Half Conversations

“….so then I realized that the end was too big for my mouth!”

Yeah, that’s what I heard as they passed me. Two seemingly innocent girls walking down my way to work, but surly……I misunderstood. I mean really! Could they be? Talking about….that?

This happens to me at least five times a day. I’ll be minding my own business, working on work related activities, and I will hear half a conversation –or even just a blurb. The question is why does it always seem to be about sex? Am I sick? Is my mind a dark place of deprivation and lurid images of things better left on film?

I guess. Correction –yes, yes it is.

Here is a list of things I have heard this week (I know because I write them down……for posterity.

“….it smells funny (something, something) so I washed it.”

“….only when on top. It’s more comfortable.”

“….I keep it under a quarter of an inch, otherwise it’s just out of control.”

“….he’s a dick!” (can go either way with this one)

“….batteries (something, something) then I wasn’t bored all night.”

Now…..what the hell is going on with all this? I know what I heard, but could women really be sick little monkeys like us? Or, am I just hearing little parts of a very normal….and work related conversation?

Fuck it! It’s more fun this way!

A Kindered Spirit

Nikhil Sharda surfaced on the information highway to establish a connection with those of like mind. When he loved and lost in love (or so he thought), the attacks against him likely caused him to submerge once again into the safety of obscurity.

Perhaps reality has layers. The sensory illusion and idea of a flat earth was peeled back to reveal the more fundamentally true concept of a globe. This will in time give way to the idea of the earth as a three dimensional snapshot or time/space sample of a multidimensional mental construct. Will the real truth please come forward. Maybe the only thing we can rely on is that our present concepts and understandings will in time be exchanged for more expanded versions, forever.

Do soul mates, divinely matched pairs of polarized opposites really exist? I don't know for sure. Nikhil proceeded on the assumption that they do and his experiences seemed to align with and confirm his assumption. For a while anyway.

Is Nikhil now presuming that we have multiple soul mates, many people who come into our orbit with whom we may be compatible as life partners? Maybe. The thing that interests me is that when we set up other people as our gurus, role models, and teachers, we will in time become disappointed and disillusioned, we will take a fall. This is because no man can lift us to the level we desire. The power to ascend is within yourself; it's your own chronic imagination moving you from one plateau to another in your own awareness. Maybe the rising from one level of consciousness to another, or peeling back another layer of truth is the only ascension we will ever experience.

Nikhil Sharda was faced with the dilemma of many new thought authors, how to deliver his concepts of truth without setting himself up as a self-proclaimed authority figure. He used the vehicles of Peter (his alter ego in school) and even himself as younger and alternatively real versions of the current Nikhil Sharda. This took some of the heat off the delivery by making it appear that the material was coming from a second person source. As his ideas were embraced as gospel by many in school and college, the rigid verbatim acceptance of them caused mayhem in the lives of some that forfeited their own conclusions and common sense in favor those of their benevolent leader and romantic savior.

Belief in teachers and masters outside of our own awareness is a confession of ignorance and slavery. Leaning on these mirages will eventually result in a fall to the ground. Spirituality was always meant to be become first person real to YOU, the whole reason for the seemingness, the purpose of the whirling of the atomic cinema. The followers of Sadhguru Vasudev surrendered their critical factor and their sovereignty to a charismatic leader. Perhaps they waited for some divine intervention, some sign that they were going down the wrong road, but instead they drank the cool aid and fell silent in piles.

Nikhil is a human being, makes mistakes and has limitations just like anyone else. He has articulated ideas that resonate deeply within me, and while enhancing some of my own conclusions, they do not replace them. We should give him the space to turn around when he has made a mistake, to go in different directions, to experience his own ascension within himself. We should relieve him of the burden of anything but self-mastership not press upon him like the multitudes in the first chapter of his future novel.

Man's weakness for leaders, and his worship of idols makes him an easy mark for schools, teachers, governments, masters, clergy, presidents, authors, and outside authority figures of all kinds. Good will eventually come of this to everyone as they will discover after years of subjection to these "outside" agents, of waiting lazily for some writer, or teacher to show them the way, that what they've been looking for can't be found in another. That there is only one master, their own awareness, the unique God within themselves. Stop looking for the teacher to come, lean on your own version of truth that comes from the center of yourself. This is the only authentic savior you will ever experience.

