Futility

'Don't forget to buy some milk and sugar for tomorrow's breakfast. And yes, if you pass by the library, drop in at the tailor to ask if the children's trousers are ready.'

He came in a few hours later with a vacant look on his face, deeply absorbed in some vagrant world of his the centre of which was nowhere and the circumference everywhere.

'Did you?', she asked, hoping against hope.

'Did I what?', he replied quizzically.

She didn't say anything.

She went out into the terrace and saw the orange sun gently setting over the hills like a drop of blue water deliciously dissolving into the fathomless ocean.

'Vanity of vanities, all is vanity', an old preacher had once proclaimed. She wondered how she had become so vain as to presume that a man would be able to understand her.

Weaving Circles


Trapped in the circle of meaning
My words do not understand themselves
They are but an instrument
Of my mind.

Trapped in the circle of my mind
I do not understand myself
I am but an instrument
Of my readers.

A Mid-Week Fairy Tale

Here is another one of my trade-mark mid-week fairy tales. Like all others, feel free to 'read' this as historical, mythical, farcical, ironical, or simply as literal, all to literal.

A man who is attached to his mother is a veritable time-bomb for others (especially women) who might come near the periphery of his circle. The reason for this is quite complex, it would seem. Because a mother cannot exercise authority over her husband (she is not allowed this control by patriarchal madates), she soon discovers that her son is a readily available victim over whom to establish her unquestioned control. So she brings up her son in a manner that will drive home to him, every day and every night, how much he is dependent on her and how greatly he owes his life and his existence to her.
Later when the daughter-in-law comes in, the mother feels overwhelmed by very ambivalent emotions. On the one hand, she desperately wants grandchildren to propagate her genes and to carry on her family-line (hence the daughter-in-law as an instrument for maintaining the line). But on the other hand, she also fears her erstwhile absolute authority over her son being challenged from within. Hence a titanic civil war starts between two women over one man, a war that is much beloved of Hollywood and Bollywood.
Now this process is repeated when the daughter-in-law has a son in return; the son grows up and gets married; and so on and on ad infinitum.

The Hindus have a name for this : it is called Samsara which is said to be beginningless (anadi). Some even go on to say that there is a way out of it (moksa); others, of course, know better.

Proleptic Meditations

[The year is 2035, and the Transparent Ironist returns to browse through the blog of his forgotten youth.]

For a few agonising moments, there was an uneasy silence between us, perhaps the noisy silence between two bursts of thunder in the middle of a monsoon shower.

'So do you still go around in your fast cars?'

'Fast cars?'

'Yes? You used to drive in and out of town in one of those Toyotas?'

'Ah, fast cars, fast cars, fast cars. You see, my mind does not work as fast as it used to during those days. No, I don't go around in fast cars.'

'And all those dead horses? Plato, Aquinas, Kant, Mill, Hegel, Heidegger, Russell, Sartre, Nagel, Putnam, Dummett, Churchland, and Searle? Do you still read all these people?'

'Well, yes, now and then. After all, we must all pay our homage to the dead. Each of us, in our own way.'

'And what about your theories?'

'Theories? I never had any!'

'Of course you did! All those arguments over babies that we had until the sun came down. And sometimes, even until it rose above us again the next morning.'

'Yes? Like what?'

'This one, for example. Like how every pattern of education, at home or at school, is an implicit or explicit form of violence, and if we do not wish to commit violence on children, we should not have babies in the first place.'

'Ah, yes. In the first place. I used to love that phrase in those days.'

'And then how you used to smile sadly at all those teenagers shouting at the top of their voices in front of the American Embassy that global poverty must come to an end. And how you told me that poverty and hunger would never become history as long as human beings kept on producing babies. And also how some of these teenagers would go on to have babies whom they would then shower with medicines from Glaxo, diapers from Candida, and milk from Nestle, the very MNCs that they had been fighting against just a few months ago!'

'Yes, but those were different days. I am an old man now, the fire is lost from my words, from my voice, and from anything I could write today. Indeed, I think I was old, very old, even in my youth. Perhaps, when I was young, I missed my youth.'

'But why didn't you ever tell others about these theories that you kept to yourself?'

'I didn't? Why do you think I started that blog a long time back you used to comment on every now and then?'

'Well, yes. But why not speak in a direct and clear first-person voice?'

'Because I did not want to get entangled in pointless disputes over the meaning of words.'

'What do you mean?'

'Misanthropy, for example. Some would say that I am a misanthropist, that because I am indifferent towards babies, I hate the Human Race. Others would say that because I would rather be around women who share my indifference towards babies and carefully avoid those who do not, I am a misogynist. Yet others would say that because I have no plans, no visions, and no goals for how to make the world a better place, I am a status quoist. Finally, some would say that because the gradual disappearance of the Human Race from the face of this earth does not bother me in the least, I am a pessimist. And instead of debating the fundamental question, Should or should we not have babies?, we would get embroiled in endless debates over the meaning of words such as 'misanthropy', 'misogynist', 'status quoist', and 'pessimist''.

