Silly Satsang Lilac Leela

Silly Satsang Lilac Leela

Brickman: Well, gentlemen, we are here today because the author who is creating us seems to have expressed a wish to understand the very root of all human agitation.

Waterman: He believes that a dialogue is necessary between three distinct characters to accurately represent the varying dilemmas that crowd and disturb the human intellect.

Tripman: By all means gentlemen, I must confess that I strictly adhere to my opinion that it is a futile effort on his part to create us, three confused men sitting in a room, to reveal a problem that is as old as perhaps the species of man itself. However, I am interested to observe how the three of us are developed and how our non-existent knowledge of matters relevant to this dialogue can be used to discuss a non-existent problem itself.

Waterman: Non-existent problem? Why is it that you seem so convinced that human agitation, or suffering, as the professors of dogma prefer to call it, is non-existent? Is it not clear to you that men and women are in pain every moment of their lives? And, if a few seem in solace, it is only an entirely temporal thing. There is deep pain inside everybody.

Tripman: Are we to wander away again into these talks of human thought and ancestral conditioning? Should I waste my time again to shine clarity upon the sources of human suffering? The author, as I can clearly deduce from the state of his mind (since he is my creator), has wasted time immeasurable on contemplating the fallacies and eventual vanity of all human thought. As a matter of fact, it is very possible that it is his frustration with his own intellect built of vain thought that created us. It is possibly an escape from his own madness.

Brickman: Are you sure it is not the whisky that speaks through you Tripman? Seldom have I seen you without a glass of whisky resting gracefully in your hands. Perhaps the perpetual numbing of your own intellect has bestowed upon you such a reckless attitude toward life.

Tripman: And am I to blame for that? Look within yourself. Our creator boasts of a voracious attitude toward whisky. Perhaps, it is that attitude that created me and my reckless perspective toward life.

Waterman: Why do you call it reckless, Brickman?

Brickman: I have studied the pain of mankind for years now. I have known several people who share an enthusiasm for such loose carefreeness as Tripman harbors. It is naught but a futile effort to escape from the inevitable tragedy of human existence. If you excavate patiently into the darker corners of Tripman’s imagination, you will find lurking there, a very regular and commonplace fear of death. A fear that we all share with trembling fervor.

Tripman: Death? Escape? I am not the Buddha or Lao Tzu my friend, but I can quite easily proclaim that all ideas of death are faint illusions that the human intellect wastes its brilliance on. Even on my most sober day, I can proclaim the very same. You speak from what you have heard from others. Tell me, when is it that this fear of death first came upon you?

Brickman: It is as old as my memory. The oldest memories that I have are of things that I fear. At least, they seem to be more in number than memories that please me. But, then, you will say that all memory is illusion, right? You will say that memory is nothing but stickiness. It is the pointless trail left by human experience that serves no purpose at all except survival, and according to you, survival should not be the primary existential concern of human beings.

Waterman: You assume much, Brickman.

Brickman: Our creator is the same my friend. You should forgive his inability to perfectly distinguish his characters from each other. At times, my mind might reveal that which is intended to be revealed by one of you two.

Waterman: I am curious now, about this whole idea of illusion. Often, I have heard men say that all of life is illusion, maya, color, glorious play, lilac leela! Is it not true then that illusion, which by itself is a concept, is also part of illusion? Language as a mode of communication simply cannot reveal such a complex situation since whenever it aspires to state something that is beyond it, it is limited by itself. Language is an aspect of the very philosophy of illusion that it tries to deny. Tell me, the best you can my friend, what is illusion?

Tripman: That brings us to a very basic question now, doesn’t it? What is not illusion?

Waterman: I am blessed with five senses alone and every truth I am aware of depends on these senses. What my senses perceive are not illusion.

Brickman: What according to you is not illusion, Tripman?

Tripman: You gentlemen seem to be making a very fundamental mistake. The five senses, of course, create a very tangible reality. But, they are awakened by the awareness you give them. And, if you draw that awareness away from them, where is the reality?