Instead of developing the imagination of man, our educational system stifles it by attempting to put in our minds the wisdom that we seek. It forces us to memorize a number of text books, which all too soon are disproved by later text books. Education and first person spirituality is not accomplished by putting something into man; its purpose is to draw out of us the wisdom latent within us, the first person experience of ourselves as God. This "peep show" culture of ours isolates us from the assumption that we have the knowledge and truth within ourselves and we go running everywhere to find it, in books, churches, temples, rituals, observances, best sellers, and talk show hosts.

When these let us down as Nikhil's articles do, we are shocked and we mentally and emotionally fall to the ground. Every belief that we have accepted from others tumbles as we realize that our consciousness is the one and only savior. We have so long worshipped images and truths of others that we find this revelation to be blasphemous. When we start to see the reality of our own imagination and awareness being the basis for our life, we begin to slay our belief in a God apart from ourself.

The world is as giants to us, all those out there who "know" make us feel as small insects helpless in our worlds. We don't see that our world in it's every detail is our own consciousness crystallized and extruded into our environment. We can only be to others what we are to ourselves. When we revalue ourselves and begin to feel ourselves to be the giant in our world, a center of power and truth, we automatically change our relationship to the giants, reducing these former monsters (teachers, gurus, therapists, writers, ministers, parents, coaches, etc.,) to their true place, making them appear to be the small helpless insects in our world.

There is a divine conspiracy of the entire universe to help each of us find, develop, and express our own truth. Each of us individually is as qualified as any one ever was or ever will be, to unravel the mysteries of life. This conspiracy waits patiently for you the subject, to step forward and identify yourself as the commander, to stop laying yourself before servants, and accepting the second hand experiences of others as the spiritual truth and fire of your own being.

There is only one everlasting Lord and Master; your awareness of being. This is what is peeling back the layers of reality, moving you however haltingly, back to the recollection of who and what you are as God. Enjoy writers and entertainers but don't substitute their synthesis of truth and reality for your own. Seek your own counsel as much as you can. Dependence on any one or anything else will eventually result in disappointment and this may be, as it always was.

Brothers in Arms

When you're at work and you don't have any work to actually do, and you have at your disposal a high speed internet connection, YouTube often turns out to be your best friend. I sought of this aforementioned best friend some cricket videos involving India and Pakistan about a week ago.

The infamous Sohail-Prasad incident, Sachin playing impeccably and then missing his century for the umpteenth time, and the trio of Wasim, Waqar and Shoaib destroying the Indian batting order were some of the videos YouTube presented before me. I reminisced for a few moments and purposelessly scrolled down to the comments section. That was when a storm of unbridled venom smote me down from my ergonomically flawed chair. I had stumbled onto a virtual India-Pakistan battle that has been raging vehemently since the day these videos were uploaded.

Pakistan supporters were showering heaps of heartfelt hatred upon Indians and the Indian supporters were returning the favour with equal fervour. I came across several gems that made me laugh and stand back in awe at their innovativeness on wading through the ocean of racial abuses, which had very little to do with cricket. All of them are unprintable in a newspaper. A handful of pitiful comments begged the furious parties to stop and focus on cricket in the midst of these racial attacks. And, predictably, both parties silenced the wannabe peacemaker with a fresh batch of invectives involving his entire family tree.

It's remarkable how the antagonism between India and Pakistan is inherited by each generation with so much vigour and enthusiasm. The hostility one witnessed online between Indians and Pakistanis was so vile that for a second one thought one was reading a chat transcript between the Ambani brothers. The participants dabbled in foul language that covered Hindi, English and Urdu. It was an all-out multilingual cuss fest. When we see the rulers of each country appear on TV and talk about constantly improving India-Pakistan relations, we naively tend to believe things might one day be alright between the two countries; when we see an Indian cricketer bantering with a Pakistani cricketer on the field we wrongly assume that a much-awaited friendship between the two countries will blossom in the near future. The truth is that we are far from getting things right, much like

Emraan Hashmi's real estate agent.

Right to Write

The last time I saw some good quality violence was when I watched Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto on DVD. Little did I expect to experience a similar jolt whilst flipping through the Mid-Day newspaper on July 28, 2009. Accompanying the news of a husband and wife in Noida who was found hanging from an electric pole and a tree respectively, was a painstakingly clicked photograph of the dangling lifeless bodies. And underneath this rather graphic photograph was a line that may easily have been penned by the comedic hand of Groucho Marx or Woody Allen. The caption read “Till death do us part”. At that point a phrase that I was taught in school but which I never thought I’d use came to my mind-Cognitive Dissonance. I didn’t know whether to recoil in shock on seeing such an explicit image in a national newspaper that even children have access to or applaud the incongruous humor that the reporter engaged in.

