pakha ko gatha

.. has never been a question at all. Blogging has had certain advantages for me. I get to state my thoughts in a somewhat organized fashion, nobody has to pretend they are listening, and if i were to say out loud the thoughts out loud, it would get dismissed as gibberish, attempted intellectual crap, or just nonsense. By writing, interestingly, and amazingly enough, some people do read, and enjoy the same. I have also come up with a theory that writing increases whatever shred of logical reasoning and thinking capability i have. After a long break from writing, i find myself getting slower at organizing thoughts, forming arguments and the words that i know exist do not seem to want to escape my tongue. And writing ofcourse encourages reading which in turn makes you want to write about it.

So why not write? you might ask. Sheer laziness. Its a vicious circle, you see, the more you dont write, the harder it is to gather thoughts to do so. And besides, it is just so much easier to laze in the couch watching tv, without a strand of thought in your head. Between my last post and today, i have thought of writing several times, some ideas, like the american political situation, specially with the democratic primary, nepali political revolution, and how democracy sprung into action, or this little bar with interesting characters in an old mill town that i frequent, have come to mind, and ended right there …… with each passing abandonment of ideas, to make up for that one, it would be imperative that i find something more interesting to write about. Another vicious circle …. With all these maze of circles, I was in no time inside a “chakrabheu”, one that took little fighting to get into, but had no clue how to get out of ….

so here is a wild attempt, a hail-mary, at solving the problem, write about not being able to write. I guess we will find out if the solution is a viable one (honestly, will attempt to write more)

“Left handed, eh !!” ….. a young sales clerk uttered what seemed like a surprised and amused expression as i signed the credit card receipt at a Bengali store.  This is not an isolated occurrence, and the tone of the expression varies as much as the person saying it.

It would not only be an over-exaggeration but whinning of enigmatic proportion if I were to go ahead and state that growing up left handed had been difficult, it has, however, been an interesting experience, one that i am sure i share with all left handed people to some degree.

My very first memories of me being “not quite Right” is of vague recollections of various relatives talking about my “condition”.  Discussions would ensue about whether or not it was a good idea to try to get me to use my right hand more.  Apparently no drastic measures were taken.  That is, until one morning, as we were having our morning meal, my mother looked at me with eyes full of love mixed with a bit of sorrow, and foremost, unconditional sympathy.  With complete understanding for my “condition” that might or might not have been beyond my control, she pleaded me to try to change one tiny part.  She wanted me to eat with my right hand, for reasons obvious to everyone around, for one could tell that everyone was thinking the same thing the moment they saw me eating with my left hand.  Ofcourse, it wouldn’t be easy, I was to have her full support, and that would be the only task I would need to perform with my right hand.

Thus, with utter difficulty and one awkard handful of food after another, I began the process that would eventually result in my purification.  It felt impossible at first, but like everything else in life, I eventually came to terms with using my right hand.  Thus, good riddance with the disgusting habit, and all was good from there onwards. 

Just …. not quite.   They do say good ideas come to you in the toilet, and likewise, in the same spot i had an epiphany, as I picked up the twak and reached for my behind, the horror of horrors, I realized that it was with my right hand i was reaching to do the cleaning part with, as my left hand was comfortably, and cleanly, holding the jug of water.  Now that I saw what was happening, it made perfect sense, if right handers instinctively used their left hand for cleaning the particular area, it would seem only logical that left handers used their right !  I felt betrayed, pushed to such a humiliating status, I had officially over-taken the father and son who had tried to carry the donkey to please everyone, and by trying to please my parents, had ended up being the boy who ate his own poop. 

I stared from one hand to the other, and as I had no other choice, began, yet again, the pain-staking task of learning to use the limb that didnt come natural to me.  It was harder than learning to eat with the “right” hand.  For, without the watchful eyes of my mother (fortunately), I would, at times, forget to use the “wrong” hand. 

