Wannabe OR Want to be ?

I fly across the blue sky staring down at the busy roads, filled with thousands of people, all busy and immersed in their lives. From this height everything seems vague; for I witnessed an intricate weave of black dots moving in and out of each other, slowly making way for the other colors to merge within and complete the fusion…

Each one moved onward, oblivious of their surroundings, each absorbed in their own thoughts and beliefs. Each complete in themselves, brooding over their own needs and desires, each forming a cocoon of security around themselves with their hollow daily facades.

Let me first visit a house not far from here, a young voice screeches through the windows, I try to shut out the sounds emanating from the house. Most of the sound is confined to the upper part of the two storied building… I peep in through the window and see a young man jumping around throwing himself up and down in a rhythm, screaming in tandem with the metallic sounds that drew forth from a huge music system in his room. He has adorned on his untarnished body a black shirt, still warm from the factory and displaying the slogan “I’m a rebel”. On his left shoulder, he has a tattoo defining the symbol of his favorite heavy metal band. He runs his hand over the tattoo, thinking about how he looks macho with it, his face twisted in a self-conceited grin. His cell phone rings and he picks it up letting out a string of profanity that he’s picked up of late. He gloats for few minutes about the great new music CD he’s bought and how his new girl is crazy about him. I look around and find his whole room plastered with posters like “Life ain’t fair”, “Bring it on” and “Are you tough enough? “. He goes about everyday trying to be tough and hard like the songs that he listens to… His screams echo off the walls as I turn away from the window…

Let me now move towards a certain young soul who scourges the busy streets of the city with a fresh vigor each day trying to make both ends meet. He has messy hair, frayed clothes and a heavily lined face that made him look twice his age… He moves on each day trying to find something new to do in this world where survival is no longer a free accessory. Each new penny that he manages to procure adds to the spark in his eyes, adds an extra bounce to his legs. But, in the midst of all the smoke and dust and pain that surrounded his life, you see a flash across his face, his smile - unfenced. He knows not what lies in wait for him the next day, he knows not if he’ d have to go hungry tonight. He knows what it means to be tough, he knows that life isn’t fair, but he isn’t going about screaming the same to the world. He isn’t complaining or cursing all that goes on around him… I turn away from this young soul who has indeed seen the likes of sordid drudgery right in the face…

Now, as I move away from these two young souls, I ask myself – who is tough? Who is a “want to be” and who’s a “wannabe”?

Why is everything that we do affected by the inclination of the ones around us? The clothes we wear, the books we read, the movies we watch, even the words we speak are revolving around the iris of our peers. WHY? Isn’t it time for us to break free our shackles and look into the larger spectrum of life? It is said that “There is no end to a desire”.It is impossible for a human being to attain anything close to perfection in any phase of life… But there are so many young souls around us who are already hardened by their self-complacency and by the illusionary world that they seem to float within… They seem to happy enough finding energy and meaning in anger, rebellion and in several other channels that are far beyond even basic comprehension of their addled minds. WHO IS TO BLAME? God? Fate? Life? Or the youths themselves?

If only life was so simple that you could just blame someone and get on with it…If only it was so…

Today we are in an age where the agitated, confused and anger driven individual is being provoked and given fire… I let free the fragment of my thought into the blue sky and let it wander away while wondering “Where is the end?” or more ironically “Has there been a beginning?”

This were the result of a wonderful little boy whom I came to see upon a course of a day's work....

A Paradigm

Hi, I’m another guy amongst the buzzing millions that are spread across this huge city. Normal life, normal thoughts and normal attitudes. But there was once incident in the not so recent past that shook my very foundations, made me doubt all the logic that my computer programming teachers had taught me. For it left me wondering about the probability of coincidence being coincidence…

It was a hot summer evening and I was late for my flight to Paris, it was a trip that I was looking forward to in big way. It was my big opportunity to prove myself. I wanted to stand out amongst the 200 or so software engineers in my company. An angry honk of a car brought me back from my reverie; I turned around to find a Toyota Innova behind me that was packed to the brim. I could see more than five or six kids in the back seat. But I couldn’t help notice that one little child, (I couldn’t see the face, just a vague outline) was sitting very quietly holding on to something very tightly. The lights turned from orange to green and the car moved away towards the airport entry. I followed them, suddenly aware of the fact that I’d end up missing my flight if I didn’t move faster.

