Ozymandias And The Madrasas Of Brownistan

Me : Congratulations, Bhikkku! Your education is complete. You can now leave the Sangha.
Bhikku : [blushing] I am deeply grateful, O Noble Tathagata! But if I may say so, I fear I have not learned everything yet.
Me : Not learned everything? Oh, don't be modest, Bhikku. You have in fact learned nothing. That's why I'm so proud of you. Of all my disciples, you'll do the least harm.

- "A Conversation Today", Early Spring, 507 BC

Bertrand Russell, that great philosopher, mathematician and smart-ass, writes : "Most men form their convictions while playing at their mother's knees, and never change them afterwards." Indeed, he is right. By the time a man starts shaving, it's too late to teach him anything new. That's why religious instruction begins early all over the world. Catch them young, says the Koran, and program them well. The practice, devious as it seems to some, has for centuries transformed beastly brats into harmless adults, all over the world.

Most impressive of all, the propaganda of every religion or culture has been admirably tailored to local needs. In Buddhist sanghas, young boys are taught to not have sex and beg for food, which essentially sums up adult life in most Buddhist countries. In Christian convents, little boys are dressed up in flowing robes, taught to sing pious hymns in a thrilling contralto, and buggered violently. Some might object to the practice, but surely it prepares the young ones for life under George W. Bush, where they will be frequently fucked in the name of Jesus. And then there's the Real Deal, the nominate race among Madrasas. In these, the Moslem young are taught to grow beards and make bombs. Blessed are they, for they learn to serve Raheem the Merciful by blowing up kafirs into tiny bits.

What, then, about the Hindus? What do we teach our tender young, in our Madrasas? But wait! first of all, do we have Madrasas at all? If so, where are they? If not, why not? Have we gone soft? Have we lost the desire to slowly rip out the balls of the heathen, dip them in maida batter, and deep-fry on a low flame to make crisp bondas? What is wrong with us? Don't we have Hindu pride?

I thought about this, and I was worried. In fact, I was shit-scared. And to allay my doubts and fears, I scoured all of Brownistan in search of a Hindu madrasa. My quest took me to three states and four cities. Finally, I found an Agmark specimen in the obscure village of T__, 6 kilometers west of the coastal Tamil town of K__. Come with me, gentle reader, to T__; and we'll sip off the best of Hindu culture.

T__ is a small village consisting of three parallel streets. Technically, there are a few more streets, but they contain only parayans and pallis and tulukkans and such-like low-caste vermin, so they don't really count. The three main streets of T__ are each about 200 meters long, and run north-south. The central one, Sannidi Teru, is where all the action really is. At the northern end of the street sits the temple chariot. From there we walk south, passing a few houses and many many marriage halls. As we reach the end, the temple stands on our right, and a small hillock rises to our left. Let's go up the hillock first.

The hillock, called Aushadagiri, is about 75 meters high. It flattens out to a surprisingly broad plateau. We look down from there, and see the temple below. It's built like a fort. A tall outer wall surrounds the central temple building, with a space of about 30 yards between the two. At various places, there are smaller buildings within the fort, each housing a different divinity no doubt. The gopuram of the central building, rising majestically from the bottom, towers over the scene. Behind the temple complex, we see the Garuda nadi. I dimly recall playing in its waters, many many years ago. Right now, it is dry. In the fading November light, its bare sands slowly darken from white-hot to silver-cool. On the other side of the river-bed, there are lush groves of palm, coconut and plantain trees. Against the backdrop of the setting sun, the scene is rather strikingly pretty.

We go down the hillock, enter the temple complex, pass the tall gold-plated Dwajastambam, and head to the central building. Soon, we reach the sanctum of the primary deity, Lord Devanatha. Here, gentle reader, we part ways. You can't go in there, because you are a shudra, a mleccha, a low-caste worm. I, on the other hand, have free entry because I am related to God. Aye, Lord Narayana--the Protector of the Universe, He who is at the same time Krishna the Chick-Magnet and Mohini the Man-Magnet, that self-same sex-changing super-God--is my cousin. I enter the sanctum, and find the priest offering prayers to the Lord. His voice is shaky, his Sanskrit even more so. At one point he piously declares that Lord Narayana has an elegant arse, while he really means to say He has a slender waist. The Lord Himself seems to take the compliment in style. The dark granite statue, which somehow mixes masculine authority with feminine grace, looks at us with a serene half-smile.

And then, we hear the faint sound of the thavil beating a slow rhythm. We hurry out of the central building. There, to our left, in the open space within the temple complex, we see a small-ish procession. Two bronze statues, one a mini version of Lord Devanatha and the other depicting his lovely consort Hemambhujavalli, are being taken in procession inside the temple complex. The statues are borne on palanquins, carried by true-blood Brahmins of course. Two young lads, probably around 5 years old, carry old-style fans for the Lord. They seem rather pleased with themselves, and very keen to do their job right. The statues have been decorated with jewels and flowers and bright silk costumes, arranged expertly and with evident devotion. The nadaswaram joins the thavil. A rather showy Hindolam precedes a majestic Thodi. It's been a while since I heard live nadaswaram of such high quality. The temple must be rich, if it can afford this chap. Finally the nadaswaram strikes up a lilting Sriranjani. On cue, the palanquin-bearers add a little jump to their step. The statues now sway up and down as they move along. If you just kept your eyes on them, you'd think they were dancing.

The lady standing next to me seems to be moved. She raises her hands, probably to fold them together, but seems to forget half way. Her hands hang in mid-air, in the posture of the Muslim namaaz. I suddenly recall seeing her about ten years ago. She must have been in her twenties then. I remember thinking that she would have been pretty if it were not for the hint of facial hair. She has grown older now, and in the way of Indian women, become a little plump. Our eyes meet but she does not seem to recognize me.

A deep, somewhat harsh, sound rises up. We turn, and notice suddenly the long row of young boys behind the procession. There are about twenty of them. Some of them have cropped hair. Others have old-fashioned tufts. All of them are dressed in dhotis. They are chanting, led by a middle-aged, tufted, rather handsome man. The voices are loud and deep. The chanting is almost musical, but the harshness of the voices remains. The chanting switches from Sanskrit to Tamil. I recognize it vaguely. The thunderous, booming words come back to me from some deep abyss of memory. "..Vadivaar sodhi valatthurayum, sudarazhiyum pallandu.. " A strange joy fills me as I join in, softly muttering the arcane words, along with the booming chorus. The chanting ends after a while. The procession breaks up. My uncle (and guide) explains that the chanting boys belong to the local Vedic school. The school has an attached hostel. The boys live there, under the supervision of the middle-aged man, who apparently is a great Sanskit scholar. He teaches them the Vedas, the Divya Prabandam, and the holy ways of the noble Srivaishnavas.

We all head to the dining hall. The chanters walk in first. A few others also enter. A middle-aged, dark-skinned man, evidently not a local, tries to enter after them. A slightly old priest gently stops him, and asks him to wait outside. Then his eyes fall on me. I'm waiting alone, my uncle having gone off on some errand. He motions me in. I suppose I look unmistakably like one of the Chosen. I walk inside, feeling somewhat guilty. A curtain is drawn behind us. Prasadam is distributed. Before every course, there's some more chanting. I try to look small and pious and respectful. Our prasadam served, we walk out slowly.

