chaotic order

Jottings : Slice of life - 67 ( Coleman Barks - his inebriation with Rumi) I have in front of me three books : “Introduction to Zen Buddhism” by DT Suzuki published in 1934, Idries shah’s “Sufism” published in 1964, and Coleman Barks “The Soul of Rumi” published in 2002. The first two volumes are path breaking books of the last century. Suzuki interpreted the enigmatic and paradoxical mysticism of Zen buddhism to modern western readers in a manner that was scholastic enough, and at the same time easily accessible to serious readers. Idries shah, a Britisher, synthesized the beautiful tradition of Islamic mysticism in the form of Sufism, its dance of dervishes, making it sensible and meaningful to a world which thought of them as nothing more than nervous paroxysms of Mad men. That the depth of Sufism is essentially the same mystical reverberation of ages across traditions, was first realized in the English works of Idries shah. The love poems of Sufi mystics, the clownish stories o

Jottings : slice of life - 66 ( Fidel Castro 1926-2016 - a thorn in American Flesh) A few weeks ago I was watching Brian de Palma's masterpiece "Scarface" again. Perhaps, the best performance ever by Al Pacino, as a young Cuban refugee who lands on the open shores of Miami in early 1980’s to become an undisputed drug warlord. The first few scenes in the movie shows boat loads of Cuban refugees huddled together, sent out by Cuban government to live or rot in America. It was Fidel Castro’s masterstroke to taunt the mighty Americans. He was dispatching Criminals and trouble makers from Cuba as exile into the US, just as the illustrious English, during the 18th century were sending ship loads of petty criminals into the continent of newly found Australia. This comparison is exaggerated, but the audacity of intent remains the same. For nearly fifty years the revolutionary, communist leader of Cuba held fort over a country that is barely a million square miles long with a p

Jottings : Slice of life - 65 ( Commercial Telugu Movies - My medicinal dose for fantasies and relaxation) For sheer entertainment, lavishness and unbridled sense of imagination on screen, there is nothing in Indian Film industry which can equal those that come from the land of Andra Pradesh. And I say this with all admiration, respect and regards I can muster. There is something about them that eludes definition or categorization. If all that I want on a cool, wintry evening is to be entertained, benumbed and taken on a fantasy filled journey , governed by virtually no rules, logic or conventions, then my choice would be to tune into a commercial Telugu feature film and stay hooked for three hours in utter disbelief and awe. Believe me, it can also be riveting and near timeless experience, if one can abandon expectations on how a film should be. I mean no offense or condescension here . Every now and then, I do give myself this lush, extravagant delight of losing myself completely

Jottings : Slice of life - 64 ( Presidential medal of Freedom - honor and appeasement) Unlike most other countries, the USA’s highest civilian award - the Presidential medal of Freedom - is often a whim, a taste, a sign of an outgoing’s President’s larger legacy than his political one. Historically, if one looks at the number of awards given by each President, especially during last few months of their tenure ( jokingly referred to as the lame duck period), it is always the time when they open the white house halls to honor those they have loved, cherished and supported their cause in one way or the other. Not that recipients at any time were less deserving. No, not at all. All awardees, since the time John F Kennedy reconstituted this award in 1963, have been stalwarts, giants and path breakers in their fields of endeavor. Music, dance, writing, Governance, Military, business, social science, sports - all of them have found representation. But as I said, each President’s choice of

Jottings : Slice of life- 63 ( Gore Vidal’s “Lincoln”) No other man in recorded Human History has so much written about him or his work, his influence or his legendary personality - as Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth President of the United States. The number of written works alone around this enigmatic man totals to more than 15,000, let alone other art forms . Ironically, only one more individual can rival that claim, and that is Jesus - the Christ. In the iconic Ford museum in Washington DC, where Lincoln eventually met the assassin’s bullet, there is a 34 foot tower (picture attached) erected in memory of his life and death. At first glimpse, the tower would seem odd, but one quickly realizes its entire structure is made of metal replicas of front covers of books written on Lincoln. A little placard placed nearby announces that 6800 books are represented so far in the column, only a fraction of the total written with more to come. When I saw this tower for the first time in Febr

Jottings : slice of life - 60 ( Transformation of Paper money in India - Bold stroke by a Bold man) A system can be only as good as its practitioners want it to be. This is the fundamental truth to be understood in a democracy. First thing immigrants learn when they land in a Western country is the implicit respect for basic rules and processes they find there. It cuts across all sections of society. Also, what they are normally surprised to find is that people dont grumble , fret or fume about such rules. They follow it joyfully, effortlessly with conscientious participation. Now, We are not talking obtuse, debatable laws of equality, rights and liberalism - over which there will always be contending sides. What are we talking about is simple rules of living in the midst of other people, and making democracy function effectively on a day to day basis. It is often funny to observe when an Indian goes to India on vacation , after say three or four years of stay in the US, he or she

Jottings : Slice    of Life -59 ( Ernest Hemmingway - master of the narrative form) On a beautiful summer evening on July 2 1962, Ernest Hemmingway, walked down to the basement of his farm house in Idaho, pulled out his favorite shot gun - oiled, cleaned it; bought it up to his living room; sat down facing his large window that opened up to the acres of wavy farmland, put the barrel to his head and shot himself. The literary world, friends and critics, fans, his wife weren't in the least bit surprised or shocked. If there was a way Hemmingway was going to die, it was to be through his own hand, by his own means and only in this manner. For a man who lived his life at its very edge, no other kind of death would have done him justice. Suicide was the violent climax his genius persistently craved for, or could have accepted with dignity. Quietly, after few days of cursory investigation and a nod from his wife, the coroner declared his death to be “accidental” and closed the file o