Brickman: How can I draw awareness away from the five senses? My existence is these senses. In a way, I am these five senses. I see no separate entity that exists outside of these five senses.

Tripman: Your awareness is not an entity. You are drunk on your intellect. You are drunk on the content of your imagination. Whisky is but a little joke of an intoxicant if you compare it to the thoughts of men. The greatest addiction is thought. You see, gentlemen, I am in deep suffering because the author seems to be in deep suffering. I represent the dilemma that is causing him this suffering. You on the other hand, represent the aspects of his intellect that give him the very cynicism and critical attitude from which his heart draws security. Now it is clear that among the three of us, I am most dear to our creator. This conversation between us is meant to bring a little token of solace to him. Instead of delving deeper into such spiritual matters like suffering and awareness, will it be alright if we move this dialogue into a more tangible dimension?

Waterman: What is it that you wish to discuss?

Tripman: The hypocrisy of individualism. What does it mean to be an individual, Waterman?

Waterman: I do believe that if a person can learn to be entirely self-reliant and live without allowing his personality to be constantly influenced by external forces, he or she could be an individual. Individualism implies nonchalance toward what the world considers righteous and immoral. An individual sets his own standards for morality, productivity, education, spirituality, and so on.

Tripman: I am torn, my friend.

Brickman: Are you referring to your personality?

Tripman: I behold an ever-sincere grudge toward the ways of human society but simultaneously, I also harbor a deep love for human things. You see, this is my hypocrisy. This is my mediocrity. My thirst for individualism led me into an abyss far from the common boulevards where my human companions built their lives. But I have strings that help me climb in and out of the abyss on a regular basis.

Brickman: You must know that we all harbor this form of split, my friend. There is no one who entirely enjoys the human world. Everyone within themselves builds secret dimensions that they frequent for peace and silence.

Tripman: I had silence. A long time ago. When our author was much younger, his naivete led his heart to be infatuated with meditation and prayer. His entire being quivered in gratitude as the spring breeze blew across the city harbor. His youth led him deep into the hills to discover the fruits of the earth that drove his intellect into uncertain planes. He discovered new dimensions of being. But, you see, with great awakening comes a very great responsibility.

Waterman: What is it?

Tripman: You become aware of the hypocrisy of your regular life. The hypocrisy of social manners, family, friendship, love, marriage, wellbeing, wealth, promise, glory, sweetness, success, joy; everything becomes hypocritical before your eyes.

Waterman: I would say that these things might still hold value to our author. They are definitely very valuable to me. In discovering the truth of human constructs such as society, civilization, and the systems that govern our world, one who is wise can learn how to be more understanding and compassionate. And, if you are even wiser, you can learn to live in this world without being of it.

Tripman: I cannot fool myself my friend. While I proclaim that pain is illusion, this endless agitation that pricks away slowly at my heart feels more permanent than it did yesterday. But I carry both opinions within me. That pain is real and, also, an illusion. You see, this duality is the root of my suffering. But seeing this duality also implies duality! It implies that there is something being seen and a separate seer. The fact that reality is split into two gives me immense confusion. When I look behind my eyes, I do not see anyone there.

Brickman: If your life seems to be so futile, why is it that something as meager as human society bothers you? We are all bothered by the restlessness of the human mind that has been bestowed upon us. But we must learn to do it right. Adapt to the mind, learn to answers its whims and keep it in a balance so that one part of the mind does not overcome the other leading to eventual insanity.

Tripman: Isn’t it this human society that we live in? I both loathe and love it. And the existence of time makes me feel like I am ten different people. I cannot exist in this way. I have gathered too much knowledge about what it means to exist. So much that I feel it will consume me.

Waterman: What shall we do about it now, Tripman?

Tripman: Can you not see the whisky in my hand? Humor and the high plane is my answer, my friends. It is in humor that I have found at least a tiny degree of sanity that can help me stand on my feet.

Waterman: Whisky and humor cannot save you my friend. And, neither can they save our author. Even if this world is undeniably an illusion, an escapist attitude implies that it is real and something to be escaped from.