The same old priest walks out with his prasadam. We are talking now. He seems to know my grandmother. He is telling me about my father's antics as a child. Abruptly, he stops. He has noticed a poor-looking woman with a child in her arms. Gently, he drops his prasadam in her hands, taking care to not touch her of course. We walk on. He continues the conversation, as if nothing had happened.

And suddenly, I understand.

In the madrasas of Brownistan, they teach Psychological Warfare. All those young chanting boys are learning a bit of this and a bit of that, but primarily, they are learning that they are Superior. In time, they'll grow up to be like the old priest I'm talking to now. They will pick up various bits of the vast impressive brocade of culture I'd seen that evening. The best of them will learn to love it, treasure it and delight in it. They'll be proud of it, for no other culture in my land has the same intellectual depth. They won't know, alas, that theirs is only one of countless cultures of the Mind across the world. Indeed, as cultures go, it's not even particularly deep. They won't realize that ultimately, a culture of the mind is no better than a culture of river Gods and snake demons; that Life is bigger than the mind. The worst of them will, of course, not even analyze any of this, but just continue to lord it over the non-Brahmins. They will disagree with each other, indulge in petty politics, gossip and play games. But they will all agree on just one thing: that they are Better than the Others. They will be occasionally benevolent, even kind and thoughful, to the Others, but they'll keep away from them, for as long as they can.

There was once a time when I hated and despised my people for it. Looking back, I was anxious to prove to myself that I'm not one of them. Now I know I'm not, and they don't bother me anymore. They are wrong, of course. But it doesn't matter much. A few centuries back, they had the power to do harm. Now all they can do is their silly discrimination, and even that matters less and less each passing day. Like the dictator in The Autumn of The Patriarch, they are dying away slowly, even pitiably.

Look at them, Gentle Reader, and learn to be humble. You and I are the New Priests. Our God is Technology, our Veda is the Free Market, and our Orthodoxy is Individual Liberty. We rule the Earth now, like they did once. We lord it over our dumb subjects, like they did once. But we are no better than them. Arguably, we are much worse. They didn't destroy the Earth because they couldn't. We can, and we do. And like their end, ours will come too. Some young puppy from the New Age will one day look at us in silent judgement. Worst of all, he'll walk away with pity instead of anger, contempt instead of protest.

Aye, we will fall too, for it's the way of all flesh. As they would say, Shanti! Shanti! Shanti!



Note: D~, this one's for you.

Tender Is The Night, And Here There's Some Light

Civilization can't be such a bad thing, Bhikku. After all, it gave us lights.

-- The Diary, November, Year Unknown.

Across The Thames

View From Malaikkovil, Trichy


Karthigai Lights

A Love Story

The sun was sinking slowly. The soft evening light fell slantingly upon the rich green meadow and the small pond in it. The scene was pretty but strangely depressing. She looked forward to the star-lit night, but felt that it would be pointless too, just like the day that was so theatrically bleeding to death on the western sky. Suddenly, the bitter screech of scores of geese filled the air. They swooped down from the southwest, the setting sun behind their backs. They dropped straight into the pond, noisily splashing about and drinking the water.

It was spring again. Every evening for the last week, a new gaggle had descended on the pond. They rested, ate the grass, swam around, and flew again the next morning. They were migrating north.

She looked at the new gaggle with a dull half-interest. They were Canada geese, just like herself. Except they were free. One would think she had gotten used to having her wings clipped, but sometimes she wished she could fly away with them. Not that she had ever flown. She was hatched in the farm, and her wings had never been allowed to grow fully. But every spring, she felt a restlessness in her bones. She felt that if only she could get off the ground, she could float in the air indefinitely. She would know where to go. Sometimes she wondered where these free birds were going. If only she had wings, she felt, she would see these strange places clearly, even without having to fly over them. How else could these birds find their way anyway? It must be in the wings.

She smiled drily. It was absurd to feel sad about the wings, knowing she'd never have them. At any rate, she had talked to some of the free birds, and their lives seemed no happier than hers. One keeps chasing this and that, thinking it will bring happiness. And happiness, like the horizon, keeps receding as one moves towards it. But then again, maybe it's better to fly towards a receding horizon than just sit and stare at an unmoving one.

Some of the younger birds walked towards the farm. They were on the other side of the fence, talking among themselves. Some looked up at her slyly. She was not a beauty, but she knew she cut a graceful figure. The keeper took good care of the farm's birds. Her neck and feathers had the lambent glow of youth. She was rather proud of her snow-white throat patch, and how it shone bright against the inky black head.

Suddenly, one of the young birds flew over the fence and landed in the farm. He was young, probably even younger than her. He had what they call a striking personality. He was rather handsome, but what one noticed was his jaunty air. He was clearly used to being liked. He was probably rather vain, but somehow, it didn't seem like such a bad thing in him. At any rate, he seemed good-natured. But today she didn't care for admirers, even the handsome ones. She turned away and started walking.

"Hey, hey! Wait. Don't be so pricey. I'm not stalking you, you know? Just being friendly"
"Oh, yeah? How come you chose me to be friendly with?"
"Because you are the prettiest one around, of course. Why else?"
"And you aren't ashamed to admit it?"
"Why should I be? I'm new here. All I know is what I see. Why wouldn't I go by looks?"
[shaking her neck] "Suit yourself. I have a headache. I am going."
"Oh, come on! Don't be so stern. I am good company, even if I say so myself."
"Maybe, but I'm not a flirt."
"Really? How sad! I suppose you are a very deep thoughtful sort."
"And I suppose you consider yourself fun-loving, and laugh at everything you don't understand."
"Of course I do. But I am only amused by your intelligence, while you are repelled by my frivolity. Which of us is narrow-minded, you think?"
"Hmm. You sure can talk."
"I told you so", and he chuckled.

She smiled, despite herself. She stayed. They got talking, and went on and on. I don't know what they talked about. It must have been something quite witty and very profound. Bright young things are almost always brilliant when they are with someone they fancy. The moon was out now. The night was bright and tender.

"Let's go swim in the pond," he said.
"I can't. I mean, it is too cold."
He smiled. "Don't be silly. I know you can't fly. I have been to other farms, you know? Just climb up the fence pole-by-pole. You can climb on my back." They went out. It was slow. She fell off every now and then. Everytime she fell, they giggled their heads off. They finally got to the pond, and swam quietly. Every now and then, they raced a few yards. He was the faster swimmer, of course. She was new to it. He made it a point to not slow down for her. Somehow, he knew she wouldn't like it. She had never looked more beautiful than she did that night, with the moonlight on her face, and the breeding frogs croaking madly all around them, and the scent of the spring night hanging in the air.

"I can't come with you tomorrow. I can't fly," she said, abruptly. He started to say, "Well, I haven't asked you yet, if you didn't notice." He checked himself. He couldn't get himself to joke about it. A sharp stab of pity for her ran through him, like a butcher's knife. He was silent for a while, and then he said drily, "Maybe I should go and sleep. We fly out early tomorrow." She nodded and started walking. With her new meekness, she followed him back to the farm. She whispered, "Good-night. I'm generally up early. Say good-bye before you go." He flew back to the gaggle without turning back. She stared in his direction for a while, and walked back.