A few weeks ago when I read a news report, in another newspaper, regarding a plane crash I was surprised to notice the amusing use of language. The report said that the plane had been carrying a wedding party and the celebrations came to an “early crashing halt”. Now, I love puns as much as the next guy; you could even say I’m a pun-loving guy but it did baffle me slightly when I noticed it in a news paper that was reporting a plane crash. After living in India, the one lesson that we should all have learned by now is that the media can do whatever it wants whenever it wants to whoever it wants. And the public will take it all in without any resistance. No one is slightly concerned if while a news channel is covering a terror-attack the background music is purposely sinister and eerie; we overlook the fact that the man one channel denounces as a villain is lauded as a hero by another channel; we are least shaken when in the midst of a national emergency or tragedy the one thing every news channel emphasizes is that “you saw it first on our channel”.

However, the proliferation of pun-based humor while reporting harrowing stories is a new and interesting phenomenon. It’s only a matter of time before some news network, while reporting a terrible bomb explosion, proclaims “The victims had a total blast”.

Link to the Mid-Day article:

http://www.mid-day.com/news/2009/jul/280709-Noida-Sector-14-married-couple-hung-electric-pole-Delhi-alleged-suicide-shocked-people.htm

Re-Introducing to you - Nikhil Sharda

Hey People... It’s so good to be back! Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, children of all ages... Re-Introducing to you - Nikhil Sharda

Almost 10 months ago I had been prescribed to take dosages of Risdone Plus. And if you are taking prescription medicines but don’t know how they are prescribed to you then you are abusing drugs, so I found out about them and soon realized that I suffer from a psychosomatic syndrome.

I suffer from Bipolar Disorder, this means that I cycle between bouts of acute depression and stints of absolute mania. I never knew that this was a disorder... I thought it was something everyone goes through.

So I ask - where lies my viewpoint of sensible thinking and reasoning?

Anyway, this mania thing is extremely confusing. First of all my mind gets filled with ideas. They come faster than I can write them down. Each one is an idea to treasure. Each one is brilliant and fascinating and sure to enlighten and engage.

And then suddenly the depression sets in, and my furious actions of everything I do (writing stuff, reading books, watching telly, listening to music, hanging out with friends); all of these seem like a waste of time. That is the reason why my recent posts were all apathetic and depressing.

The most disturbing thing of all is to feel so passionate about something in a state of mania only to feel unsure about it the next moment. Or worse, feel that it was absurd, silly and immature.

But the biggest question is - which one is the reality? Which state, mania or depression, is more logical or should I say the least delusional? And is there a place where most individuals live their lives, where both states are toned down with sensible thinking?

I am now “functioning” (and I use the term very loosely) in a distorted condition, so it is difficult to judge the merit of anything. It is difficult to choose from one of a thousand ideas.

Through all of this, there are people who genuinely want to see me get a good life and all, but they don’t understand what I’m going through... In fact I don’t know what is being conjured up in my twisted brain!

Well, thankfully the medicines are working. I am sleeping soundly. I have slowed down which is a great sign. The “bad thoughts” have decreased. But there are times when I feel really alone. The people in my life don’t understand. They are concerned but they have no idea what I am talking about. I want to know that I am not alone. Isn’t that what we all need? Please let me know that you are out there. Let me know that I am not going crazy.

Justice and Life

What is the value of a single human life

in a judge’s sentence of a serial killer?

How many days do you subtract from

the life expectancy of the murderer

to pay for the extinction of his victims?

How many days per body do you estimate

before the killer should be eligible

for a parole hearing? Should he be eligible?

What is a parole hearing in aid of

that would justify consideration

of such an unholy candidate?

What’s the release date? How long does a killer keep

in a can? How do you refrigerate evil

when you can’t define or contain the germ?

What’s a bad person got that isn’t a disease?

Should it be quarantined? Can it be caught?

If it’s not a disease and the killer

is most at ease and organized and deliberate

in his acts, is not sick or deranged -

at least not in any accepted way

that could be called mental illness

and eliminate rational behaviour, will, and choice;

he is not neurotic or psychotic;

he is psychopathic ...

(Subtract empathy, add caution.);

he doesn’t want to be caught

so he’s got a kit and a script

(Add deliberation, malice aforethought.);

he is dangerous and devious,

deliberately deceitful and adept;

he has programmed himself

to various pseudo- and paraphylia;

cares not a jot for the lot of others,

only in how a body can be used and abused:

how long and at what temperature

and under what conditions do you

quarantine such a creature?

