Farouk Gulsara's Blog, page 109
June 7, 2019
Legend or tricksters?
Meet the Night Runners (BBC documentary; 2019)
There is an East African tale amongst the Luo people of spirits who wonder at night to disturb households. These 'night runners' throw sand and stones on their roofs, make rattling sounds on their zinc roofs and make eerie sounds in the deadpan of the night.
The BBC African crew did an exposé recently of this phenomenon.
These 'night runners' are just people who like to create mischief and get a thrill out of scaring the hell of their victims. They do not steal peoples' properties but sometimes get caught and get beaten up for it. Because it is humiliating to be labelled a 'night runners' at the risk of being chased out of the village, they end up in debts trying to pay off their captors.
The 'night runners' allege it is a first within their families as they had seen their fathers, mothers and grandparents do the same. At one point, it looks more like an addiction that is difficult to break. After being exposed or injured, they insist on quitting only to return their old ways in no time.
Toma Bay, Western Kenya.
Lake Victoria in the background.
Using night vision cameras and interviewing runners as well as their victims, the documentary brings its viewers into the dark and secret world of 'night runners'. Using drones to film to the landscape of Toma Bay, in Western Kenya, the capital of 'night runners', the crew managed to give us a close-up view of remote East African picturesque landscape as well as the view of Lake Victoria.
Unfortunately, there are allegations that the runners who appeared in the recordings were paid actors. A middle-aged self-confessed runner came forth later to say that she was invited to play the part. Others insist that 'night runners' are supposed to run naked unlike the ones seen in the secret filming footages where there were dressed in white men's clothes and there appeared new, suggesting further that it was staged.
The crew is trying to tell that the 'night runners' are just pranksters who are addicted to creating mischiefs while the people insist it delves into mysticism and the dark secrets of the African past.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
There is an East African tale amongst the Luo people of spirits who wonder at night to disturb households. These 'night runners' throw sand and stones on their roofs, make rattling sounds on their zinc roofs and make eerie sounds in the deadpan of the night.
The BBC African crew did an exposé recently of this phenomenon.
These 'night runners' are just people who like to create mischief and get a thrill out of scaring the hell of their victims. They do not steal peoples' properties but sometimes get caught and get beaten up for it. Because it is humiliating to be labelled a 'night runners' at the risk of being chased out of the village, they end up in debts trying to pay off their captors.
The 'night runners' allege it is a first within their families as they had seen their fathers, mothers and grandparents do the same. At one point, it looks more like an addiction that is difficult to break. After being exposed or injured, they insist on quitting only to return their old ways in no time.
Toma Bay, Western Kenya.Lake Victoria in the background.
Using night vision cameras and interviewing runners as well as their victims, the documentary brings its viewers into the dark and secret world of 'night runners'. Using drones to film to the landscape of Toma Bay, in Western Kenya, the capital of 'night runners', the crew managed to give us a close-up view of remote East African picturesque landscape as well as the view of Lake Victoria.
Unfortunately, there are allegations that the runners who appeared in the recordings were paid actors. A middle-aged self-confessed runner came forth later to say that she was invited to play the part. Others insist that 'night runners' are supposed to run naked unlike the ones seen in the secret filming footages where there were dressed in white men's clothes and there appeared new, suggesting further that it was staged.
The crew is trying to tell that the 'night runners' are just pranksters who are addicted to creating mischiefs while the people insist it delves into mysticism and the dark secrets of the African past.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
June 4, 2019
no bad ending...
The latest season of Games of Throne has ended. How do the die-hard fans respond? They totally went ballistic, demanding a re-write of the script and re-shooting of the whole season. The viewers, mostly from Generation-Y and millennials, were brought up believing that they can have everything their way. All they have to do is ask. Nobody is a loser. Living under the umbrella of their helicopter parents who rewarded mediocrity, for them, it is their right. Win, they must, they think they get away with murder. For them, it is their way or the highway. There is only one way, their way. And they want not now but yesterday. What really matters is their desires. Others can just get lost. And they have just the perfect way to air their grievances, their dirty linen to air, in public domain.We have to understand that not everything in life is under our control. We sometimes cannot even control ourselves. Definitely, creative juices cannot be contained. Just because you pay for the media control, it does not mean you control the storyline. Come to think of it, they already have that. It is called interactive TV. It is like a multiple choice response to how the viewer wants the story to progress!
Nietzche rightly predicted that Man of the future will spend a vast amount of time in appreciating, not the great feats of mankind but at their trivialities. Maybe like hunting for Pikachu monsters or keeping up with the Kardashians.
This evolution is inevitable when the day to day issues, like the next meal, basic amenities and education are available at will. As it is human nature to be fickle and bicker, to keep the neurons firing, they ponder on irrelevant issues like choosing the right eye-shadow or eavesdropping into others' private lives just for the kick of it!
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June 1, 2019
Me into me!
To the ignoramus, this YouTube clip would be a joke. Laced with a thick South Indian accent, impregnated with assertive gestures and complete with protruding eye movements for special effects, it has been making its rounds in many social media outlets many times over for hearty laughs and cynical smiles.
Added on with the fact that this holy man was once caught on a CCTV to be in close proximity with a disciple, this flick becomes more enticing. Because of his unholy conduct, in a single brush, all his seemingly profound sermons have come to nought.
If one were to listen to heart what Swami Nityananda is saying, depending on one’s understanding of life, its origin and purpose, it could not be denied that his speech carries a deeper meaning.
He is talking about the Atma (soul) that is within all of us that is part of the Brahman as mentioned in the Vedic scriptures. The souls of all beings are linked in a different realm. To quote a line from Beatles’ song ‘I am the Walrus’, ‘I am he as you are he as you are me. And we are all together’, we are all one.
Of course, he is talking about the Brahman which is in all of us. The Master Intellect that Avicenna propagates that is part and parcel of every living being. In essence, the reference is to that entity defined as 'Consciousness' that makes Man a thinking being; that something worry, ruminate, plan a future and develop evil thoughts! It is also the one that builds an ambition and thinks beyond the instant gratification. Unlike Pavlov's dog, Man does not merely salivate but ponder why the lunch is free.
In another clip, the Swami lectures about rocket propulsion energy and how ancient aliens with their understanding about centrifugal and centripetal forces flew the mythical Vimanas, the intergalactic flying vessel. In yet another, he introduces quantum physics. Quantum biology explains the rationale behind prana healing, faith healing and the idiopathic nature of some cases of infertility which deems untreatable by modern sciences but not by the men in saffron robes.
In the preacher's mind, he must be thinking of a quote from the Bible, "Don't speak in the ears of a fool, for he will despise the wisdom of your words." To the uninitiated, it is a comedy. To the thinker, he finds sense in the gobbledegook.
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May 30, 2019
Can truth be stranger than fiction?
Body Of Lies (2008)
The talk about this film came about after the recent catastrophes in Christchurch and Colombo. What started of possibly the work of a lone wolf disillusioned wacko or deviant religious groups may actually be hiding the deep-rooted tentacles of international psyops.
In the case of Christchurch shooting in a mosque, it may not just the work of a lone wolf going on a shooting spree because he cannot stand what he sees around him, but cannot do it in his home because of tight gun laws but in New Zealand instead. He may be just a pawn in a greater chess game involving players at very high levels via remote control.
And the bombing of the churches in Sri Lanka is not just due to vengeance to the Christchurch mishap. A disgruntled Sri Lankan Muslim did not suddenly decide to be a human bomb to settle a score. Investigations slowly reveal that the perpetrators originate outside the country and gleam in joy seeing the devastation, creating anarchy and benefitting financially by fueling the feud.
Everyone has a theory to explain why each thing happens. Every narration seems to have its own gravitas. The problem of verisimilitude (truthlikeness) is the problem of articulating what it takes for one false theory to be closer to the truth than another false theory.
