Kartik Sharma's Blog, page 5
March 7, 2017
One update to this article.
One update to this article. I shaved yesterday finally. I’ve been told to grow the beard back; that I looked better with it. Better? I ask. Or more conventional? Alas, we’d never know. That’s expecting objectivity from a necessarily subjective species.
March 1, 2017
Glass Half Full?
Because anyone can be cynical.
Ok. That's not original. I've heard it before. But more needs to said on the subject. And I am going to put more bytes on the matter out in the universe. Seems like a dire need.
Enough of a preamble for the ADHD you, which by the way, is totally an invented disease if this guy is anyone to go by: http://themindunleashed.com/2014/10/adhd-real-disease-says-leading-neuroscientist.htm
Ok, no more digression. Here's a letter to myself — from the past, from the future or from the present . Because whatever works, right?
Dear Self,
Have you ever felt that everything is wrong with the world? Have you felt that you could run this ship better if you were incharge? Have you felt that people around you make bad decisions all the time and had they consulted you, they would have been better for it?
Of course you have. I know you too well, don't I?
Have you given up hope when the chips were down? Have you thought about throwing in the towel when the going got too tough? Have you jumped ships when the sea seemed unkind? Have you traded a sorrow with the hope of a better tomorrow?
Of course you have. I know you too well.
But was there ever a better tomorrow? Or was there just another type of sorrow, that you hadn't yet experienced, in the wake of that hope?
I do know your answer to that — you've journeyed long enough through pain, sailor.
But there comes a time when you need to stop. Stop being cynical and embrace the life choices you have made. You need to start being the change you seek, if you'd just excuse the cliché, please.
It's your time now to be the beacon of hope in the darkness around. It's your time now to be the torch bearer of the faith you seek. It's your time now to believe. Believe that if you stay true to the cause, any cause, your cause, you can ensure the bliss that you've sought. For not just yourself, but for others too.
If despite the insipid, utterly woeful circumstances, you are optimistic — it is reflective of your undying romantic outlook towards life, in general. For just that, my brilliant friend, I would applaud your bravado.
Truly yours,
Your Self
February 23, 2017
A New Breed of Men
If you are wearing ankle length socks, this article is targeted at you. If you sport a beard, this article is targeted at you. If you have short, gelled-up and blow dried hair, this article is targeted at you. Brown loafers? Or is it Oxfords? Waist-cut jacket? Slim fit jeans/chinos? Same applies.
Last week on a Friday evening I went to a restaurant in Delhi, where I live, with my wife. I saw my clones all around me and it spooked me to no end. Ok, I wasn't wearing loafers — I don't think I'll ever understand the use case for that product, but apart from that I was sporting (almost) everything mentioned above. And so was every single other guy in the restaurant.
Sure, I exaggerate a little. There was one bald guy with a clean shaven head. And another with really long hair neatly tied up in a bun. I couldn't check everyone's socks either, but you get the drift. Barring one, maybe two, aberrations the men were pretty similar in their attire. And the beard does wonders to hide the few chromosomal, facial differences leading to an army of clones sipping the nice wine from their expensive looking fat glasses.
I witnessed a measure of success of media's control over us which surpassed my wildest expectation (on this matter, strictly). This was a whole new breed of men. I had to find a name for this new breed and Media Manufactured Clones (MMC here on) seemed to best describe this phenomenon.
I couldn't help but think that as a kid I had prided myself in being different. There's a punjabi song that's quite popular in India right now: Wakra Swag. Literally, that translates to Unique Style. We all love the song here in India — well most men do. There's a part of us that aspires to be unique or at least different. How and why, then, did we all gravitate towards this singular image? Why did we all give our consent to this style of dressing?
Coming back to the topic of moi — conformity does not sit well with me. At least it didn't used to. What happened in the last decade? When did I become a part of the herd without even realising it?
