The Angry Young Man Must Die

Oh how I will miss him!

But he must go

Only to remain in memory

But dead to the world

Dead to me

And yet I will miss him

He sure was

The ideal of my life

Taking the world head on

Fearless and restless

Anger and rage

Spilling forth generously

Yet a keen eye

Always looking out

For the Underdog

For the weak, the brokenhearted

On their behalf

Boldly proclaiming Heresies

Defending the helpless

Fighting their battles

Tired, and yet fuelled by anger

The anger flourished

The arrogant helpless

Didn’t even realise

That they were helpless

Proud in their helplessness

They turned against him

He reached out to help

But they twisted his arms

The anger roared
And those whom he defended
Needed to defend themselves from him

He took on the strong

Pushed their lines back

Gained respect

But even more hatred

They hit back hard

And drove him out

And the murderous anger matured

Its venom spewed forth

Harming everything

Relentlessly, passionately

Caught between the fires

The powerful mocked

The helpless agitated

Fighting to the left

Fighting to the right

Anger, oh anger, everywhere

That is why he must go

Small battles won

But the war long lost

He must die

The weak and the strong

Have already killed him

He must definitely die

The sun must set

Maybe in his death

Probably there is redemption

Anger is not passion

It destroys rather than builds

Passion possesses care

Anger is not vision

It blinds the farsighted

Vision is compassion

Anger is not motivation

It demotivates the most motivated

Motivation is but love

Anger births hatred

It is crude, harsh, destructive

There is no place for any anger

Even for righteous anger

No right to anger, nowhere

All anger destroys

That is why he must die

It is in his death that

The helpless will see wisdom

The powerful learn compassion

But for that he must die

And I will miss him

But the angry young man

Must die

Being Robbed: Reminiscence of New Year Day 2011

What do you have for me, mate?

I have nothing for you.

Give me your wallet and your money

I don’t have my wallet and no money

Give me your money and phone

Or I will smash you

I don’t have any money

Give me your phone, now

Or I will smash you...

And I handed over my Nokia smartphone to the four hooded guys.

January the first, 2011 – I began this New Year by being robbed. I had been sitting on my couch and reading the whole day and even as I heard the clock chime 10:00 pm, I felt I needed a break and a walk. I love to go for walks, anytime of the day or night, as it provides the perfect setting to think and reflect, especially if I have spent the day reading and need to process the new in-fill of information. However I seldom walk in the winters, for obvious reasons, and this winter I had not gone even once for a walk – so this was my first walk. I changed into my tracks and jogging shoes and stepped out into the cold. I went on my regular route, walking down Fairacres Road, and turning a left on to Meadows Lane. I looked up and saw four guys walking towards and then past me. I didn’t take notice of them and continued my walk, with my head trying to make sense of my whole day’s reading of International Politics. My mind was completely preoccupied with E.H Carr’s fabulously written ‘The Twenty Years’ Crisis’, the 1939 classic which attempted to make sense of both the events as well as the theories and ideas concerning International Politics that were dominant during the interwar years (1918-1938), which just as unanticipated by the author, as me of my robbery, had become a founding text and the Bible of the newly evolving academic discipline of International Politics.

Turning a right on to the Donnington Bridge Road, I continued my walk. The January air was fresh and crisp but without the December chilliness that leaves the face stung, leaving a unique sensation which comes from being burnt by cold – fire and ice coming together. But this air was bearable and I rather enjoyed the lash of the cold breeze on my face. Up the Donnington Bridge and down, and then the road has a lonely stretch, with a farm on the left and woods on the right. I have done this walk many times and immensely enjoyed it every time. It’s like suddenly dropping out of the city and into the countryside and then equally suddenly, as properties reappear on both sides of the road, the city resurfaces. It is a short stretch, but takes you through another world. The familiar traffic signal looms large, from then on the Donnington Bridge road would become the Weirs Road, but then this is a good spot to turn back, and the round trip is just about the perfect distance for a short walk or a power-walk as some would say. I turned back and walked once again through the fresh countryside and up the Donnington Bridge. And then it happened – Four guys accosted me and I faintly recognised them as those whom I had earlier crossed on Meadows Lane. All hooded, and couple of them half-masked, and I heard a menacing voice – What do you have for me, Mate?...

