A World of Questions

Does loving every person the same way, in an equal measure, mean the same thing as not loving any person wholly?

Why should one person be loved more than the other? 
Does a blood relation call for extra affection? 
When a very close friend can cause, at times, more warmth in the heart than a blood relation, what exactly can be termed as the yardstick for expressing love?

****

Good books linger in your mind for a long time after you have read them. Great books lead to a barrage of questions to take birth as you read them.

Siddhartha written by Hermann Hesse was the cause for the above listed questions. And a lot many more.

The term love when spoken about by a person in his/her twenties is automatically attributed to the emotion that arises between two people of the same/opposite gender out of admiration, necessity or sometimes even something as simple as time and is considered as the basis for a long-term relationship.  And the attribution wouldn’t be a faulty one since most of the topics do in fact revolve around the aforementioned love.

But love, in the sense of life, has much more to it.

For instance, why should a son or a daughter love his/her mother?

Should the love exist because the mother continues to sacrifice innumerable things in her life for her unconditional love of the child? Wouldn’t the love of the son/daughter then become one that stems out of reciprocation?

Should the love exist because the mother is the first real companion at the start of life and remains a constant throughout the journey? Wouldn’t the love of the son/daughter then become one that stems out of time or in simpler terms, prolonged contact?

What really forms the basis of the love for a mother? Perhaps, considering for a moment that it is a question that should not be searched for an answer and moving to another important one, would it be an error to express the same amount of love towards another person?

What makes a mother special? What makes a father special? What makes a close friend special? What makes a romantic partner special? 

We like their habits. We like their positives. We learn to like their negatives. We like them for who they are.

But why should this love that we express so unconditionally be restricted to such a small group of people?

Would it be wrong if we start loving every person we meet in our life the same way as we would love our mother? Would it be wrong if every person we befriended became special as opposed to the one or two special people in our lives?

There would, of course, be a chance that the people who feel they are special and irreplaceable to us might be subjected to hurt since they would no longer be the only ones who are special. They would become one among a larger group.

But wouldn’t loving every person we come across in the exact same way, in an equal measure, irrespective of the blood relations and the friendships and the admiration and the necessities make our lives more beautiful?

The love that we express for every living being would become the same. The pain encountered for the loss of every living being would become the same. And in the onset of such conditions, the life that we would lead would be no more a life of the self. 
It would, instead, be a life filled with the lives of every other living being we encounter in our journey.

A life of others. 

A life of the universe, perhaps.

Sometimes, such deep explorations into the workings of life and love cause unwanted fear in the minds of people like it did to my mom when I gave her a brief explanation of my newly formed opinions/questions on love. Her spontaneous reply after hearing me out was,

“Dai! Saamiyaar aaga poriyaa nee?! 
Venaam da! Unna ivalo padikka vechirukken. Appidi laam ethum aagi vechiraathe da!”

I couldn’t control my laughter at her response for quite some time.

But then, a mother’s fear is a mother’s fear.

****

The world is filled with a majority of people who are of the opinion that life needs to be lived and not questioned. 

Yes. Very true indeed.

Life unveils itself more as we live it. 

But questions also do play their part in enriching the lives we live.

Who would meaning have to complement it, if not for questions?

Beauty, sometimes, is the beast!

When a male writes an article supporting womanhood, he is considered feminist. When a guy studying in a college writes an article supporting womanhood, he is thought to be trying to come across as a 'noble' being.

When only three genders exist for classifying our entire human race, how long is a person expected to keep writing about his/her own gender?

Some stories retain their effectiveness only when heard from a member of the opposite gender. 
Some stories need to be told on days that are singled out for the celebration of a particular aspect of humanity so that the attention would be stronger.
Some stories simply need to be brought out.

Stories like this.

****

It was the beginning of the 1980's. Probably, around the year 1982.

Dustin Hoffman, who had already gained attention for his roles in the films The Graduate, All the President's Men and Kramer vs. Kramer had decided along with his friend to star in a film that required him to disguise himself as a woman.