As dramatic and as exotic as I would want to make my left-handed-ness to be, the extent of my “misery” due to that fact pretty much ends right there.  Other than being jabbed at by somewhat academically enthusiastic classmates because my left elbow was hindering their right ones as we both tried to write on top of the small elongated desks, and hearing vague curses for having to sit next to a lefty, everything else has been smooth sailing.  Oh yeah, the nickname, Lefty, i didnt mind having that, couldve been worse.  And it seems like right handers can only have one primary left-hander at any point in their lives.  To my class, I was that one, there was one other left hander in our class, but since she joined later than I did, i held the title.  Every once in a while I run into people with left-handed people close to their hearts, fondly or otherwise, and soon as I start using my opposite limb, something along the lines “oh, youre left handed, hmm,  so is my … ” follows.  What amazes me isn’t the attempt at the very vague connection, it is the fact that people are so quick to take notice of the fact, when I’m observing a person, what arm one is using is about the last thing i tend to notice.  The expression on the above mentioned sentence depends on the type of relationship they have, and at times, I can all but hope that the left hander wasn’t her jackass of an ex boyfriend :).

The degree to which someone is left handed varies, maybe due to social reasons, or perhaps biological.  Some are almost ambidextrous. Most, like myself, have come to terms with living in a right handed world with very minor, almost cosmetic, adjustments.  We are the ones who rarely go around the classroom looking for that left handed seat, but will sit on it if one is handy.  And rarely, there are the avid left handers.  I had the interesting experience of knowing such a person at my work.  He was left handed almost to a revolutionary degree, his mouse would be on the left side of the keyboard and the mouse buttons would be switched around.  Every-time he would pick up a pair of scissors, or a screw driver or any other tool of which i had no idea could be left or right handed, he would get on a tirade about the hardships of having to live in a world that was primarily right handed.  He would go so far as to term me a traitor for giving up to the other side, for not complaining enough, or for not having the buttons of my mouse switched around.  I could almost imagine him taking up arms, fiery speech, revolting against the suppressive majority, fighting for the ease of use of his tools, a right he has been deprived of in a ruthless right world, that considers the use of our wrong hand, well, wrong !! 

Let me start out by saying that I have always found these kinds of lists rather cheesy, and have always held the opinion that I was lucky to be getting all I have, thus having a wish-list of utterly privileged things and experiences would be snobbish of me. 

  However, having spent a couple years now with a job and no school, with enough time to moan and bitch about non-existent grievances, I am slowly becoming this pot-bellied person in an imaginary mid-life crisis I had so despised.  

Thus, after endless cycles of sitting in a cubicle during the day and watching of exotic places and experiences on tv in the evenings, i have decided to give in to yet another symptom of becoming the despised me (right after coming to terms with my slightly protruded belly) and come up with this list.  It is in no particular order and is ofcourse subject to change.

Things I’d like to do 

• Backpack through Europe.
• Go hand-gliding.
• Get close enough to a dolphin to look it in the eye (preferably a wild one).
• See the grand canyon.
• Try a hallucinatory drug.
• Make passionate love to a woman of latin origin, after a fine french dinner, and after she gives me a private lesson on merengue.
• Ride the bus that goes from Kathmandu to Lhasa.
• Hike up to the Annapurna base camp.
• Try to document as much family history as possible, where we come from, where we have been.
• Get something published somewhere where people will actually read.
• Have a golden retriever for a pet.
•  Fall in love, unconditionally, absolutely, blindly ….. the kind they portray in books and movies …

And i’ll stop before this gets any more ridiculous (if thats at all possible)

While my own creativity takes a back seat, lets look at another song i have found quite interesting. I heard this song not too long ago (thanks to pandora.com, by the way, I have come to adore the “intelligence” of this free internet radio, and have found the manual task of finding and uploading songs on an ipod more and more cumbersome.)

This song is called “ringing of revolution”, byPhil Ochs. It tells a story that begins in a big palace on top of a hill that houses the last of the ruling class, the last of bourgeoisie, as the city below burns. I am not exoticing the idea, neither am i endorsing it, it just seems more and more inevitable looking at the situation at home these days. And, we, much as we despise the ruling class, are more than likely to be the “soft middle class” who will scurry behind the “merchants of velvet” with our tail underneath our legs. I might even chant some lines from the veda and use my “bharmannai” (one i am so eager to denounce) for a ticket to the “building of gold”. Moreover, has Kathmandu already been that palace, that last refuge, as the rest of Nepal has burnt ?

Ah, its 6 in the morning, i’m half asleep, and am headed camping today, so what i wrote above might not have made any sense.

(Does anyone know of a youtube like site for audio ? It would’ve been nice to put a link of the song here, so people could hear it as they read it, since it doesnt have a video, couldn’t find it in youtube.)

Ringing of Revolution

In a building of gold, with riches untold,
lived the families on which the country was founded.
And the merchants of style, with their red velvet smiles,
were there, for they also were hounded.
And the soft middle class crowded in to the last,
for the building was fully surrounded.
And the noise outside was the ringing of revolution.