It took her a while, but she slept that night. He swam around the pond all night. I don't know what he really thought, of course. But I'll bet it was something like this: "This could be it. True Love and all that. But there is, unfortunately, no way of knowing whether it is. The only way is to stay back and find out. It would seem so childish, of course. On the basis of just one evening. But what do I care for appearances? No, no. I am being too selfish. The right thing is to think of her. Now, she only thinks of me as a friend. If I stayed back, I'll give her hope. And if I get bored of it, I'll just fly off. What right do I have to mislead her and desert her? No, I should leave now, before it is too late. Wait. Maybe I'm just afraid of losing the security of my current life. Maybe this is all a cop-out. But I don't think so. There's no point blaming oneself just because one can. I'm not an impulsive sort, and that's the end of it. Some people can just live in the moment, whatever that means. I cannot. But why can't I? I mean, surely I care for love. Not just to mate with somebody out of instinct, merely for reproduction. But this is all silly. One can't convince oneself to be spontaneous. You either have it or you don't."

I don't know what he was thinking when it dawned. But at the crack of dawn, the birds got up and drank some water, and ate a little grass, and flew out. He flew with them.

She had woken up. In the morning light, she stood, looking at the birds flying away. The lurid bronze light of the morning shone off her white body.

An artist who was visiting the farm saw her looking at the receding birds. The scene touched him. His painting of it was displayed in the "Local Artists" section of the Denver museum of Art. Some people were quite moved by it, others thought it cheap and sensational. Most critics dismissed it.

"The age that went before ours," wrote one critic, "was the age of wars hot and Cold. It was an age of conflict, genocide and dictatorship. But it was, at the same time, an Age of Ideas. Communism, Fascism and post-colonial Nationalism vied with Capitalism and Democracy for global hegemony. And as ideologies clashed, they acquired intellectual depth, just to survive. In our age, free-market democracy has decisively triumped, arguably for the better of Mankind. Alas, we have bought this peace at the cost of intellectual depth. Where once Joyce spoke of a 'thought-tormented' age, what we have now is mere sentimentality masquerading as emotion. And nowhere is it more apparent than in our Art. Art holds the paradoxical position of being dependent on thought, while at the same time, seeking to transcend it. It is safe to say that the success of any work depends on how accurately it reflects that tension that lies at the very core of Art. On that count Born To Fly fails. In running away from thought, it has merely stumbled into vacuous sentimentality, like much else in our times."

You might have read the review. It is widely quoted.

Postscript: The hero of this story did not visit the farm again. Six years after the events described here, he was shot dead by a hunter during the fall migration, somewhere over Wisconsin. The heroine turned out to be a reliable egg-layer for the farmer. They never ate her, even when she was old. The farmer liked to joke that he wouldn't cut open the goose that lay the golden eggs. She died of old age one winter.

-------


Note: The story came from two striking shots in Winged Migration, a documentary I highly recommend to chaps who like nature and/or photography. Among other things, WM proves that the French rock. It also proves, alas, that the French can't speak English, and won't accept the fact.

Finally, if some readers of these pages will only stop giggling and listen for a second, Canada geese do eat grass. It is true that cows also eat grass. But if the geese themselves don't think it's a problem, I don't see why stupid, senile BITS-ians should.

The Happy Alien Cometh

If you respect God, Bhikku, respect the Devil too. He must be good. He is, after all, running neck and neck with God.

-- A Summer Evening, Year Unknown.

Every morning, His Supreme Whiteness Shah-eh-Shah Dick Cheney, King of Kings, leads a prayer meeting. There the faithful gather and give thanks to Jesus. "Thank you, Jesus," they say, "for all you have given us. And please keep it up. We have a shit-load of cash. Give us some more. We have heap-big-heap moral values. Give us some more. We have drugs for heart disease and performance enhancement and bladder control. Give us some more. We have power over the world. Give us some more. And above all, Jesus! Protect us from You-know-what and You-know-what-else."

'Tis wondrous strange, but true. Hard as it is to believe, our White Rulers have their fears too. To be precise, they are terrified of two things--Their first fear is that their beloved homeland will be run over by grass-eating brown people, dog-eating yellow people, sinister bearded terrorists and all manner of sub-human foreigners who add numbers in their heads and breed like rabbits. Their second fear is that their beloved homeland will be run over by pink-clad, tight-shirted, homo gay faggots who will gain the legal right to marry and import mass-produced babies from abroad, and raise them to be p.-c, t.-s, homo gay faggots just like themselves.

Terrified as they are, our brave rulers manfully fight the coming Armageddon, under the stewardship of George W. Bush, that darling of the American masses. He mobilizes the mass of his slaves, exhorting them to fight the homos at home and the multiplying aliens abroad. To all appearances, he has been successful. King Cheney is pleased. He even smiles every now and then. Little does he realize, alas, that his much-trusted Jesus is going to desert him.

Aye! Dubya might hold off homos and aliens, as long as they are by themselves. But what, I ask, can he do about the rapidly growing army of Homo Aliens? Nothing, that's what.

Dubya's travails remind me of a charming story I read in school, which goes like this--There was a brave little boy in Netherlands, and he noticed that there was a hole in one of the dykes that kept the ocean out. With nary a thought, he put his finger in the hole in the dyke. (Yeah, I know! Who needs Playboy when you can get an NCERT textbook instead?) By resolutely keeping his finger there, the boy held off the ocean on the other side till help arrived, and thusly, saved the Netherlands. The story, admittedly, is scarcely credible. No real boy could have resisted the urge to do moocha with so much water on his mind.

What interests me, however, is not the story's accuracy, but its symbolism. That boy is Dubya. The waiting ocean is the teeming multitude of brown people. The dyke is the US laws regarding marriage. The hole is the proposal that gay people be allowed civil unions, i.e., they be allowed to exist legally as he-man and she-man. The symbolism, alas, stops there. Unlike the boy in the story, Dubya won't succeed. Hordes of homo foreigners, I'm afraid, will soon overrun the US.

You frown, reader. You think I'm just gassing, as usual. You know that poor people, wherever they are, are conservative. They won't go homo for love, not even for cash. You think I'm insulting the poor, by implying that they have no principles. You are wrong. I know, as well as you do, that people will bear all kinds of misery in the name of God and morality. But you underestimate the Brown Mind. Brown men know that a gay couple can :

1. file joint tax returns, claiming each other as destitute dependents,
2. get family discounts on all kinds of things,
3. take leave claiming that their teenage son went on a high-school shooting rampage again,

4. save on reusable items like DVDs, books, magazines, aranijaars, ul-banians, dinosaur-pattern jattis, etc.

Most importantly, they know that a gay couple

5. don't have to prove to anyone that they really are gay, and
6. can divorce whenever they want.

The possibilities are endless, and they are already coming to pass. Put your ear to the ground, and you will hear the distant rumble of Revolution. Aye! Even as Dubya vainly attempts to plug holes here and there, the Deluge is upon us. It began, as these things always begin, in Ahmedabad, Gujarat. From that fabled cradle of Enterprise, a young lady has emigrated to join her beloved in Canada, where she "is free to express her sexuality". Future generations will hold her up as a Messiah. A misguided Messiah perhaps, but a Messiah all the same. What she has done for Life-Long Love, millions of brown people will soon do for short-term savings.