It was not a story that required a man to disguise himself as a woman so that it would appear funny. It was a story that required the 'woman' to be taken seriously.

Hoffman realized that the seriousness could be brought about only when the audience accepted the 'woman' character wholeheartedly. The character had to appear normal. It could not run the risk of being weird.

Having made a deal with the producers that the film had to be dropped if he could not appear normal as a 'woman', Hoffman proceeded with the make-up test.

Once the make over was completed, Hoffman got to watch his appearance as a woman. As he looked at his transformation, there was only one thing that struck him. 
He had been changed into a woman. All that needed to be done was that he had to be made pretty.
He felt that he couldn't be a woman unless he was pretty.

He asked the artists in the make-up department to make him appear more beautiful. And the reply he got from them, in Hoffman's own words, was
"That's as good as it gets."

And it shook up Hoffman. 
Like it had never before.

He knew that the character he was playing was a terrific woman. But he realized that he wouldn't have probably been open to a conversation with her if he had met her in real life because of one simple reason.
Beauty.

The stunning realization affected his life.
And it also led him to make Tootsie.

(A more effective first person account could be cherished in this interview of Hoffman's.)

****

It is not everyday that one comes across such stories. The first time I came across this story, thanks to my brother, I was as shattered as Hoffman had been after his realization. 
But however effective stories might be, however eye-opening, they do not settle in our minds firmly unless there occurs a personal experience.

****

I do not remember the day. Probably, four or five months back.

I was walking besides my friend, to his hostel, from the college canteen. On our way, we came across a classmate of his, a girl, who smiled at him. My friend hesitated for a moment before he smiled back. 
After the girl passed, I gave him a cunning smile as amateur boys usually do. He asked me if I would not do something similar and I replied, jovially, that I never lifted my stare off the ground while walking opposite people. 

As we walked further, my friend suddenly stopped and looked around nervously. I inquired him as to what had happened. He let out a sigh and said that he had checked if any of his class boys were around. He explained that he would become an object of ridicule amongst his class boys if they had caught him exchanging smiles with the girl. I needed no further explanation since I was a hosteler and I was aware of such ridicules. But I guess the friend possibly wanted to justify the ridicule of his class boys and he asked me if I had seen the girl's face properly. I had not and I replied the same. 
The next two sentences that he uttered are two lines that I would never be able to forget.
"Ava munji la orae pulli, pulli'ya naraya pimples, rashes maari irukkum da. Nalla ponnu thaan but ava face naala naraya pasanga kalaaipaanga."
(Her face would be filled with rashes and pimples. She is, of course, a fine girl but that 'face' aspect makes our boys start the ridicule.)

As he finished uttering those two sentences, I was shocked beyond belief. 
I was not shocked because of the silliness of the reason.
I was shocked because my face was of the same nature. 
Same as what he had described. Pimples. Rashes.

And as we kept taking every step further, I kept imagining that, at any moment, it would suddenly hit my friend that he had said something that bore a close resemblance to my appearance and would apologize saying that he had not directed it towards me. 
But to my surprise, my friend kept walking along with me normally. I couldn't keep it confined within my mind and I asked him, a bit loudly, if those rashes and pimples in the girl's face mattered. He smiled looking at me - looking at my face - and told me to stop worrying about the girl. He still did not seem to mind that my face was also of the same nature.  
It was only when he started a totally unrelated topic as casually as possible did I realize that he could not see the rashes and pimples on my face. 
For him, they ceased to exist. 
For him, my face was just a face. Nothing more.
And the reason - I belonged to the same gender as him. 

After an hour or two in his room, I decided to leave and I couldn't leave without asking him the question that had been troubling me since our walk to his room. I asked him if he knew for sure that no boy would make fun of him if he spoke to a not-so-attractive girl, would he speak more openly and in a more friendly manner. He replied with a 'yes' spontaneously.
He added further that many of his class boys who he feared would start the ridicules also spoke occasionally with the girl we had crossed earlier, if the boys were alone. It was only while being as a group that most of the problems arose.