I found myself not really afraid of them, but then they were four and I was alone. No one but us five on the bridge, not even a car passed by. What were my options? I could try and run – but then maybe they had a gun or a knife and it could get messy. Maybe I could scream and shout for help, maybe someone will hear me, or maybe not, as the bridge was completely isolate and none to hear me. Also, I didn’t want to have a prolonged encounter with these guys and draw their attention on to me and have them recognise me later on. As this was happening at close proximity to my home, the fear that, being recognised, they might pay me a visit another day was worse than being just robbed and the event forgotten. So I, without making any eye contact and without any act of aggression, sheepishly handed over my phone, fortunately my only belonging on me at that point.

I seemed rather bemused with the whole proceedings. It didn’t really hit me then that I was a victim of crime and was being robbed. It seemed like I was watching a movie clip, and the whole scene shot in less than 30 seconds. I have never been robbed face-to-face, so it was a brand new experience. It seemed surreal and I felt like a spectator, as one part of the audience, rather than being the unfortunate central character of the scene. It all happened so fast and even the memory of it continues to be very blurry.

I stood watching them walk away with my phone and then break into a run. I turned half-dazed and walked, walking right into a lamp-post. As I recovered, I saw 2 more men coming my way up the Bridge, one with a barking dog on a leash, a strange sight, and the other hooded. For some wild reason I felt that these two were part of the group that had just robbed me and so was confused if I should ask them for help. I pointed to the running guys and exclaimed to the two that they had nicked my phone. The hooded one replied that his battery was dead and pointed me to a guy walking on the other side of the road and told me to get help from him.

Even as I crossed the road, probably hearing what I had said to the two guys, the guy across the road stopped and waited. I pointed to him the fading figures of the still-running thieves, and told him that I had been robbed. His first sentence to me was, so are you warning me that I shouldn’t go that way. His words confused me and seeing my bewildered look, he asked me if I wanted to call the police with his phone? Even as I nodded, he handed me his phone. I bet he was equally confused with the sudden happenings around him and in being drawn into a situation he never anticipated. Even as he took his phone out, he made another puzzling statement, he said, I hope you won’t run away with my phone. Now I was really perplexed, but I bet he was more confused than me – so I told him to call the police himself with his phone, but he insisted that I take his phone. But I insisted back that he make the call himself and that I didn’t want to take his phone, but he continued insisting that I take his phone and make the call.

So I took it and asked him if he knew the number for the Police, and he nodded negatively. There we stood, watching the robbers fade into the dark and not knowing the number of the police to call. A number flashed into my blurred mind – 911. I was sure I had heard that number being mentioned for Police, on TV serials and crime movies – forgetting that most of these programs were produced in the US and that this probably was the US Police number, which it was (the UK Police emergency number is 999). But then that was the only number that made sense in my head and so I dialled 911. Amazingly, an operator was there to take my details and promised to sound the alert and send a police car over. As we stood waiting for the police to arrive, I handed the phone back and by then both of us had recovered our basic sensibilities and exchanged names and details. We found out that we actually knew each other. He was a Sanskrit student in the University and we had attended a few courses together and very recently had even attended a common lunch and exchanged pleasantries. He was another academic – no wonder both of us were so confused in real life!

The police vehicle came within couple of minutes with two constables and the next two hours was spent with the police filling out the Crime Report Form. The thoroughness of the Police system was impressive and the effective use of technology in offering the service of protection to the city residents appeared without flaw. Even as I sat with Gareth (the constable) in an over-heated room at the Police Station, trying to remember the event, and being quizzed for as many details as possible, I suddenly felt drained. I didn’t realise, but I had stopped answering questions – It just hit me that I had been robbed and the intensity of the experience of being intimidated by four blokes on an isolated road came at me with a gush. Gareth sensing my empty stare, gently asked me if I was alright. Even as I nodded, he exclaimed, that it is indeed a very unpleasant experience to be accosted by four guys. He reassured me that I had done the right thing and made the most sensible choice under the given circumstances. I asked him, if I should have done anything different and he replied that he would have done precisely the same if he was in my place. Slowly my confidence and humour returned and my normal chatty self took charge. I gave as many details as I could remember – phrases the guys had used and pieces of clothing they wore, just about anything that would help identify who they were, if not this time, at least at some future time. Once the report was finished, and my signatures taken, Gareth gave me his mobile phone and suggested that I call Vodaphone to block my number. Once all the formalities were completed, they were kind enough to give me a ride back to my home.

It is 3:20 am and even as I write this account, primarily to process the event for myself – I can see the blurred image of them four guys running away, running away with my phone, even as I stood rather confused and perplexed on top of Donnington Bridge with the Thames below me too frozen to flow. Even as the memory of this experience further blurs, it is the paradox of ‘victors running and victim standing’ that grabs my imagination...