This 2008 espionage film shows how politics is manipulated by the powers that be. The rich and powerful convince the masses through their narration. Set in the Middle East, CIA uses their intelligence and undercover agents to infiltrate, manipulate and assassinate people at will just to keep the American interest in check. Democracy, freedom and justice have nothing to do with it. History has proven that what we thought as creative writing may be just a reflection of what happens on the ground.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
The talk about this film came about after the recent catastrophes in Christchurch and Colombo. What started of possibly the work of a lone wolf disillusioned wacko or deviant religious groups may actually be hiding the deep-rooted tentacles of international psyops.In the case of Christchurch shooting in a mosque, it may not just the work of a lone wolf going on a shooting spree because he cannot stand what he sees around him, but cannot do it in his home because of tight gun laws but in New Zealand instead. He may be just a pawn in a greater chess game involving players at very high levels via remote control.
And the bombing of the churches in Sri Lanka is not just due to vengeance to the Christchurch mishap. A disgruntled Sri Lankan Muslim did not suddenly decide to be a human bomb to settle a score. Investigations slowly reveal that the perpetrators originate outside the country and gleam in joy seeing the devastation, creating anarchy and benefitting financially by fueling the feud.
Everyone has a theory to explain why each thing happens. Every narration seems to have its own gravitas. The problem of verisimilitude (truthlikeness) is the problem of articulating what it takes for one false theory to be closer to the truth than another false theory.
This 2008 espionage film shows how politics is manipulated by the powers that be. The rich and powerful convince the masses through their narration. Set in the Middle East, CIA uses their intelligence and undercover agents to infiltrate, manipulate and assassinate people at will just to keep the American interest in check. Democracy, freedom and justice have nothing to do with it. History has proven that what we thought as creative writing may be just a reflection of what happens on the ground.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
May 27, 2019
Results justify means?
Petta (2019)
Before Hanuman and Sugriva could help Rama with his rescuing work, they had to fulfil specific tasks in the Vanara kingdom. Sugriva's twin brother, Vali had forcibly taken over his throne and his wife. On his defence, Vali feels that Sugriva had betrayed him. Vali had previously gone to fight a demon deep into a cave. After not hearing about his whereabouts, Sugriva assumes Vali to be dead, closed the cave door to trap the beast and took over as the ruler. Sure enough, the returning Vali was not pleased. He not only fought back the realm as well as his wife too.
Vali had obtained a boon through Brahma who happily bestowed upon him the power to draw half of the energy of his opponents who should encounter him face to face.
Rama has to help out in return for the Vanara army.
To defeat the mighty Vali, Rama had to resort to what some warriors would call a dirty tactic. He instructed Sugriva to start a fight with Vali and from behind the covers of a tree, he mortally wounded Vali. Sita was rescued and blah blah.
The movie took this part of Ramayana to justify one’s seemingly ungentlemanly conduct to satisfy one’s personal intention. They seem to say that the outcome supersedes the means. Achieve your cause at all expense.
Petta is another masala movie that has too much senseless violence and thrives on the past meaningless mannerisms and ‘stunts’ that made Rajinikanth famous in his early days.
The real hidden message of this movie is politics. As we are aware, Rajni’s recent dabble in politics is frowned upon by citizens of Tamil Nadu. The thought of him associating with Modi and the BJP does not seem to go well. His foes describe him of selling out the Tamilian struggles to the Central control and the Northerners. Note the characterisation of politicians from UP in the film as the baddies and how he, as the true blue Tamilian, befriends a member of the villains to defeat them at the own game.
It is definitely his political statement. Now the question is, are the voters going to buy it? https://asok22.wixsite.com/real-lesson
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
Before Hanuman and Sugriva could help Rama with his rescuing work, they had to fulfil specific tasks in the Vanara kingdom. Sugriva's twin brother, Vali had forcibly taken over his throne and his wife. On his defence, Vali feels that Sugriva had betrayed him. Vali had previously gone to fight a demon deep into a cave. After not hearing about his whereabouts, Sugriva assumes Vali to be dead, closed the cave door to trap the beast and took over as the ruler. Sure enough, the returning Vali was not pleased. He not only fought back the realm as well as his wife too. Vali had obtained a boon through Brahma who happily bestowed upon him the power to draw half of the energy of his opponents who should encounter him face to face.
Rama has to help out in return for the Vanara army.
To defeat the mighty Vali, Rama had to resort to what some warriors would call a dirty tactic. He instructed Sugriva to start a fight with Vali and from behind the covers of a tree, he mortally wounded Vali. Sita was rescued and blah blah.
The movie took this part of Ramayana to justify one’s seemingly ungentlemanly conduct to satisfy one’s personal intention. They seem to say that the outcome supersedes the means. Achieve your cause at all expense.
Petta is another masala movie that has too much senseless violence and thrives on the past meaningless mannerisms and ‘stunts’ that made Rajinikanth famous in his early days.
The real hidden message of this movie is politics. As we are aware, Rajni’s recent dabble in politics is frowned upon by citizens of Tamil Nadu. The thought of him associating with Modi and the BJP does not seem to go well. His foes describe him of selling out the Tamilian struggles to the Central control and the Northerners. Note the characterisation of politicians from UP in the film as the baddies and how he, as the true blue Tamilian, befriends a member of the villains to defeat them at the own game.
It is definitely his political statement. Now the question is, are the voters going to buy it? https://asok22.wixsite.com/real-lesson
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
May 25, 2019
Short Story: Gandom, Gandom by Farouk Gulsara
https://kitaab.org/2019/05/25/short-story-gandom-gandom-by-farouk-gulsara/
Half a decade after the Japanese invasion, Malaya was wising up. Malayans did not believe that their colonial masters were their saviours anymore. Everyone was talking about independence and everyone was laughing a lot these days.People seemed to be in a hurry. Office workers, in long dark baggy trousers and long sleeved starched cotton shirts, wove through pedestrians, scurrying on their shiny new bicycles, ringing their bells. The cyclists appeared to be annoyed by the slow-moving bullock cart with lethargic bulls sauntering along the tarmacadam roads swishing their tails rhythmically in the tropical heat of Penang. Honking in the background on the island’s little street were the Morris Minors and the Austin multi-purpose vehicles, the latest additions to the city landscape. Oblivious to the vexation they were causing, the pullers of the bullock cart batted their lush eyelashes, seemed to mutter something into their chest and continued to drag their load at their own leisurely pace.Penang Island did not want to be left behind. Penangites of all races — Malays, Chinese, Indians and Eurasians — seemed to be of one heart trying to rebuild their town as they said it had been. The world had modernised and they wanted to keep pace. The men from the East were no liberators but squanderers of wealth. Now, the British had returned to resume pilfering the lion’s share of their loot.That year, 1952, had been declared by the Government as the year of ‘education for all’. The future inheritors of power realised if the nation was going to have self-rule, it needed people who could read and write. Truant officers were there to implement just that. Their job would be to walk around town to track down boys and girls of school-going age who were not in school.I was in standard six, and I had grand ambitions. The stories that Ma had been telling all these years had convinced me that the only way to come up in life was by getting a good education. Her oft-repeated descriptive tales of her comfortable life in her childhood rang like mantras in my ears. Many times, she had told us of Pa’s privileged childhood and how he had squandered it all away in a single generation; entertaining friends, merrymaking and gambling. No matter how hard Ma tried to put things in order, she seemed to be fighting a losing battle. She pinned her hopes on me to bring the honour back to the clan. She knew that there was no substitute for education to prosper in life.