And it taught me one thing. 
No person, individually, intends any harm. Never.
Things that are generally hidden for the fear of being ridiculed if spoken out are the primary cause, instead.

****

When I decided to type down this post, I was reluctant for a while. 
This is a post that screams to stop the beauty/gender bias and yet is filled with stories that revolve around beauty/gender bias.

But sometimes, there arises a need to analyse an issue extensively before tearing it down.
Like rationalists are generally asked to do before they become one.

And I believe that a rationalism is what could serve as the possible solution for the theme of this post.
A rationalism that stops giving importance to something that possibly amounts to a feel good vibe and nothing else.
A rationalism that starts embracing humans the way they are.

Playing it no way!

(This is a post about a cricket match that has very little to do with respect to the match and instead puts forth, unnecessarily, the emotions of a Ennaku-cricket-match-TV-la-paarthale-moochu-vaangum-da guy who was forced to play the game.)

"En python script run aaga maatenguthu? Environment variable declaration correct thaana?"
"Sari. Bacteria ku essential genes paathukalaam. Virus ku enna panna porra? Papers refer pannaa thaan solution kedaikkum!"
"Enna da?! Comparative modelling mudikalaam nu paartha mudiyave maatenguthu! Pesaama molecular dynamics serthuruvoma?!"

In the midst of such statements, when you hear something that goes like this,
"Bat, stumps laan olungaa kondu vanthurunga da. Ball puthusaa irukkatum. Naanga laam rendu over thaangrathe perusu. Ungaluku oru oru over'um rendu ball potutu thanni kudikka innings break kekka porom paaru!", as a boy, you would be expected to jump in joy. 

What could be more joyous than the prospect of playing against your project guide?  

Honestly, I would type down a very long list that includes reading Kafka's stories, watching a Woody Allen film, listening to Rahman's music but there are certain things you promote tentatively to a higher position in this 'joyous' list when your close friend compels you to.
For instance - the game that continues to be played in 10 different but closely located pitches on your college ground with balls whirring past boys in trousers and scares you so much that you prefer to take the longer way to your hostel than being hit by a ball on your face as you cross the ground. 
Or simply put, Cricket.

When you are a person who is not talented in any of the three departments of cricket - batting, bowling and fielding - you would be waiting very patiently and happily as your friend explains the field setup to the entire team and discusses the bowling strategy. 
(The first indication that you have a match ahead that would be a whole load of fun would be when there is a serious explanation going on, "Nee inga long off la. You stand at long on da. Dai.. nee vanthu.." and one guy interrupts asking, "Mama! Intha T-shirt nallaa thaane irukku?!".)
The patient wait would obviously be for one reason - to have the last laugh at your friend for forcing you to play. But the problem of having a friend who has extensive knowledge on cricket is that apart from knowing the spots where a batsman would tend to hit the ball the most, he would also know very well the spots where a batsman would hit it the least. And there would be no option but to stand at a spot close to the leg-umpire and serve one purpose - help the leg-umpire with the names of the batsman batting and the bowlers bowling so that it could be jotted down in the plain paper functioning as the scorecard. 
Of course, when you have your team skipper standing parallel to you and shouting, "Jolly'aa nillu da. Eppidiyum naan'um ball vida thaan poraen.", it becomes a different issue altogether. 

As the match progresses and as every ball is being bowled, you would attain a hunched posture (the fielding posture one learns from television) with your right hand held horizontally above your eyelashes to keep the sunlight out of your eyes. And at some point during the match, as you bend down to attain the posture again, would come to your mind, flying, the image of your very old neighbor who would enter your home in a very similar fashion - in a hunched way with the right hand held above the eyelashes to direct the focus - and ask you affectionately, "Enna pa, nallaa irukkiya?! Innum college mudikalaya nee?!". 
So much so for saying that playing delays ageing.