I can picture it, in my mind's eye. Rajasekhar Gogineni, father of Naveen Gogineni, will log on to www.jushtadjusht.com/. He will put in a search for a Pedda Kamma boy with clean habits, steady income, and no family commitments ("Chinna Kammas need not apply. We wish you good luck.") After many frustrations, he will find Ch. Venkata Subbaiah, alias Subbu. He will introduce Naveen to Subbu, and after two e-mail exchanges, they will be ready to "go ahead". Naveen, who has a romantic, slightly mischievous, nature, will write:

Cheskuntamu ra Pelli,
California-loki velli,
Vina ra, naa cheliya Subbu,
Save chestamu chala Dubbu.

Padakura nuvu emi baadha,
Promise chestanu nee meedha,
Nenu neekanna inka straight-u,
Jushtu three years-lu cheira wait-u.

Appudu tondaruga divorcu chesi,
Rondu manchi ammayilu choosi,
Pelli cheskuntamu ra iddaru,
Marriage brokeru ma fatheru.

which, roughly translated, goes as follows:

"Dear chap," Naveen said,
"Soon in Frisco, we'll wed.
The laws there are lax.
We won't have no tax.

Let our purses swell,
Then we'll say farewell.
And choose from all of AP,
Two babes to make us happy.

You really needn't fear,
For let me make it clear,
That I won't play no trick,
'Coz I too want a chick."

Touched, Subbu will agree. Together, they will come and study at the South Dakota Unitarian University, for there really is such a place. They will graduate and move to San Jose, and spend three beautiful years there, married and tax-free. Just like any other brown couple, they will watch movies in dollar theaters, buy lots of blank CDs on sale, and have no sex at all. In three years, it'll be time for them to settle down in life. They'll divorce each other, and get married to two lovely girls. They'll wed at the same time, because it is clearly cheaper that way. Two years later, Naveen will remember Subbu, even as his wife throws very expensive cutlery at him for no reason at all. Perhaps, he would think, they should have stayed married. But then he'll banish the blasphemous thought from his mind. After all, brown men will do anything for money, except other brown men. Aye! There is after all something called Hindu culture, and in the end, that's what matters.

Dick Cheney believes that everything that is not a White Christian Male is Satan. Maybe he is right, but he forgets that Satan comes in many forms. If gay Satan don't screw Cheney, brown Satan will. What's more, brown Satan will screw him in ways Cheney can't even begin to imagine. And there's not a thing poor Jesus can do about it.

Amen.

Notes From A Requiem

The most important thing in life, Bhikku, is death. I wish I could tell you more about it, but that's all I know.

-- The Diary, Date Unknown, Year Unknown.

One thinks of the strangest things at the strangest times. There was no real reason why he should have thought of Chandru that day. He was playing racketball. It was an easy game. He was much better than the other guy. He was taking it easy, trying out different things. To one ball, he played a drop shot. The ball was just about a foot from the side wall and dropping neatly. Normally, he would have smashed it low down the line, but this time, he leaned back and rolled his wrists on it. He wanted the ball to just touch the rebound wall and drop dead, but he had hit it too softly. The ball dropped short.

That was when he thought of Chandru. Something about that shot's slyness reminded him of Chandru playing table tennis, back when they were in the hostel. Chandru had never been quick at TT. His reflexes were poor, and he couldn't hit powerfully and accurately like Barra or Yoko. But Chandru could put vicious spin on the ball. He would wait for the ball, bend back, and with a theatrical crack of the wrist, send the ball slowly sailing across the net, where it would touch the table and turn square. It was fun to watch him play the quicker guys, a bit like watching Ramesh Krishnan play against the big boys of world tennis. You knew Chandru, like Ramesh, would ultimately lose; but you felt vaguely happy every time he won a point.

He forgot about Chandru almost immediately. He finished his game, and had dinner with his racketball partner. They didn't know each other very well. It was one of those "hang-out" type acquaintances. They chatted about work, industry trends and such. The conversation went on longer than usual. After a while, they left. He started driving home, and lazily thought of Chandru again. The memories flooded back.

He had never really liked Chandru. They had been too similar--both of them bright, witty, aggressive, ultra-competitive. Obviously, there was a rivalry. He often compared himself against Chandru. He knew he was fat and clumsy and diffident, while Chandru was lean and smooth and confident. But he would tell himself that at least he was a nice guy, while Chandru was a bit of a cut-throat. Then he would blush at the absurdity of the comparison.

It was true, nevertheless. Chandru could be incredibly petty at times. Sometime in the first year, he had taken his roommate's notes and gone home for the weekend. There was a big exam on Monday morning. His roommate was livid. Of course, that was childish, and Chandru himself didn't do such things later on. However, it was part of a pattern. Chandru wasn't a cynic and he acknowledged the difference between right and wrong. Yet he had a streak of ruthlessness in him, which could override everything else. It kept getting refined with time, as it usually does among thoughtful, successful people. But it was there.

At the same time, there was a charm about Chandru. He would come to you after the exam, grin and say, "Enna King? Cracked it, huh? Picchi Gaawwwd". You knew that he was being all jaunty because he had done well himself. You knew that he would hate it if you scored more than him. And yet, you couldn't help letting out a warm smile. Chandru always set the group's slang. In the third year, everyone called everyone else "King". Chandru started it. If you wanted to say somebody was really good at something, you said he was "Dhair, dhair, dhair". Chandru had come up with the phrase.

Looking back, he thought, Chandru was a bit like one of the characters in War and Peace. He had forgotten the name, something beginning with D. Maybe Denisov. Denisov was a bastard, but he did the most heroic things. Everybody liked him, though they knew he would kill them if he had to. Suddenly, he realized that he was trying to understand a flesh-and-blood person he knew, by comparing him with a fictional character from a half-forgotten novel. "Nerd," he muttered to himself, smiling and shaking his head.

He thought again of Chandru. He couldn't remember the last time they had met. Must have been at the graduation, though he didn't remember it. They had talked a few times after that. But it had slowly fallen off.

News about Chandru came in every now and then. Peeku met him once in some restaurant, two years after they had graduated. Chandru was attending some conference. His research had hit a snag. He was morose. The next year, Yoko visited Chandru. His research was going great now. He was his old bubbly self. Yoko said Chandru had put on a little weight. He was now a "Tamil mama". Didn't like people swearing and stuff. He was also "big-time into artsy movies." The next year, Chandru graduated, the second in their batch to finish up. He got placed in some big company. Mandu, while announcing the news, had said, "King dhair-dhair-dhair nu uttu kattiruchu". He wanted to call Chandru or e-mail him, but he didn't. The next year, he himself was preparing to graduate. He was busy, so he couldn't respond to Chandru's engagement announcement. It was something along the usual lines--family friend, know each other well, she is also an engineer, common tastes, decided to tie the knot, etc, etc. The style seemed somehow subdued. Not quite Chandru's style, but then he had probably changed a lot.

Four months later, Yoko sent an e-mail on the e-group: Chandru was dead. He had been killed in a road accident. Hit-and-run. His wedding was supposed to have been a week later. The whole group was shocked. People talked to each other again.