Sadly they stared and sank in their chairs
and searched for a comforting notion.
And the rich silver walls looked ready to fall
As they shook in doubtful devotion.
The ice cubes would clink as they freshened their drinks,
wet their minds in bitter emotion.
And they talked about the ringing of revolution.

We were hardly aware of the hardships they beared,
for our time was taken with treasure.
Oh, life was a game, and work was a shame,
And pain was prevented by pleasure.
The world, cold and grey, was so far away
In the distance only money could measure.
But their thoughts were broken by the ringing of revolution.

The clouds filled the room in darkening doom
as the crooked smoke rings were rising.
How long will it take, how can we escape
Someone asks, but no one’s advising.
And the quivering floor responds to the roar,
In a shake no longer surprising.
As closer and closer comes the ringing of revolution.

Softly they moan, please leave us alone
As back and forth they are pacing.
And they cover their ears and try not to hear
With pillows of silk they’re embracing.
And the crackling crowd is laughing out loud,
peeking in at the target they’re chasing.
Now trembling inside the ringing of revolution.
With compromise sway we give in half way

When we saw that rebellion was growing.
Now everything’s lost as they kneel by the cross
Where the blood of christ is still flowing.
To late for their sorrow they’ve reached their tomorrow
and reaped the seed they were sowing.
Now harvested by the ringing of revolution.

In tattered tuxedos they faced the new heroes
and crawled about in confusion.
And they sheepishly grinned for their memoroes were dim
of the decades of dark execution.
Hollow hands were raised; they stood there amazed
in the shattering of their illusions.
As the windows were smashed by the ringing of revolution.

Down on our knees we’re begging you please,
We’re sorry for the way you were driven.
There’s no need to taunt just take what you want,
and we’ll make amends, if we’re living.
But away from the grounds the flames told the town
that only the dead are forgiven.
As they crumbled inside the ringing of revolution.

~Phil Ochs

I started listening to Dylan late during my high school years. I’d heard blowing in the wind, and that was easily understandable, as in one could easily make out the words from listening to the song, and fairly agreeable. I started listening to more and it just stuck throughout the years. I’ve never put much effort into music, have always just listened to whatever came by my way. My CD collection boasts a few Dylans, an Eminem, and perhaps one of a Beatles collection. My Ipod, that’s been sitting in my car out of charge, has few songs of about the same category.

But, enough about my non-existent music collection and my laziness. I can by no means claim to be a student of poetry, nor can I claim to know of ones other than the Dylan I have listened to over the years. Yet I do appreciate the power of words and just wanted to list a few that I knew, they all happen to be Dylan’s for the sole reason that, i, being an illiterate to the world of poetry know of none other …

The first one is titled “Like a Rolling Stone“, and this one is probably the most popular on the list. This one is also the most easily relatable and it topped some list of songs that effected people’s life. It talks of the challenges we face as we grow up and start to venture out into the real world on our own.

How does it feel to be a nobody, no parents to tend to all your needs, to have to make your own bed …

“ How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?“

It specially taunts the ones born even close to a silver spoon.

“ You’ve gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you’re gonna have to get used to it“

.. and the spoiled ones …

“You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you“

… and the ones living on the high horse, a horse that perhaps someone else owned ?

“Once upon a time you dressed so fine
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you?
People’d call, say, “Beware doll, you’re bound to fall”
You thought they were all kiddin’ you“

With all these different scenarios in a society where one has to sooner or later leave parents’ nest and venture out on our own, no wonder this tops the list of songs that most influenced people.

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The next one is called “A hard rain’s a-gonna fall” and was written right after the Cuban missile crisis when Dylan, along with the rest of America, was scared shitless of having their brains radiated. In this song, he is talking to a young son, to the next generation, and is telling him about a world destroyed. Some of the lines hold terrifyingly true today.

“ I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it’s a hard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a hard,
And it’s a hard rain’s a-gonna fall.“

With or without the nuclear threat, he also talks about the world that is primarily unjust.

“Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin’“

And every time I hear or read the next line, i cant help think of Devkota …

“Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter“

… and all other people who serve an important purpose in society yet go unnoticed ….

“Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley“

In the midst of all these negativity, all these pessimism, Dylan throws in an unusual line, a line full of hope, and innocence, and imagination, and faith ….

