chaotic order

Jacques Barzun’s “From Dawn to decadence” lay open on my lap; as I sat near the duck pond (my customary haunt…). It was a beautiful Sunday evening; threatening to rain, but never did. A pleasant breeze wafting around, the ducks going about their business with a serene countenance unruffled by daily cares. A few new additions to their flock, though: all merrily enjoying being alive and sticking tog ether in warm comfort of their family. The elderly Indian Gentleman was sauntering along the pond. He was a tall man; reasonably built, close to six feet, I must say; hair completely greyed; wearing a loose fitting pair of black pants and striped white shirt. His hands were clasped behind his back; walking back and forth apparently lost in thought. He lives in my community. I have been seeing him around for the last eight months, on and off; near the swimming pool, washing area; or playing with a girl child (His granddaughter, may be). I distinctly remember his relaxed demeanor, earlier this

I swim because I love being an amphibian ; feel of water, its buoyancy; the wriggly adjustments the body makes to cut through it; the effortless breathing patterns it generates ( quite unconscious..); the sheer electric delight that courses through my veins as strokes become more rhythmic and self -sustaining - is simply delightful; An elderly gentleman jumped into the pool ; in the lane adjacen t to mine. A well built man, toned body; hair greying a little around his temples; but seemed in good physical condition. His strokes had natural athleticism and a practiced grace to it. There was hardly any displacement as his arms slit through water with languid precision ; he went on and on, continuously, for nearly forty five minutes without pausing a moment in between his laps. All that I could hear was the little splash of water as he tumbled over to resume his swim in the opposite direction. I had finished my swim and was warming off in the sauna close by, when he joined me after his ri

In one of the most perplexing verdicts of recent times, the South African court acquit ted the highly decorated, sympathized, sponsored and larger than life athlete - Oscar Pistorius, for the murder on Valentine’s Day, of his beautiful young girlfriend and promising model Reeva Steenkamp, in what must be a bizarre case of careless shooting in the annals of high profile criminal history. Common sense revolts at the travesty of justice here: A man claiming that he shot four times into a small closed cubicle of a toilet, assuming that it was an intruder in there, and not his girlfriend (who incidentally was sleeping with him that very night...), and cries out in agony and false repentance, awakening the world around him to this supposedly ghastly mistake - seems a little too far-fetched for my little intellect to digest. After eight months of sham trial, which in my opinion, wasn’t going anywhere at all, the court today overlooked justice to set free an athlete, allowing his achievements

Joseph de Maistre, the celebrated French lawyer of seventeenth century, known for his defense of Monarchy during the revolution captured the essence of psychoanalysis succinctly when he wrote: “I do not know what the heart of a rascal may b e; I know what is in the heart of an honest man; it is horrible”. This is precisely the predicament of Human personality. The façade does not always reveal the inner self. A thousand conflicting desires, feelings, thoughts and emotions flit though our little brain; and all that we present to the world outside is a balancing act. Fortunately, we are held in check by barbed wires of moral codes, ethics, education and an inherited discipline, otherwise, the chaos inside can jeopardize ones sanity and integrity in the world outside. The year 1991 was a fascinating one for the Academy awards. There were two movies, based on two bestsellers, vying for top honors. Both of them based on psychological turmoil and palpitations of modern man in his complex re

The moral damages of war can seldom be altered by peace. In the long history of Man’s carnage in the name of territory, ambition and unbridled foolishness, the victim has always been the hapless “soldier” on either side, who wields his lanc e, or sword or the gun for a cause that he does not understand or sympathize; but yet, gives himself to the task of plunging headlong into battlefield with impunity and increasing relish. The psychological consequences of such an internal hardening is bound to unleash within, when the heat of war and flow of blood have ebbed; and he needs to integrate back with society that awaits him as the person that he was. How many stable families have been left emotionally, physically, morally and in million other ways uprooted from their cloistered lives; thrown into this maddening milieu of an ideological war; drawn to it by a strange taste of nationalism; passions running high, blood boiling with a fever characteristic of youthful folly heading into a mora

Dr Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan - A teacher, philosopher and a Statesman  ( A homage to a teacher from an aspiring student in me) The year - 1952. A touching moment in history, when Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan, walked into Joseph Stalin’s spaci ous and ornately furnished office in Moscow for the last time to bid him farewell, after his tenure as the first ambassador of India to the Soviet Union. After brief pleasantries, he held Stalin’s hands and said “You know, there was a great emperor in India, who renounced his kingship after a bloody purge and became a monk. His name was Ashoka “, and with an enigmatic smile continued – “God knows, what will become of you…” Not many men have ever had the audacity to look at Stalin in his eye, let alone talk to him on the morality of his actions, or in a condescending tone. However, the aging dictator, understood the deep import of the sage’s words and his intention; and with a trembling voice replied “Yes sir, Miracles do happen!!! After all I have

Few in the annals of Indian classical music have achieved greater virtuosity, global fame and unfading aura of mystic lure than Pandit Ravi Shankar - the renowned sitarist, who died in San Diego a couple of years ago.. His transcendental co ncentration, absorption and austere stage presence has thrilled audiences all over the world. Since his migration to the United States in the early sixties, to join his brother- the versatile dancer Uday Shankar; they helped forge the deep traditions of the Hindustani music and classical dance forms within the ambit of other popular genres; and gave their successors and fellow artists a platform to explore and experiment. It would be fair to say that they were the first to step out of conservative restraints that tightly bound the schools of Indian art, and give it a voice that was truly universal. However, this short essay is not about him. But about Ravi Shankar’s ex-wife Annapurna Devi, daughter and protégé of the legendary Ustad Allauaddin Khan