Ranjit Kulkarni's Blog, page 10

Reasons to Write a Book

Hundreds of books get published everyday. Maybe thousands.

And most of them don’t sell more than ten copies. Some not even that many.

Yet, no one who has ever written a book regrets that they wrote one. So what are the reasons to write a book?

I came up with a few. Here is the list:

It is a great way of self expression, especially for introverts

You have a story or a few stories to tell others

It clarifies your thoughts when you put them out in words

You leave something for the world after you are gone

Maybe your next generation could use the legacy

No one can tell you what to put into words, it’s fully your body of work

It is a good way to pass time and keep brains sharp when older

Even if it is just a hobby, it doesn’t take much money unlike some others

Publishing a book is fairly easy if you decide to do it yourself

You will become less afraid of failure when you give the world your book

It might become a bestseller and you will become rich and famous

You have an intellectual asset that can increase in value over time

And finally, a 3-in-1 reason: You like writing, you can and you want to write a book. So why not?

Perfect. Or Nothing: Jigneshbhai and Swami

“This ad says Jockey. Or Nothing,” Jigneshbhai started our coffee chat the other day looking at this ad in a magazine. Swami and I wondered why he was looking at these kind of ads in a cafe. But he was engrossed in it.

“The idea is to tell their target audience that they should not settle for anything other than Jockey, isn’t it?” he asked.

Swami and I nodded. Swami had a smile on his face. Though Swami wasn’t much into advertising, he might have been a user of that brand, I guessed. “Because they claim Jockey is as perfect as it can get,” Jigneshbhai added. “And it is meant for people who want everything perfect.”

“It is an enviable brand whose customers have such exalted preferences,” Swami added with an exalted vocabulary.

“For all you know, it might just be a good ad that makes its consumers feel good about themselves,” Jigneshbhai remarked, playing the devil’s advocate to Swami. I could see a frown emerge on Swami’s forehead.

“But it is quite a good brand,” Swami argued. “I have used many of their products for years,” he confessed.

“I guessed so,” Jigneshbhai said with a smile. “But is it perfect?”

I watched Swami get lost in thought this time. “Well.. umm.. it is better than others. It is expensive, so it better be.. But.. ”

“It is not perfect..,” Jigneshbhai completed Swami mid-sentence.

“Well.. true.. not perfect.. perfect.. in that sense.,” Swami agreed.

“Because the reality is that there is nothing perfect in this world, in an absolute sense,” Jigneshbhai asserted. Swami and I watched our wise friend waiting to see if he had anything more to say. “Yet, in this race for perfection, sometimes we end up doing nothing. What a pity!” Jigneshbhai added, and then let us dwell in the silence.

And I thought, as might Swami have, that he was right, after all, like always. How often had I shelved a story or an article, especially in early days, because I thought it wasn’t perfect! How many times had Swami not invested in the markets because the timing wasn’t perfect! We stared at each other and seemed to read each other’s thoughts.

“We hold ourselves to such a high standard that sometimes it becomes a pretext to do nothing,” Jigneshbhai broke us out of our reverie this time. I nodded my head and started sipping my coffee. “What else do we hold to such standards in our life?” he added.

“Almost nothing else,” Swami said. “Nothing we purchase is perfect.”

“No house, no car, no appliance is perfect,” Jigneshbhai said.

“No piece of clothing fits perfectly (not all the time!),” Swami added.

“No employee we hire is perfect.”

“No customer that we work with is perfect.”

“Not even our spouse or children are perfect, however much we may love them.”

“Our families are not perfect.”

“Our leaders and representatives are far from perfect.”

“And even this coffee is not perfect.”

“Neither is this muffin.”

I felt like stopping my friends and getting them out of their duel. The point was made, I felt like saying. Move on. But I didn’t have to do it because the wealthy man in the sprawling bungalow who had been listening to our conversation from the adjacent table, walked across to ours.

“A finished imperfect product is far better than an incomplete product waiting for perfection,” he said. “If you find someone who doesn’t bring much out into the world, look for the mindset of perfect or nothing.”

Now that seemed like perfect advice. Close to perfect, maybe.

***

The post Perfect. Or Nothing: Jigneshbhai and Swami appeared first on Ranjit Kulkarni.

Different Shades: Short Story

I shuddered when my class teacher shouted again, “Eat the green vegetables, children.” She had a foot ruler in her hand as she went around the classroom staring at children holding on to their plates on their benches during the lunch recess.

I didn’t have any greens in my plate even today. I was alarmed as she got closer to my desk. I wanted to be a ‘good girl’ and, in a state of panic, picked up, whatever I could find and started plonking it down my mouth. The blue or grey or whatever dry curry, and those yucky tasting reddish marbles that called themselves vegetables found their way into my stomach.