“We do not have money or property to come up in life,” she frequently repeated. “The only way to get out of this rut is to study.”My Pa had other ideas.If Ma thought that it was her duty to bring out the best in her children, Pa was just the opposite. His notion of having children was to have them serve their parents for having brought them into this world. The youngster’s duty was to pay back for their existence. In his mind, I was old enough to earn him some extra cash to get him going. I knew it was wrong, but I felt helpless.Oh, no! There he was again. From the open door at the back of the classroom, I could see him. He was walking briskly in the direction of my classroom, coming from the principal’s office. Three times already this week, Pa had come to my school. It was the same old story — that my mother was very sick, and I had to go back to take care of her. And surprisingly, my teacher was buying his crap.If only I could tell my school teacher, “Teacher, don’t trust him.” If only I could give her the real story of what was happening in the house.“No, my mother is just fine,” my mouth yearned to yell. “She is very much alive and kicking. No, she is not sick. No, she does not need my help. And yes, she will give me a nice whacking if only she comes to know what I am doing when I am supposed to be at school.”As it was only a few weeks since I had joined this school, Lutheran Primary School, I did not have many friends. I was a loner, and this chronic absence from class just made others look at me as though I was some strange creature.Time stood still. The rest of the class seemed immersed in the lesson in hand but not me. Ah Chong, Mani, Ali, Peter and others were all attending to what the teacher, Mrs Chin, taught. To me, her explanation on multiplicative functions sounded like a muffled horn from a distance.I tried not to look at Pa’s direction. I was hoping that he would just change his mind and go away. I turned to see, but I could not find him. I thought he had left only to discover that he had gone around the corner to take the stairs towards my classroom. I tried to concentrate on Mrs Chin’s lesson, but the anxiety was just too much. I could see her scribbling away on the blackboard. The squeaking of chalk on the blackboard gave an eerie background score to the drama that I endured daily. I could hardly make out her mumbling as my senses numbed in anticipation of his arrival. Like clockwork, like a boomerang that returned to its owner every time, like a recurrent nightmare, Pa kept returning.“Excuse me, teacher,” he said apologetically. I had to give it to him. In spite of his relatively low educational achievements, he had the gift of the gab and a flair for languages. My mother told me that he had had a privileged upbringing in his childhood only to lose everything in a single generation. However, he still had the gift of bossing everybody around. His excellent language skills seem to be his only inheritance from his now blemished past.Pa had a good life, at least in his childhood. Being the only heir to an up and coming industrialist in 1930s’ Malaya, he was placed high on a pedestal. His parents were too busy making money and dealing with relatives’ problems and he was left to grow with the servants. The workers gave in to all his whims and fancies. He could get away with murder. A tiny squeal here and a small tantrum there, he knew how to wind them around his little finger.Ma used to say that she heard somewhere that wealth in a family does not last more than three generations, but in Pa’s, it evaporated in only one. Pa’s parents used to be the proud owners of the tallest building in Penang which housed the once famous Dawood Restaurant where the affluent indulged in fine Indian dining. To match their wealth were fleets of cars, but now, Pa had to content himself chauffeuring others around.Even though good fortune seemed to have fled, he had not lost the art of living life to the fullest. Pa still lived in his old ways. His pockets could be empty, but his appearance had to be spick and span. Come what may, whether the dinner table was barren or it was time to buy books for school term; it was all the same to him.His brown leather shoes had to be sparkling shiny. The creases of his starched attire had to stay fresh. His hair needed grooming, and a daily shave at the barber’s was essential. He lived to eat. His palate still craved for the cuisines that he enjoyed in his childhood. Saving for a rainy day was not in his vocabulary. His philosophy seemed to work well for him — enjoy today what you may not live to enjoy tomorrow. What if tomorrow never comes?“The birds and trees grow, why can’t you? Somebody planted the seeds, and there would be someone who would come along to water them,” he repeatedly said. “You, don’t worry. Be happy.”Mrs Chin looked in my direction, all the way to the last row. I found sitting at the back of the class did well for me as it gave me space to ponder over my future. Sometimes I thought of Ma and relived all the stories that she told about her childhood and the prosperous life that my parents had in their formative years. I sometimes wondered how it must feel to be rich. I would not have to face the constant yelling at the end of the month when Ma ran out of money. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to be somebody.Mrs Chin was calling for me. The classroom suddenly became quiet. There was pin-drop silence. I could swear that everybody in the class had both their eyes focused directly on me. I could feel my cheek turn hot. I secretly wished that I could just disappear just like that. Poof!“Thamby, come, boy, come. Pack your books,” she said in a gentle voice. “Take care of your mother well. So sorry you have to miss the class. Don’t worry; I’ll teach this again tomorrow.”If only she knew, if she just knew where I was taken daily during schooling hours.It was a routine. Pa would come bundled with my home clothes into which I would change. He would take my books and uniform, pack them up like an old newspaper and shoo me to our destination, the marketplace. He thought of everything. He did not want me to stand out in the crowded marketplace in full view of the truant officers. His mission was to take me by stealth to the porridge stall so that I could help and earn. The money would go to him, of course.We approached the morning market. Housewives who came early to get their best picks of fishes and vegetables had finished their marketing and gathered around the food stalls. The food stalls were selling delicacies like hot noodles and traditional sweet cakes of a variety of colours and tastes. The stalls were strategically located in the centre of the market in plain view for all to see. Anyone who ran in just to buy a thing or two from the vegetable seller or fishmonger was bound to drop in to buy something to eat. The hit among all the stalls had to be the gandom(wheat porridge) stall.Business was brisk that morning, as usual. Many hungry mouths were waiting, salivating at the anticipation of indulging in the much-talked-about gandom of Mamak (uncle) Wahab, the well-known food vendor. Nobody knew just how long Wahab had been peddling his famous delicacies but he seemed to know everybody, the officers as well as the lowly coolies. People were quick to explain why his cooking pulled such a huge crowd. They talked about unique secret ingredients and Indian herbal intoxicants.
A bowl of gandom. Courtesy: GCIn Mamak Wahab’s stall were two large baskets. A sizeable wide-bodied aluminium pot fitted snugly into each of the baskets above a canister filled with hot burning charcoal. In the pot simmered sweet wheat porridge, gandom, cooked in coconut milk and flavoured with fragrant pandan leaves. In spite of the various aromas in the air, pungent smell of the different meats, fermented food, preserved, air-dried sea produce and human body odours, the scent of sweet gandom still stood out.The sight of steaming wheat porridge in small china bowls with little porcelain spoons and the locally baked aerated bread attracted many customers. The patrons of the stall were mainly wharf workers who took their morning break from their back-breaking task of unloading cargo off the onion-carrying vessels that had just arrived from Madras.Occasionally, housewives would drop in to take away a pack or two for loved ones. The women dropped in silently, softly whispered their orders, looking down towards the ground, as if bashful, and without raising their glance, they paid the exact change and hurried away. It seemed they did not feel comfortable being in the company of too many men, in particular with the port workers who carried a reputation of being rough and tough.The ladies kept returning. The gandom must be too tasty, I guessed. It was during one of these moments that I caught a glimpse of my nosy neighbour, Santi. She had the reputation of carrying tales around the neighbourhood. She found much joy in finding faults and ruining other people’s family.I ducked the very moment I saw her. The last thing I wanted was for her to tell Ma as I did not want to witness another shouting match in the family. I had enough of that. On the other hand, I secretly wished that she would, as that would mean I could get back to school. I was quite sure I missed her roving eyes.