Aham Brahmasmi

That , it appears, is the only problem with books. That one innocent little paragraph, so quaintly tucked away in an otherwise ordinary part of a random book. That’s all it takes. And the paragraph takes you away so, so far beyond the scope of the book, so deep into the forgotten recesses of your own heart, that you hardly remember your way back. You begin to wonder how it is that the writer, probably living richly off his/her royalties in a picturesque part of the world, managed to delve so deep into your very soul, managed to knock your breath out with such finesse. Well, music can sometimes be guilty too, in this respect. And this time a book takes me to another of those places. You know, to where someone in the enthralling, gripping text does something that is not only so touchingly selfless, so human in such a forgotten way, but also so similar to what you could’ve done, to what you should have willingly done when a similar event came to pass. And you so want to be like...

“ Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand, For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand. ” W. B. Yeats What is it that makes them them & makes us us ? 1999. A winter afternoon. A family sitting around the television, anxious, ignoring the fetching expanse of sunlight frolicking on the terrace garden. Among them, an eleven-year-old, huddled in the corner of the sofa, wondering to herself the meaning of a word she hadn’t heard before. Deshdrohi . Prayers were being whispered. A muttered swearword too. The grainy feed of Doordarshan adding to the theatricality of the Hindi commentators as the drama unfolded in spectacular fashion. India were playing Pakistan on a square-turner in Chennai and Tendulkar, the country’s most beloved son, almost crippled by back-spasms, was doing the unthinkable. Shahid Afridi’s whirlwind century the day before had stolen her heart,...

I see darkness. I smell the staleness of it. It indulges my wings, as they slice through it forever and ever. I mock the darkness, pretending to lose myself, tempting the spider’s web, only to emerge unscathed. I live off the darkness. I despise the darkness. I see light. A dancing flame. It bewitches me. I smell the seduction of its smoke. The flame envies my wings, tied as it forever is to the wick. I want to go closer. I must go closer. I swoop by closer, and there – inside the flame – I see myself, more dazzling than ever before. You and I , says the flame, have always been meant to be . I want to go closer. I must go closer. My wings catch fire first. Every nerve screams in agony. I welcome the pain. For a moment, I am the flame. For a moment, the flame reaches beyond the wick. For a moment, eternity is ours. And then… A longing. An annihilation. Darkness. ...

When my time will come, & come it shall, I shall reach out to you, the one person who has come closest to understanding my own deceptive, black-and-white version of reality. With the last droplets of life evaporating under the harsh light-bulb of dissolution, I shall talk to you about everything & about nothing & about all the things between & beyond.  I shall not expect a reply, for your silence will be enough. Your silence will be enough.

Disclaimer : Wisden Cricketers’ Almanack (2002) may have placed Tendulkar behind the great Bradman (as second greatest Test match batsman of all time) & behind the just as great Richards (as the second greatest O.D.I. batsman of all time), but I firmly believe that comparisons across generations and/or eras is, apart from being unfair to all parties involved, an exercise in futility – far too many variables have changed, & will inevitably keep changing, in this great game of ours to provide a level playing field for all of them. (Yes, the pun is intended) There are thus no comparative references to batsmen from other eras in this article. “ And God said, Let there be light: and there was light. ” – Genesis 1:3 And then, indeed, there was light. Coming from the old Videocon TV, my uncle’s most prized possession, that sat grumpily atop the only table in his room. My curiosity piqued by the pale incandescence & excited voices that seemed to be spilling out fro...

“ Jokhon keu aamake paagol boley, taar protibaad kori aami… Jokhon tumi aamay paagol bolo – dhonno j hoy shey paaglaami. ” ‘Paagol’ shobdo-tar maane ki? Nijer ekta duniya’y thaka, jekhane shob rong, shob onubhuti-guloi churantoh? Jekhane kono kaaj kora’r aage ba pore kono kichhu bhaba’r proyojoniyota-e haariye jaay? Jekhane dishe-haara jeebon-er proti muhurte jukti-heen daabi-daowa korata-e ekmatro upaay boley monn a hoy? Jekhane nijeke chhara onno shobbai k matha’r byamo’r rogi boley monn-a hoy? Jekhane bhogobaan-er shonge kotha bola'r shaadh jaage? R paagol-er shonge ghor koratai ba kotota duhshadhhyo kaaj? Kotota bhalobasha jaay ekta paagol k? Kotohdiin porjontoh? Bhalaobasha e ki, naki sneho-koruna meshano bhalobasha’r mukhosh pora kichhu? R shetai ba chirokaal thaake ki? Shob kichhu ki mene neowa jaay? Shudhumatro paagol-er prolaap boley? Erokom-e aaro onek proshne’r jhor tole Samaresh Majumdar-er Onekei Eka . Uttor o dyay kichhu’r. Opor-opor noy, rokto-...

“ One could not really continue to write, or read about, the slow seasonal changes, the rural backwaters, gossipy courtyards, and traditional families in a world taken over by gun-running, drug-trafficking, large-scale industrialism, commercial entrepreneurship, tourism, new money, nightclubs, boutiques... Where was the Huxley, the Orwell, the Scott Fitzgerald, or even the Tom Wolfe, Jay McInerney, or Brett Easton Ellis to record this new world? Mohsin Hamid's novel Moth Smoke, set in Lahore, is one of the first pictures we have of that world. ” – Anita Desai When I read The Reluctant Fundamentalist , in whose pages I was first introduced to Mohsin Hamid, I was bowled over by the strength of the narrative, by the author’s refusal to take a moralistic stance (which would have been by far the easier option). It was therefore only natural that I was waiting to get my hands on this book. It was worth the wait. More so after feeling let down by Hosseini’s And the mountains ec...