“Eat those greens out there,” she pointed towards my plate. I deciphered the dish she seemed to be pointing at, but my bench partner next to me nudged me with her arm to take the vegetable next to it. I had no nerve to argue and, even though I hated the taste, I put it in my mouth. I heaved a sigh of relief as madam moved ahead of our bench.

But it was only for that day. The day was over, and the next one arose. Madam started her lunch recess rounds again. This time she went around the class shouting, “Eat the reds now, children.”

It was time again for more panic. I had to tell my mother to get this right. I didn’t have reds in my plate today. But the foot ruler in my class teacher’s hand and her loud thundering voice left no chance for me to say anything, lest it leave an imprint or a mark on my hand or my back. I was a ‘good girl’ so I followed all her instructions and ate whatever she pointed at.

It was only after a few more rounds during the lunch recesses that week and a few foot ruler imprints on my arm that the four of us – myself, my bench partner, my class teacher and my mother – realized that I was colour blind.

***

On Rituals

Swami Vivekananda on Rituals:

In the world’s ritualistic symbols we have an expression of the religious thought of humanity.

It is easy to say that there is no use of rituals and temples and all such paraphernalia; every baby says that in modern times. But it must be easy for all to see that those who worship inside a temple are in many respects different from those who will not worship there.

The association of particular temples, rituals, and other concrete forms with particular religions has a tendency to bring into the minds of the followers of those religions the thoughts for which those concrete things stand as symbols.

It is not wise to ignore rituals and symbology altogether.

From time to time, there have been reformers in every religion who have stood against all symbols and rituals. But vain has been their opposition, for so long as man will remain as he is, the vast majority will always want something concrete to hold on to, something around which, as it were, to place their ideas, something which will be the centre of all the thought-forms in their minds.

There are three parts in every great and recognised religion. First, there is the philosophy which presents the whole scope of that religion, setting forth its basic principles, the goal and the means of reaching it. The second part is mythology, which is philosophy made concrete. It consists of legends relating to the lives of men, or of supernatural beings, and so forth. The third part is the ritual. This is still more concrete and is made up of forms and ceremonies, various physical attitudes, flowers and incense, and many other things, that appeal to the senses. In these consists the ritual.

The lowest stage is that of ritualism, when abstract ideas are almost impossible, and are dragged down to the lowest plane, and made concrete. Forms come into play, and, along with them, various symbols.

If, therefore, any one says that symbols, rituals, and forms are to be kept for ever, he is wrong; but if he says, that these symbols and rituals are a help to the growth of the soul, in its low and undeveloped state, he is right.

The repetition of names, the rituals, the forms, and the symbols, all these various things are for the purification of the soul.

Customs of one age, of one Yuga, have not been the customs of another, and as Yuga comes after Yuga, they will still have to change.

The impersonal idea is very destructive, it takes away all trade from the priests, churches, and temples.

You may build a temple in which to worship God, and that may be good, but a better one, a much higher one, already exists, the human body.

The spirit is the goal, and not matter. Forms, images, bells, candles, books, churches, temples, and all holy symbols are very good, very helpful to the growing plant of spirituality, but thus far and no farther.

The moment I have realised God sitting in the temple of every human body, the moment I stand in reverence before every human being and see God in him — that moment I am free from bondage, everything that binds vanishes, and I am free. This is the most practical of all worship.

Are you unselfish? That is the question. If you are, you will be perfect without reading a single religious book, without going into a single church or temple.

Every being is the temple of the Most High; if you can see that, good, if not, spirituality has yet to come to you.

This is one great idea to learn and to hold on to, this idea of realisation. This turmoil and fight and difference in religions will cease only when we understand that religion is not in books and temples. It is an actual perception.

The living God is within you, and yet you are building churches and temples and believing all sorts of imaginary nonsense. The only God to worship is the human soul in the human body.

***

Weekend Chores: Short Story

The wedding was fixed for Wednesday. There was lots of shopping to do once her official leave began on Monday. The weekend was going to be busy for Saanvi. While her fiancé Aarav was away for his final bachelor weekend, she had a look at her to-do list.

The backyard of Saanvi and Aarav’s house needed fresh laying. That was high on her list of chores. It would be a good time to meet the cute devil – her ex, she thought. One last time. Maybe she should get some fresh plants and grass on the way back. That would kill two birds in one stone, she decided. She locked the main door of her house, checked her purse, and stepped out, keeping the latch to the backyard open.