“Gandom, Gandom, Mari, Mari (come here)!” The call was given to entice potential customers who might have been so caught up in their thoughts that they would miss the sweet aroma of the starchy broth that brewed and bubbled in the huge containers.My hide and seek existence lasted for almost three weeks. Pa had been turning up at school unannounced. He would make the same excuse, pick me up, take me to the stall and then back home by the evening. The journey home would be laced with threats of severe repercussions if our little secret were to leak out. If only Ma knew about the truancy, I was sure to be dead meat. So would Pa. But did he care?All my toil and manual labour earned me nothing. For, when the time came to close the stall for the day, Pa would faithfully be there to unburden me off of my meagre daily wages.I was in two minds — should I or should I not tell Ma about our covert operation? All I had to do was to squeal to Ma. But I dreaded the result. It would be an all-night shouting match. I had had one too many, and I could do well without another one.Our little secret, however, did not stay undercover for long. The market was not the best place for concealment. And neither was the sight of a 12-year-old manning the stall and serving customers. The delicious taste of gandom drew more customers as the days went by. It also attracted Santhi, Ma’s chit-chat buddy. She repeatedly came back for second helpings. She finally spotted me. Obviously, I had not been vigilant enough.Actually, I would say, Ma was more of Santhi’s chit-chat buddy. Ma was just a convenient listener to all of Santhi’s tall tales. She would go on a rant, gossiping about the latest ‘masala’ that had taken place in the neighbourhood and amongst the relatives’ circles. It would usually be a one-sided conversation with Santhi doing all the talking punctuated with Ma’s occasional nods and grunts of acknowledgement.Santhi came all riled up to clear her bosom off her latest discovery. As usual, draped in light coloured cottons and a big rounded bun with a day-old jasmine flowers at her occiput, she was especially excited. She hurried through the door announced by the clinging of her silver anklets and called for Ma. Ma smiled to herself to see such a grown woman in such a huff, all excited like a young girl. Her fifty sen coin-sized crimson red vermilion bindi with her turmeric treated face and big round eyes added to her comical presence.“Letchumy, Letchumy. Why you stopped your son from schooling?” she asked, quite out of breath, after running all the way from her home. “He is a bright boy, such a waste.”“No, no. It can’t be.” Ma thought. “I trust Thamby. He is going to reach greater heights and salvage the family dignity. She is talking rubbish.”***Santhi, the rumour monger, went to great lengths to make herself available that morning. She rose early from bed to prepare breakfast for the family. Her thosai was awkwardly asymmetrical, and the coconut chutney must have had double servings of salt and tamarind. Oh, but what the heck! It was going to be an exciting day, and she was not going to give it up for these trivialities. A day of salty gravy must be okay, she thought. After all, without fail, she had provided 364 days of crispy sizzling steaming hot thosai with accompaniments.Quickly, she packed her husband off to work and her two kids off to school and hurried to Lakshmi’s abode.“I heard he only reaches there at about 11,” said Santhi. “That gives us time to have tea and catch up with stories.”A disinterested Lakshmi obliged. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Thamby manning a porridge stall while entertaining his blue-collar clientele. The customers of the marketplace were mostly from the port and not the best role models. Their crude talk, lingo and doublespeak innuendoes would sway Thamby from his true callings in life… to salvage the family from the rut of debts and ruins.So immersed was Lakshmi in her mental soliloquy that she had mixed salt into Santhi’s tea instead of the usual sugar! Santhi, yearning to meet her mid-morning craving of sweet, foamy milk tea, sipped the concoction to savour its richness when …“Amma!” she almost cried. Her taste buds froze with the saline impregnated tea! However, in anticipation of the excitement of what the day promised, she just politely put away the tea. She did not want to delay their planned ambush at the porridge stall.On reaching the marketplace, like stalking tigresses, Lakshmi and Santhi slowly prowled to the vicinity of the sweet wheat grain stall. The stall was teeming with sweaty port labourer just off for their break. The sweet aroma of the sizzling wheat porridge fragranced with pandan leaves and the pungent odour of perspiring men gave a dizzying olfactory sensation. Although buried in their food, the men were not busy enough to give a cursory assessing look at Lakshmi and Santhi. They lost interest with what they saw. Lakshmi had no time to notice anything. Her mind was all out to prove that Santhi had been wrong all the while. Now, where was that stall?Oversized men slurping their meals standing around the large wheat broth stall was an excellent cover up for whoever manned it. Lakshmi needled herself through the crowd. Under her breath, she uttered her silent prayer.“Muruga, Muruga, let it be not him,” she chanted. “What torture is this. What is my family coming too? Must light an oil lamp at the temple after all this is over,” she reminded herself.Between two burly men, she saw it all. Like an avalanche, her hopes came crashing down. She could not believe what she saw — Thamby busily serving the hungry men with their bowls of nourishment. Her jaw dropped. Hurrying through the utensils, the pans and the appliances, the disgusted and disappointed Lakshmi grabbed her prized pint-sized possession by his protruding bat ears and dragged him all the way home with occasional lambasting by the earful.That night was hell for the Muthu household. Loud decibels of screams pierced the neighbourhood. This type of emotional display was becoming the norm of late. What a sad state of affairs! How I wished that it would all disappear just like that?The neighbourhood, by now, was quite accustomed to the wailing of Lakshmi and the haughty rebuttal by Muthu, the once-promising heir of Periyathamby Kallar.At the other end, in Santhi’s abode the tone was one of serenity. It was business as usual. Santhi was lullabying her children to sleep. Santhi, on hearing the distant sounds of Lakshmi’s wail, pondered to reflect whether she did the right thing. She felt guilty for secretly being content in the thick of things. She wondered if her actions were justifiable. After much deliberation, she shrugged off any compunctions. She told herself that what she did was morally right. She exposed the truancy of boy with high potentials, preventing him from plunging deep into decadence. That cannot be wrong, can it?
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
Half a decade after the Japanese invasion, Malaya was wising up. Malayans did not believe that their colonial masters were their saviours anymore. Everyone was talking about independence and everyone was laughing a lot these days.People seemed to be in a hurry. Office workers, in long dark baggy trousers and long sleeved starched cotton shirts, wove through pedestrians, scurrying on their shiny new bicycles, ringing their bells. The cyclists appeared to be annoyed by the slow-moving bullock cart with lethargic bulls sauntering along the tarmacadam roads swishing their tails rhythmically in the tropical heat of Penang. Honking in the background on the island’s little street were the Morris Minors and the Austin multi-purpose vehicles, the latest additions to the city landscape. Oblivious to the vexation they were causing, the pullers of the bullock cart batted their lush eyelashes, seemed to mutter something into their chest and continued to drag their load at their own leisurely pace.Penang Island did not want to be left behind. Penangites of all races — Malays, Chinese, Indians and Eurasians — seemed to be of one heart trying to rebuild their town as they said it had been. The world had modernised and they wanted to keep pace. The men from the East were no liberators but squanderers of wealth. Now, the British had returned to resume pilfering the lion’s share of their loot.That year, 1952, had been declared by the Government as the year of ‘education for all’. The future inheritors of power realised if the nation was going to have self-rule, it needed people who could read and write. Truant officers were there to implement just that. Their job would be to walk around town to track down boys and girls of school-going age who were not in school.I was in standard six, and I had grand ambitions. The stories that Ma had been telling all these years had convinced me that the only way to come up in life was by getting a good education. Her oft-repeated descriptive tales of her comfortable life in her childhood rang like mantras in my ears. Many times, she had told us of Pa’s privileged childhood and how he had squandered it all away in a single generation; entertaining friends, merrymaking and gambling. No matter how hard Ma tried to put things in order, she seemed to be fighting a losing battle. She pinned her hopes on me to bring the honour back to the clan. She knew that there was no substitute for education to prosper in life.“We do not have money or property to come up in life,” she frequently repeated. “The only way to get out of this rut is to study.”My Pa had other ideas.If Ma thought that it was her duty to bring out the best in her children, Pa was just the opposite. His notion of having children was to have them serve their parents for having brought them into this world. The youngster’s duty was to pay back for their existence. In his mind, I was old enough to earn him some extra cash to get him going. I knew it was wrong, but I felt helpless.Oh, no! There he was again. From the open door at the back of the classroom, I could see him. He was walking briskly in the direction of my classroom, coming from the principal’s office. Three times already this week, Pa had come to my school. It was the same old story — that my mother was very sick, and I had to go back to take care of her. And surprisingly, my teacher was buying his crap.If only I could tell my school teacher, “Teacher, don’t trust him.” If only I could give her the real story of what was happening in the house.