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.

Felicitaciones, Iñárritu!

I might have given him one for Amores perros. I might have given him one for 21 Grams. Probably even two. I might have given him one for Babel. I might have given him one for Biutiful.

But then I am not the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.

I am just a young guy obsessed with films, wanting to praise his hero who was finally awarded the 'Best Director' Oscar at the 87th Academy Awards. 

Did Iñárritu deserve it more than Richard Linklater? I do not know. 
Did Iñárritu deserve it more than Wes Anderson? I do not know. 

Linklater's Before trilogy, in my opinion, is one of the best trilogy/series of films centered on human love. Anderson's Fantastic Mr Fox is one of my favorite stop-motion animation films. Even their films that were in competition - be it Boyhood or be it The Grand Budapest Hotel -  are two of the finest pieces of filmmaking, as different as they may be with respect to their themes and treatment.

How then did Iñárritu win?
I do not care. 

Alejandro González Iñárritu is one of my most favorite filmmakers, after all.

In 21 grams, he brought on screen a helpless Sean Penn strikingly different from the one in Mystic River and Dead Man Walking. In Babel, he brought on screen a deserted (!) Brad Pitt strikingly different from the one in Fight club and Troy. In Biutiful, he brought on screen a guilt-ridden Javier Bardem strikingly different from the one in No Country for Old Men. Even in Birdman, however familiar the Riggan Thomson character might sound to Michael Keaton's, the lead character was more intense and more different than Keaton had played/lived before. 
A great director brings out the best of his actors and on that aspect, Iñárritu sure does earn the adjective.

Minimal use of music (Birdman, perhaps an exception), intense characterization, a continuous existential exploration, stories/screenplays that hold you/haunt you/hit you - when such traits define your body of work, artistic greatness wouldn't be at a very long distance.

These reasons suffice for the fan in me. Honestly, the fan might not even need the reasons.
But what about the film lover?

How could a director of a film describing the struggles of a to-be-forgotten actor trying to become a to-be-remembered actor be compared with the director of a film describing the poignant parts of a boy's life over the period of twelve years or the director of a dark comedy revolving around the (mis)adventures of a caretaker of a hotel and his employee?  

Can art be compared?
Should art be compared?

The artist does get the deserved recognition but on what basis?
How does one say that a meta-film is better than a piece-of-life drama or vice versa? How does one say that a dark comedy is better than a biopic about an unrecognized, ingenious mathematician or vice versa? 
How do you compare an eagle to a lion or to a whale?

I might go ahead putting forth many such questions but I guess Iñárritu's 'Best Director' acceptance speech sums it up.
"..talking about that little prick called ego. Ego loves competition. Because, for someone to win, someone has to lose. But the paradox is that, you know, true art - true individual expression - as all the works of these incredible fellow filmmakers can't be compared, can't be labelled, can't be defeated and our work only will be judged, as always, by time."

I might have given him one even for this speech.

Pig-face and Pacha pullu!

(This is a post written with the sole aim of tickling a person's funny bone. Not even an iota of offense is directed towards the language Tamil - I truly respect it - or the commentators mentioned below who do a commendable job of taking the sport to a larger audience.)

Being a guy in his early twenties and not being a very enthusiastic lover of cricket can put you in an isolated spot in any major city/town of India, let alone an engineering college. Especially when you have the ICC Cricket World Cup in progress, almost every statement that comes out of a guy’s mouth in an engineering college would revolve around cricketing statistics/cricketing teams/cricketing advertisements/cricketing anchors and when you want to not be a part of such a group, there are fair chances that you might be considered an alien who had been made to land at Rajasthan.

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A case in example:

One of my friends in a regular WhatsApp conversation asked me last week if I was looking forward to February 22 and I replied that I had been waiting for this month's 22^nd for a pretty long time. He asked me who, in my opinion, would win and I replied that a victory for ‘Birdman’ would make me happier but ‘Boyhood’ had a pretty good chance of winning after having been shot over a period of twelve years ('Birdman' actually did manage to win - Hurray!). It was only in his next message that contained a few 2 syllabled and 3 syllabled Tamil curse words that I understood that he had been talking about the ODI match between India and South Africa whereas I had been talking about the Academy Awards. And after I explained him the confusion, his next message read “Periya ulaga cinema*@$&* ivaru! Feb 22 na naan match pathi thaan pesraen nu unnaku therla?”. When having to deal with such situations, you need to be very careful with your next reply. If you fail to be so and send a reply explaining in detail that Academy Awards actually deal with American cinema and not world cinema per sé, there is no use complaining later for a message that you received from your friend which if typed here would amount to two entire lines of special characters.