Epistemology in a mid-Summer Night of 2008

I don’t want to sing this song to you

I don’t want to sit and hold your hand

I don’t want to dress up to take you out

I don’t want to whisper sweet goodbyes into your ears

The above chorus lines of an unfinished song seem to lament a relationship gone sour. It seems to convey a background picture of an angry defiant lover, sitting alone, who emphatically declares his lack of love and affection for the one he once loved. It does not kindle any special emotions within us except probably reinforce anger and echo similar feelings especially if we are found to be in a similar relationship status as the one that seems to be described above.

Let me change the background picture for you – here is a man dressed smart, holding the hand of his beloved, singing this song and whispering goodbyes into the ears of his dead lover who is waiting to be taken into the funeral carriage for the last ride of her life.

As I re-read the lines of the song again, my heart is now filled with a completely different set of emotions and I gasp and turn my eyes away. If I linger long enough over the words and try to imagine the scene created by the song writer, it reduces me to tears and creates an ache in the heart that does not want to go away. My heart reaches out for the young man and the life he is going to live without his loved one. For him to sing this song with such pathos, inversely reflects on the great love and affection they must have shared. The beautiful moments of togetherness, sweet whispers and boldly expressed emotions must have been the theme of their love. Even as he bemoans the end of this celebration of love, inwardly we join in with his cries and shed silent tears for bygone good times.

Suddenly my eyes flit back to the song lines and I stop: the intent of the writer suddenly seems clear, and my heart leaps up as revelation seems to hit me. It is not only not an angry burst over a broken relationship, it seems that it is also not really bemoaning wonderful yester-days and the beauty of celebrated love that has now been cruelly brought to an end with his death. It actually seems to be an expression of deep grief over the present task that the lover has to do – to take one’s loved one to the grave. Here she is being asked to play a most dreadful role asked of any lover – to be the one to take her lover to the grave. She dreads this and weeps over this task of walking with the love of her life for the last time and say final goodbyes and hence the words of this pitiful song spill slowly out of her mouth.

I can’t but help look above to read the song lines yet again. My mind wanders – could it actually be the first and last expression of a never-expressed love that was just too late and now with her death could only be expressed with words such as these? I see him just another face, one in the huge crowd that made up the funeral procession. Maybe she did not even know about his love for her. Or maybe there was just no death at all? Or maybe these are just lazy words of a song writer who is stringing words to fit a tune-recently-composed with an eye on the charts and the dollars that it may bring!

I forcefully put an end to my wandering thoughts. What do these lines mean, what do they 'really' mean? Or do they 'really' have to have a 'real' meaning!! And even if they did have a 'real' meaning, would I ever know?

Brainerd Prince

Before writing the section on Epistemology and Methodology

11:10 p.m. 28 July 2008

Yester-Year (2007)

Turn behind you

And then turn back

Close your eyes

And open them again

See the invisible

Catch the wind a dream

A dream that we were young again

In the land of the young

Where clowns with red noses

Horses without bridles

Children yelling and laughing, ruled

There was no sun to light the day

And no moon for the night

Stars plucked out from the sky

Adorned her neckline glimmering beautiful

Sparking under the black darkness of the night

The river was peaceful

As if standing to rest

Swaying gently to the sweet music on her shores

Grinning, smiling to all her yester memories

Old men and straight hatted women

Young lovers cuddling

Children screaming

All by her side

She watched them all

Through the dark corners of her eyes

Her eyes of yesterday

Re-living, life

Strange Bedfellows OR Strangers in Bed

Hey, would you care to listen?

Whether we have known each other

For a day or a myriad of years

Whether we be strangers in love

Or eternal bedfellows

Whether every sight of the other

Tingle excitement

Or mundane ordinariness rule the day

Will you not reach out to squeeze my hand?

Each time I share excitedly the treasures of my findings

Even if words obscure and full of falter?

Will you not lend me your hearing ear?

Will your eyes not glisten with my stories?

Will you not reach to wipe the tears I shed?

And hold me tight each time I shudder?

Or smile knowingly even as I make faces?

It’s my pain that I share

Shattered visages of my ancestors

I am but my past

And it is my past that has been defied

Shrouded with the blackness of a full moon sky

Soiled in the trenches of London

Trampled by her majesty’s horses

In tatters I find my Self

Broken, squashed, darkened

My Self, the memory of my history

Can I dare to dream?

Of rewriting histories?

Of mending memories?

Of reconstructing my Self?

But how should it begin?

Where should it start?

If it’s my present that frames my past

Then won’t it begin with you and I?