“No, my mother is just fine,” my mouth yearned to yell. “She is very much alive and kicking. No, she is not sick. No, she does not need my help. And yes, she will give me a nice whacking if only she comes to know what I am doing when I am supposed to be at school.”As it was only a few weeks since I had joined this school, Lutheran Primary School, I did not have many friends. I was a loner, and this chronic absence from class just made others look at me as though I was some strange creature.Time stood still. The rest of the class seemed immersed in the lesson in hand but not me. Ah Chong, Mani, Ali, Peter and others were all attending to what the teacher, Mrs Chin, taught. To me, her explanation on multiplicative functions sounded like a muffled horn from a distance.I tried not to look at Pa’s direction. I was hoping that he would just change his mind and go away. I turned to see, but I could not find him. I thought he had left only to discover that he had gone around the corner to take the stairs towards my classroom. I tried to concentrate on Mrs Chin’s lesson, but the anxiety was just too much. I could see her scribbling away on the blackboard. The squeaking of chalk on the blackboard gave an eerie background score to the drama that I endured daily. I could hardly make out her mumbling as my senses numbed in anticipation of his arrival. Like clockwork, like a boomerang that returned to its owner every time, like a recurrent nightmare, Pa kept returning.“Excuse me, teacher,” he said apologetically. I had to give it to him. In spite of his relatively low educational achievements, he had the gift of the gab and a flair for languages. My mother told me that he had had a privileged upbringing in his childhood only to lose everything in a single generation. However, he still had the gift of bossing everybody around. His excellent language skills seem to be his only inheritance from his now blemished past.Pa had a good life, at least in his childhood. Being the only heir to an up and coming industrialist in 1930s’ Malaya, he was placed high on a pedestal. His parents were too busy making money and dealing with relatives’ problems and he was left to grow with the servants. The workers gave in to all his whims and fancies. He could get away with murder. A tiny squeal here and a small tantrum there, he knew how to wind them around his little finger.Ma used to say that she heard somewhere that wealth in a family does not last more than three generations, but in Pa’s, it evaporated in only one. Pa’s parents used to be the proud owners of the tallest building in Penang which housed the once famous Dawood Restaurant where the affluent indulged in fine Indian dining. To match their wealth were fleets of cars, but now, Pa had to content himself chauffeuring others around.Even though good fortune seemed to have fled, he had not lost the art of living life to the fullest. Pa still lived in his old ways. His pockets could be empty, but his appearance had to be spick and span. Come what may, whether the dinner table was barren or it was time to buy books for school term; it was all the same to him.His brown leather shoes had to be sparkling shiny. The creases of his starched attire had to stay fresh. His hair needed grooming, and a daily shave at the barber’s was essential. He lived to eat. His palate still craved for the cuisines that he enjoyed in his childhood. Saving for a rainy day was not in his vocabulary. His philosophy seemed to work well for him — enjoy today what you may not live to enjoy tomorrow. What if tomorrow never comes?“The birds and trees grow, why can’t you? Somebody planted the seeds, and there would be someone who would come along to water them,” he repeatedly said. “You, don’t worry. Be happy.”Mrs Chin looked in my direction, all the way to the last row. I found sitting at the back of the class did well for me as it gave me space to ponder over my future. Sometimes I thought of Ma and relived all the stories that she told about her childhood and the prosperous life that my parents had in their formative years. I sometimes wondered how it must feel to be rich. I would not have to face the constant yelling at the end of the month when Ma ran out of money. I wanted to be rich. I wanted to be somebody.Mrs Chin was calling for me. The classroom suddenly became quiet. There was pin-drop silence. I could swear that everybody in the class had both their eyes focused directly on me. I could feel my cheek turn hot. I secretly wished that I could just disappear just like that. Poof!“Thamby, come, boy, come. Pack your books,” she said in a gentle voice. “Take care of your mother well. So sorry you have to miss the class. Don’t worry; I’ll teach this again tomorrow.”If only she knew, if she just knew where I was taken daily during schooling hours.It was a routine. Pa would come bundled with my home clothes into which I would change. He would take my books and uniform, pack them up like an old newspaper and shoo me to our destination, the marketplace. He thought of everything. He did not want me to stand out in the crowded marketplace in full view of the truant officers. His mission was to take me by stealth to the porridge stall so that I could help and earn. The money would go to him, of course.We approached the morning market. Housewives who came early to get their best picks of fishes and vegetables had finished their marketing and gathered around the food stalls. The food stalls were selling delicacies like hot noodles and traditional sweet cakes of a variety of colours and tastes. The stalls were strategically located in the centre of the market in plain view for all to see. Anyone who ran in just to buy a thing or two from the vegetable seller or fishmonger was bound to drop in to buy something to eat. The hit among all the stalls had to be the gandom(wheat porridge) stall.Business was brisk that morning, as usual. Many hungry mouths were waiting, salivating at the anticipation of indulging in the much-talked-about gandom of Mamak (uncle) Wahab, the well-known food vendor. Nobody knew just how long Wahab had been peddling his famous delicacies but he seemed to know everybody, the officers as well as the lowly coolies. People were quick to explain why his cooking pulled such a huge crowd. They talked about unique secret ingredients and Indian herbal intoxicants.
A bowl of gandom. Courtesy: GCIn Mamak Wahab’s stall were two large baskets. A sizeable wide-bodied aluminium pot fitted snugly into each of the baskets above a canister filled with hot burning charcoal. In the pot simmered sweet wheat porridge, gandom, cooked in coconut milk and flavoured with fragrant pandan leaves. In spite of the various aromas in the air, pungent smell of the different meats, fermented food, preserved, air-dried sea produce and human body odours, the scent of sweet gandom still stood out.The sight of steaming wheat porridge in small china bowls with little porcelain spoons and the locally baked aerated bread attracted many customers. The patrons of the stall were mainly wharf workers who took their morning break from their back-breaking task of unloading cargo off the onion-carrying vessels that had just arrived from Madras.Occasionally, housewives would drop in to take away a pack or two for loved ones. The women dropped in silently, softly whispered their orders, looking down towards the ground, as if bashful, and without raising their glance, they paid the exact change and hurried away. It seemed they did not feel comfortable being in the company of too many men, in particular with the port workers who carried a reputation of being rough and tough.The ladies kept returning. The gandom must be too tasty, I guessed. It was during one of these moments that I caught a glimpse of my nosy neighbour, Santi. She had the reputation of carrying tales around the neighbourhood. She found much joy in finding faults and ruining other people’s family.I ducked the very moment I saw her. The last thing I wanted was for her to tell Ma as I did not want to witness another shouting match in the family. I had enough of that. On the other hand, I secretly wished that she would, as that would mean I could get back to school. I was quite sure I missed her roving eyes.“Gandom, Gandom, Mari, Mari (come here)!” The call was given to entice potential customers who might have been so caught up in their thoughts that they would miss the sweet aroma of the starchy broth that brewed and bubbled in the huge containers.My hide and seek existence lasted for almost three weeks. Pa had been turning up at school unannounced. He would make the same excuse, pick me up, take me to the stall and then back home by the evening. The journey home would be laced with threats of severe repercussions if our little secret were to leak out. If only Ma knew about the truancy, I was sure to be dead meat. So would Pa. But did he care?All my toil and manual labour earned me nothing. For, when the time came to close the stall for the day, Pa would faithfully be there to unburden me off of my meagre daily wages.I was in two minds — should I or should I not tell Ma about our covert operation? All I had to do was to squeal to Ma. But I dreaded the result. It would be an all-night shouting match. I had had one too many, and I could do well without another one.Our little secret, however, did not stay undercover for long. The market was not the best place for concealment. And neither was the sight of a 12-year-old manning the stall and serving customers. The delicious taste of gandom drew more customers as the days went by. It also attracted Santhi, Ma’s chit-chat buddy. She repeatedly came back for second helpings. She finally spotted me. Obviously, I had not been vigilant enough.Actually, I would say, Ma was more of Santhi’s chit-chat buddy. Ma was just a convenient listener to all of Santhi’s tall tales. She would go on a rant, gossiping about the latest ‘masala’ that had taken place in the neighbourhood and amongst the relatives’ circles. It would usually be a one-sided conversation with Santhi doing all the talking punctuated with Ma’s occasional nods and grunts of acknowledgement.Santhi came all riled up to clear her bosom off her latest discovery. As usual, draped in light coloured cottons and a big rounded bun with a day-old jasmine flowers at her occiput, she was especially excited. She hurried through the door announced by the clinging of her silver anklets and called for Ma. Ma smiled to herself to see such a grown woman in such a huff, all excited like a young girl. Her fifty sen coin-sized crimson red vermilion bindi with her turmeric treated face and big round eyes added to her comical presence.