“ I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow“

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This one is titled “Tombstone Blues” and it has a lot of references that are well beyond my grasp. Yet this song arguably contains my favorite line …

“The sun’s not yellow it’s chicken“

Now, I dont believe this line is supposed to mean anything, and Dylan is probably laughing at people who try to find hidden meaning in it, yet it is an interesting play on words. If anyone was to describe the color of the sun, it would probably have to come somewhere close to yellow. Furthermore, both the words ‘yellow’ and ‘chicken’ have one common meaning, they can both be used to mean cowardice, being a chicken is being scared, and so is being yellow (bellied) ….. interesting, eh ….

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The next one is “Maggie’s farm” and i think it portrays the mistrust in all branches of government that we all must feel once in a while.

“ I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s pa no more.
No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s pa no more.
Well, he puts his cigar
Out in your face just for kicks.
His bedroom window
It is made out of bricks.
The National Guard stands around his door.“

… the untouchable executive branch perhaps …

“ No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s brother no more.
Well, he hands you a nickel,
He hands you a dime,
He asks you with a grin
If you’re havin’ a good time,
Then he fines you every time you slam the door.
I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s brother no more.“

…. legislative, maybe …

“ No, I ain’t gonna work for Maggie’s ma no more.
Well, she talks to all the servants
About man and God and law.“

… the intellectual judiciary …. could be …

This song also contains a phrase i quite agree with.

“I try my best
To be just like I am,
But everybody wants you
To be just like them.“

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Now, getting out of the intellectual bull crap, lets look at a simple love song, this is called “Lay, Lady, Lay“, and the lines are pretty self explanatory :

“ His clothes are dirty but his hands are clean
And you’re the best thing that he’s ever seen“

…. “I long to see you in the morning light
I long to reach for you in the night
Stay, lady, stay, stay while the night is still ahead“

—————————————–

If you guys have made it this far, i think i owe you an apology for sounding like that boring english teacher you had in high school or even college, the one you couldnt help fall asleep to …. only a lot less informed … a lot lot less so ….

Its a stormy night, huddle around my rocking chair, kids, for tonght I shall tell you a story, of what it is about, I will leave it to you to deduce once you have heard it.

The story is about a man named Kulee (pronounced ku-lay), for what his last name is (or even his actual name), I am unaware of. Yet before I tell you more of the person, it is important that I reveal to you how I got to know the person. It wasn’t through a chance encounter under a pipal tree where we swapped stories of our adventures. It wasn’t even in a formal meeting through a mutual acquaintance, and it certainly wasn’t an episode in one of the bhatti pasals, where we talked throughout the night of friends and lovers, of falling in love, and falling in deeper. I never did get to exchange a word with him, and have only laid eyes on him once.

Yet, I have been familiar with his name for as long as I remember. It would come in the form of a scold every time I, or any of my male cousins proved to be a nuisance to the elders. Anyone who had grown up in my ancestral village, which included almost everyone, would not let go of an opportunity to yell at us, and the curse usually involved Kulee. For the longest time, we didnt think much of the word, until one day, out of the blue, when i was a Kulee for not displaying proper table manners, I popped the question. “But uncle, what precisely is a kulee ?” Ofcourse, like a lot of my “inappropriate” questions, this one went unanswered as well. My curiosity was maintained until one day i had the presence of mind to ask one of my cousins who had grown up in the village what it meant. “Kulee is a name of a person”. I couldn’t understand, why was I being yelled at with another person’s name. “Kulee had 12 wives”. I imagined Kulee to be some feudal lord terrorizing the villagers, specially attractive women, not for a moment hesitating to snatch any he fancied. Kulee turned out to be an untouchable, and apparently he couldn’t hold on to any of his brides for too long. It didnt make much sense, and i ended the conversation with a request to point me to him next time i was in the village. That winter vacation i was there, and we had a religious ceremony held at our house, my cousin ran upstairs to tell me that Kulee was downstairs. I ran to the veranda and stared down at the tens of people gathered in our yard. And there I saw Kulee, there was no need for anyone to point me to him, for i knew who he was and at that point everything fell into place.