I hold on as you brace me up

We tell stories, create memories

Talk into the night about the distant lands

About ancient cities, roaring warlords

The rich and the poor

The prince and the maiden

Of children crawling up to their fathers

Of babes clinging to their mothers

Suckling calves in the yonder farms

Stories of love, anger, pain

Tragedies of life

As we talk, laugh and wipe the silent tear

Memories refreshed, the Self strengthened

Then the lamb will lie with the lion

You and me, together, forever

The Dancing Mares (2009)

Out they came in the hundreds

Galloping, snorting, heads held high

Arabian, Ardennais and Akhal-Teke

Let loose from Odin’s own land

Messala’s and Ben Hur’s royal steeds

Thundering down Rome’s Circo Massimo

Chariots, coaches and carts in tow

Bridles and bits

Adorning their magnificent faces

Reaching Troy’s splendid gates

Dusted their hooves

Unhitched all trappings

Entered the Assembly

In grand array

The most beautiful of meetings

Horses, horses everywhere

All colours, shapes, all sizes

Without bridle without bits

Free from carriages, free from chariots

The king Stallion took his place

Brought the meeting to order with his hoofs

The most amazing of horse-music floated

Filling the expanse of the fresh Sunday morn

Wondrous of sights, graceful forms

The mares took to beat

Raising their front hooves

Balancing on their hind

One two three, one two three

The mares began to sway

The Tempo picked, the beat got louder

Mares and horses

1-2-3, 1-2-3

Faster and faster

Glorious, astounding

Oh, the dancing reverential mares

Sun down, lengthening shadows

The moon begins to rise

The gong sounds

The assembly dispersed

Through Troy’s tall gates

Outside its daunting walls

Bridles and bits back in place

Chariots, coaches and carts in tow

Back they galloped into Rome

Sunday is over, Monday is back

To drive and be driven

In Caesar’s land

Beaches of Bournemouth

As you lift your gaze and look at her

There she stands – majestic, elegant

Brimming with confidence

With Resilience and life

In her calmness

In the clarity of her deep blue self

You see creation in its magnificence

The immovable mover

The Being at its best

You take a step closer

Watch her in proximate spaces

Beneath the calmness

A million moves

A constant weaving of waves

From horizon to horizon

Her beauty stretches

Her joyous spirit

Bursting forth in a thousand shades

Exploding with wondrous energies

Dancing light steps on still shores

She is restless, moving constantly

Being is but Becoming

Change and movement

Through the process of time

The night draws in deep

The moon is out and loud

She takes hold of the winds

And makes them her own

Wave and wind in Rhythm

The most marvellous of music floats

Creation stands enchanted

Picks the beat of her spirit

Swirling round and round

Oh what an astounding sight

All of creation in tune

Singing and dancing

Laughter and joy everywhere

She lifts her head and smiles

The Shamrock Bar comes to life

The morning has broken

The sun peeps through the clouds

And sunlight skips upon her waves

The blue turns golden

A new day, a new beginning

Calmness reigns yet unleashed

Strength in silence

Storm in stillness

Being and Becoming

The twin existence of life

Be the Wind-Paint: Reflections on Year-ends

Flowing from one box to another

Life pigeon-holed into tight boxes

Neatly labelled day, month and year

Defining mornings and noontimes

And telling you when to go to bed

As I flow out from one year-box into another

You tell me, it’s an occasion for celebration

Look back at the number of boxes you have filled, you say

With memories both great and small

Look how you have crossed much harm’s way

And painted life red, purple and blue

And yet all I feel is old

A new box has many adventures, you say

New paths, new space, new time

Life in your hands

And the sky your limit, you exclaim

But you forget, it’s into another box I flow

It’s not just me filling the box

It’s the box filling me out

The box squeezes me in, its walls cramping

Rubs the colour off me onto herself

She defines what I do and even how I look

When tired of me, she pushes me out

And December comes a ringing

Yea, you go celebrate

Sure do ring those nice bells and don’t forget your prayers

You should be happy that you have filled this box

And ready to climb into another

Beginnings and ends are sure reasons for celebration

So you go ahead and put on that dress

But I am going to wait a bit longer

Have a drink on you

And wonder how I can get rid

Of this damn box staring at you

Burn its walls down

Blaze them all out

Push it forward

Create a domino effect

Destroy all boxes with one big push

Then none to fill

Into none to flow

And then think about how I can be the wind

That can just be

Always flowing 

And yet needless to flow

And when I do flow, no one needs know

No box to constrain, no walls to cramp

The sky the canvas and me the wind-paint

Derek, the Cooker and Superstition

Derek, my landlady’s son-in-law, is called upon each time the flat is faced with some problem. This time it was the replacement of the Cooker. One of the hobs would continue to burn, even when turned off. This problem was graciously rectified by our generous landlady, by replacing it with a brand new Cooker, and Derek had been called again to install it. He is a genuinely lovely man, who took pride in his workmanship and meticulous execution of jobs. He was very knowledgeable about structure of buildings, water supply systems, electrical appliances and just about everything that goes into the making of a house, which we are all dependent on and yet take for granted without giving it much thought. He was a builder by profession.