Bend or break, the body is expendable,

something to use up in a burning bush of malevolent

neural delight, whenever, however he likes.

What does sequential sentencing mean then?

What is your duty? How serve and protect ... ?

The guy would make lousy fertilizer!

What would grow then?

An Adman So Bentsome

“Sin some, win some,

Use some, lose some,

Bet some, get some,

But never let an ad-bum

End up so bent-some.”

-Popular Jojo4 song-

People often ask me if I know the saga of the old bent man that roams the streets of our historical city, each as decrepit as the other, each retaining vestiges of the imposing figures they once had been. IM Singh was how he introduced himself; ‘I am King’ was what he meant. Perhaps the best few words to describe him would be “Much Admired” despite it being light years away from the truth. That’s because no matter which way you examined him, he had been much mired in the field of advertising for decades, and that’s all that mattered to him.

IM truly epitomized the front page solus ad; stand alone, unarguable, persuasive, assertive. Any lesser being was considered no more than a four page pullout or feature, neither controlling nor intrinsically part of the main stream, but merely a parasitic addenda sharing the same media vehicle. In his mind he was second to none, uninvincible, irrefutably supreme and unparalleled. Unquestionably not only was his word law, he also took vicarious pleasure in coming up with unpopular decisions and rulings in establishing them. He could retain usable information for years on someone without using it. Additionally, he had no qualms about manouvering other people to achieve his objectives; to wit, he was an opportunist, not an impulsive but a calculated one.

While on wit, he was rich and well endowed in that department. He could endear himself to the most suspecting and be a popular epicenter at any gathering with the greatest of ease. He could influence people to go out of their way to prove their loyalty, allegiance and gratitude to him, however hesitantly, just for having touched their lives. A masterful manipulator, a tactical planner and adept executor, he was happiest and most secure in his opulent trappings both at home and away, surrounded by his familiar transparent sycophants and opaque critics. When the time came for him to seriously consider starting his own family, IM had planned his gambit many squares earlier.

He had an industrialist friend RRM with a massive budget (organized, people say, by the father-in-law ) that IM did not initially pursue to enhance his social image. What the industrialist did not know was that the adman was in on his gaining sexual favours from the his plain jane’s wife’s sister (who was fed up of RRMs flaccid advances in any ‘case’). The socialite adman harboured no more delays, dropped anchor, distributed the ornate cards and, using his newly found wife Kiran’s influence waltzed off with the account as a bonus. For a while, Kiran was the light of his life, a popular hostess and an able supporter of his schemes. Alas, she was able to bear him just one son Jojo though one dare says IK’s overbearing personality hoped to be borne more !

Over the years, his interest in Kiran waned, overtaken by his resolve to make Jojo an echo of his own personality. Not much was heard of Kiran thereafter, though one is sure she continued to lurk in IM’s shadows. Perhaps she was relegated to the “womb-to-tomb” syndrome adopted by any vibrant society to anyone that does not contribute sizeably to its activities. What misadventure it was for the adman to realize that Jojo could never be as malleable and ductile (like mallards and ducks !?!) as his adheart desired ? IM spared no funds or efforts to afford Jojo the best of education and exposure, but could not shake the romantic core off the latter. Naturally endowed with good looks, Jojo was infinitely more comfortable with literature, poetry, art and music than IM’s commercial world of punch-lines, adfilms, catchy jingles and misleading statistics; more at home with the occasional pink champagne than a seasonal print campaign. Despite threatening strictures from his father, Jojo’s passion honed in on being quite an accomplished lead guitarist who wrote his own songs, even more so when he organized (reminiscent of his father’s skill) a young group of talented musicians to complete his quartet. Their aspirations to be a successful rock group continued to meet IM’s stony disapproval, but there was scant little the father could do about it. Social pressure detracted him from outright disowning Jojo or evicting him from his house without further provocation; Jojo soft exterior as a contrast to his father enjoyed a more acceptable public persona.