I think it began at work. My boss told me that I don't dress smartly enough and that being in a reasonably senior role, I carry my organisation's brand on my shoulders. Literally. That sort of pushed me to the mall over the weekend, sulking all the while I should add. That's where the problem starts. At the mall, the options are limited and everything looks pretty much like everything else. It maybe my daft sense of fashion, but I sort of picked the clothes that were easiest to access (eye level shelves, front hangars, you get the general idea). In the trial room I wound up looking at myself in a full-length mirror after a really long time and I liked what I saw grâçe à my new clothes, thank you very much. I stepped out, swiped my credit card and bam! External validation aplenty. Happy boss, happy me. That lasted a couple of weeks. Bliss! But that quickly went back to pain last Friday when found myself at this fancy restaurant looking like a fucking mannequin from the store where I bought all the clothes. Looking exactly like the other unsuspecting members of my creed.
So? What do I do with this new information that was shocked into my conscious thought stream from the ubiquitous sub-conscious? Of course I am not going to throw all my clothes away! That would be wasteful. Plus, I hate shopping and, hence, a wardrobe overhaul is not happening anytime soon. But I haven't shaved yet either and that I can't explain why. There's a fight building inside me but I can't seem to mount the horse and ride into the battle field.
Which is why I had to write this piece.
Until a couple of hours back, I thought it was laziness. But I realised just now that it's not the case. I am scared. It's tougher to admit than I had believed, but it is true.
What is it exactly that I am scared of? Having to face judgement from others? Having to face ridicule? Being a clone is better than being a clown, right? Alas, it's not as simple as all that. Life gets strange kicks from kicking us in the balls, doesn't it? My epiphany from moments ago did exactly that to me.
Nothing is simple anymore. Everything has layers and is super complex. No matter how deep you think about anything, you are just scratching the surface most of the time. There are experts, super specialists, in almost every single field these days and they'll tell you that you are nowhere near the truth. That makes a generalist like me sometimes give up trying. I stopped thinking because I am super busy with most things life most of the time. In the little time that I have, I can't do justice to anything. Better than being a pseud is not having a half-baked opinion. Isn't it?
Which is the crux of the problem. I stopped applying my brain and making conscious life choices after duly weighing the pros against the cons. I outsource difficult things (fashion being one of them for me) to the virtual experts sitting behind this 13 inch mac or the 5 inch android where I'll later be re-reading this article. They tell me to buy chinos, tight fitting jeans, waist hugging jackets, ankle length socks and loafers for the evening and oxfords for work. And a well groomed beard is just the fucking cherry on the cake.
A PhD in journalism or anthropology will read this article and scoff at its superficiality and lack of the deep understanding of how media manufactures consent and makes us the MMCs. And I respectfully agree with you, Ma'am. Or Sir. A generalist like me can’t afford to have a fully formed opinion, most of the time, but we sure as hell can rant.
February 22, 2017
The Quest of the Sparrows: Part 7
Chapter 32: Fuzzy Logic
I was flying among stars spread so densely, they formed a river. The universe looked beautiful with its suns, planets and galaxies. It seemed as if I wasn’t alone but accompanied by a benign force. As I drifted along the river of stars, I experienced a sense of joy and freedom, as if I was liberated from all binds. I felt surprisingly light.
‘You have to return now to your world and do the job meant for you,’ said the invisible force.
‘I don’t want to leave. I’ve never been so happy.’
‘Your job awaits you. When you return, there won’t be any turning back.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
When I woke up, I felt sad for no reason, as if I’d lost something precious. The beauty of the state persisted. Still groggy from sleep, I reached for the glass pitcher.
Was it a dream or something real that I had seen? I didn’t know. I looked at my chopped finger, a constant reminder of my financial failure. For five years, I had struggled to make a career out of my engineering degree. I couldn’t compromise with corrupt superiors and unethical practices. Now, to escape the consequences of my financial problems, I agreed to be a guru to so many people who would repose their faith and trust in me. I was clueless as to what I was supposed to do, with no learning or experience whatsoever. Should I go and tell everyone the truth? Should I tell them to seek salvation at a more deserving place?