Tripman: Whisky is not an escape, my friend. And neither are the fruits of the earth an escape. They are blessings from the gods to aid men when they dally with the darkness in their souls.

Brickman: I am beginning to feel that you are not sincere at all in your search for truth, my friend.

Tripman: And at which instant did you first feel that I was sincere?

Brickman: What then, are we to leave our author, our creator to burn in his distress? Are we to leave him to manage his hypocrisy with drunken sleep and candlelit dinners with pretty girls by the oceanside? For how long can we escape the agitation that lurks in the heart?

Waterman: Perhaps, it is only right to adopt the attitude of escapism to allow our hearts to rest awhile, my friend. Man is after all an inferior creature before the glory of the cosmos.

Brickman: I beg to differ. The glory of man lies in the fact that he has the ability to contain the vastness of existence in the smallness of his intellect.

Waterman: The intellect only contains an idea of the real vastness.

Tripman: Waterman is right. But then, neither of us can deny that man is the sweetheart of mother nature. But such a judgment cannot be held valid when we as men make it ourselves. However, I do find it special that as a man, I can be aware of such a thing as hypocrisy.

Waterman: Is it better then to be aware of one’s hypocrisy rather than simply being hypocritical?

Tripman: Perhaps, it is my friend. Maybe that was our gift all along. To be aware of the things that torment us.

Brickman: And is this awareness stained by the things that is becomes aware of?

Tripman: The purity of white cloth is easily stained by the weakest dye.

Brickman: How is it then that this awareness is a gift?

Tripman: You see, we are aware that we are aware.

Brickman: Who is it then that is aware of awareness?

Tripman: Who is asking the question?

Brickman: You have changed the direction of my enquiry, Tripman.

Waterman: Perhaps, this new direction might lead us into a more silent place.

Tripman: Perhaps. It seems like our author has found solace; at least for now.

India (She is Pure Mystique)

India (She is Pure Mystique)

She is often referred to as the land of Gandhi, incomparable exotic cuisines, mystery, yoga, spirituality, and so many things ancient. And when people think of what’s negative about it they think of poverty, corruption, narrow-mindedness, and an addiction to tradition. India has experienced thousands of kings, both the despotic type as well as the wise and visionary. The religious mystique of this land can be credited to a series of wise men who dug deep into the human spirit to uncover and solve some of the most bizarre mysteries of existence. And today, it is also the land where the greatest miscomprehension of ancient wisdom exists which can be credited to immature and childish errors in perception of its common citizens. There are so many dimensions to this land and one truly needs to question if he or she knows anything at all about India. How do we analyze a country? Normally, we consider several factors regarding the quality of its society including economy, technology, education, and government. And, in comparison to its peers, I think India lags terribly in most of these dimensions. But is that all that a land can be limited to? Is it even acceptable to say that a land can be judged based on the behavior of its inhabitants? Let’s deviate from the conventional way of analyzing a country and look deep into the soul of India to discover what she truly is.

India is not simply a land that exists within carefully calculated borders and ruled by a majority-favored government. It is not tradition, culture, cuisine, and religion that define this land of pure mystique. When you wonder about the unacceptable poverty that reigns supreme in India, it becomes very difficult to understand how a society so advanced in its approach to existence throughout millennia can remain so materially poor and incapable of resolving such a fundamental issue. I think the primary reason for this is that the inhabitants of this land have never held material wealth in high esteem. While there seems to be a great craving for social status and material wealth, there is a much stronger underlying desire to find intellectual and spiritual understanding within oneself. Throughout millennia, the inhabitants of this land never accepted that material supremacy matters more than everything else. They valued each aspect of life as much as the material aspect and sought to grow in every dimension of living.