After her return, that afternoon and evening was the most that she had dug on one single day. The fresh soil, the new special fertilizer, the shovel and the spades, planting the seeds, leveling the soil and laying the grass on top – all of it was hard work.

But just before the sun went down, she had finished it. She stood staring at their newly laid backyard garden. Aarav would be happy, Saanvi felt. She was satisfied and felt at peace with herself, anyway. She was all set for Wednesday.

“The devil lies at rest here. So much for rejecting my proposal,” she sighed.

***

Dhritarashtra: The End of Attachment

Even though he was physically blind, Dhritarashtra was the real spectator of the war of Kurukshetra. He was a mute spectator metaphorically because he watched it happen without doing what he could to prevent it. But, in a literal sense, he was a real spectator because he actually watched it live, day to day. His aide Sanjay was responsible for that.

The story goes that before the war, Ved Vyas visited and offered Dhritarashtra the option of being bestowed with divine vision so that, even though he can’t be physically present, he could watch the war in which his entire clan, and especially, his sons fought. But he rejected that blessing saying that he would rather remain blind than watch quarrels in his own family. The real reason was, like always, he didn’t want to see Duryodhana and his sons being killed, which he feared would happen. At the same time, he didn’t want to give up on the blessing, due to fear of missing out the potential news of victory for them. Like always, he wanted the best of both worlds. Therefore, he asked Ved Vyas to bestow Sanjay with that vision.

Another instructive piece on Dhritarashtra and his mindset is when the Bhagavad-Gita is spoken just before the war starts. It begins with Dhritarashtra asking what his people and the sons of Pandu who have gathered to fight are doing on the battlefield. Firstly he refers to sons of Pandu as different from his people, which leaves no doubts about which side he is backing. Secondly, what would warriors do on a battlefield other than fighting? Then why the question? Scholars have interpreted that to mean that he had a lingering doubt that his sons might be lulled into a truce due to the inherent auspicious nature of the battlefield, namely Kurukshetra. He actually didn’t want that kind of last minute possibility of peace and wanted to confirm that the fight was on.

Nothing of that sort happened. If at all anyone had any urges of renunciation, it was Arjuna, which Dhritarashtra wouldn’t have objected to. It is worth also noting that, in a sense, the Bhagavad-Gita is not just a conversation between Krishna and Arjuna but also between Sanjay and Dhritarashtra as it is being relayed live by Sanjay. While the Song of God changed the mindset of Arjuna and impelled him to fight for dharma, it also convinced Sanjay that victory was sure to be on the side where Arjuna and Krishna fight together. But it didn’t light any fires in Dhritarashtra. Why is that, one may ask, even though he heard the same things? Scholars have again interpreted that to mean that even God’s song will not raise a man’s mind if it is weighed down by his own attachments. The decision to raise yourself has to come from your own free will. Even God cannot force a man with attachments to turn to Him.

As the war progressed, Dhritarashtra followed it closely. Hope against hope, he wished his sons to emerge victorious, but it was merely wishful thinking. All his hopes were dashed as all his sons were killed by the end of the war, most importantly, Duryodhana himself. All of them, as per the vow, were killed by Bhima.

His grief was uncontrollable as he collapsed at the news of what he had been warned of all his life. But in the aftermath of the war, his anger was even greater than his grief. That was because even though he had lost everything, he had not lost his attachment. Krishna knew that when a man’s greatest attachments are still intact, and the objects of his attachment are lost, his mind is filled with anger. And that anger is directed towards those he thinks are responsible for his loss. That is what happened when the Pandavas visited Dhritarashtra after the war to seek his blessings to start their rule of Hastinapur.

While he met and embraced Yudhishthira and Arjuna like usual, when it came to Bhima, his mind was overcome by anger. Knowing fully well what was in his mind, Krishna stopped Bhima and instead pushed a statue of Bhima ahead of Dhritarashtra. The blind king couldn’t make out the difference and crushed the statue in his embrace in the surge of anger. It was only later that Krishna told him that he should have no reason to have anger towards Bhima or any of the Pandavas as his sons were responsible for their own deaths. They had attracted their destiny by their own actions, hence he should forgive the Pandavas.

Gandhari also angry at that time, directed her wrath towards Krishna. She said it was easy for him to say so because he hadn’t lost any of his family. She cursed Krishna that, like her, he would also lose all the members of his dynasty, the Yadus, in infighting and live to see it. The Lord accepted her curse as part of His own arrangement.

Dhritarashtra had lost everything by then, and this was when he finally lost his attachment to his son. But like earlier, even that loss of attachment was temporary remorse which lasted for a few days.