As I drove into the parking lot I noticed that someone had spilled a can of orange paint across the footpath, making it glisten brightly in the evening sun. Dragging my baggage behind me I rushed towards the entry cursing the authorities for the obnoxious parking charges. Finding that my plane was a few minutes late, I decided to get myself something to drink. At the drink stall, I found that they’d run out of soft drinks and the new stock isn’t cold enough yet, all they had left was some old orange juice. While I stood there staring at the teeming rows of orange juice, I strangely noticed that I wasn’t thirsty anymore. While I hung around goofing about with the change dispensers, I felt a certain weight settle onto my neck. I turned around and found a pair of eyes across the lounge boring into my back. I couldn’t see anything more because of all the people that walking all across the place.
I moved closer to have a better look at my hidden enemy. I caught a glimpse of black, shiny curls. More intrigued than ever I walked faster now towards what I hoped was an apparition. Then, I saw him - a little boy with round black eyes with shiny black curls bouncing on top of his pale face. I smiled at him amused to see a kid so interested in me. I waved at him, my smile widening further. Then, suddenly there appeared a grave expression on his placid face and he slowly shook his head from side to side. I was taken aback to see such a serious expression on the face of such a young child, it seemed so out of place on that face that had shone with an aura of calmness moments ago. I shook my head trying to clear my thoughts. “Flight no S-220 B headed towards Paris is ready for takeoff”” blared the loudspeaker, bringing me back. I turned away moving towards the luggage check-in, when I noticed a glimpse of orange in the hands of the boy. On closer inspection I realized that he was holding in his hand a huge orange balloon. I’d hardly taken a couple of steps when a loud “pop’ pierced the air. I spun around to find a shocked expression on the boy’s face - His lovely orange balloon a wad of useless rubber. Within moments high pitched uncontrollable wails pierced the evening air. I turned around, taken aback by the sudden change. The little boy was screeching at the top of his voice. I waited for a few seconds looking around and trying to see if anyone was disturbed by the whole thing, but surprisingly every person seemed too absorbed in their own things to even notice all the commotion going on here. As the sounds grew louder and louder the voice started to sound metallic, not like a little kid - for I couldn’t think of anything I’d ever seen that could make the kind of noises I could hear emanating from that child... Within me there began to swell an overflowing sense of emotion was uncontrollably pushing outward from within me... Then the kid got wild - the pitch of his voice took such an excruciating note that my head felt like it had been pierced with a hundred needles. My whole body was in sync with a frequency that scared me and sent a wave of chills down my spine leaving me all shaken up. With a moment’s indecision, I ran out of the place leaving everything behind - scared out of my wits. I ran out, got into my car and raced away. I drove as fast as I could, past the busy streets and away from all the noise, trying to escape what was behind me. I stared into the setting sun - the orange sky and drove faster, as though trying to catch up with it... After what seemed like hours had gone by I slowed down a little and stopped the car. I was breathing heavily and after taking a deep breath, I felt a wave of relief wash over me - making me feel cool and relaxed although I was locked up inside a car with no AC on a hot humid day. I switched on the radio hoping some music would cheer me up. A sing song voice came out of it and said ““We interrupt this program to give you a news flash - The Sahara flight to Paris, flight no S-220B has crashed and all there are no survivors. The reason for the crash is still unknown although authorities feel that it might be a result of a technical glitch. It was found that there was “.....I didn’t hear anymore of it. For a second I felt that I couldn’t breathe - a choking sensation enveloped me and I tried to figure out if it was claustrophobia. Finally, I managed to find the lock and let myself out. Breathing in large gulps of air I leaned against the car and felt all energy drain out of me. As I stood there I felt that the road was wet and for the first time, I looked around me and found that I was already accompanied by a black sky and a cool breeze. I was in a field of some sort for an unending expanse lay about all around me untouched and untarnished by the fallacies of the world. I stood there trying to make some sense of the whole episode. I stared up at the shimmering black sky and was presented with
a shooting star tracing an arc across the horizon, its deep orange color lighting up my face and eyes…

A whim of my imagination –

The masterpiece

Vikas had lived in the small town of Rajghar all his life. The ones who remember him as a child would be sure to mention as to what a strange boy he was… In fact, none of his mates from St. Johns would even remember him today…More than four decades have passed since he’s crossed the gates of the school – an orphan, lost and confused. As the headmaster Bro. Malcolm set his watery eyes upon the curious little 10 year old who stood before him, he noticed that although the boy was small for his age and seemed weak and fragile, there was something in his eyes that made him seem truly special.

