Why I Am Afraid to Write (post in progress)

In an age that is increasingly rending itself apart, remember this because this is the only lesson worth remembering--you serve History whether you like it or not. You and i are both part of a history-flux beyond which there is nothing. Time, Space, Idea, Fact, Humanity, Nature...Everything is embedded into it. As writers, as readers, this is the one crucial message we all need to bear in mind. We are "the age". Even spirituality is material.

In an age that is constantly dissolving things into mere metaphysical "liquidness" where the only practicality is market-viability, where Beauty and the Artistic are often simply "oh, there", its about time we radically reassert and redefine for ourselves both Art and Beauty. A definition that is not in danger of assuming that these are static ideas or universal ones, but at the same time one which does not merely dismiss them.

This, i think, is where the writer comes in. Am i afraid to write because i can't make a living out of defiant writing? No.

I am afraid that i do not yet understand. That i do not understand what iu am, where i am, or the incessant often-evaporated river-question "who i am". This is no excuse, and i don't intend it to be one. "So what? You're well-to-do. I fight to make a living, don't you blame me for not trying!"

True, and i can not refute it. But only say, stop placarding your slavery. We have enough natural whips to answer to--whips like hunger, thirst, sleep, sex, death--nothing else is beyond change.

My fear as a writer is how well do i understand this? Am i being superficial? To what degree? No, i can not write "for the sheer sake of communication". Art's sake is nowhere near this foul pit of decaying logic. The greatest end of art is a mirror so perfect, the sun shies from it since every spot on it is clearly visible, for its reflection is more than precise.

A face of Beauty so well made, her eyes bring death to every excess feeling, her look brings light to every corner of a dark mansion in the mind, her walk so grand it puts false grandeur to shame, her presence a monument of sheer courage courage. That is a work of art, and nobody has the right to call it impossible.

Will i ever make it? My efforts will not stop, that i am sure gives me the courage to say "I am a writer". The hope that i make the waters, winds, and soil of my earth rich to some minuscule degree with the seeds which their plants and trees have given me. That i will speak for every creature on it, without insulting the Force that makes us by being either cold or sentimental about them.

Whose langugage is it anyway?

Word on the streeet in Madras Christian College is that a group of genuine intellectuals have branded another group of genuine intellectuals "fanatics". This is what i've understood after a talk with the "fanatics":

The british had the guts and pride to talk and propagate their culture and literature. We speak profusely of postcolonialism and native wisdom and rights, but cower like thieves in the face of its practice. True, events and people have misused "cultural pride" and "cultural revival", and some it even now. But before classifying them as fanatics, please have the common sense to sit down with them and talk to them about what they really mean to do.

We are cultural orphans. When it comes to practice, we're little more than "what the heck" radicals who complain that the heat is too much for us to bear. What i learn from these "fanatics" is this: MCC is a liquidation camp. A place where cultures are not amalgamated as they are in syncretic theatre or in a true cultural forum. The whole "Melting Pot" philosophy is to not merely westernise us, but de-easternise us. These people are out to propagate-by-action. Their agenda is simple: "We give you our literature, our language, our writers and their ideas as they have been said. That is the one thing we are sure of. Bring your thesis to this forum; your language, your literature, your writers and their ideas. This is a forum, not a mere drum-beating movement".

The goal here is not, i understand, Thamizh. The goal is to create an artistic movement where even English (the half-baked mother tongue lending itself condescendingly from afar) is "just another language". There is no use in clamoring about ideas when one knows nothing about their own traditions. Remember this: we need an amalgamation of cultures, not a liquidation of them. Every tongue must speak its words, and sing its songs. This nation is perhaps the most viable nations to be a polyglot. This nation is the best nation for cultural theses to face each other. What is art? Art speaks the soul. It is the ultimate gift that humanity has. What is art? Art is the simple message of one's soul. What use is art when it speaks and walks in a language we half-understand?

We are truly pathetic creatures. Truly. It has become increasingly difficult for us to see through frauds and to see genuine movements for what they are. This is why genuine thinkers have grown so cold that the fires of the earth barely lick their toes. My conclusion, from the performance today at the day cafe and from what i've heard from both the "fanatics" is this, it is about time the thinkers sit down with the "fanatics" and discuss why the latter give so much importance to their culture. Shibdas Ghosh is known to have asserted that nothing grows without discourse. Every culture must speak. These "fanatics" speak theirs, and are waiting for others to speak.