After about 11 overs (27 extras would contribute to around 4 overs and of course, the highest scorer for the opponent team) of occasional passionate bowling and tremendously improvised fielding, you would sit down heaving a sigh of relief that you were never required to hold on to a catch. But very soon would start the next horror show. The batting.
You would have no choice but to sit silently amidst your teammates who would be having a friendly fight as to who would bat next. It is, after all, better not to ask for a chance to bat when you alone know the fact that when there was a cricket bat lying around in your house, it was used more by your mom for chasing away rats than by you for cricket.

And when circumstances help you out by not threatening you with a batting opportunity, there would exist no reason to not be happy. Especially, when the happiness is accompanied by the fun you had, trying to imagine in your head the Tamil commentary (as funny and punch-line filled as in the Tamil television channel) for the batting phase of your team till the end.
"Kavignar na vaarthaigal'a vechu velayadi thaan namma paathirukom. Aana intha kavignar bat vechu velayadratha paaka porom!"
"Puzhuthi parakka, manal therikka, ground la neechal adichu antha batsman run-out aagama irukka paatharu. Aana entha palanum illa!"
"Saatharna nayagan nu nenachaa intha kilee pachai bowler oru sagalakala nayagan'aa irukaare!"


Even when everyone starts dispersing after the match, there would not seem to be any overwhelming feeling. But only as you walk slowly towards your hostel with one of your Telugu speaking classmates, his sweaty arms around your shoulders, and his statement, "Romba naal kalchu velyadnthu. Totally tired aachu. But nallaa irunchu la?" in a modulation similar to a new Tamil heroine exported from Mumbai, would you start understanding the importance. 
And it would only begin to weigh you down more as you turn to look at the slightly visible golden tinged edges of the cloud covering the sun and your glance falls over a small group parading ahead in a hurried manner.

The messages that would later fill up your class WhatsApp group would provide the final touches and you would lie down on your cot with two important realizations:

• You have been part of something that would not be forgotten so easily.
• If something similar happens another time, it would be intelligent of you to opt out of the team and act as the Tamil commentator instead.

"Vala vala nu pesa mattum thaan theriyum nu nenachom. Aana Annamalai padathu la varraa maari 'Vetri nichayam' nu jeichutu poitaanga professors team. 'Vayasu aanalum vegam innum koraiyala'ngra punch dialogue inga naan solliye aaganum!"

What a wonderful world!

There is always an end. Always. Without fail.

Whoever it may be. Whatever it may be.

Is there something in this universe that can boast of immortality? 

The sun? The oceans? The wind? They would probably face their end someday. 

We might not know. We would have probably ended long before that.

Could we be immortals? Would we like being immortals? 

We realize the value only when the end approaches, be it our end or be it the end of something we treasure. 

All good things need to come to an end.

Why then the care? Why then the screams? Why then the tears? Is it all in vain?

No. There seems to be a higher purpose. 

Really? But the purpose also would need to come to an end. 

Would the purpose be carried forward by the soul? It is said that the soul brings along with it the desires into the human body. Would it then signify an end to the end? 

Good question. But do you believe in the soul?

The end does seem certain. 

Does nobody else realize this? Or is it the realization that drives one towards the search for meaning? Would the meaning bear a meaning when everything else goes meaningless?

Why then the care? Why then the screams? Why then the tears?

There definitely needs to be a higher purpose. 

But why the end then? 
All good things need to come to an end.

An orange peel that lay positioned as if the pulp had staged a brilliant escape from its prison, a cloudy sky that looked like it had broken up with the sun and Louis Armstrong's 'What a wonderful world' that played through my headphones - I never imagined that such a combination could trigger such a flow of thoughts.

Maybe it was the lifelessness. Maybe it was the darkness. Maybe it was the jazz.

But when death, or rather life, is thought about in harshly real terms, the big picture seems perilous. 

Perhaps, this is what makes us all patrons of happy endings.