Today, even as he was installing the Cooker, I was standing next to him, offering a hand whenever required and shooting questions at him at periodic intervals. He was explaining the difference between electric and gas Cookers and the advantages of the old wood burning range Cookers when he suddenly noticed a wire slightly protruding out and asked me to pull the Cooker to one side. He had connected the wires and turned all the hobs on. Even as I replied, ‘sure, will do’, I was leaning over him, to put off the main Cooker switch. Derek turned to me with incredulity in his eyes, ‘you don’t have to turn it off’, he exclaimed. ‘But if I am going to move the Cooker, won’t it be safer to first turn it off?’ I questioned back. He looked at me bewildered, and asked bluntly, ‘are you superstitious?’ ‘These things go through rigorous safety checks and they are completely safe’, he explained and I, ‘non-superstitious’ that I was, reluctantly pulled the Cooker to one side leaving the switch on. Job done, pleasantries exchanged, Derek was on his way out. But his question ‘are you superstitious?’ stayed with me, even as he left. What action or disposition of mine was superstitious? What does he mean by the word ‘superstitious’? And am I really superstitious?

Derek’s question got me thinking...

She's got the Moves

Behold, watch her stride

In time, through time, beyond time

Spiralling forward in her dance

Perfect coordination

Intricate chaos

Who can traverse her love?

Or know the depths of her rage?

Knower, always part of the known

Observer, in rhythm with her pace

Sometimes the sense of her presence

Her silent roar engulfing

A fearful glance over the shoulder

Images of fire, blood, and water

Mixed carelessly

Looking beyond seeing immediacies

All there is, is her smile

Her loving arms draped in embrace

As a star-ship

Embracing all of space

She moves majestic

And the universe hurtles

Blood on my Hands

I have killed them

Their blood surely

On my hands

Murder it was, definitely

Watching them die helplessly

Tried my best to save them

I did all I could

Stood bewildered watching

Hearing death’s deadly tune

I paced the floor up and down

Changed waters by the dozen

Care and medicines

None withholding

But nothing I did

Could save them

Three mates were they

An incredible trio I must say

When morning broke light

There remained but two

There was panic in their world

As they circled the slain

Coping with their pain

Sadness unfeigned

Watching them experience

The loss of breathe

I experienced death

As I helped with the funeral

Nagging thoughts unfolded

Cold hearted murderer

Was I not responsible?

Was I not the killer?

Was it not my water they drank?

Swum in my tank

My food eaten and air taken

Was I not responsible?

Was I not the killer?

I watched them looking at me

Their gait greatly reduced

Lethargic, unusually quite

No appetite, unseduced by food

Didn’t take that as a sign

As winter fast approached

With playfulness all but gone

I thought t’was the cold

What else could be but the chilliness?

It shrivels all to the bones

But those tiny powerful eyes

They kept staring

Recollecting good times

Memories reminiscing

Maybe pleading

To be set free

Maybe foreseeing

Changes in their destiny

The noon-day sun

Burned dim

The clouds cast their spell

She had suddenly gone still

I rose with panic under my belt

Knocked on the glass panes

Shook with might to inject life

Circling around their home

Sensing loss in the fight

What should I do?

How should I be?

The breathe all but gone

Final moments prolonging the pain

Helpless about helplessness

Every breathe now tedious

Nothing I could do would help

I turned my face

And she was gone

Ha, ha mocked Macbeth

You too now have blood on your hands

Only the big man remained

Golden glistening skin

Majestic in stride

He is powerful, he is a fighter

He will surely survive

Overcome cruel fate

The sun disappeared

A shroud of darkness

Blanketed space

Humans light a million suns

Pushing darkness backwards

The big one had suddenly gone cold

But I could do nothing onwards

With a heavy heart

I watched till I could watch no more

Eyes closing, I went to sleep

I woke up as the sun rose strong

Rested through the night

Drove darkness at dawn

I turned to see

Behold he too was gone

I paused as I gazed through

The window panes

One last time

Was I responsible?

Was I their killer?

Three beautiful creatures

Gone now, all dead