Yudhishthira, being the virtuous man that he was, announced that, even though he was king, all royal privileges would continue for Dhritarashtra. These privileges were accepted and enjoyed by Dhritarashtra, despite being responsible for the war indirectly and losing it. It was because his attachment to royal comforts hadn’t gone away. It took the wisdom of Vidur to pull the right triggers and push the buttons of self respect in Dhritarashtra using harsh words. He held the mirror in front of Dhritarashtra, and told him that he was worse than a dog that lives on the leftovers of his master despite the master beating him with a whip. He urged him to have some self respect and give up his attachment to the kingdom and the throne of Hastinapur, and let Yudhishthira rule in peace.

It was at that time that Dhritarashtra’s eyes finally opened and the blind king along with Gandhari, Vidur and Kunti, retired to the forests.

Dhritarashtra is a classic example of a weak man who is not inherently wicked, but is pushed and pulled at will by his attachments to act in wicked and wily ways. Unless he overcame them, he was bound to them. Even the Lord couldn’t help him despite giving him His vision. He finally lost his attachments, but after he had lost everything.

***

Make a Choice

It is assumed that you want to take the test. It is presumed that you have to make a choice in the options provided.

Do you want your drink hot or cold – a latte with whipped cream or an ice cold Frappuccino?

What would you rate us on a scale of 1 to 10?

Customers who bought this also bought one of the following.

These are the five best performing equity funds over the past one year period.

Make a choice out of the above.

In the olden times, there used to be ‘None of the above.’ Not any more. You have to make a choice. So we are told.

But you don’t have to. Not making a choice is also an option.

In test cricket, a good batsman often leaves the ball alone. You don’t have to swing at every ball. Well left, the purists used to say in olden times.

Sometimes, you should make that choice. And pat yourself on the back. Well left.

***

You should have a YouTube channel

Or a Facebook author page. Or an Amazon author profile. Or a Spotify account. Take your pick.

Creators keep getting told this all the time. Yes, it is true that with all these platforms, based on whether you are a writer, a musician, a singer, a painter, or any other creator, you get ready access to publish your work. And potential access to millions.

But as a creator, you must remember that these are not publishers the way they used to be, or music labels or painting galleries. Or whoever else who, in the earlier world, was responsible to curate work from artists and present it to the world by taking a risk on the artist so to speak.

These are platforms where there is no curation. They really don’t care. The more the merrier. They are not working for the creator. They are working for the audience. Because the audience is the product. They pay for the platform. And the platform offers them whatever they happen to choose, based on algorithms. Your work may not appear.

That is the reality. As a creator, you are stuck between the traditional gatekeeper publisher who wants to run his business and hence reduce risks by going with well-known names; and the open system platform who wants your content which will likely get lost in a forest where more the trees the merrier because that’s when the algorithm has its value for the platform’s user.

So as a creator, options are quite limited. The only real option is to earn your own audience and preserve them with consistent good quality work, and then hope that either the gatekeepers or the platforms notice you. Really.

***

 

The post You should have a YouTube channel appeared first on Ranjit Kulkarni.

Baby on My Back: Short Story

I bent my back and picked up the big grey brick of stone on the ground with my hand. I stood straight and put it on the under-construction layer of bricks and stones in front of me.

I felt a soft foot kicking on my back and smiled. I completed what I was doing. The stone brick had to be placed correctly. It was a big rectangular cube that fitted well in a slot on top of the two feet wall. The layers of bricks and stone would together form a solid foundation for the small bridge-road. That road would connect our village and adjoining areas with the highway to the mountain pass.

“Don’t pour too much cement between the stones,” the contractor shouted at the woman next to me. She was tasked with the cementing. I let her do her job and focused on picking the next stone.

As I bent down, I felt a slight niggle on my lower back. I held my hip with my right hand and massaged it a little. A small guggle from my shoulder put a smile on my face. It eased the pain, but only slightly. I pulled the cloth sling around my waist and tightened it. I patted her bottom so that she doesn’t sink into the sling. I pulled her tiny hands around my neck. “Hold on here,” I told her. I tied the knot on the upper portion of the cloth sling. Then I bent down again to lift another stone.

“Wait, let the Army vehicles pass,” the contractor shouted. All of us labourers stopped in our tracks to let them go. I let that stone stay on the ground and stood straight in an instant. I waited for the army vehicles to come closer with bated breath.

The contractor signalled to the army truck driver to move ahead. The green truck approached us rolling its wheels in slow motion, as if treading with care over the tenuous road surface that was still under construction. The driver in uniform was careful that his tyres didn’t spoil the shaky road that the villagers working for the army’s border roads unit were in the process of building. The army has always been good to us villagers near the mountains. We keep them in good humour too.