"Can't believe it, man. He was on top of his game. Suddenly, this."
"Think of his parents, man. How proud they must have been. Dr. Chandru, working in a top company. About to be married. And then, one day, a phone call. It's over. I think he has a brother. Must be terrible for the family, man."
"I spoke to him just last month, babu. He was so buoyant. Came up with his usual jokes. We were discussing the old days. He was doing his classic Buttocks imitation." (Buttocks = Prof. Bhattacharya)
"I knew his fiance'. Nalla ponnu, da. She was looking forward to the wedding so much. This is cruel."
The more sentimental ones said, "Puts life in perspective, man. I mean, we are worrying about this or that. And then something like this comes along and you learn to treasure life itself."

After a while, life caught up with everyone. They moved on. Nobody talked about it much, but he was sure they all thought about Chandru every now and then. Out of the blue. Just like he was doing now.

He felt vaguely that there was something deep in it, something profound. If only he could sit down and think it through, it would all make sense. Here he was, alone and preoccupied in a world crowded with lonely preoccupied people. He wasn't unhappy, but he wasn't happy either. Life meanders along, as life usually does. Then suddenly something reminds one that there is death, too. The death of the old doesn't cut so deep. It doesn't bother the young, because the young don't really, deep down think they will grow old. Everyone knows they will age, of course. But it is like some famine in Africa. One might intellectually grieve for it and donate some money to the UNICEF, but one doesn't feel it, deep in one's bones. But the death of the young is a rude shock. It makes the whole thing more immediate. Or maybe, it is just that one feels strongly for the death of anyone with whom one can identify. Maybe the old feel the death of their own peers just as strongly.

Anyway, what did it all mean? Chandru and he, what were they to each other? Chance had thrown them together. Then they had gone their separate ways. And now as he thought of Chandru, all he had was an old image, like some childhood photograph. Chandru had probably changed completely since their college days. Why, he himself had changed completely. Or had he? Does one really change? Was there a thread running through his life, common to the insecure teenager he was, and the confident, somewhat unfeeling, man he had become? What was it? Was it the soul? Did it then stay unchanged through lives?

And what about Chandru's family? How did they take the blow? How often did they feel the loss? Was it with them always? Somehow, he felt, that was the key. Not to let death shake one up like a storm and pass by soon, but for it to be ever-present. If death were to truly stay with one, then one's life would be different. Each moment would take on some deep meaning, because one would be aware of the alternative, the terrible void.

He got home, showered and switched on the TV. Tennis. He started watching, with a vague heaviness inside him. After a while, he got into the game. FedEx was playing beautifully that night.

In Defense Of Browniyat

"Be proud of your country, Bhikku. What else have you got to be proud of, anyway?"

-- The Diary, July 4, 503 BC

My friend A~ and I were at the gym the other day. We were about to play badminton.

A~: "Dei, let's start. Luvvaal"
B~: "Wait, wait. These cocks are bad. I'll go buy some from the front desk"
A~: "Chee, chee. Why do you want to waste money? I have more cocks, machi. They are in your dickie."
B~: "Maplai, the car is like 1 mile away, da. We didn't get paarrking, remember?"
A~: "Yeah, but the gym's cocks are 1 dollar each."
B~: "Really? Let's go to the car."

As we started walking towards the car, I noticed two white guys, giggling. As always, the sight filled me with a mixture of disgust and pity. Here they were, sniggering at us because we are cheap, we have funny accents and we say cock and dickie instead of birdie and boot. Alas! If only they could count! They would have realized that of the 25 people in the gym, 3 were white, and 22 were brown. If they had looked around a little more, they would also have realized that the gym was only a miniature of the new New World. Aye! The natives dont' realize it yet, but we have outbred them. We have won the Battle of the Baybee. We have colonized the West. New Jersey, Houston, Dallas and San Francisco, I am proud to say, are now part of Greater Tamil Nadu.

And yet, I am deeply consternated, if that's the word I'm looking for. I look below the glossy surface of our triumph, and I see that it is shallow. We rule over Whitey, but we do not behave like Kings. If a gora sahib in 19th century Brownistan wanted roast beef, he would have whipped our brown asses till we made it right. And now, when it's our turn, we merely stand in line and squeal, "Yexcuse me, could you pleeese change your gloves? I yam strict vegetarian. He, he. It is not religious, it is just cultural. Actually, hehe, I'm allergic to meat. Thank you verry much." Verily, I declare, that we are hyenas, not lions. We might have power, but we don't have pride. Indeed, when I look around myself, I see only two kinds of brown people:

1. those who want to be white, and
2. those who think they already are.

Between the two of them, these two groups have caused untold damage to our psyche. They have tarnished our image on the world stage. Brownistan is a crowded, caste-ridden hellhole, they say. It is a conveyor belt churning out an endless chain of software-writing neanderthals, they claim. Brownistan lacks justice and respect for human rights, they aver. Worst of all, they announce to everyone who would listen, that we eat with our fingers, and we do not use toilet paper.

I am a peacable man, but my blood boils at such vicious slander. I like Brownistan. Brownistan is like my neighbour's dog--it is very charming, from a distance. And now, with two oceans separating me from Brownistan, my patriotic fervor is virtually boundless. I am proud of Brownistan and I am proud of Browniyat, our beautiful way of life. The Whitey-worshipping gaddars are telling you, gentle reader, that brown skin is a thing of shame. Au contraire, brown skin is a blessing, a gift from the Gods, a passport to Jannat, as I shall conclusively prove now.

The good thing about being brown, of course, is that one can say whatever one wants. Firstly, firangis don't understand our accent, so they have no clue what we are saying about their parentage. Secondly, even if they do understand, they can't possibly take offense. Whatever it is we are accusing them of, we are probably doing it ourselves anyway. And finally, Whitey would rather kill himself than admit that a brown man looks down on him. So even if he were offended, he has to be polite. We don't. We have carte blanche, Whitey does not. He cannot even call a kettle black. He has to call it African American. We, on the other hand, can call a kettle a coolie, a nigger, an urgly black-ass modher, because we are all of the above.

If you still don't believe me, consider the tragic case of Dean Jones, the hero of that Chennai Test. Last week, he was heard on air, calling the South African cricketer Hashim Amla a terrorist. Let it be said that he had ample justification. If you take a photo of Amla, place it beside a photo of bin Laden, you'll see only one difference. bin Laden has a moustache, Amla does not. The difference is subtle. After all, a beard that size will probably hide nukular warheads, leave alone a teeny-weeny moustache. Little wonder then, that, Deano used the T-word. He deserved reassurance and a shot of Prozac. Instead, he was accused of racism and kicked out of his cush commentary job. Some people think it happened because Deano is a bigot. Some others think it happened because Deano is stupid. Bakwaas! Navjot Sidhu is both narrow-minded and stupid, but nobody ever fires him. The real difference is that Sidhu is brown, so nobody thinks he has any reason to feel superior to anyone.

There's more. Not only are we brownies free to say whatever we want, we are also completely free from fear. The white man has everything, so he is afraid he'll lose something. We brownies have nothing, so we are completely unafraid. We know life probably won't get worse than it is. When there is a bomb blast in Sri Lanka, the entire South African cricket team does susu in its nijaar and flies right back to the comforts of home. The Indian cricket team stays on, because as Rahul Dravid says, "Life isn't perfect." It is not that Dravid is braver. It is just that he doesn't even feel the need for bravery. The white man suspects his neighbour might be a terrorist and is afraid he might be killed. The brown man knows that his neighbour probably is a terrorist, but he also knows that the bomb probably won't go off. And so it is that knowledge sets us free.

