chaotic order

Martin Luther king Jr, the celebrated Civil rights activist is known throughout the civilized world for his historic “I have a dream…” address, delivered on August 28th 1963, against the majestic backdrop of Lincoln memorial to more than tens of thousands of citizens who stood along Capitol hill, awestruck, inspired and transformed by the passion and intensity that those simple words evoked, when  they gushed forth from the deep throated southern voice of Dr king. It is an exhortation that ranks amongst the most celebrated orations in recorded Human history, and without any question of doubt, galvanized an entire nation, nay - the whole of Mankind to rise above divisions based on skin and color and to strive to create an egalitarian society. But to me, personally, there is one more speech, or more of a sermon rather, delivered in a small Baptist church in Chicago that is closer to my heart. It resonates even more truly of the spiritual dimension and kind of Man Dr King really was. Lis

“Advaita” is a beautiful word:  Its esoteric meaning indicating a precarious sense of Non-duality, a kind of dialectic cul-de-sac that points to nowhere. The Hindu mystics coined this term realizing early in their introspective adventure that the Universe will remain a composition of polar opposites, only as long as one continues to verbalize and pigeon-hole experiences – otherwise all that it is:  is merely a continuum that oscillates between being and non-being: like music- which in its essence, is a delicate, intangible flow of absorbing silences interspersed with accentuating noises. One without the other cannot exist, and the Human ear needs to hear those “silences” as much as those noises in-between to recreate the magic within the brain. Our ‘core self’ abstracts the minutiae of this process of Silence/Noise from the lens of consciousness, and coalesces discrete pieces of experience into a wholesome flow, which we know and admire as Music. The funny thing though is that neuros

When Death row prisoners are taken on their last solitary walk in chains to the Gas chamber, the guards accompanying them shout aloud: “Dead Man walking…, Dead Man walking….” No one is clear on the origins of this ritual, but it is one of t hose chants that linger thick in the air, reverberating across lonely steeled corridors, reminding all inmates who lurk in their lonely cells counting their days, hours and minutes - that the end is near. Society has deemed them unfit to live anymore in their midst, and they wait: handcuffed, tied, emotionally drained, physically emaciated, intellectually paralyzed; and, in most cases, bemoaning their destiny and banishment -with an unspoken dread of complete annihilation that they imminently face. The Moral issues of ritually preparing a man for slaughter, over a period of months, or even years; and the agony of having an audience watch the sordid show with a Sandwich and Soda in hand and a gleam of satisfaction in their eyes the torment and retri

There comes a time, when words fail; and no more accolades are left to be lavished upon a great artist. It is not sycophancy, or being a mindlessly fanatical admirer of their work; but it is simply the fact that the extraordinary potential in them has broken every barrier, opened all possible doors of creativity, explored every crevice of emotional sensitivity- as if, He or she, was born to fulfill a destiny that was preordained. I am talking about Meryl Streep… Critics and fans unanimously agree that Streep is the greatest actress alive, but to me, she is probably the greatest actor ever, to have graced the silver screen. Over the last few years, I have nearly watched nearly all her films, and never once have I got the impression that Streep was merely going through the motions of emoting, without getting into the skin of character that she was essaying. The movie may not have been noteworthy, but none could point a finger at her for mediocrity. And to remain in that rarefied pl

As I watched Federer play Djokovic yesterday – A Game lasting nearly four and a half hours, my mind began to languorously reminisce about the glorious rivalry that existed between Borg and McEnroe in the seventy and early eighties. My brother and I used to watch recordings of those epic finals in the cosmopolitan club of Coimbatore. Those were days when Television and live broadcasts were a rarity, and all that we had with us to admire were newspaper clippings, and, of course, the articles and  center-spreads  in Sportstar. There have been many champions who have graced the open era - athletes with great athleticism, tremendous reach, marvelous serves and incredible power; but in my opinion, none matched the dexterity, grace and sheer magic that emanated from the racket of John McEnroe. Yes, he was inconsistent, a spoilt child, a man who could throw tantrums at the flip of a coin, but yet, despite all these inconsistencies, he played the game of tennis at such a sublime level, that v

The other day, as I sat reading near a pond, an acquaintance, who lives in my community came along with his wife and two children to feed the ducks that float there. It’s a lovely, quiet place, especially late in the evenings, when the heat comes down and sunlight mellows into a crimson red - a wonderful period of time when I can stretch myself on the bench and read, with chirpy birds all around  me, and the placid waters of the pond gently reflecting the serenity of the trees around; and heavens, darkening slowly in anticipation of the night. Oftentimes, I have met this gentleman here, and each time we wish each other, and our conversation never gets beyond it. This time around when he wished me, I replied (as is my usual practice...) “I am wonderful sir. And how are you...” He nodded his head and with a little bit of hesitation said “I am Ok, pulling along…..” With that brief exchange, I got back to my book, and he to his kids shouting out to them , and the ducks- encouraging them t

It is always difficult to step out of the shadows of one’s parentage. Especially so, if the Parent happens to be a creative artist of the highest order - A man whose legendary film making skills has more or less made him a household name in the world of Movies. I am talking about the Francis ford  Coppola  and his illustrious daughter Sophia  Coppola . With a family as involved in the art of Movie making as Copolla’s, it is but natural (some may call it nepotism) that young Sophia began acting as a child in the God father series, and then went on to essay a few forgettable, undistinguished roles in sundry other films blessed by her Father. It was clear though, that she was not cut out to be an actress. But then, as they say, “Genes don’t lie”; and the artistic DNA in her evolved into a film maker, director and screen play writer in the year 1999, when she made her first feature film based on a remarkable book by Jeffrey Eugenides named “The virgin suicides” - a story of five young, b

It is a veritable tryst of destiny that Kahlil Gibran never became an American citizen. He never belonged to any country, to no one. His was a free life lived by the breath of divinity; hence his words ring true to all Men and Women of ever y class, clime and status - A quintessential outsider to himself and society; dipping his poetic mind in the burning embers of inner solitude and fire, fructifying itself into some of the finest prose verses the language has ever seen or understood :- verses that direct ones fragile intellect into new directions, verses that cut through the heart like a gilded sword, verses that caress our souls like a gentle cool wind on a full moon night, verses that illumine the mundane with a light celestial, verses that act as a balm to hurt, famished lives whose destiny is to wander in doubt and perilous confusion. Such is the power of his writings, that even after nearly hundred years, they still reverberate in our hearts and minds as verses immortal. Let us

Edgar Allan Poe is not merely a progenitor of the Gothic form of Novel; but known more importantly as a creator of the genius, philosophic and poetic detective in C. Auguste Dupin. Dupin appears in three short stories that Poe wrote between the years 1841-45; and in each of those he sets the tone for writers like Arthur Conan Doyle, Dorothy Sayers and Agatha Christie to etch characters that have a little trace of Dupin rubbed into them.. In fact when Poe wrote the Dupin stories, the term "Detective' was not yet a part of the language. It was a later addition. To Poe - Dupin was merely a keen observer of Human nature, and a man who possessed an incisive and uncanny reasoning capacity to resolve knotty issues. The problem with Poe’s Dupin is that he ends up becoming a mere mouth-piece of the author’s philosophic ruminations on Human depravity and nature of evil. Poe’s fascination with the morbid is legendary (Who can forget his undiluted caricature of evil in “The pit and