****

Being in a hostel when a cricket match between India and Pakistan (or any opponent, for that matter) is played makes things much more worse. You would be a happy person only if you did any of these two:

• Join the group in your hostel that is watching the live online streaming of the cricket match and keeps growing in size by a member every 10 minutes, shouting and hooting, for every ‘boundary’/’sixer’ an Indian batsman scores and every wicket the opponent team looses  
• Sign your name in the ‘Out-Sign’ register of your hostel and board a bus to the nearby town to explore its streets (which would most likely be empty due to the match, making it more convenient)

If you decide to do something other than these two options like deciding to stay in your room and watch a documentary based on the 21 years of filmmaking of Richard Linklater, you are very likely to get an expression from your hostel-mates (who step into your room to get an update on the score they had missed while having lunch) which is an equivalent to the one your mother would give when she catches you eating a handful of paruppu saadham that had been given to you to feed your 3 year old cousin. And of course, you would not have a choice but to give your hostel-mates the same sheepish smile that you would give your mother conveying indirectly that it was your first handful.

Caution also needs to be taken while drinking water on such days at the hostel as you never know when a sudden cheer might erupt from the match-watching-group that would make you spill the water on your face, especially into your nose, which might lead to your making a ‘pig-face’ for the next one hour.

Having been daunted by such threats, when you decide to sit down and watch a cricket match between India and South Africa on the television at your home and try to become a cricket lover (saying people that cricket does not matter without Sachin does not seem to have the same impact it had in the first half of 2014), the unexpected might actually happen, at least when the match is being watched on a Tamil channel with the commentary in Tamil.

“Pitch’a nallaa paarunga. Anganga evalo pacha pullu irukku nu paarunga!”  – when this is the statement that you hear as the game begins, would you be tempted to abandon watching the game? 

You would have gotten an unexpected incentive to watch it instead.

After all, where else do you get to hear Shikhar Dhawan called ‘Victoria maapilai’ and Imran Tahir called ‘Ulagam suttrum vaaliban’?

And as the match progresses and Shikhar Dhawan hits a ‘sixer’ and a ‘boundary’ on consecutive balls, you make it a point to remember the shots to mention it proudly to your friends at college as a validation to your having watched the game which is only made more easier by the commentary that follows – “Namma aalu ippa semma veri la irukaaru paarunga. Avaru bat ku bathil aruvaa, kathi vechu vilayaaditu irukaaru! Last ball’a aruvaa vechi velaasina maari velaasi thalinaaru. Intha ball’a chinna kathi vechu theetra maari wicket-keeper thalaiku mela theetitaaru! ”.

But if you believe that you have heard the best, you would be absolutely wrong. Because, the best would come about 30 minutes later when a commentator would say “Minaadi mega mootama irunthuchu! Aana ippa veyil nallaave adikka aarambichuruchu! ” and the other commentator would try to joke saying that “Neenga sariyaa sonninga! Aana minaadi mega mootama irunthathuku oru kaaranam irukku nu nenaikaren. Indian innings paakanum nu megangaluku ku kuda aasa vanthathu thaan athukku kaaranam. Athaan Indian innings mudinja odane megangal marainju veyil adikuthu!”.

#Respect #AbsoluteRespect

#PinnitingaPonga #KiliiKiliiKilii

#Awestruck #Dumbfounded #Speechless #Flabbergasted

(If not for hash-tags, how else would you describe such statements?!)

Anyways, after 3 more hours filled with memorable statements like “80,000 Indian supporters minaadi South African batsman’ku kannu maraika thaan seiyum, kaadhu adaikka thaan seiyum! ” and “Soodu patta poonai maari egiri gudhichu antha batsman defensive shot aadinaaru! ” leading to stomach-aching-laughter and occasional face-palm moments, the match would end and you would make note of the scorecard carefully in order to vomit it out during the discussion amongst your friends at college.

But as you keep trying to get the scorecard into your head, a painful thought might strike you – How nice would it have been if Tamil commentary had been facilitated long back?

It would have given you a reason to love cricket in addition to Sachin.

It would have, more importantly, saved you the pain of having to suffer from water being accidentally poured into your nose.

*@* - Try holding such a face for an hour. You would probably understand the feeling. 

Food for thought - II

Excess results in luxury which, for its part, never fails to create ignorance/negligence.

How then to imbibe the value? 
By imposing a hardship? By enforcing a necessity?

The humanity in us would triumph only when the need is felt even when there is not a need to.