To fearlessness, add stoicism. Bad things do happen to brown people; but when they do, we shrug and move on, for we know we're only paying off karma dues from previous janmas. When my white neighbour's dog stopped making poo-poo for one day, the entire family needed therapy. That same day, my friend S~'s wife eloped with a car mechanic. S~ just chuckled and said, "I must have been a bad-ass dude last time around, man. Heck, I must have kicked ass. That life was the life. This life is nothing."

The greatest thing about Browniyat, however, is not our freedom to talk, nor our fearlessness, not yet our sunny nature. Nay! The greatest thing is that (i) we can produce babies with almost no sex, just by pure will and the grace of the Lord, (ii) we know it, and (iii) we say so, in that most beautiful language, Hindi.

Three days back, United 943 took off from Washington DC, the capital of Gaad-Bless-Amezhica. Its mission was to transport a lot of free white people from DC to London, the capital of Amezhica's richest colony. One of its passengers was a 60 year-old white woman. She had been practising Kundalini yoga, and like all people who do so, she was determined to get in touch with her Inner Self, even if she had to kill half the world for it. As it turns out, she was claustrophobic, i.e., she was afraid of closed, crowded spaces. Naturally, she chose to overcome her fear by boarding a small, crowded plane. Her guru, after all, had told her to confront her fear. So she hopped into United 943, thinking it will take her to Nirvana.

It did not. It only made her afraid and nauseous. Like all white people suffering from nausea, she screamed, and threatened to douse her neighbour in nail polish. Like all white people threatened with nail polish, her neighbour thought he was going to die in the next five minutes, and squealed. Like all white people who hear other white people squealing, the passengers of United 943 thought they were being attacked by Muslim fanatics who hate their freedom to drink Diet Coke. Promptly, they called in the military. The military send in F16 fighter jets, which accompanied United 943 to the Boston Logan airport, where it landed.

The word got around to Brownistan, and caused great amusement. Reporters went out into the city to find out what people thought about the matter. One of them cornered Yendukulapatti Srinivasa Rao, known as YSR, who was travelling on a crowded Hyderabad bus. Right at that moment, YSR's privates were being crushed by a somewhat thick-set man who was being thrown into him every time the bus bumped into a pothole. But YSR did not feel claustrophic, or afraid of death, or concerned about the future. He knew that mere pressure will not take his system to production stop. He winced with pain, but overall, he was feeling good. Just then the reporter asked him about the United 943 incident. YSR smiled, "East or west, India is best. We are not afraid of yennything. We will be great nation." Both the reporter and YSR smiled. The moment was happy enough, but then, something happened which can only happen in a land that has an ancient culture, and can express its erudition in that most beautiful of languages, Hindi. YSR started singing. He sang, softly but firmly, in his slightly husky voice:

"Saare Jahaan se accha,
Banaate hain baccha.
Hum bulbulein hain uski,
Phat gayi Nirodh jiski..."

Everyone in the bus stood to attention. "Jai Hind," they cried.

Believe it, gentle reader. Whitey don't have nothing on us. We rule.

Chatty-Kutty Bang Bong, Almost!

It is both fair and wise, Bhikku, to treat women the same as men. Avoid both.

-- The Diary, 19th May, 485 BC

Let me say, upfront, that I have nothing against women. Some of my best friends are married to women. Indeed, I am a great lover of women. I likes women, I admirers them, I respects them, I reveres them. And when that noor-e-Dallas S~ comes to the cafeteria in that tightish white shirt of hers, I speechlessly marvel at them, 'them' being women of course. But let me admit, painful as it is to me, that women are not without their faults.

The biggest problem with women is that deep down, they are men too. Women want to nuke countries for fun, just as much as we do. Hillary Clinton says so. They want to kick some liberal ass just as much as we do. Ann Coulter says so. They want to screw over the poor just as much as we do. Maggie Thatcher said so. They want to exterminate the damn Mussalmans just as much as we do. Uma Bharti says so. They want to drink some nice Hindu blood just as much as we do. Many women in Pakistan would say so, if only they were allowed to say so. To sum it up, women want to be absolute bastards just as much we do. Lots of incredibly hot and incredibly obnoxious babes on Fox News say so.

It's clear as day: women are no better than men. It's just that they haven't been themselves, because we have been oppressing them for centuries. Which is not to say we were / are right to oppress women. They should, of course, have exactly the same rights as us. The pity is that they are using those rights to do exactly what we are doing.

My highly intellectual friend, who has read far too many books for her own good, finds it natural that empowered women should behave like men. In her words, it is an integral part of the dialectic between institutional disenfranchisement and individual empowerment, leading the empowered individual to seek identification with the institutional Other. That is rot, of course. But since it is in English and one does not quite know what it means, one is not allowed to call it rot. One is supposed instead to take it seriously and debate it, if possible in public. And so I took it seriously, and started looking for a difference, any difference, between men and women. It took me a while, but I can now announce that I've hit paydirt.

Men understand the digital revolution, women do not.

Ask a woman a multiple-choice question, and she will always give you an essay type answer. Not that I'm complaining. There's nothing quite like feminine chatter in the background to help one's dinner settle. But alas, charming as it is, the eloquence of women regularly destroys lives, as illustrated by the great tragedy that befell my dear friend, that great son of Bengal, S~ D~.

In the summer of 2004, on July 13th to be precise, S~D~ walked into the lab, and spoke to me thus. Those who bother to listen to his words will realize that they are pretty strong ones. Another man might have gotten offended by them. But I am not another man. I am B~, one of the most understanding chaps I have ever known. And sure enough, like all understanding chaps, I understood immediately that on that fateful afternoon, S~D~ was not himself. His heart had been hurt, or as he himself would poot eet, his hurt had bin haart. At that very moment, his hearthrob O-vhilasa was with going to the mall with her brand-new boyfriend. That brand-new boyfriend could so easily have been S~D~, but it was not. And all this merely because he talked to a woman, and, by God, she had replied.

But perhaps I should tell you the entire story.

O-vhilasa would be known to most brown people as Abhilasha, but among the Bhadralok, she was firmly entrenched as O-vhilasa. O-vhilasa was like a pi-meson, i.e., she was highly unstable when left to herself. Brown boys were her anti-particle. As soon as she could find one, she paired with him, and destroyed his life forever. Brown boys being abundant on these shores, O-vhilasa was seldom unpaired. However, brown people are modern these days and they do break up every now and then, just for fun. And so it chanced that O-vhilasa was briefly single between 11:56 am and 1:04 pm on the 13th of July, 2004. What's more, it was on this very afternoon that O-vhilasa had arranged to meet S~D~, so that he could do her homework and pay for her lunch. Now, S~D~ has a clean track-record: Whenever he talks to a girl for more than 5 minutes, he always finishes up by proposing to her. Imagine then, this combination of unpaired O-vhilasa and unimpaired S~D~. It was a match just waiting just to catch.