If I did this, the loan sharks would never leave me in peace when the next installments came up. And what to make of the dream? It perplexed me. It was loaded with overpowering significance. What of the joy I’d experienced in the flight, which still lingered? Only my father could answer these questions. Just three hours remained between now and 6 a.m. If I slept now, I might never see him again — if his intent to take samadhi was real.
I felt compelled to talk to my father.
The lights in the corridor were dim, but I found his room easily. I pushed the door from the outside and it gave in. It took me some time to get accustomed to the darkness.
He was sleeping on the floor without a mattress or bedsheet beneath him. It was very cold because the heater was off. The sparsely furnished room smelled of the sweet fragrance of incense sticks. It was more like a temple than a bedroom.
I stood watching my father as he slept peacefully, without even a pillow beneath his head. His face looked serene. I saw his caved-in stomach, his undernourished body, and realised that though my father was surrounded by luxuries, he lived a severely austere life. Automatically, my gaze went to his forehead, which seemed to glisten with a halo. As I stood, uncertain of what I should do, my father opened his eyes.
‘What are the questions troubling you, my son?’
I was shocked. How could he have read my mind? I stared into those hypnotic eyes with unfathomable depths. ‘I feel like a fraud and am leaving this ashram.’
‘Why? What fraud did you commit?’
‘I can’t fool people into believing I got shakti-paat and have moved to a higher spiritual plane, and give sermons. Because I haven’t changed in any way. I have neither the knowledge of a saint nor the grace of a holy person. I feel every inch a fraud.’
‘The shakti-paat was real. In time, you’ll understand it fully.’
‘What’s the need to lie when we stand here alone?’
‘I believe in it and one day you will too. For now, sit and close your eyes to take an inward journey and tell me if you see something.’
‘But what has this got to do — ’
‘Go ahead, just do it. You and I are not going to lose anything by this simple exercise.’
I closed my eyes and sat motionless for what appeared like five minutes. Gradually, a joyous state enveloped me. Abruptly, I saw the same river of stars, the Milky Way and the universe in slow motion I had dreamt of in my sleep. I also saw a huge ball of light in the middle of this universe. The repeat experience startled me. What was happening?
‘What did you see?’ My father broke the spell. I opened my eyes and stared at him. What had he done?
‘I saw the universe and a huge ball of light — exactly the same I dreamed of when I fell asleep, after the shakti-paat.’
‘You just saw the inner light of your divine self, which is present in all of us. It’s divine light. However, the darkness of ignorance eclipses it. During shakti-paat, I merely raised the curtain of ignorance and let the divine light fill your being. The light you saw was your own divine self.’
What he said appeared incredible. The ecstasy I had experienced was unique. ‘Still, it’s difficult to believe that spirituality is like cooking instant noodles.’
My father laughed. ‘Spirituality is an inherent, ever-present quality in all of us. When awakened, it becomes accessible instantly. Just like the force of electricity comes alive with the flick of a switch.’
‘I don’t know if it’s available in me and I don’t know what to do with it.’
‘Different people put electricity to different uses. Someone uses it in a torch to light a path at night and someone else lights huge mercury lamps to flood an entire auditorium. Our spiritual force is present in all its strength and ready for us to use. It’s present in the meanest of human beings, as in the most saintly. With an ancient process, I’ve merely given you ready and easy access to your own spirituality, switched it on, like electricity.’
‘You mean you have put me on a fast track? I find that hard to believe. What about my disciples? How would I be able to help them access their spirituality? I see that as my key role, of which I have no clue.’
‘Good concern. The spirituality I’ve invoked in you is more like a seed I’ve planted. But it’s you who’ll decide whether to nurture the seed and make it a tree or let it wither. If you make it a tree, then the fruits of your effort will be available to all those who come in touch with you. However, if you deviate from the spiritual path, this light will dim. Just stay steadfast on the path, and the light will glow like a thousand suns. It will bless many by its radiance. You’ll be able to dispel the darkness that lingers in ignorant minds with the light of your knowledge. Unleash an exponential chain reaction by giving everyone their self-realisation.’
‘Self-realisation?’