'Is that why you hid yourself behind the thick cloak of your irony?'

'Perhaps.'

A little yellow bird flew down from the grey skies and sat down on the wet ground in between us.

'You know, he often asked about you during his last days.'

'Yes, I know. I tried to reach his house the other evening. I was told he had died in the morning.'

'Yes.'

'But perhaps that is the way things are. Those who are alive always reach home a bit too late. It is only the dead who arrive bang on time.'

The yellow flapped its wings twice, struggled to rise into the air, and flew away.

I walked away from the benches, with a few dry branches crackling under my feet. I looked back at her. She was still as beautiful as always : ever so ancient, ever so new.

I reached my old Toyota, slumped into the front seat, and banged the partly-damaged door shut. In front of me, I could hear the Sunday choir singing from the cathedral. I looked up at the sooty Mediaeval spire.

Yes, the little yellow bird was now sitting right at the top of it. And behind it, the faint glimmerings of a rainbow in the horizon.

Nostalgia

'I am not sure that I agree with what you have to say about women in classical India. I think you display a consistent 'Western bias' in whatever you believe about the 'Indian context'. Women in those bygone days were much freer than women in contemporary India and even in the so-called 'liberal West' today'.

'And what makes you say that?'

'Well, women then enjoyed as many powers and liberties that men possessed.'

'Ah, but there is a subtle point.'

'What is that?'

'Women enjoyed only as many powers and liberties as men declared were suitable for women!'

Perversity

'Tell me one thing. I have always wondered why a woman changes her surname to that of her husband's when she gets married.'

'Well, I don't think you would understand it.'

'Well, you know, you are the academic type. You live in the cold impersonal world of your books and journal articles. You types don't get one fundamental thing about life.'

'And what is that one thing?'

'Sacrifice, my dear, sacrifice. You don't understand the meaning of sacrifice. When a woman loves a man, she is willing to make these little sacrifices for his sake. Like changing her surname.'

'Hmm. That's interesting. Would you say that in this case the man loves the woman too?'

'Yes, probably.'

'So why can't he make this sacrifice and change his surname to that of his wife's? Why do women have to make these 'little sacrifices' all the time if not for the reason that they are trained from their childhood to look at the world as a sacrificial Crusade? It is almost as if every woman is out on a mission to declare to other women, 'My sacrifice is greater than yours!''

Hell

'There is something I wanted to talk to you about.'

'Wait, your tea is getting cold.'

'Ah, don't worry about my tea. There are far more important things than that.'

'Like what?'

'Like these proposals that I have been receiving through the post.'

'What type of proposals?'

'Don't be silly, for your marriage, of course.'

'But how could that be possible when I never asked for any?'

'Well, mother and I put up this matrimonial last month. We thought it was in your best interests not to tell you.'

'But how do you dare to know what my best interests are?'

'Well, I am your father, and a father always knows what is for the best for his daughter. So are you going to look through these?'

'No, I am not.'

'Very well, I thought as much. But if you are planning to go for a fling with one of those college friends of yours, here is something you should remember. He must be a non-Catholic, a non-Protestant, a non-Sikh, a non-Muslim, a non-Buddhist, a non-Jaina, a non-Taoist, a non-Rastafarian, a non-Shintoist, and a non-Confucianist. And as for Hindus, he must be a non-Shaivite.'

'Sigh. This so reminds me of that idiot I knew when I was at school. He used to throw these one-liners at people, with a supreme nonchalance as if he did not care if anyone was listening to him.'

'And what did he say?'

'That for a girl to remain close to her father is the highest compliment she can pay to patriarchy.'

Purgatory

'You should go out more often with your friends. If you have any, that is.'

'So should you. I mean, just look at you! You sit at home the whole day, drinking coffee, and watching people through the window.'

'Well, I don't have anything else to do, do I? But look at you. You are 35, and haven't yet managed to find a husband. Makes me wonder if you ever shall. At your age, I had two grown-up daughters to look after, and you are yet to start.'

'Oh, please don't start that all over again. I just am not going to listen to this right now.'

'When will you though? Does anything of what I say ever pass through your thick head?'

'Well, he was right after all then.'

'And who is this he?'

'Well, it is that he, that gloomy figure I used to know during my college days. He once told me that a woman does not need a man to oppress her. Her mother is enough for this purpose.'

'Hello!'
'Hello?'
'Mum!'
'Is that you Kathy?'
'Yes. There is something I want to tell you.'
'What is it this time?'
'I am pregnant.'
'Ah, well.'
'What?'
'I mean not everyone is perfect.'
'Whaaaaaaah?'
'You heard what I said.'
'But I don't understand what you mean.'
'Perhaps neither do I. There is something I haven't told you.'
'What is that?'
'You were adopted.'

The Rhyme Of The Post-Modern Ironist
(A Cryptic Summary Of His 'World-View')



A sad loser, yes that's what I am
For I never quite know what to say
My replies, yes they are as mobile
As the ever-shifting winds of May.