Does economic progress truly imply human evolution? We have been so conditioned to believe that true progress means economic security that sometimes we just fail to understand that economics is just a human idea. What does it mean to be Indian? Does the fact that you were born to Indian parents, eat Indian food, live in an Indian city, or look like an Indian mean that you are Indian? Does the fact that you vote for your democratic suppressors, or wave that lovely Indian flag about, or post about your patriotic spirit on social media imply that you are Indian? No, it doesn’t. The Indian mind has been corrupted by perverse ideologies preached by people who know nothing about this sacred land. They have promised the inhabitants of this heaven a greater heaven which does not even exist. Unfortunately, a deep desire to imitate the west has destroyed the innate intelligence that always existed in India. If this desire to become economically supreme can be transformed into a desire to be humanly supreme, I think this land has endless potential to return to her former glory. And that former glory does not bleed dry another nation and does not rely on the impoverishment of an enemy for the wellness of oneself. It is true glory from which all nations on the Earth can drink from, as they have in the past. So, what really is India? And what does it mean to be Indian?

Civilization was born in the rich and fertile plains of India. It was here that the ape decided to become conscious of itself and coin the term human being. To be Indian means to be human. To be Indian means to crave mystique, wonder, and evolution. India exists in the human soul. It is a compartment in the human spirit that drives it to growth and self-understanding. I do not say this because Advaita and Buddhism were born in this land. I do not say this because this is the land of Siva and Krishna. I say this because I have never considered India to be a country. The word ‘country’ implies a very limited concept and I do not think that it can contain the vastness of what India truly represents. India is not just a nation with a set of ideologies and values that its loyal citizens strongly adhere to. If you walk into a dark corner of the Himalayas, you will find people who will laugh at the common definitions of India. If anyone is to be blamed for the world’s limited understanding of this great land, it is its inhabitants alone. We took too much pride in the glory of our past and continue to flaunt around our culture like it is a priceless necklace that gives us a priority pass to redemption. Everything beautiful dies and it is foolish to carry around a corpse that was once beautiful. This is what we do with our culture and tradition. It was beautiful and now it is dead. It has no more use to us. If we continue to rely on it, our entire approach to life becomes prejudiced with ideologies that smell of rotting corpses. We need to leave behind the things that we once considered beautiful and now march into the future to discover new intricacies and ecstasies that existence can offer us. We need to continue to embrace that powerful thirst for mysticism that has brought us this far. Our infatuation with western thought has destroyed the mystic within each of us causing us to overvalue the fancy delights of intellectual and logical thought. We need to drop it all and rediscover the inner wealth that exists within each of us.

Growth has nothing to do with your daytime job, the decisive number in your bank account, the percentage of tax you pay, and your good favor with god. Growth is individual freedom. It is the ability to converse with each other without prejudices and to understand each other’s perceptions and interpretations of life as it moves before our eyes. Conversation was treasured more than any other form of human intelligence in India. In ancient India, actual dialogue existed as opposed to ignorant monologues that are thrown around in modern society in the name of conversation. We need more dialogue. We need people who listen to each other and digest what the other person is saying. And to do this, we need to drop all prejudices regarding identity and culture.

Logic calls for an explanation of the consequences of acting out my suggestions. But what I am proposing is illogical. Having a true conversation would seem illogical to every educated mind in today’s world because self-growth is valued more than human growth. You are educated to value yourself more than anything else. And what are you but a stupid collection of ideas and prejudices, however beautiful and sophisticated they are. India means openness. She means conversation, love, appreciation, and true community. Whoever you are and wherever you live, I urge you to explore this inner map within you that is India. She will reveal some of the subtlest intricacies of the human experience to you and you will not be disappointed. Everyone who is tired of life moves toward India because she offers a soothing ointment for the wounds caused by basic human endeavors. Whether it be yoga, the Himalayas, or the pure vibration that pulses in this land, there is healing available for everyone who can be open.

I was blessed to be born in this wonderful land. But it is the fragrance of her people and the mystique of her imperfection that taught me what it truly means to be Indian. I am not a patriot in the common sense of the word. But I find it my duty to introduce the world to the real India, the ancient land that cradled and fueled the evolution of humanity. When you stand alone in the middle of this land, you will understand how insignificant you are no matter who you are. That insignificance will drive you to seek and find answers to some of the most significant questions of existence. And you will come home to yourself.