During his first few years in Rajghar, Vikas hardly talked to anyone. He used to have an hour each Thursday with Bro. Malcolm, who was the only person around who seemed to care for him. Vikas was a bright child - observed several of his teachers, but hardly showed any interest in studies. He didn’t understand the need to read or learn something that has already been thought of by someone else. Each day he looked around him his bright eyes shining curiously for something new, something he could think about the whole day, forgetting the boring hours in class studying pointless and silly rules and laws that served no purpose to anybody. In the midst of all these hours, there was one thing that excited Vikas the most, the art class. There he could see things that were true creations from the soul. Vikas couldn’t afford to buy colors for himself, so he would spend each evening searching for pieces of charcoal and then scrawl away to sleep.

It was when he was sixteen years old that he got his first set of paints, a gift from Bro.

Malcolm. It was a brown wooden box with SIXTEEN different colors and a green quilted brush to go with it. Soon Vikas began selling his paintings in the art exhibition s held at the city 5 km away. Several years passed in this fashion and Vikas grew out of the little timid boy that he was into a huge giant of a man quite unlike his childhood self. Half the town of Rajghar was terrified of this giant who spoke to none, while the other half stared after him in awe. Soon with the money he made over the years, Vikas managed to get a small shack for himself.

One day, Vikas was returning back home from the city and found that sky seemed a pale shade of gray, the color of the bottom of the ponds of Rajghar in the summer when all the water had been drunk up by the skies. There was a sense of urgency in the air and Vikas feeling that something was amiss, quickened his pace.

As he reached the outskirts of Rajghar, he found the little town in an unusual sense of gloom and a shadow of darkness seemed to surround the place. He slowly moved on to the crowd gathered in the middle of the town chattering noisily. As he walked by, he overheard an old man mutter “What a pity... what a pity, Malcolm was a good man” The next two hours were a void patch for Vikas, It was like the world had stopped for a second, like time had gone on leaving caught between two time periods. He never did see Bro. Malcolm's body, didn't ever go near the black coffin bordered with gold. He stood unnoticed like a shadow enveloped into the reflections of the setting sun as the whole town prayed for Bro. Malcolm's soul and expressed their sorrow around him. Vikas stood by with a distant look upon his face, His eyes dilated, breathing irregular and with a fixed expression. He didn't hear the priest giving the sermon, he didn't see the the coffin being lowered into the ground. He simply stood in his dark spot with no expression of sorrow or grief, pain or loss. Suddenly, thunder broke out in the empty sky and it began raining heavily - showing all chances of it being a rough night with the strong winds that has begun to blow. The people moved away and the priest moved up to Vikas and handed a brown envelope to him. In it, Vikas found a paper that entitled him the ownership of all assets owned by Bro. Malcolm including his huge mansion where Vikas had spent so many Thursdays discussing the different nuances of life.

Vikas left slowly , walked to his shack and picked up the painting that he had promised the curator of the exhibition next week. He found himself staring at a beautiful painting of a serene and warm landscape, where white birds flew across a blue sky, a lush display of green, each part of the painting enriching the other. Vikas stared at it for a second and then, tore the beautiful painting into pieces. It lacked ‘heart’ he felt…he’d put too mind into it and missed out the “heart”

An hour later he moved into the old mansion with a white canvas and the box tucked under him arm. He walked to the room with a huge crystal chandelier above him. Each crystal of the chandelier was a hexagonal crystal. As Vikas stared at it, it shone back at him with vivid shades of green and violet in the moonlight. It was here that he’d spent some of the best moments of his childhood. He didn’t bother to use any light and simply began by opening his thirty year old paint box. As he reached into it, the moon shone brightly on the two colors left in the box, the ones he’s saved for a special piece of work. To left of the palette he spread some ‘midnight black’ and to the right he smeared some ‘Angelic white’ and set to work. The storm now grew stronger and the gales began knocking on the big wooden door. Vikas began to dab the canvas with shades of black and white moving slowly from one part to another. The door which was unlocked was thrown open by the raging winds and the cold air came flowing into the room. As the wind wrapped her arm around Vikas, spread across his face a look of glee and his hands started moving faster. It was almost as though he had gone into a daze with the brush moving effortlessly across the sheet with practiced ease. He moved faster and faster and soon he was almost enveloped by the consummate frenzy brought on by the cold air. The chandelier shrieked loudly now, tinkling along with a rhythmic chant… then suddenly the room was enveloped by darkness.

The old lady across the street slowly opened her door to let in her dog that had been caught out in the rain. The little doggie ran in letting out a yelp that was drowned by a deafening crash from the dark skies followed by a sudden tinkling noise. Within minutes the storm breathed a sigh and fell quiet, fading away as thought it was never there.