Funeral Plans for a Rat

Once upon a time yesterday morning, in a place very close to the wall cutting my house off from the rest of the neighborhood, my mum and i found a large rat's corpse in pitiable shape lying quite unconscious of itself, while its stench made its presence felt quite strongly for miles to come and eyes to see.

The senses are what they are, we had to do something about the case in point. This little devil had apparently taken to the place since around two days from yesterday. Describing it is easy and fun but i wouldn't count on anyone's pleasant mind to take it with that ease, so i'll skip that. It wasn't what you'd call cute, see?

The idea for this writing struck me like lightning when mum said "we should pour Nallennai on it and let it burn." The image this formed in my mind was simply too strong.

The deal, apparently, with funerals is that they're somehow necessary for a passing-over. For me, its an expression of respect of the highest order---not merely for a thing, but for a thing that has no further perceivable use to an individual. Cremating the rat did not seem to me to be an act of any lesser importance than cremating a dog or cat or personal human being.

So i said "mum why not do it?" She said "We don't have Nallennai right now". She said we could pour sand over the corpse so that it would neither smell nor be infested with flies or other nasty nosy pests that prey on the dead. This, to me, was a cool idea. We weren't going to cremate the old boy/girl but were going to bury him/her. Send the body back to the earth, and all that.

Mum has a knack for accuracy. She took a large vessel filled with sand and poured it on the corpse (we were on one side of the wall and the corpse was on the other, you see); not one grain of sand landed on the rat.

She then decided we use the jalli stones that were lying unused in a distant part of the house (actually, they'd've lain unused anywhere in the house, but i digress) and put them on the rat. Cool again; instead of burying the old devil in sand, we were going to give it something like a tombstone. I was thinking of a proper epitaph like those which people who know what a soul is prefer having on the bodies of their graves, but then realized that you can't carve letters on a pile of stones.

She stood near the wall's edge and began raining stones on the weary worn-out rat's resting body. Same result, not a stone touched the corpse!

Mum had lost all energy, we came back into the house. I was told later that she had poured some disinfectant over the body to keeep it free of dangerous germs that could kill us.

Yeah right, there weren't enough in the house, or the air.

Well, what can i conclude? I'll leave that part to you.

"I'm not Religious, i'm Spiritual"

Claiming to be a spiritual person means only one of two things.

1) You have no blessed clue what you're gassing about, and you're only experiencing a hangover from drinking too much of religious fizz instead of real alcohol.

2) You're contradicting yourself and creating a seemingly valid picture to your friends that you're a "revolutionary".

Is there a difference? Maybe not.

So, you ask me, "what is Spirituality?" and "what is a spiritual person?".

Spirituality is a ruthless scientific drilling into your mind. It denies the validity of every single truth you've learned so far, and is a quest to find out what's earth and what's plastic. It has nothing to do with "believing in God" or "believing in a divinity" nor, most importantly, with having "near-death" or "other-worldly" or "talk with God or angels" "experiences"--that's the role of religion, although you must remember that we're using these phrases as our priests and religious champions and pseudo-religious "spiritualist" preachers do.

If there is a Spirituality, it ultimately is indifferent to itself. Why should a poet try to claim to be one, when their word is as good as their maturity? Paraphrasing a statement made by the great Eastern aesthete Ananda Coomaraswamy, the Indian mind sees ultimate spiritual maturity as a simultaneous acceptance and denial of itself. This is pure intoxication, not alcoholesque babble. Does a Divinity exist? Only God can answer.

"Amen."

The God i see is not the God they show me. Therefore, God as He is believed in is one big show.

Amen.

That's Spirituality minus one key element.

Do trees grow upside down? Their roots in the skies? Yet do they grow towards a barren earth, their branches refusing to grow upwards?

Amen is not the answer.
Only one thing differentiates a spiritually mature person from an Atheist. The first is matter, the second is form.

The greatest atheist is one who has already seen the highest spirituality--that bolt of lightning which lives and dies at once, and is still neither alive nor dead.