“Letchumy, Letchumy. Why you stopped your son from schooling?” she asked, quite out of breath, after running all the way from her home. “He is a bright boy, such a waste.”“No, no. It can’t be.” Ma thought. “I trust Thamby. He is going to reach greater heights and salvage the family dignity. She is talking rubbish.”***Santhi, the rumour monger, went to great lengths to make herself available that morning. She rose early from bed to prepare breakfast for the family. Her thosai was awkwardly asymmetrical, and the coconut chutney must have had double servings of salt and tamarind. Oh, but what the heck! It was going to be an exciting day, and she was not going to give it up for these trivialities. A day of salty gravy must be okay, she thought. After all, without fail, she had provided 364 days of crispy sizzling steaming hot thosai with accompaniments.Quickly, she packed her husband off to work and her two kids off to school and hurried to Lakshmi’s abode.“I heard he only reaches there at about 11,” said Santhi. “That gives us time to have tea and catch up with stories.”A disinterested Lakshmi obliged. Her mind was filled with thoughts of Thamby manning a porridge stall while entertaining his blue-collar clientele. The customers of the marketplace were mostly from the port and not the best role models. Their crude talk, lingo and doublespeak innuendoes would sway Thamby from his true callings in life… to salvage the family from the rut of debts and ruins.So immersed was Lakshmi in her mental soliloquy that she had mixed salt into Santhi’s tea instead of the usual sugar! Santhi, yearning to meet her mid-morning craving of sweet, foamy milk tea, sipped the concoction to savour its richness when …“Amma!” she almost cried. Her taste buds froze with the saline impregnated tea! However, in anticipation of the excitement of what the day promised, she just politely put away the tea. She did not want to delay their planned ambush at the porridge stall.On reaching the marketplace, like stalking tigresses, Lakshmi and Santhi slowly prowled to the vicinity of the sweet wheat grain stall. The stall was teeming with sweaty port labourer just off for their break. The sweet aroma of the sizzling wheat porridge fragranced with pandan leaves and the pungent odour of perspiring men gave a dizzying olfactory sensation. Although buried in their food, the men were not busy enough to give a cursory assessing look at Lakshmi and Santhi. They lost interest with what they saw. Lakshmi had no time to notice anything. Her mind was all out to prove that Santhi had been wrong all the while. Now, where was that stall?Oversized men slurping their meals standing around the large wheat broth stall was an excellent cover up for whoever manned it. Lakshmi needled herself through the crowd. Under her breath, she uttered her silent prayer.“Muruga, Muruga, let it be not him,” she chanted. “What torture is this. What is my family coming too? Must light an oil lamp at the temple after all this is over,” she reminded herself.Between two burly men, she saw it all. Like an avalanche, her hopes came crashing down. She could not believe what she saw — Thamby busily serving the hungry men with their bowls of nourishment. Her jaw dropped. Hurrying through the utensils, the pans and the appliances, the disgusted and disappointed Lakshmi grabbed her prized pint-sized possession by his protruding bat ears and dragged him all the way home with occasional lambasting by the earful.That night was hell for the Muthu household. Loud decibels of screams pierced the neighbourhood. This type of emotional display was becoming the norm of late. What a sad state of affairs! How I wished that it would all disappear just like that?The neighbourhood, by now, was quite accustomed to the wailing of Lakshmi and the haughty rebuttal by Muthu, the once-promising heir of Periyathamby Kallar.At the other end, in Santhi’s abode the tone was one of serenity. It was business as usual. Santhi was lullabying her children to sleep. Santhi, on hearing the distant sounds of Lakshmi’s wail, pondered to reflect whether she did the right thing. She felt guilty for secretly being content in the thick of things. She wondered if her actions were justifiable. After much deliberation, she shrugged off any compunctions. She told herself that what she did was morally right. She exposed the truancy of boy with high potentials, preventing him from plunging deep into decadence. That cannot be wrong, can it?
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
May 22, 2019
Flash of miracle or just a natural phenomenon!
It all started with a digital election glitch in a locale in Brussels in 2003. The officials realised that an unpopular local candidate secured more than the vote she should. The number 4096 struck a chord with the IT personnel but passed it off as teething problems of digital voting. That is the number of votes that the computers accidentally added to her tally.A further assessment suggested that 4096 is 2 to the power of 12 (2¹²). As input into the computers is in multiples of 2 (2⁰, 2¹, 2²....2¹¹,2¹²...), somehow the part (bit) which controlled (2¹²) got lit. Hence, this flip caused the addition of 4096 to the tally.
Now, the challenge was to ascertain where the surge to this flip came about. Investigators were soon made aware of similar unexplainable occurrences in the airline and automobile industries. There were instances where autopilot settings had to see re-set as it had gone berserk. There was even a plane that suddenly plunged into the ocean. Aircraft, as they were up in the sky, are exposed to cosmic rays. That was thought to have caused computer malfunctions, and necessary preventive measures were put in place.
When Toyota car owners were braking for their lives as computerisation started setting in into their cars at the turn of the century. Faulty electronics perpetuated by single bit flip caused by cosmic rays was suggested as a possible cause for the sudden unintended acceleration of vehicles. Toyota settled out of court and improved its computer system. They started more inputs to control a particular function.
Scientists extrapolated that these rogue 'rays' which arise from the Sun or possibly outside the Solar system (supernovas) were the aetiology for these glitches. These energy-carrying galactic cosmic rays have the capacity to work miracles. With more and more minute components in our digital devices, more puzzling events may soon become the norm.
Now, just a thought. Since everyone believes the beginning of life heralds the handiwork of the entity of 'God' as some know it or 'Big Bang' as others refer to it and everything that happens as the effect of this, Biggs-Boson particle and all, are these cosmic rays akin to the miracle of 'God'? Are the rays like angels, djinns, daemons or fairies that are sent as messengers to Earth to save or create mayhem? Are these fragments of energy from the beginning of time arriving at sporadic intervals pure 'divine interventions' as they are the closest to what we call as 'The Maker'?
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http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
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May 20, 2019
The game that can't be won, only played.
The Legend of Bagger Vance (2000)
Director: Robert Redford
At first glance, one can see that there is Hindu philosophy written all over it. Even the title Bagger Vance had an uncanny ring to the word 'Bhagavan' which means God in Sanskrit. It must be no coincidence that the storyline mirrors that of Mahabharata. If in the Battle of Kurukshetra, a nervous Arjuna had the jitters on the eve of the great battle, here a talented golfer, Rannulph Junuh (Matt Damon), who had seen better times before going to World War 1, has to fight his inner demons to regain composure to win a golf tournament and re-live his life as he was supposed to. Just like how Krishna, the Bhagavan's avatar, appears to put Arjuna on the right track, here 'Bagger Vance' (Will Smith) manifests from nowhere to put Junuh's life in order.
The gist of the story goes like this. Junuh was an up and coming golfer in the era before the Great War. The war made him a wreck, and he soon went to oblivion immersed in alcohol and petty gambling. Adele (Charlize Theron), the daughter of a wealthy owner of a golf course, tried to revive the greens as it was about to be repossessed. A golf tournament with significant prize money was organised. Junuh, as the local hero, was cajoled into taking part. A somewhat reluctant Junuh finally gave in. A mysterious man arrived at the scene to offer his caddie services. The rest of the story is not your typical sports drama but of one of which infused with pearls of wisdom and symbolism of life. Even though Bagger Vance talked about golf swings, grip on the golf club and individual's authentic swing, the audience has no doubt that he was indeed talking about facts of life.