So, when people usually ask me, what is India? I say, she is pure mystique! And you must taste her before you die.

“I call India not a country, but an inner space. I call India not something that exists there in geography, on the maps. I call India that which exists hidden within you, and that which you have not yet discovered. India is your innermost space. India is not a nation, it is a state of mind.” – Osho   

 

Hello

Hello

Vincent watched her shuffling through the pages of her notebook trying to find an empty page to note down the symbols that the professor had just drawn on the whiteboard. She was sitting on the same row — a couple of seats away — and Vincent had a clear view of everything she was doing. Her eye shade was light blue and the color seemed to merge well with the light blue t-shirt she was wearing.

It was a semiotics class and Vincent usually had the habit of trying to interpret his classmates like they were each a unique symbol with tremendous hidden meaning. The girl wore black jeans and plain white sneakers and resembled a malnourished athlete.

A bit too masculine, Vincent thought. I wonder if she wears a bra. Her tits are too small. That eye shade just doesn’t go with the sneakers. Her hair seems long and lovely though. I wonder if she regularly washes it. It seems straight enough for my liking. But she’s too much of a tomboy. Fuck. If she just wore something more pink, or a good feminine top instead of that polo shirt.

When she took a quick glance toward him, Vincent quickly shifted his head upward and moved his fingers across his hair pretending to cure an itch that had mystically grabbed his attention. When she turned back toward the whiteboard, his attention seemed to just divert itself back to her like he had no control over it.

Why am I even looking at her? She seems so ordinary. Wait, fuck! That’s a Valentino t-shirt. She must be rich. A rich girl with a bad taste for clothes. Fuck.

It was after a long trail of thought that Vincent realized he was now thinking of what life would be like if he married the girl.

If we have kids, it needs to be a son. I can’t imagine a daughter with this girl. She’d be too distasteful and probably a geek virgin till 30. No, fuck it! I can’t marry her. Imagine having sex with this girl. She’d never wear what I ask her to wear. And after I’m bored of her body, it’d be hell trying to convince her to do what I want.

“Professor, I have a question,” the girl was raising her hand. Vincent’s thoughts were too loud in his head to understand what she was saying and his thoughts continued.

Fuck, she’s paying attention. She might know more of semiotics than I do. She might go to graduate school. I don’t think I want to go to graduate school. I love being intelligent in bed after sex. I like saying witty things with intervals in between. But what if she talks too much? I wouldn’t be able to be me. I should stop looking at her.

The girl took a quick glance again toward Vincent’s direction and this time he continued to look at her, but in a way that indicated that he was looking through her at the wall. The girl seemed not to notice Vincent staring right at her.

She’s dull. Fuck, I’m sure she sucks in bed. I think I should start paying attention to the class. But I can’t stop looking at her. She’s not even attractive. Stupid rich bitch with a bad taste for fashion. I wonder if she’s on Facebook. I’ll look her up later. Fuck, but what’s her name? There’s no name card in front of her. Maybe I’ll wait till the professor calls her out sometime. Wait, why do I want to stalk this ugly rich bitch? Her sneakers are so white. Does she play tennis? At least she could’ve played football. There’d be something interesting about her. But wait, tennis players have terrific bodies! Maybe she has a nice body. But that face, there’s nothing sharp about it. There are no proper curves and turns; the kind that a proper pretty girl should have. I don’t think she’s pretty. I should have just jerked off this morning. That’s why this is happening. Fuck it. Let’s pay attention to the class.

The class was dismissed and Vincent raced toward the elevator. As he waited for it to arrive at the second floor, he saw the t-shirt girl walking toward him. He felt the usual currents of discomfort that everybody feels when they become aware of who their elevator companions will be for the next few seconds. Everybody feels it with strangers, and Vincent was no exception.

Fuck, this bitch again! I hope she’s going up.

The elevator arrived and the girl entered before Vincent did.