There stood a man in his late sixties. He was standing in a corner, making sure not to touch anyone or even anything in the “auspicious” occasion. But his posture was not the uncomfortable insecure one as I had seen in many people, as they were yelled at if they got too close to a priest, guests or just the utensils used in the puja. He was sure of his stance and it seemed he knew what he was doing, his posture was almost of a subtle defiance. He had the most mischievous looking of smiles i had ever seen, and as he looked up, i saw the shiniest pair of eyes i had ever seen, as old as he was, he still was a handsome man. His eyes twinkled, that paired along with his smile reminded me of Dennis the Menace about to pull a trick on his neighbor. At that moment i realized Kulee was all he was made out to be, and much much more.

Over half a century ago, the heart throb of the girls in that village in remote gorkha wasnt some boy band member, it wasn’t even a land owner’s kind-hearted son stealing young girls’ hearts as he rode past the common water tap on his horse. It wasnt even a commoner hopelessly in love with one girl he couldnt be with. On the contrary, it was a dirt poor untouchable with shiny eyes and a killer smile.

The fact that he never had more than one wife (i dont believe he was ceremoniously or legally married to all of them, for if a couple eloped, at that time, it was as good as being married) proves him not to be a womanizer. I believe he was a worshiper instead. As Devkota wrote a rebellious poem in Kathmandu about the same time urging people to forget about temples and worship fellow human beings instead, to try to listen to their pain, and to lend a helping hand whenever one could, illiterate Kulee, oblivious to the intellectual’s work, was already implementing the ideas into practice. “So what if you dont let me in your temple with a stone inside !” I can imagine a young defiant Kulee thinking, “I have privileged access to women and their divine soul in the center.” Kulee was leading a one man resistance, against patriarchy and social classes all on his own. A soul always suppressed and often neglected, Kulee must’ve made it a point to try to understand the very interesting gender.

I can almost see the process starting, a woman slaving by the river over dirty laundry, or a Nepali version of the Highland Lass cutting grass in the evening to feed the cattle before dark, Kulee, squatting by her side, a grin in his face as he told a joke, the woman laughing along. He would stand up to help her every often, while doing so, making a point to accidentally brush against her. She would snap at him for touching her, and tell him to keep his distance, yet she couldn’t deny the fact that the rush of electricity that went through her at that brief moment was the most exhilarating thing she had felt in the longest time. The situation would turn somber at times, as she described her problems, a drunk husband, a younger wife, an evil mother-in-law, or even pestering parents trying to marry off their daughter to a person five villages away she had never met. The moments must turn romantic as well, with Kulee singing one of the folk songs that would reverberate throughout the hills, or they might even go for a dohori, or a duet.

No one could be sure how long this would go on for, and eventually she would bundle her clothes in a saree, tuck whatever little money she had in her blouse, and in that dark starry night, she would hold the hand of a person she wasnt supposed to touch, and cross the hill to the village where people like her went only if one was in need of a tailor or a cobbler.

In his hut, I can imagine the love making, more passionate and tender than anything she had ever felt. For the experienced ones, it couldn’t be any further away from the daily ritual she had to perform with her husband every night. For the virgins, the physical pain forgotten, stacked away in the very bottom of her heart now overflowing with passion and pleasure.

Yet, reality would take over, and the army of relatives would soon descent upon the tiny hut, some furious, others tearful, everyone on the brink of a breakdown, the family name now shattered to ashes, would never recover. At times being dragged, and always crying, they would always end up going back. After all, she would be told, it would be in Kulee’s best interest if she went back. Things would never be the same though, she would have an air of challenge from now on and would get a portion of the respect she rightly deserved. Kulee would come to find his home empty, he would smile a knowing smile and start a fire to get supper ready.

Kulee passed away a few years ago, so, if there is anything after this world, maybe i could sit down with him and drink his own home brewed beer and perhaps listen to his amazing tales. I would love to hear about the girl who had a cute giggle, or the woman who was sang beautifully. Or he would tell me about the narrow escapes through the mountain pass as men with sticks chased across the river, their dilemma increasing as they got closer to him, much as they wanted to get a hand on him, they weren’t supposed to actually touch him, his untouchability becoming his best defense. And after all that, maybe he would be so kind as to tell me how he lived, and loved.

~To Kulee, my kind of hero

Conversation with a friend about mundane frustrations life has to offer turned interesting when he asked a question, “why can’t the lions and the tigers eat the foxes and the hyenas ?” Having taken it literally, I fished from the deepest corners of my memory and gave him an answer I think I had heard in high school “carnivores don’t usually eat carnivores”, something to do with the energy level decreasing as you go up in the food chain.”