When Bagger preached about being in harmony with the swing of things, we are sure that he was talking about attuning to the right frequency to sync with we are doing. Like Ramanujam who managed to receive so much knowledge about things that were not even thought of during his time by harmonising to the frequency that helped him to secure mathematical formulas from his diety, Goddess Namagiri. A century later, scientists are still trying to understand his calculations as slowly, one by one, they are making sense. Imagine, Ramanujam had formulas for black holes even before scientists were talking about them.
There are many Hindus who would agree that the many representations of Gods and Goddesses as seen in India and wherever the Indian diaspora had migrated are mere conduits for its practitioners to invoke particular vibrations that resonate with specific intentions. For example, Goddess Saraswathi is revered when education is frontline in worshippers. Nataraja, the Master ecstatic cosmic dancer, is naturally summoned to guide budding classical dancers. To the uninitiated, these murthis are mere figurines. They fail to recognise the wisdom behind the physicality. They cannot see the woods for the trees.
Bagger Vance describes golf as a game that cannot be won, only played. Is it not the same for life too? We think we have overcome fate. We have it all for stacked it all for infinity, for self, descendants and beyond. We accumulate material gains and power that last a lifetime many times over. We are sure we have won only to be smacked on the head to realisation. We do not win the game of life. We are just players in the stage set by the puppet master to be hoodwinked into falling prey to the illusionary nature of the time that we live in.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
Director: Robert Redford
At first glance, one can see that there is Hindu philosophy written all over it. Even the title Bagger Vance had an uncanny ring to the word 'Bhagavan' which means God in Sanskrit. It must be no coincidence that the storyline mirrors that of Mahabharata. If in the Battle of Kurukshetra, a nervous Arjuna had the jitters on the eve of the great battle, here a talented golfer, Rannulph Junuh (Matt Damon), who had seen better times before going to World War 1, has to fight his inner demons to regain composure to win a golf tournament and re-live his life as he was supposed to. Just like how Krishna, the Bhagavan's avatar, appears to put Arjuna on the right track, here 'Bagger Vance' (Will Smith) manifests from nowhere to put Junuh's life in order.The gist of the story goes like this. Junuh was an up and coming golfer in the era before the Great War. The war made him a wreck, and he soon went to oblivion immersed in alcohol and petty gambling. Adele (Charlize Theron), the daughter of a wealthy owner of a golf course, tried to revive the greens as it was about to be repossessed. A golf tournament with significant prize money was organised. Junuh, as the local hero, was cajoled into taking part. A somewhat reluctant Junuh finally gave in. A mysterious man arrived at the scene to offer his caddie services. The rest of the story is not your typical sports drama but of one of which infused with pearls of wisdom and symbolism of life. Even though Bagger Vance talked about golf swings, grip on the golf club and individual's authentic swing, the audience has no doubt that he was indeed talking about facts of life.
When Bagger preached about being in harmony with the swing of things, we are sure that he was talking about attuning to the right frequency to sync with we are doing. Like Ramanujam who managed to receive so much knowledge about things that were not even thought of during his time by harmonising to the frequency that helped him to secure mathematical formulas from his diety, Goddess Namagiri. A century later, scientists are still trying to understand his calculations as slowly, one by one, they are making sense. Imagine, Ramanujam had formulas for black holes even before scientists were talking about them.There are many Hindus who would agree that the many representations of Gods and Goddesses as seen in India and wherever the Indian diaspora had migrated are mere conduits for its practitioners to invoke particular vibrations that resonate with specific intentions. For example, Goddess Saraswathi is revered when education is frontline in worshippers. Nataraja, the Master ecstatic cosmic dancer, is naturally summoned to guide budding classical dancers. To the uninitiated, these murthis are mere figurines. They fail to recognise the wisdom behind the physicality. They cannot see the woods for the trees.
Bagger Vance describes golf as a game that cannot be won, only played. Is it not the same for life too? We think we have overcome fate. We have it all for stacked it all for infinity, for self, descendants and beyond. We accumulate material gains and power that last a lifetime many times over. We are sure we have won only to be smacked on the head to realisation. We do not win the game of life. We are just players in the stage set by the puppet master to be hoodwinked into falling prey to the illusionary nature of the time that we live in.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
May 17, 2019
Truth is a luxury?
Tashkent Files (2019)
It was 1966. India had just won a war with Pakistan after marching into Lahore with their tanks a year earlier. With his slogan 'Jai Jawan, Jai Kishan' (Hail the Soldier, Hail the Farmer), Lal Bahadur Shastri, tried to instil nationalism and boost food production. He remains one of the most liked and cleanest PM. He shares his birthdate with MK Gandhi, but only a few remember.
He goes to Tashkent (then in Soviet Russia, now Uzbekistan) to sign a declaration of peace with Pakistan with a clean bill of health but returns in a body bag. Just hours prior to sudden breathlessness in the wee of hours of the morning, he had called home.
A national leader's death, a man of his stature, would typically require pre-set protocols to be followed. Unfortunately, in spite of his family's request for a post mortem, it was not done. Their insistence that Shashtri had skin discolouration and there were cuts over his neck area which were passed off as usual postmortem by a panel of English doctors.
Even KGB had suspected poisoning as a cause of death. The butler who served the PM with his nightcap was interrogated in detail on the day of death, but details of this cross-examination mysteriously went missing.
Back home, even though experts agreed that toxicological studies were mandatory to rule out poisoning, none were performed.
With the passage of time, the calls for wanting to know what actually happened in Tashkent was forgotten. Some claim that the people in power systemically suppressed it. That changed with the democratisation of information. Google was God-sent! That too and the secret KGB files that were exposed after the collapse of the Soviet Union by Vasili Mitrokhin. Retired CIA agent, Robert Crowley's 2009 interview on the Agency's involvement in the assassination of Homi Bhabha and Shastri is out in the open.
The internet not only tells of various points of view of a single event but also remains a fertile ground for conspiracy theories and mongers of fake news, just to prove their point. The premise of this film is just to put on the table all these theories for us to decide whether there is such a thing as the truth or knowing the real truth is a luxury that eludes everyone.
The records related to Shastri's death inquiry are precariously missing. Post mortem was never done. Toxicology screening was never performed. The two witnesses at the time of Shastri's death who were to appear at an inquiry many years later had mysteriously been hit by cars. Dr Chugh, his physician, died on the spot. The other witness, his helper, Ramnath, had memory loss.
The CIA, not wanting another nuclear power in the region after China detonated its first atomic bomb in 1964, orchestrated Homi Bhabha's plane crash in the Alps. Shastri, who had earlier incisively brought the Pakistanis to their knees, was viewed by the Americans as a dangerous man. His close liaison with Bhabha, India's father of Nuclear Science, made them hot under their collars.
According to Mitrokhin Archive, Moscow had a very cordial relationship with Nehru and India. It is said that Russia had a strong influence on the politics of India. It backed Gulzarilal and Sastri's candidature for the PM to keep the right-wing Hindu traditionalist for succeeding after Nehru's eclipse. It is also suggested that Indira Gandhi (codenamed VANO by the KGB) was under their payroll. During her later tenure, the Russians had a free hand in policing, defence and information dissemination in India.
It is interesting to note that there is a significant disparity in how ratings for this movie are given in different media platforms. If one were to get all their juices from the mainstream media, with the assigned ratings of 0.5 to 2/5, one would go home with the idea that it a thrashy piece of Bollywood wasteland. On Twitter, however, the landscape is quite different. Scores of good reviews 3.5-4.5/5 sing praises of its high standards of storytelling and direction. I understand not everybody can appreciate the sight of half a dozen India men and women of different expertise sitting a room engaged in a shouting match. Many may not enjoy the cerebral nature of some of its discussions and the glaring absence of songs and dances in this offering. There surely must be a time and place for everything.