‘The shakti-paat I gave is just one-to-one, from me to you, limited to two people. But if you remain steadfast, you will ignite self-realisation in millions of people with this light that is in you.’
I smiled disbelievingly. ‘What are you doing on the floor, in this cold? You don’t even have a bed and you haven’t switched on your heater.’
‘Those are materialistic comforts, not necessary. The joy I feel with the Divine is what I relate with. I don’t need them because I rarely identify with my body.’
‘I wish I could believe what you said. What about the samadhi? Is it possible? Or is it suicide you’ll commit tomorrow?’
‘Suicide is a cowardly act. Death comes to all of us; I’m choosing the time to leave my body. Only blessed mortals can do so, that too after several years of attuning to the Supreme.’
‘Your austerity could be a ruse to impress the gullible, and the samadhi could be suicide, despite what you claim.’
‘And what you saw just now is the result of opium we mixed in your food? Our mind can do nothing except destroy everything sublime. I can’t extract you from the swamp of intellectualism. To come out, listen to your heart. It’s easy to destroy what the heart builds. I have given you a glimpse of the absolute truth. But faith is something you’ll have to build on your own. Even God can’t instil it in human beings.’
His word signalled that the discussion was over; the spell had broken.
The temporary bridge of friendship built in those beautiful moments lingered in my mind long after I closed the door gently behind me.
From my first novel published in 2011. You can buy the book here in paperback or kindle edition.
October 27, 2015
Review: The Discreet Hero
The Discreet Hero by Mario Vargas LlosaMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
My first book by the author and to say that I found it amazing would be an understatement. I am huge fan of fiction and The Discreet Hero is an epitome of brilliant fiction. Two parallel stories, in alternate chapters, each as riveting as the other. Switching between the stories turned out be really hard - which a testament to Mario Vargas Llosa's great writing. I wanted to continue reading about Don Yanaque's predicament and was simultaneously kicked about reading what happened with Don Rigoberto!
I knocked one star just because of too many red herrings and distractions. Although the book would have been incomplete without them - even the distractions were written so beautifully that I wanted to keep reading about them. Most of them had enough meat for a self sustaining spin off novel!
After a very long time I read a book of fiction that made me sad because it was ending. I realised I slowed down the pace of reading towards the end to prolong the experience of reading the book. It definitely makes me want to read the other books by Llosa. Hopefully soon!
View all my reviews
April 20, 2015
Review: Our Lady of Alice Bhatti
Our Lady of Alice Bhatti by Mohammed HanifMy rating: 2 of 5 stars
Things that didn't work - Disappointing read. Weak character development with no consistency in behavior or motive for almost all the major characters. Too many jumps in timelines as well as character personalities. Unexplained events, miracles without any overarching context to wrap them in. Plenty of unnecessary events that don't contribute to anything.
Things that did - unabashed dark humor that's both laugh out hilarious and gut wrenchingly painful at the same time. Quite a talent to be able to do that. Brave commentary on the state of women and minorities in Pakiatan; seemed very astute and never inauthentic or contrived. Hanif can step into the heart of his characters to communicate their pain and at the same time mock them in ingenious ways for their idiocy at feeling that pain.
A brilliant author, by any standards. All the more reasons that I felt let down by the glaring inconsistencies.
View all my reviews
April 15, 2015
Destructive Interference
Here's a summary; can't spill the restIt began with a tingling; like most beginnings
Two kindred souls; one little fish bowlThe inevitable chaos was swift; the damage, colossal
The crack on the surface; a ship in shambleAdrift on the wreckage; the survivors found harbor
The sea of unknown between; made the separation profounderBeyond the infinite; stood what once was her half
But a shoulder appeared presently; offering to carry her raftThe shoulder asked her who she was;
before there was time to comprehend her lossWith one half beyond the finite;
she struggled for an answer through the nightLight shone, with the morning sun
but all on the dilemma, on the solution noneObviate the beginning to start afresh?
Or labor with the details and hope for grace?