A week later…

Ramlal asked his master who was a reputed art collector and had been to the art exhibition the day before, “Akash saab did you buy anything?” . “Well…” replied Akash “I bought the best piece of work in the place” then he unfolded a canvas from his briefcase. Ramlal stared in wonder and an intricately weaved array of black and gray with a hexagonal hole write in the middle of the painting and then as he stared amazed at the crimson red border which seemed to make the whole piece come alive, he heard his master utter “You know something? It came from this small town called Rajghar… A true masterpiece”

Does Altruism imply selfishness?

The oxford claims that altruism is “selfless concern for the well-being of others”. Is the existence of an altruist feasible in today’s genre of mentalities? Can an altruist really exist??

For is it possible for you or me to give up everything we’ve got for the selfless concern of humanity? We may think of names that been emblazoned across the golden pages of history, of definite souls who have given up all their lives for the betterment of their people…but what were the circumstances that life did bestow upon them, that made them THEM?

Will a content and satisfied soul ever try to do good for others? For if you have all that you desire, will you try to get more, will you have a reason, will you even be worthy of living – of snatching up a part of life to shell away on your complete and content illusions ?

A closer observation of this scenario leads me to examine the pasts of several so-called altruists who’ve changed the way of the world…

An undeniable fact of the human mind – without a reason - there is no thought, without thought – there is no belief, without belief – there is no hope, without hope – there is no desire, without desire – there is no meaning, and without meaning – WHAT IS LIFE????????

Does not all action get defined by a selfish motive; don’t we all begin our journeys with a step towards our “self”? I claim not that there exist some souls upon this morbid piece of land who have done great service to humanity…but could they have done so, if they didn’t believe in themselves? Could it have been possible if they hadn’t felt the biased heat of life dormant upon their bare backs?

Coming to the same path from the other direction, Is it possible to reach altruism without choosing the path of selfishness?? “A man who knows not his SELF – can never hope to help nother” What sense lies in the words that have been engraved into our minds by all those around us in more forms and vision that can be kept count of, about the cliché’s involved in being selfish? Can there be GROWTH without your self with you??

Isn’t selfishness the only path of moving forward?

Another dictionary defines ‘selfish’ as a person who is egocentric, self-seeking, wrapped up in oneself….

But I ask you if you weren’t centered with your ego(I), how can you home to progress onward – because without your self, you would be nothing but a blind piece of useless furniture coated by a varnish of self complacency lying in the middle of a field full of other pieces like you!

If you seek not your self, then where shall you proceed to now? “Whereth doth the wind blow?” The winds of these searing lands will lie static unless you lead the way of their path, and if you choose not to lead the way , then you shall remain in that one spot of land, surrounded by the acrid smell of incompetence, while the massive drops of failure drench you and teach you the lessons of fear ... Seek your ~ self. BE NOT what the world chooses for you to be.

Wrapped up in oneself - If you are wrapped up in yourself then your journey across the scorching deserts and the bone – chilling ice shall not let your inner self wither away – for at each step of this enlightening journey, you shall find another part of you – waiting to be understood and explored….

SO the question continues for now – can you be an altruist without being a SELFISH , egocentric, egoist????

While my irrational mind ponders on - I give you a chance to take a shot at it yourself…..

Spark

There was a time in my life when the sky was blue (6:03 AM)

When the sun shone gold and thus life felt so true

But as days went by and the green trees grew old

Put out was the sun and the world grew cold

I dragged on thorough the night with the cold and the wind

Staring up at the cloudless night as darkness further dimmed

For the roads were too worn and the world to forlorn

As I was a trace of a past which they shut out every morn

Soon the road turned narrow and my shoes worn and torn

Only barren fields by my side with dead wheat and dry corn

It felt as though life was a chapter of the past bygone

My views were like words from a melancholic song

Soon days turned to weeks but hidden stayed the sun

Neither food nor sleep was part of the web that life spun

My shoes were to worn and my lips all cracked and parched

My legs gave away to blisters and pangs of pain as I marched

Thus, as the ghosts of yesteryears left me in peace

I learnt how to forget and thus my pain did cease,

My wounds weren’t healed but my scab sealed them out

My heart turned to stone and my mind ceased to shout

Then as I moved on towards the end of the path in a trance,

I happened to stare at the cloudless sky by pure chance

There, nestled in the midst of the dark tresses of the night

Shone the spark, a twinkle than then faded out of sight

I stared at the spot where the star has shone last,

For she had changed a moment with the spark she’d cast

Then as I stood at the edge of the path and stared out,

I saw the horizon light up slow and then passed out

I wish I wake up and see that the spark was for real

For the spark, gave me hope to escape my ordeal

I lay on the cold road my wounds bleeding anew

I peeped at the blue sky and tasted drops of dew (6:30 AM)

Manas R Moothedath

March 25, 2006