A light bulb went on above my head a few seconds later when I realized he was talking metaphorically. In this increasingly competitive world, we all run into fox-like characters once in a while, individuals who are more than willing to devour you as a carnivore would a prey, to get their goals met.  Is this a dog-spare-dog-and-eat-innocents world where the only way to survive is to join the ranks of those we despise ?  Dorian had to sell his soul to live forever, but are we already having to do that in order to live a normal lifetime ?

Here is something I had written a while back :

                                      Getting along:

Then I went to meet Rita Bettencourt and took her back to the apartment. I got her in my bedroom after a long talk in the dark of the front room. She was a nice little girl, simple and true, and tremendously frightened of sex. I told her it was beautiful. I wanted to prove this to her. She let me prove it, but I was too impatient and proved nothing. She sighed in the dark. “What do you want out of life?” I asked, and I used to ask that all the time of girls.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Just wait on tables and try to get along.” She yawned.

~Jack Kerouac (On the Road)

This paragraph kept jumping back at me even after i had progressed way further into the book. Not so much the first part, although I think the first part is a good laying of base for the second to come. I seem to agree with Rita’s perspective on life. Granted I dont always stay gloomed about life and its “gifts”, more often than not, i am trying to just, Jack put it best, get along.
There isnt a single action I can count as “achievement” yet. The last thing I went to school for and got decent grades was knowledge. It was almost entirely to get along with my dad. After moving half a world away from him, that factor wasnt there, yet various other elements came into play, urging me towards it, and I had to get along with those as well. It would be a big joke if I call what i do at work any achievement what-so-ever, and probably much less gratifying than taking food to people starving ..
Whats more, I really dont care that i havent achieved anything, not because i dont care about the world and its problems. I deeply care about starving children, the HIV infection, human rights, democracy … list goes on ….
“a fool on the hill watches the wheel go round and round”, chanchal dai’s signature line. I find myself comparing myself to the fool, with a slight difference, i see myself sitting on the hill with a wheel of my own. I am sitting there and making sure the wheel keeps on turning. The hill is covered with people like myself, sitting around putting their efforts into turning the wheel that is their life. Some are smart enough to oil their wheel and apply different techniques so as to put less and less manual effort on the turning of the wheel as time goes on, while others stubbornly keep on pushing it all their lives. All of us are extremely careful as to not to bump ones wheel into the others, as we all need to, well, just get along.
Below us, in the valley are the rest of the world’s problems. Far far away, yet not out of sight. It is, however, very easy to concentrate on the wheel, far easier than it is to actually do something about it. Ofcourse we all watch the happenings down below with watery eyes, yet we cant run down to help, the wheel might go out of alignment, altogether stop turning, blah blah blahh ….
Every once in a while i see a brave soul stand up, slowly and shaking at first, picks up the wheel and rolls it down the hill. Its tricky down there, many fumble and lose it all, whereas a few manage to use it for a better cause, better a cause than all the ones up in the hills, who look down with a grateful yet cynical, amazed yet bored expressions, all at the same time.
The only difference between Rita’s view and mine on life on life is probably the fact that i know sex to be beautiful, that i was lucky enough to have met someone who very patiently proved that it could be very beautiful. Yet i also know all too well that it can also be this hideous act that makes you turn away from from both yourself and your partner after it, thus i am, in parts, frightened of it.

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Does my theory have a very naive hole in it ?  Is it too innocent to assume that everyone wants to live in harmony spinning their own wheels ?  Is the world too clustered for everyone to live in harmony without bumping against each other, and knocking the other person’s wheal out of alignment, so to speak ?  Maybe wanting to get along, by comparison,  oblivious to the world’s miseries, isn’t as harmful anymore as I had envisioned, or atleast the thought that there are a lot worse species out there will help us sleep better at night.

We Nepalis seem to have a pet peeve above all else. We don’t give up any opportunity to ridicule people of indian descent, specially the ones that look fresh off the boat. We cant seem to be able to stand the way they talk, dress, eat, walk, look or anything else for that matter. I don’t know where such deep-rooted annoyance comes from towards these peaceful and mostly harmless people. Lets forget about how they are mostly thriving hard working people with such self confidence that they don’t care about pretending to belong to any culture, but rather embrace their own way of living. Lets even forget about the fact that there are a lot of us who have benefited from their existence. Sure they exploit you, but what would be the alternative ? Lets forget about all of that, and lets focus on how we tend to be pretty liberal on our views, on how we tend to be pretty open about the way we dress, the way we eat and everything else in general. Judging by the same standards, shouldn’t we not have any problems with the way people dress, scantly or conservatively, and the same with eating behavior. As we support any life-styles people choose, and the “liberals” know what I mean, shouldn’t we support theirs as well. This anger boils from my recent trip to an apparently hot tourist spot, where a fellow companion of mine would not stop raving about the problems she had with the particular group of people.