Meanwhile, Jojo4 music gained rapid popularity in the city, playing live at many leading watering holes and gaining commercial success that IM tried fervently to distance himself from. Unpreturbed, Jojo soon inducted Nisha, an intelligent, attractive young dancer as part of his music act. The young musician had known her family from earlier days; Nisha’s mother began her secretarial career at IM’s adshop. Jojo and Nisha’s combination on stage was so electric that they brought down the house (IM’s included !) wherever and whenever they performed. After this there was no looking back for Jojo4 – though as time had it, there was not too much to look ahead for, either. The affinity between Jojo and Nisha cemented, nay, became concrete. Sadly, IM viewed this constant albeit melodic display of union of minds and body on a daily basis as a veritable spurning of his ‘superior’ values by his son. Unwittingly goaded to a fitting reaction, he publicly joshed Jojo to join him in a debate on the morality of latter day art at the local Country Club, of which he was secretary. Equally fed up of the scathing asides delivered directly at home everyday, Jojo readily agreed. Its often said, in matters of the court, its not the mover or the defendant but only the lawyers that benefit. Setting up this bout was pre-destined, therefore, to entertain society at large rather than settle any issues per se. An evening of interesting banter of great minds therefore ended up as a landmark battle that spawned only losers.

IM opened the debate with describing Jojo’s passions as wasteful pursuits encouraging wayward youth to more wayward ways; Jojo countered with accusing his father of befooling consumers and overcharging clients for years, gathering the wrong kind of notes. What’s more, Jojo divulged instances of rip-offs architected by IM. Visibly embarrassed, the adman became excessively personal, straying from the issue, bringing out details of his son’s more laid back life style and lecherous skits of the guitarist’s amorous tryst with Nisha. Inevitably, the atmosphere became explosive with Jojo crucifying IM’s personal and commercial morals, and his shameless misuse and disuse of people. The crowd cheered silently in their heart of hearts, but the die had been cast; IM announced Jojo’s expulsion from his house, the club and resolve to have his contracts stricken from whatever bars and restaurants under IM’s influence. His ire enveloped Nisha whose dancing licence he vowed to revoke with the administration’s collusion. With an illogical vendetta yet unslaked, the rumour spread like wildfire that the adman may well have his son bumped off - he couldn’t afford to have such a strident voice of dissension in circulation, even if it was a son. Another die was cast – Debt Wish 1. Society remained mute in their disapproval, even though they had secretly admired the fearlessness with which Jojo had lampooned his father. It was unfortunate that many were slated to lose much.

Nisha was no less resolute than Jojo, on hearing the rumour she boldly quick-stepped to her beau’s ad-dad with as fearless a Debt Wish 2 alternative; “kill me if you will, I love him still, but won’t love him more, if you let him go” ( a Jojo4 number). Nisha’s mother took up the chorus with “you-owe-me-one” from her halcyon days at the ad-venture, and beseeched the boss she once had beached to spare the lass; she may well be his “Sin some, win some”.Now IM was an astute man not wanting blood on his hands; he was more than familiar with most publications and their owners. Knowing the owner of Walled City News in the next town for being the perverse (and worse) martinet he was, IM made Nisha take a pledge never to contact Jojo or be seen dancing in exchange for a hellish life and employment under the WCN management.

Meanwhile, Jojo4 lost music contracts in the city, and considered migrating elsewhere. His pecuniary reserves dwindled. Gyrating Nisha was nowhere to be (scene) located, dyeing his music to a deeper shade of blue. He often sought comfort in the company of his mother, herself a flickering flame, confused twixt the morals and morales of her life. “Use some, lose some”. Branding his father as Nisha’s assassin, he voodoo-dolled the adman, pricking him with needles of barbed lyrics at every chance. He can still be seen love lorn at seedy bars, now reduced to a trio, bleary eyed as a man denied, a single that never cut a single, a living slipped disc. “Bet some, get some, kiss some, miss some”. He lives in a seedy shack and feeds at seedy snacks, hoping to meet Nisha again. Debt Wish 3.

And there’s IM. Debt Wish 4. Now a bit bent and gnarled, too aware of his exposure in the War of Words many years ago, but stiffened with ages of self-deception, ages of grandeur – some deserved – some not. A body reinforced with promises, but a mind deflowered – a fervour displayed but an audience unswayed , a wife dismayed and later mislaid and a son more bound with musical chords than familial cords, festooned with notes of wispy melody rather than crispy currency. An iron ad-venturer that went out to conquer and control what ihe could not control, an “event sum that ended up so bent some”. Had he not tried to control destiny, destiny would not have controlled him. Burdened by the debt of a royal spouse for whom he scarcely cared; stooped by the debt of a dancer whose life he snared; smitten by a son he never spared and weighed down by animosities he himself had reared, he continues a broken man – an adman so bentsome.