Alas, it was not meant to be. S~D~ did not propose to O-vhilasa, because he did not meet her for lunch on the 13th of July, 2004. He did not meet her for lunch, because he was listening instead to Poulomi, which, I swear, is a real Bengali name, Godpromise- Motherpromise- Studiespromise. S~D~ was listening to Poulomi, because she was explaining to him why they should be jaast freynds. She was doing so because S~D~ had just proposed to her. He had proposed to her because he had reasoned as follows: "Poulo looooks maach preytier than O-vhi. I'll trai praapuseeng to Poulo on the way. If she aacseipts, goood. Eef naat, I'll go praapus to O-vhi. Naatheeng to luse." It was a miscalculation. Poulo refused S~D~, and spent two hours explaining why, in gruesome detail.

And so ended the romance of S~D~ with O-vhilasa, even before it began. In years to come, O-vhilasa will play in the beautiful gardens of Coalcotha with her lovely children Shudipthow, Showronyow, O-porno and Rowbindhrow. Shudipthow, the eldest, will be the first to tire. But he won't admit it, because he wants to be beeg and gronaap, just like his baba. Rowbindrow, the youngest, will be the first one to run to O-vhilasa. He will climb up her lap, and she will smile fondly at him. She will hug him, though it will soil her new saree, for such is a mother's love. She will think of Mrs. Mookkhopodhyay, whose car might be newer, but whose children were definitely not cute. She will shake her head, thinking, "Haaw seelly of me to kip kaampareeng with her," but anyway, she will hug Rowbindrow a little tighter, and tickle him, just to see him laugh. She will then remind herself that she must be firm with her children. She will call out to them, and even pretend to be angry with them. Slowly, they will come, and with triumph in her heart, O-vhilasa will herd her children back home. There they will wait for baba to caam home with swit Roashgullas. Alas! That Roashgulla-bearing baba will not be S~D~.

These days, S~D~ has taken heavily to drink. He blames his stupidity for his loss. As I keep telling him, it is not his fault. The problem is one of viewpoints. The way men see it, this whole proposal business should be a quickie. I propose to you. If you are saying no, I don't need to know why. I have things to do, other people to propose to. If you are saying yes, we have a whole lifetime to talk. What's the big tearing hurry? Alas, women see it differently. They imagine that refusal would hurt men, and that they can set it right by talking to them. In a way it does. It makes blokes realize that all they missed was some third-degree torture.

"She gave me a kela and started an explanation," said my friend C~ after one such conversation. "After an hour, it struck me that she had probably forgotten she had refused. I spent the next hour terrifed that she might accept in the end. She didn't, but if she had, I would have officially withdrawn my proposal. You can do that, right?"

Less patient men take more drastic measures. "It's not you, it's me," said R~'s old flame to him, and started explaining some more. "Yeah, that's what I thought," replied R~, "Maybe I should leave you alone to sort out your problems. Do take care." And with a gentle tap on her shoulder, he walked out. He is, unsurprisingly, still single.

We might as well face it. Equality is all very well, but men and women will never be the same.

"Man proposes, and Woman discourses,
And never the twain shall meet."

The Three Temptations Of Christ

The Gospel says Jesus Christ was tempted thrice by Satan, and thrice he refused. The temptations in the gospel are, in effect, pride, greed and populism. One would assume a great man like Jesus was beyond the first two at least, though the third is perhaps subtler.

Here's a variation on that theme. It is long even by the standards of this blog. People who would rather not waste time on amateur literature are encouraged to read instead The Grand Inquisitor, from which the idea was ripped; or The Prophet, whose majestic cadences I've tried, but failed, to imitate. Such people might also want to try The Sermon on the Mount, which is not at all a bad thing to read, in a week of Lebanon, Palestine, Baghdad and Mumbai.

Departure
Away he went one morning, the village carpenter. His chisel and his mallet lay in a corner, and they grew heavy from their sudden sloth. Half-made wheels lay neatly stacked. They looked like the corpses of children, struck down before they had blossomed to fulness. The village was annoyed the first day, curious the second, anxious the third and indifferent the fourth. But the carpenter had bid farewell to his waiting tools and his forgetful people.

Away he went, towards the desert. He went alone, seeking solitude to escape loneliness, for what is lonelier than company without love? But nay, in truth, he went not from love of solitude nor from distaste of company, for he had grown indifferent to both. He went seeking neither wisdom nor truth, for he no longer cared for either. He went neither with joy nor with sorrow, for he no longer felt either. Like an old coin and a worn parchment he went, for all his soul's variety had worn to sameness. Off he went to empty the great emptiness of his heart in the great emptiness of the desert. And when he came unto the desert, he smiled a wry smile. "Like this parched land is my heart, for vast and dry and featureless is this land, and vast and dry and featureless is my heart. Nay, this land glows as gold by day and shines as silver by night, while my heart is dull and grey. Not like this desert, but like an ocean under a cloud is my heart. But even as the darkest cloud over the greyest waters passes by and by, will this pall that shrouds my heart lift anon?"

And with a tremor in his heart, he entered the desert, and for forty days and forty nights he wandered its vastness.

The Desert
The desert burned by day and froze by night; for hell is home to the reddest fire and the whitest ice, and the desert, the forbidding proud desert, it held the horrors of hell in its small earthly palms.
With sands stretched without end, the desert watched his thirst with mute disdain; for hell is the indifference of towering Gods; and the desert, the forbidding proud desert, it held the horrors of hell in its small earthly palms.
On its sands lay shimmering illusions of water; for hell is the undying thirst for imagined pleasure, and the desert, the forbidding proud desert, it held the horrors of hell in its small earthly palms.
On the desert's face sprouted cacti like cancers and sores, but abruptly there bloomed a bright red flower that burned against the bright blue sky; for hell is the futile flowering of doomed hope, and the desert, the forbidding proud desert, it held the horrors of hell in its small earthy palms.

The First Temptation : Conformity
And against the proud desert he fought, the village carpenter. He fought the heat and the cold, and he fought his thirst and hunger and his weary spirit. And as he feared for his life, he loved it anew. Thought still sang to him of the futility of life; but he did not heed her song, for harridan Death shrieked louder in his ear. Like a mountain-climber was he, and Thought was as a blanket of fog. It circled him and was never far away. But even as the climber cuts through the fog picking his way forward yard by yard, so did he snatch life hour by hour from the mists of numbing Thought. As a child clings to its mother, so did he cling to life. And as the child hates and loves and fears its father, so did he hate and love and fear the desert.

And even as he suffered, he felt a soaring joy. He had sought Life, and found her dancing with Death. And greedily, he embraced them both.

Drunk with the nearness of death, he wandered for a month. One evening, even as the western sky blushed red at the returning sun's brazen kiss, he reached an oasis. He drank the sweetest water and ate the tastiest fruit in the world, and into the world's softest sands he sank in slumber. At midnight, he dreamt. He was on a steep rockface on the oceanfront and near him lay a bird's nest. The bare, featherless russet-coloured chicks were hatching, but suddenly from the east, a snake slithered towards the nest. And he let go of his foothold and pounced on the snake and together they fell into the ocean. They struggled in the depths and at last, he killed the creature. And then he awoke and lay thinking. "Thought torments me. Like a blight, it kills all that blooms in my heart. Like a python does thought coil around my heart and smother all the life there is in me. And just as I slew the serpent under water, so will I drown thought in Life itself. Long have I shunned this world's strife for wealth and power, fame and fellowship. But perhaps that strife is the natural way for man, and my detachment is but a vice and the sin of pride."