What really happened to Sashtri in Tashkent remains shrouded in mystery till today. Perhaps there was a concerted effort to keep his legacy in the shadows. A well-liked leader, an honest, conscientious, decisive leader who preaches peace with his neighbours is no good for creating a despotic regime. Both Pakistan and India resolve their differences - unthinkable! Maybe that is why he had to be terminated to be replaced by a subservient servant of the Cabal!
https://www.dailyo.in/politics/lal-bahadur-shastri-tashkent-kgb-russia-rti-congress-pmo-mea-tn-kaul/story/1/8393.html
https://www.scoopwhoop.com/inothernews/lal-bahadur-shastri-conspiracy/#.h1gnlbwq6
https://lists.bcn.mythic-beasts.com/pipermail/bitlist/2008-October/000400.html
https://mitrokhinarchiveii.blogspot.com/
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
It was 1966. India had just won a war with Pakistan after marching into Lahore with their tanks a year earlier. With his slogan 'Jai Jawan, Jai Kishan' (Hail the Soldier, Hail the Farmer), Lal Bahadur Shastri, tried to instil nationalism and boost food production. He remains one of the most liked and cleanest PM. He shares his birthdate with MK Gandhi, but only a few remember.He goes to Tashkent (then in Soviet Russia, now Uzbekistan) to sign a declaration of peace with Pakistan with a clean bill of health but returns in a body bag. Just hours prior to sudden breathlessness in the wee of hours of the morning, he had called home.
A national leader's death, a man of his stature, would typically require pre-set protocols to be followed. Unfortunately, in spite of his family's request for a post mortem, it was not done. Their insistence that Shashtri had skin discolouration and there were cuts over his neck area which were passed off as usual postmortem by a panel of English doctors.
Even KGB had suspected poisoning as a cause of death. The butler who served the PM with his nightcap was interrogated in detail on the day of death, but details of this cross-examination mysteriously went missing.
Back home, even though experts agreed that toxicological studies were mandatory to rule out poisoning, none were performed.
With the passage of time, the calls for wanting to know what actually happened in Tashkent was forgotten. Some claim that the people in power systemically suppressed it. That changed with the democratisation of information. Google was God-sent! That too and the secret KGB files that were exposed after the collapse of the Soviet Union by Vasili Mitrokhin. Retired CIA agent, Robert Crowley's 2009 interview on the Agency's involvement in the assassination of Homi Bhabha and Shastri is out in the open.
The internet not only tells of various points of view of a single event but also remains a fertile ground for conspiracy theories and mongers of fake news, just to prove their point. The premise of this film is just to put on the table all these theories for us to decide whether there is such a thing as the truth or knowing the real truth is a luxury that eludes everyone.The records related to Shastri's death inquiry are precariously missing. Post mortem was never done. Toxicology screening was never performed. The two witnesses at the time of Shastri's death who were to appear at an inquiry many years later had mysteriously been hit by cars. Dr Chugh, his physician, died on the spot. The other witness, his helper, Ramnath, had memory loss.
The CIA, not wanting another nuclear power in the region after China detonated its first atomic bomb in 1964, orchestrated Homi Bhabha's plane crash in the Alps. Shastri, who had earlier incisively brought the Pakistanis to their knees, was viewed by the Americans as a dangerous man. His close liaison with Bhabha, India's father of Nuclear Science, made them hot under their collars.
According to Mitrokhin Archive, Moscow had a very cordial relationship with Nehru and India. It is said that Russia had a strong influence on the politics of India. It backed Gulzarilal and Sastri's candidature for the PM to keep the right-wing Hindu traditionalist for succeeding after Nehru's eclipse. It is also suggested that Indira Gandhi (codenamed VANO by the KGB) was under their payroll. During her later tenure, the Russians had a free hand in policing, defence and information dissemination in India.
It is interesting to note that there is a significant disparity in how ratings for this movie are given in different media platforms. If one were to get all their juices from the mainstream media, with the assigned ratings of 0.5 to 2/5, one would go home with the idea that it a thrashy piece of Bollywood wasteland. On Twitter, however, the landscape is quite different. Scores of good reviews 3.5-4.5/5 sing praises of its high standards of storytelling and direction. I understand not everybody can appreciate the sight of half a dozen India men and women of different expertise sitting a room engaged in a shouting match. Many may not enjoy the cerebral nature of some of its discussions and the glaring absence of songs and dances in this offering. There surely must be a time and place for everything.
What really happened to Sashtri in Tashkent remains shrouded in mystery till today. Perhaps there was a concerted effort to keep his legacy in the shadows. A well-liked leader, an honest, conscientious, decisive leader who preaches peace with his neighbours is no good for creating a despotic regime. Both Pakistan and India resolve their differences - unthinkable! Maybe that is why he had to be terminated to be replaced by a subservient servant of the Cabal!
https://www.dailyo.in/politics/lal-bahadur-shastri-tashkent-kgb-russia-rti-congress-pmo-mea-tn-kaul/story/1/8393.html
https://www.scoopwhoop.com/inothernews/lal-bahadur-shastri-conspiracy/#.h1gnlbwq6
https://lists.bcn.mythic-beasts.com/pipermail/bitlist/2008-October/000400.html
https://mitrokhinarchiveii.blogspot.com/
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
May 15, 2019
Beds are burning!
The Boy in Striped Pyjamas (2008)
When we were very young, we used to think the world of our parents. They were the strongest, the brainiest and the smartest. Somehow, they knew everything and could do no wrong. Slowly, we grew older and started hating their guts. We view their world viewpoints as archaic and promise never to be like them. We abhor their un-PC statements and over-glorification of the good old days.
And yet with the passage of time and dents from the School of Hard Knocks, it soon dawns upon us their wisdom and ability to juggle so many things despite their limited resources.
This film is historical fiction from the point of view of Bruno, an 8-year old son of Army Lieutenant, in Nazi Germany. His father is stationed in the countryside to take charge of a concentration camp. The young boy befriends Shmuel, an 8-years old Jewish inmate, on the other side of the concentration camp. Bruno burrows himself into the camp to help Schmuel locate his missing father. Little do they know that their little adventure ends up in the gas chamber that Bruno's father has been commissioned to run. In the cruel twist of fate, Bruno (and Schmuel) succumb to the Zyklon B poisoning.
In a poetic way, the film questions whether the death of an enemy is any less painful than one of our own flesh and bone? Can we sing when other's beds are burning?
Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights before the dark hour of reason grows. John Betjeman.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
When we were very young, we used to think the world of our parents. They were the strongest, the brainiest and the smartest. Somehow, they knew everything and could do no wrong. Slowly, we grew older and started hating their guts. We view their world viewpoints as archaic and promise never to be like them. We abhor their un-PC statements and over-glorification of the good old days.And yet with the passage of time and dents from the School of Hard Knocks, it soon dawns upon us their wisdom and ability to juggle so many things despite their limited resources.
This film is historical fiction from the point of view of Bruno, an 8-year old son of Army Lieutenant, in Nazi Germany. His father is stationed in the countryside to take charge of a concentration camp. The young boy befriends Shmuel, an 8-years old Jewish inmate, on the other side of the concentration camp. Bruno burrows himself into the camp to help Schmuel locate his missing father. Little do they know that their little adventure ends up in the gas chamber that Bruno's father has been commissioned to run. In the cruel twist of fate, Bruno (and Schmuel) succumb to the Zyklon B poisoning.
In a poetic way, the film questions whether the death of an enemy is any less painful than one of our own flesh and bone? Can we sing when other's beds are burning?
Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells and sights before the dark hour of reason grows. John Betjeman.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
http://asok22.wix.com/real-lesson
http://.facebook.com/farouk.gulsara
www.riflerangeboy.com
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.