First comes along an old friend
To announce the gospel heaven-sent :
'Life is a beauty and you, my dear
You must live for the moment!'

And while I ponder there struts in
Another friend clearly in great torment :
'Fiery hell awaits you, my dear fellow
Unless you turn to Allah and repent!'

So I sit on my old Ironist's couch
And meditate on which way to blow
But try hard to decide as I might
I just don't know which way to go!

And then it all lights up abruptly
Why should it be a matter of choice
When I can combine both at once
And sit back quietly and rejoice?

I open the window of my room
And my sudden wisdom, noble and mellow
I shout at the top of my hoary voice
To all the masses gathered below :

"Hear Ye O my People, hear this clear
Over right and wrong worry no more
I have now found just the right formula
That all of Ye been patiently waiting for!"

"Enjoy the world and with great gusto
Immerse yourself in rampant revelry
But when that's over and done with
Turn to Allah and say, 'Please forgive me!'"

What is Religion?

(a) The world we live in is a collection of a bewildering plurality of games, and you have (already!) been born into one of them (congratulations!). Therefore, when you arrive on the scene, you find yourself immersed in the middle of a game that has already commenced and that has probably been played on for hundreds of years. You grow up learning and assimilating the rules of your home-game, and you try to play (in the beginning, at least) that game according to these rules. What we call 'education' is, largely speaking, the process of the internalisation of these rules.

(b) This does not mean, however, that you shall always play only one game. (Though, to be sure, many people do precisely that.) Indeed, many of us have to become highly skilled, because of various social, cultural, or economic necessities, in playing more than one game in different fields or locales of our life. Some of us play two games quite proficiently, and there are also some who undergo specialised training in order to be able to play as many as five or six games at different times in different contexts.

(c) What this implies, in turn, is that there are certain areas of mutual overlap across these games for otherwise we would all remain hopelessly trapped and insulated within our indigenous game. We can make sense of at least some of the rules of those games that we ourselves do not play (or even wish not to play or believe should not be played by anybody at all).

(d) That game which is most important to us in the sense that it provides a normative framework within which we play out the various dimensions of our existence is called Religion. This game is quite often the one that we are born into, though sometimes we can glide away, like an enterprising spider from one net to another attached net, from the native game into a foreign game, assimilating ourselves to the latter and indigenising the latter into ourselves.

(e) There is, in other words, a certain degree of flexibility regarding the rules of most of these games. In some of them, however, any violation of these would be immediately rewarded with severe punishment so that people who are within those games would normally not wish to play around (no pun intended) with the rules. However, many other games have developed internal mechanisms of coping with, tolerating, or even supporting conscious opposition to these time-honoured rules, so that these rules are not simply regarded as timeless verities but also as temporal constructions that are being contested, challenged, and reformed with every generation.

(f) This does not, however, mean that every human being has to have a Religion. There may be some people who simply refuse to play any game at all (though the heated debate over whether the refusal-to-play-any-game is itself another disguised game will never cease!), some who relentlessly keep on shifting between ten different quite disconnected games in the course of a single day, or some who view the rules of their native game only with the barest minimum of an ironic indifference.

(g) Now whenever there is a conflict of play between the master-game that we have called Religion and the other micro-games that are encompassed by it, we can adopt various means of conflict-resolution. For some people, the rules of Religion will have over-riding veto power over all other rules stemming from the micro-contexts; for others, a long and patient process of negotiation between the respective rules might become necessary; and for others, the rules of the autochthonous Religion game will be jettisoned and those of a foreign Religion game will be adopted, even if only hesitatingly at first.

(h) There are therefore what might be called Degrees of Religosity : not everyone within the same Religion game plays by the ground-rules with equal intensity and passion, or even for identical reasons. Consequently, the Religion game can be inward- or outward-looking : sometimes the players may deliberately raise the barriers that separate themselves from the surrounding games in the environment and focus more on the explicitation of their native rules for their fellow-players; sometimes, however, they may also wish to raise the portcullis and try to understand the rules of the people in the contiguous games.

"A few weeks ago I was rummaging through The Observer 's archive for 1983 in search of a piece about Saul Bellow, when I noticed an article by a woman called Linda Taylor, who was justifying her decision, at 34, to have a baby on her own. No, I was surprised not so much by Taylor's frank piece as by the letters it occasioned in the following week's paper.

My particular favourite was written by the anonymous 'PJ' from Virginia Water in Surrey, who spluttered: 'It is better to see if you can handle a permanent relationship with another adult before the irrevocable step of trying it out on a child.'

I'm glad that the world is growing more comfortable with the idea that families come in many different forms, and that there are hundreds of thousands of children in this country being lovingly and conscientiously brought up by single parents, or by people who are not their biological parents. I suspect the man who claimed he would rather have had a bad father than no father had never actually spoken to anyone who did live with a bad father. Above all, I'm glad my son is growing up in a society where no one will call him a bastard - at least, not until he's had the chance to deserve it through his own actions".

'Real', by Stephanie Merritt, is published by Faber on 9 June.