February 5, 2015
Rant
Freedom:
We fought for it,
we died for it,
we paid a very heavy price for it,
and 67 years later, we must go on
We cherished it,
we adored it,
we were lost in romancing it,
to the extent that we let it become just a romantic notion
We let another steal it,
No, not steal, but in broad day light rape it
Spoiling the good name of the white knight we needed, but did not deserve
We became midnight's children because sun refused to shine on
We are back at square one today
When we refuse to tolerate one another
Tolerate another man's faith
Tolerate another man's lack of
Tolerate yet another's need to mock
Tolerate an artist's need to create whatever he wants
Tolerate a woman's choice of dress
Tolerate her choice to travel alone
Tolerate her need to let her hair down
Tolerate her desire to dance
Tolerate. For now. Tolerate till tolerance becomes a virtue. Tolerate till tolerance becomes a stepping stone to acceptance and embracing another thought, another way of life.
Tolerate because expressing yourself does not need to be about curbing someone's expression.
Destruction cannot be the response to creation
Bans cannot be the response to expression
Violence cannot be the response to assertion of independence
Give everyone the Freedom they need
Don't tell them what to think, wear, say or do
We need Freedom to create without fear of acceptance
We need Freedom to never restrict a creator's thought.
May 21, 2014
On Opinions
March 4, 2014
Part 6 - A Friday Evening, In A December
I reach up to her from behind her. I tap her on her left shoulder and quickly move to her right. I remember having learned that from my grandfather when I was kid. A lot of people used to do that a long time ago. Then like most harmless things that bring out smiles, it died.
She turns, first to her left and then to her right, and sees me. There is a smile that begins to appear on her face.
Mission accomplished. I walk up a step so that I am besides her now.
She stops walking and I am a step ahead of her now. I turn to face her. Her smile has reached its maturity, it's pinnacle. It's literally from ear to ear. She arches slightly backwards and spreads her arms only a little. It seems like a call for a hug. I am not too sure about that, but I give in.
A bear hug that follows makes me remember all the time I have lost. I could have experienced this amazing feeling every single day for all these years since we have parted ways. At the time it seemed like I would have to pay a steep price for it. Now it seems more worthy than anything I have come to posses.
But had I settled for this hug at the time when I still had the option, would I still value it today? It's several years down the line and most married people I see lack the warmth and chemistry once a quantum of time passes between them. Some papers that I have read on the matter (yes, I am quite jobless) have quantified this time. It's 18 months. 18 months of the much bollywood/hollywood/'xollywood'/Nicholas Sparks/Other chiclit celebrated passion and romance is followed by life. I am not sure if people start taking their loved one for granted, implying that the love is still alive beyond that point or if it just that the love between two people cannot survive beyond the 18 months?
Anyway, back to my situation here. My heart is beating wildly and I am afraid that she will feel the idiot thumping. I can only hope that my overcoat is thick enough to absorb the shock that my heart is trying to apparently transfer into hers.
I try to hug her back, but my hands are arrested under hers as she has locked me in her embrace. And I am not sure if her hugging me means the same to her as me hugging her. I decide it's best to not cross the hypothetical line.
"So? What's up?" she asks as she let's go of me.
"Nothing much. I was just driving here after I spoke with you," I said. Demonstrating an utter lack of social skills is a unique strength of mine. I have been unable to keep pace with the rapidly changing social styles with the advent of the internet generation.
"Ok then. Shall we?" she says, pointing towards the staircase to our restaurant.
"Yup, we shall," I say. I cringe mentally. I haven't managed even a single decent sentence so far. But who's keeping score, huh? Well, I am.
On the stairway, I walk behind her and remember the times we had together. It's almost like one of those flashbacks in the movies. We had been inseparable friends. Once upon a time. We talked about all and sundry when we were together. Once upon a time. We were so frank with each other. Once upon a time.
What happened? I think to myself. What happened, you ask? My subconscious raises it's venomous scorpion tail. Remember that dreadful day when you kissed her atop the roof of Deepak's house in a state of utter inebriation?
Life happened.
Mischief managed. Or not, I don't really know.