Finally finished reading Anne Frank’s diary. I read and i cried. I was amazed by the literary skills, reasoning ability, knowledge the 12 year old seemed to possess. I certainly didn’t think like that when i was that age. I cried, obviously, for the tragedy that occurred in the past, yet much more so for the tragedies that are occurring now, and will keep happening in the future. I cried for our inability to learn from the past. Our unwillingness to understand the futility of our attempts to come out victorious from battles where everyone involved is a victim. I cried for the travesties we commit against each others. The victims, sooner or later following suit, where everyone seems a perpetrator, everyone a victim. We seem to be stuck in this recursive algorithm without an exit case, the only way it stops is when the machine crashes. A 13 year old girl stuck in an Annex with romantic and parental problems had realized that we would sooner or later destroy the civilization if we keep up with our ways, yet the most powerful minds in the world seem not to be able to see the inevitable truth.

“I do not blame either sides, I blame angry men who are completely incapable of solving their problems in a civilized manner”, a lady had commented on the Israel Palestine conflict. I couldn’t agree more. Are we so incapable of sitting down and solving problems? We seem to be able to solve the most difficult of scientific problems, yet we can’t study and come to a solution to a simple social problem ? We might have understood a lot about the world around and how it works, but we have yet to peek into how we work, and most importantly how we work together. Maybe we will work more at it and figure out a correct method to solve problems. Or maybe men are the source of all the problems. Mankind, without a doubt, is doomed. Your only choice, ladies, if you do not want to go down along with us, is to find a way to reproduce without natural sperm, produce only specimen of your gender, and let us die off. Save yourselves, otherwise we are bound to drag you into the quick-sand, that we are neck deep in, as we sink in all the way.