The army vehicles and their steady gentle movement over the fragile terrain reminded me of him. It was much like he used to be, soft and gentle, with me, handling me with loving care and tenderness.

This time of the year was the time when the army vehicles filled their supplies from our village and the surrounding areas. In another month, it would start snowing. We would be cut off for the winter season till spring started. Much like I have been cut-off from him. But it has been more than just one season. Hasn’t it been a year? Or more? Yes – more than two. She will turn two next month.

Time has no meaning when your life is empty. A moment, an hour, a day, a month. They are all the same. I let them pass with their treacherous slowness. Waiting.

He was always gentle with me, ever since we were growing up together in our village. I knew ever since we held our hands and went to school together that we would end up together all our lives. Everyone in our village knew. But I knew that one day he would end up in the army. Everyone knew.

No one stopped us. We ambled across the small streams, the cold waters and the icy hills in our neighbourhood. We held hands tight rubbing them over the hot fire in the cold winters in our hut.

My mother always told me that when the winters come, you must light the fire. But that shouldn’t stop you from enjoying the summer while it lasts. I remember all our summers together, especially the last one before he joined the army and went away to his posting.

The green army truck came closer. It was on the opposite lane. It made a lot of noise while it rode over the tenuous road. When it passed me by, I peeped inside the driver’s cabin. My eyes searched for him. The driver was a middle-aged man. He flashed a wise smile. Next to him were two young sepoys. I turned my eyes to the ground. I could sense them laughing when the truck went ahead.

I know a young woman like me should not stare at men. But I didn’t care. I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss him, just in case. He had promised me he would be back much earlier. It has been a long time since he went away and left me all alone.

I raised my face and turned it again to the truck. In its storage area were some bags of goods. Next to them stood a few soldiers in uniform. They were tall and had beards. The one I was looking for wasn’t there. In one glance, it was clear to me that this was not the truck.

So I shifted my attention to the next one. And the next one. And the next one. Army trucks come in groups when they do. I didn’t want to miss any of them. There were eleven of them this time.

All my fellow labourers sat on the perch next to the mountain cliff and waited for them to pass. They knew why I didn’t join them there. I knew some of them laughed at me. I felt some of them, the ones close to us, felt sorry for me. I didn’t need any of that derision or sympathy. I didn’t bother.

I turned back to wink at my baby. She didn’t judge me. I stood on the edge of the road, next to our construction site, peeping into each truck, making sure I don’t miss him, by any chance. I peeped into all the army trucks as they passed. Today was not the day. Again. Like so many days in the past. But I don’t lose hope. I am certain that one day our eyes would meet again.

Yet I wondered where was he? Why did he not return? Why has he left me alone with our baby?

As the last of those eleven trucks passed, the contractor signalled everyone to get back to work.

I tapped my baby on her bottom again. I pulled her up before she slid any further in my cloth sling. She was going to fall asleep. Her head rested between my neck and shoulder. The soft breeze that the passing army trucks got with them had that effect on her. I tied the knot on the upper portion of my sling again. I remember a few days back when I had missed it, she almost toppled over.

Her slow, silent breath on the back of my neck was enough solace for me. I turned back and kissed her forehead. I am sure that one day her father would come back and do the same. Till then, I will lay the road for him to return. I picked up the stone I had left on the ground and laid it on the pile. With all my strength and focus. And with my baby on my back.

***

You should have a YouTube channel

Or a Facebook author page. Or an Amazon author profile. Or a Spotify account. Take your pick.

Creators keep getting told this all the time. Yes, it is true that with all these platforms, based on whether you are a writer, a musician, a singer, a painter, or any other creator, you get ready access to publish your work. And potential access to millions.

But as a creator, you must remember that these are not publishers the way they used to be, or music labels or painting galleries. Or whoever else who, in the earlier world, was responsible to curate work from artists and present it to the world by taking a risk on the artist so to speak.

These are platforms where there is no curation. They really don’t care. The more the merrier. They are not working for the creator. They are working for the audience. Because the audience is the product. They pay for the platform. And the platform offers them whatever they happen to choose, based on algorithms. Your work may not appear.

That is the reality. As a creator, you are stuck between the traditional gatekeeper publisher who wants to run his business and hence reduce risks by going with well-known names; and the open system platform who wants your content which will likely get lost in a forest where more the trees the merrier because that’s when the algorithm has its value for the platform’s user.

So as a creator, options are quite limited. The only real option is to earn your own audience and preserve them with consistent good quality work, and then hope that either the gatekeepers or the platforms notice you. Really.

***