He resolved to leave the next morning and return to the village. He lay planning his worldly life, and soon he slept again, and his dream continued. Having slain the serpent, he swam up and broke the surface, but the sun's light blinded him and the heat burned him and he gasped for air. Quickly he dived again into the ocean, and realized suddenly that he was now a fish. He started swimming, faster and faster. And as he swam, he felt a heady joy, but he muttered to himself, "How I miss the wet green moss on the rocks and the sun's light on the dancing waves." With a start, he awoke again, and spoke to the Heavens in tearful gratitude. "Father! I give you thanks, for you have saved me from sin, for what sin is greater than that of betraying oneself? This struggling world is but a tempest whose swift winds give relief from the heat of Thought. But am I not, as the petals of the golden laburnum, destined to burn in the heat of Thought? And even as the laburnum is blown away to dust by the cooling wind, will I not lose my true self in worldly strife? Lonely is the path of Thought, Father, but it is the path you have given me, and I will not leave it for fear of solitude."

He slept again and dreamt no more that night.

The Leper
The next morning, the carpenter rose with the sun and set to work. He waded into the oasis and dug out clay from its bottom. With the leaves of the trees, he wove two baskets. One he filled with fruit. The inside of the other he lined with the clay and left it in the sun. When it was dry, he filled it with water. And baskets in hand, he left the oasis and set out again.

Lonely was his path this time, for Death no longer shadowed his steps. And he thought : "Why does Thought torment me so? What is it I seek, that I roam these sands like a hungry beast?" And he soon saw that he wanted a Truth that was beyond interpretation and personality. He wanted to tear down the barrier of skin and flesh that stood between his self and the rest of Creation. And yet, just because he craved this union with all of Creation, his soul recoiled from the here and now, the part of Creation that breathed around him. Aye, what he truly desired was to drink off the fountain of life without wetting his lips. Aghast at the Satanic monstrosity of his spirit's lust, he walked for three days.

On the fourth day, he saw vultures feeding off fresh corpses. Horrified, he ran to the corpses and saw that they were lepers. One was still alive, and he gave her water. The leper came to, and cried out for her child. Then, slowly realizing where she was, she spoke of her life. She had an infant son, but even as he played at her breast, the disease had come. Like all lepers, she was driven out the town into the leper colony. There she lived for a month with other outcasts, and suddenly the famine came. The town merely suffered, but the lepers starved. Helpless, they left the town in search of another, but lost their way in the desert. Fortunate were the few that died soon. Those that survived were now as beasts: They fed off the flesh of the dead. She cried in shame and remorse, and her life ebbed from her. As she died, she looked to the skies with hatred and shrieked, "It is hell I will go to, and it is hell I want. I will defy God. Aye, I will sin with Satan and writhe in pleasure even as that whoreson God watches." Her ugly leper's face disfigured with hatred, she died.

The Second Temptation : Morality & Altruism
Numbed with shock, the carpenter walked on. He thought with shame of his selfishness when so much suffering surrounded him, unseen. "Selfish have I been to seek my meaningless Salvation. Even as a blind man sees only darkness in this world, so have I sought one Truth in all of Creation. Nay! There is Good and Evil in this world, and man's duty is to love what is Good and hate what is Evil. A sinner have I been to seek release for my Self. The Self is a stick of incense, and its purpose is to burn against injustice, in service of the meek and the poor and suffering. Aye, the path to God is the path of self-sacrifice, and it is that path I will take."

He turned back, to join again the fellowship of men. Pondering sin and sacrifice, he walked for nine days. On the ninth evening, he came upon a bush with a tender pink bud, shyly lambent like a young maiden. The carpenter beheld the bud and his heart overflowed with tenderness. He looked upon the sky and saw that a cloud had gathered. "I must be on the edge of the desert," he thought. "Just as this cloud's rain will nourish this tender bud, so will I shower my love on the meek, for they are God's most beautiful creation. And as this cloud will destroy itself in showering its bounty, so will I give myself unto the weak, even if be the end of me." And with lightness in his heart, he slept near the bush.

The cloud kept its promise, and lashed the land with rains all night. The carpenter awoke at daybreak, and in the ghostly light, saw that the bud had been washed away by the rains. A great sorrow gripped him. He fell on his knees in silent prayer. "Forgive me, Father, for I have erred again. Even as the cloud was I, too eager to give of my bounty. Great is the sin of coveting wealth, but greater is the sin of coveting poverty. The love of sacrifice is but a subtle love of the self. The cloud gave of itself, because of its lust for doing good. But even as the cloud cannot judge what is good for that tender bud, so can I not judge what is good and what is evil. Perhaps there are good and evil on Earth, and perhaps there are not. It is not mine to find out which. Great is the temptation to burn for the right, but I will yield to it no more. I will give only when Love leaves me helpless to not give. I will fight only when Love impels me to fight. And if it is destruction I wreak, Father, I will do so not as a champion of my faith, but as a vessel of your will." And with that, he turned his steps away from the desert.

The Third Temptation : Contempt
Forty days and forty nights had the carpenter spent in the desert, and he came again into the world of men. But now he saw it afresh, like a stranger in a strange land. He beheld that "the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men of skill". He saw the strife of men, and it grieved him. He pitied the vanquished and the victors, for both foolishly played out the script written by Instinct. And with tenderness and love, he set about bringing what comfort he could.

But while he felt compassion for men, he felt no brotherhood with them. The rich and the powerful were arrogant and petty; The poor and the weak were full of greed and resentment. The folly of men pained him, but he kept his wisdom to himself, for he doubted if any would understand. "The Lord made the bird and the beast, and so the Lord made man. Just as the bird and the beast covet survival, so does man covet wealth, power and affection. And if there be no sin in the bird's greed and the beast's viciousness, what sin is there in man's rapacity? Nay, just as I would let the bird and the beast be themselves, so will I let man be himself."

So he lived among men, but stayed above them. He worked for them, yet not with them. And since he held no hope of reasoning with men, he answered injustice with violence. Where he saw great wrong, he fought the offender with fist and fury. And even as he gashed and cut, in his heart he suffered. Even as he drew another man's blood, it was himself he scarred deepest.

One day, while walking along a village, he saw two bitches fighting. With untempered ferocity, they bit and scratched at each other. He picked up a stone to throw at them and end their fight, but even as he threw it, he saw that one of the bitches was dying. The other bitch sniffed in triumph, baring her bloody teeth. Suddenly, he heard a pathetic squeal. The dead bitch had left behind a pup, and it came to her, and started sucking at her swollen unresponsive teats. He started looking for another stone, afraid that the other bitch would kill the pup. But as he found a stone and looked up, he stood startled. The other bitch, which had just slain the mother, tenderly licked the pup. And she lay down and offered her teat for the pup to suckle. Every time the pup bit into her, she growled and bristled, but only pushed the pup away softly.

The carpenter stood, with tears in his eyes. "Forgive me, Father, for judging your creation. You gave us an instinct for survival, but you also gave an instinct for love. Foolish have I been to condemn the one without admiring the other. You gave man Reason and he employs it in greed and violence, but through me, Father, you will teach him to employ it in love."

With fresh resolve, he walked on and reached the top of a hill, where a crowd was gathered. He climbed up the flat stump of a dead tree, and started speaking, without thinking about what he was going to say.

The words came.