Scores ago, when I was in the second semester of my junior year in college, I was taking 20 credits in order to finish on time after transferring from a college that wasn’t very academically excelled.
In that very busy semester of more-than-normal course load and 20 hours a week of working to keep myself alive, two particular classes come to mind. Philosophy of Technology, taught by Professor Scharff, a strict abide-by-rules professor whose “philosophy” was that it wasnt allowed for just anyone to say “my philosophy on x is y”. I forgot what the criteria was to be able to proclaim a philosophy of your own, but then again i dont retain much from that class, or from school in general. The second class was Mathematical Proof, taught by Professor Jacoby, an ancient man who looked about a hundred and fifty years old, had a hunched back, sported a pony tail of snow white hair but was bald up front. He looked like a very older version of George Carlin, but mumbled while he talked in a very low pitched voice so you had to lean forward to understand. He rode a bicycle almost as old as himself, even in the middle of New England winters.
The first class I mentioned dealt mostly with examining various philosophers’ writings on their views on technology, the good or evil it has brought to society and how we should go about pursuing technology in the future. His tests and homeworks involved reading through it and trying to figure out which one of the intellectuals would agree with a list of statements. I didnt like the class much, for one, I had my own “philosophy” (rendered, not only worthless, but also illegal by him), but more than that, I really couldnt care less what they had to say on the subject. The professor was an enthusiastic fellow, eager to involve students in the discussion, and if you raised your palm above your shoulder level, he would be sure to take notice and point at you to talk, assuming youd raised your hand. After a few classes, I was pretty good at making sure i didnt scratch my head during class. The professor had this weird theory, which he blurted out once, which applied that philosophers are better people than scientists. He was referring to the necessity of a human element, of passion and emotion in the field, that which, according to him, lacked in physical sciences. “Go to the science buildings, sure you will meet smart people, but most of them are dicks”, he had said.
Professor Jacoby would walk in with his back hunched, mumbling some undecipherable complain as he pulled his chair from the side, as whoever used the classroom prior to our class had a habit taking the teacher’s chair all the way to the side. By the end of the semester, we were costumed to pulling it on the side before he showed up on rare occasions when it wasnt. We were once even caught in the act, a classmate was halfway through the class with the chair when the Professor showed up at the door. He looked inside, saw what was being done, turned around and walked away. He returned after a minute, pulled the chair, sat down and resumed class.
His class dealt with, well, logically proving mathematical formulas or statements using previously proved statements and assumed true properties. One didnt necessarily need any previous mathematical knowledge to take that class, and the final proof, we were told, was to prove 1 + 1 = 2 … .2 + 1 = 3 and so on …. he proved it at the end, i didnt get any of it. I didnt like the subject matter any better than I liked the philosophy class, found the proofs a hassle, to have to go back and check what had been already proven to be used. What was interesting about the class was his occasional random remarks that appeared out of nowhere and then was dismissed just as quick. Like this time when he somehow got to talking about what was true and went on to say something along the lines of “people believed that the earth was flat, and then again they realized it was round, but after some time they are again going to say that the earth is really flat and it was actually a deception of our perception to see it as round.” Or the time when the topic of limit came up and he told us how ridiculous he thought the idea was by asking us “what is meant by a number approaches another number, does the number grow legs and walk towards the other number ?” I found myself looking forward to going to that class on the hope that he might say something interesting. His room was right beside the class, and in the room in that old building he looked comfortably in place, with piles and piles pale paper and old wooden chairs. A computer, oddly out of place, stood on his desk, and it was rumored that he enjoyed the game of minesweeper. I now wonder how well, if at all, has he been able to adjust to the newly renovated now-modern Kingsbury Hall.
Both the professors were clear on their grading system. The philosophy class consisted of tests and take home papers, and late papers would not be accepted. The math class consisted of 5 tests, the lowest could be dropped as long as it wasnt below 40.
The first paper happened to be due the week during mid-terms. I had not a moment to spare, and was glad I had already partially finished a paper that was due on thursday, but alas, when I got to class on tuesday, everybody started putting papers on the front desk. I couldnt think of anything to do, so after the class i went to talk to him and tried to explain how busy ive been and that i could get the paper to him by the end of the day. That was not acceptable to him, so I suggested giving me a partial grade, something, anything. No, he said, but you can still submit it and I will correct it. I figured I’d do my part, and leave the rest to him. I handed him the paper that day, when I got it back, he had put the effort to correct it, but without a grade. It was my own fault.
The first math test was confusing, I couldnt complete most of the problems and ended up getting a 34, oops. Again, I didnt know what to do, After class, I caught up to him outside his room and asked him whether he was serious when he had said he wasnt going to drop the lowest score below 40. In his usual muffled tone with eyes closed, he uttered these words “Yes I did, but i believe my hands betrayed me while i was jotting down your score and the 34 now looks like a 44.”
My final grade on philosophy was C+ and that in math was A-. I went on to do great things in the field of mathematics yet never looked back at philosophy again, heh …. no …. wouldve made a great story though, wouldnt it ? In reality, however, I have almost no use of the subject material taught in either of the classes, yet I learned more about the power of logical reasoning and the futility of hard-set philosophy from those two isolated acts than I did from all the material taught in class.

Haven’t written in a while. “dont come back until something hits you”, someone had once said, thus i kept my distance. I have been busy with a lot of nothings, a few mundane, others not quite frequent in coming.

Yeltsin died …. the world cant wait to put a portion of the blame on him for all that has gone wrong, the same world that couldnt want to congratulate for toppling the world’s biggest communist power, ridding the world of all its “evils”.

A “local kid from VA” shoots dead a whole bunch of people, raising the same political questions by the same political beings over and over again.  We, in turn try to find someone to put the blame on.  The individual was ill, the social help services didnt treat him, thus the system didnt do enough to stop this apparently foreseeable tragedy.  We are good at pointing fingers at abstract ideas, yet fail to see a simple solution.  His roommate didnt know him all year, gave up on all attempt of communication branding him a “foreign exchange student” ..had that been true, foreigners are of the same species as well … someone please enlighten him.

Russia warns a pull-out from a treaty that limits her force from Europe, while US is geared up to set a missile shield in Poland …. whats next … another arms race ?

Members in congress are still bickering over how much to spend in the war, while the commander in chief promises to disregard their decision, should they not agree with his.

At home, the election seems as far away as the trunk of a rainbow.

Personal front, changes, drastic changes, yet everything remains the same.

A new apartment, quaint lonely apartment.  Over-crowded lonely parties.  Quiet afternoons with friends.  Many reasons not to write, a few charming ones to do so.

I dont know what i was trying to write here… maybe i’ll come back when something hits me.