is a violent country – the homicide rate is four to 12 times higher than that in more civilized parts of the world – and Aurora, Colo. where James Holmes gunned down 12 people , is more violent than the average American town. A down-market suburb of Denver, it sees an average of about 20 of its 325,000 residents murdered each year.

Statistics that would have appeared in the the local daily,but elsewhere would have slipped under the radar.A lot of people – about 15,000 at present – get murdered in the United States every year. Most of these people get killed in places that, roughly speaking, look something like Aurora or the Gurudwara: places where the people are poorer and less white than in America in general, and who are therefore by definition dangerous or not one of us.

Of course these rules don’t hold if some lunatic kills a lot of  people at once, especially in a normally innocuous public space, such as a multi-screen movie theater or a temple,but the fact of the matter is nothing will change,unless the gun laws in the states are amended.

There are no limits on the number of firearms that can be purchased at one time, nor on the possession or transfer of assault weapons, according to the Law Center to Prevent Gun Violence.


Wisconsin Republican Governor Scott Walker signed a law in July 2011 allowing citizens to carry concealed weapon, making the state the 49th to allow the practice. Only neighboring Illinois does permit this.

The Second Amendment that allows Americans to carry arms was adopted in 1791 at a time of Revolution. It's as if everyone thinks the King of England is going to be knocking on their door any day. I think we are a bit past that, but there's not enough people, with not enough power, to have our voices heard.

There really is no reason for anybody to be walking down the street with an AK 47(that was what was used in Colarado).But then again,the National Rifle Assocaition in the states is a big money spinner,and generates a lot of money for election campaigns.

This year,with the presidential campaign in full swing,Those who want to use the killing spree's to shake some sense into America's gun laws might as well be talking to a wall.

Rhythm

At some time all cities have this feel: in Delhi  it's at five or six on a winter evening. Pune has it too, late, when the cafes are closing up. In the hills, it can happen anytime: early in the morning as the light climbs over the canyon streets and the avenues stretch so far into the distance that it seems the whole world is city; or now, as the chimes of midnight hang in the rain and all the city's longings acquire the clarity and certainty of sudden understanding.

The day coming to an end and people unable to evade any longer the nagging sense of futility that has been growing stronger through the day, knowing that they will feel better when they wake up and it is daylight again but knowing also that each day leads to this sense of quiet isolation.

Whether the plates have been stacked neatly away or the sink is cluttered with unwashed dishes makes no difference because all these details--the clothes hanging in the closet, the sheets on the bed--tell the same story--a story in which they walk to the window and look out at the rain-lit streets, wondering how many other people are looking out like this.

 People who look forward to Monday because the weekdays have a purpose which vanishes at the weekend when there is only the laundry and the papers. And knowing also that these thoughts do not represent any kind of revelation because by now they have themselves become part of the same routine of bearable despair, a summing up that is all the time dissolving into everyday.

A time in the day when it is possible to regret everything and nothing in the same breath, when the only wish of all bachelors is that there was someone who loved them, who was thinking of them even if she was on the other side of the world.

When a woman, feeling the city falling damp around her, hearing music from a radio somewhere, looks up and imagines the lives being led behind the yellow-lighted windows: a man at his sink, a family crowded together around a television, lovers drawing curtains, someone at his desk, hearing the same tune on the radio, writing these words.

Love 15

Maybe it’s because I’m from Dubai  and living in an overcrowded city in the desert where courts are in short supply, but I love seeing tennis courts: from a plane as it descends (there never seem to be any on the way up) or from speeding trains and cars. This is a purely aesthetic — i.e., pointless — pleasure, but if I am out walking or cycling, this fondness for court-spotting has obvious practical advantages.

There was one court that I was particularly fond of, It was just a single court surrounded on three sides by buildings — apartment blocks with geraniums on tiny balconies and wash hanging out to dry — which created stadiumlike acoustics when you made contact with the ball.

I dream of going to Wimbledon one day,it seems that tennis courts are more potent than swimming pools as symbols of freedom from the realm of necessity.Where tradition meets modernity and where you get the best Strawberries and cream the world has to offer.

Now being the romantic fellow that I am,the question was asked :What profiteth a man if he gains a world of free courts yet lacks a partner? For life is not just a search for tennis courts; it is also a search for someone to play with.

If  I settled down in a small town, I could join a club and enjoy a life of contented tennis polygamy. But if I had to lead an itinerant existence, however, I'd will waste many hours cruising for partners: turning up at courts, checking out the talent, hoping that someone might be looking for a casual game or has been stood up by his partner, while never losing sight of the fact that he must be compatible and that the window of compatibility is tiny.

Now I use 'he' and 'his' not lightly,its not due to the notion of the inherent inferiority of women but because the prospect of encountering a partnerless female with a half-decent backhand (i.e., better than mine) is too blissful even to contemplate. It’s dispiriting enough just trying to pick up guys.

Now let’s say you’re at a court, lurking around like a pervert, envying those who have everything (a court, a partner), resenting especially the dreadlocked dude who can barely hit the ball but who is playing with his tanned, much-tattooed girlfriend. There are a few people on their own, but they’re all waiting for partners who show up within minutes of your having broached the subject of “a hit.” You skulk home without having set foot on a court. But like a human tennis ball, you bounce back the following afternoon. You find an empty court, practice your serve, quickly becoming bored because, with only four balls, most of your time is spent changing ends — until, out of the blue, someone comes over and asks you if you’d like to hit.

 At first you are both a little tentative, but one of the nice things about tennis is the speed with which the quality of someone’s game reveals itself. After a few gentle rallies, you both begin hitting a little more freely, then hard, then with open aggression. It is obvious that you’re both happy with this gradual escalation of friendly hostilities. After half an hour you ask your new friend if she (this is a fantasy, after all) would prefer to play a set. “Sure,” she says. “Let’s play.”

You need only a court, and a pretty close fit in terms of tennis, and . . . nothing else! You don’t even have to speak the same language.

At the end of the game, you exchange numbers, agree to play the following afternoon and go your separate ways. The perfect level of commitment made possible by this found court. Life is not just good; life is as it ought to be.

Murmurs of a Massacre.

Being a part of this country was a matter of pride. We grew up with dreams to take part in the nation's development with devotion and sincerity as our forefathers did. Be it in the field of education, sports, politics or defence. We were glad as everybody thought we were successful in achieving our goals.

But things have changed steadily for years now. We feel being subjected to persecution, prejudice and discrimination almost on a daily basis. We feel as if there is always somebody mapping out a plan to attack us?

You feel as if the state has totally abandoned you. As if the security forces are facilitating your murderers. As if the media is mocking your death. As if the human rights organisations are turning a blind eye on your genocide. And worst of all, as if your fellow countrymen are celebrating your death.

 You are afraid of a policeman, afraid of any armed man. We don’t even trust the  Army, top judiciary … almost nobody. Because nobody has ever heard your voice over so many years. You are afraid of going to university because somebody is lying in wait to kill you.

You can’t even escape. You need a passport for that. But you feel you’ll be murdered if you go to the passport office. You can’t go to any office for that matter because you will be identified, chased and finally shot in the head.

You feel that even your neighbours are annoyed by your screaming and want you to stop shouting.”

Don’t let your fears about your neighbours stop you, my good friend. Or we’ll be left with no hope at all...


P.S : Thoughts of a man,as rumors of genocide swirl outside.