Fuck, she’s going down.

As the elevator began to move, Vincent’s eye caught the girl who broke into a gentle and pleasant smile.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hey,” Vincent replied smiling. It was a whisper that came out in an awkward choking manner.

She’s sweet, Vincent thought. He suddenly became aware of an overwhelming scent of green apple laced with small amounts of lavender.

She’s ovulating. She has to be ovulating! Fuck, what a scent that is. Is that how she smells? Is she wearing something? Whatever it is, it smells brilliant!

The elevator reached the ground floor and the girl started to walk away slowly. While her white sneakers made no sound as they treaded against the ground, Vincent envisioned her wearing black pretty heels that made a loud noise with each step. Vincent turned around to walk toward the building exit. He was too naïve (or careless) to notice that his thoughts were now completely transformed.

What a delicious chick. That t-shirt went so well with those jeans. A pretty athlete; how brilliant is that? I hope she’s on Facebook. My phone’s out of charge. Fuck! Once I get home then. I should talk to her in the next class. I wonder if she drinks. We could go out for a drink sometime. I’m sure she loves good vodka. She looks classy. She definitely likes good vodka. I can’t believe I thought of dropping semiotics. I should form a study group with her. And that smile in the elevator — so . . . soft and genuine. We need more women like her. I could just feed her berries in bed all day without touching her. I’d still be happy.

Vincent pulled out a cigarette to light as soon as he stepped out of the building. He looked around him and then adjusted the waist of his jeans to hide the pounding erection that made the cigarette tremble in his fingers.

 

The Brave Write Tragedies

The Brave Write Tragedies

Let me dip my hands into your heart,
And hurt you well with words and verse,
And take you back into my world
You are my lover, my reader,
And my wish is to enslave you
To beat you a million times,
And make you bleed and beg for more
And kiss you gently when you’re wounded,
And whisper laughter into your ears

Come dream with me, sweet beloved,
Of old castles and sparkling streams
Of that great archaic place,
Where our fairy tales are made
When we were little — boy and girl,
I watched your little skirt dance with the wind
And in your eyes, I remember,
The twinkle that made me a prince
How I wished that when we’d get older,
I would build you your own castle,
And feed you berries in the spring,
And keep you safe and warm through winter

I’ve aged like a warrior who has no war,
To bring his mind to solace
Look at you, oh darling sunshine,
You’ve turned grey beneath the sun
There are no castles and no spring,
But just bricks and noisy streets
Filled with lost dreams and broken soldiers,
Who never braved the breezes of tyranny
How we let our hearts go rotting,
Into dreams we never really cared for
How we weep and mourn now in misery,
With heaps of gold in our halls of diamond

Is it too late, my beloved damsel?
To find a better place in this firmament,
This great wilderness of life,
In which we’ve stuck too hard to the past
Do I have enough to bleed?
So that I may find you once again
Of what good is poetry if it heals not my heart?
Of what real purpose is this weak artistry,
If it brings not my life the light that I crave

I can write whatever tale I want,
I can end it in blood and tears,
Or belittle the spring in the fragrant glory,
Of my eternal verses on love and light
But why is it that I lean toward tragedy?
Do I hold a softness for melancholy
Am I made of thorns and sad endings?
Forever lost, my beloved damsel,
Are our dreams of castles and elysian gardens
The cotton touch of your long and tender fingers,
Are but a fainting dream,
In the cemetery of my memories

My years on this earth are but the reflection,
Of a strong inner thirst for beautiful tragedy
I am made of tears and midnight wailing,
I am the heart of sorrow itself.
Be lost, forever, my sweet damsel,
I gave you no castle, and the work of my hands,
Has brought no fruit to your thirsting heart
Let our tears be the testimony to this tragedy of life,
And let our deaths tell no grander tales,
Than those that we lived
When our eyes close gently beneath the moonlight,
Let us not forget that it is us who write our tales
And the brave write the deepest tragedies,
And shed tears that are salted,
With grand cosmic laughter

Screamjack