My dear scientist, my antagonism was not directed at you, but your community as a whole (includes your grand fathers, great grandfathers - the so called spirits of science). This is my anger on all those who pose to be new age scientists, falsify the works of philosophers and represent the old wine in new bottle. If a philosopher comes up with the concept of ‘atman’, talk paramathma – jivathma, our beloved physics architect takes a cue from this, discovers atom and end of it arrogantly claims no more parama’atom’-jiva’atom’. Then establish literature to prove there is only atom and name it as their invention. They go on to define atom in such a way that common man is forced to accept it as a scientists’ creation. Worst of all they take these men away from philosophy that came to simplify things for humanity. People confused by science, ignorant of our philosophies end up in difficulty and pain
I did not have any problem with people questioning the existence of God on opting science. My intention was only to mock scientist for their science till date has come with nothing new to excite mankind. Everything around me today is only transformations of things that already existed – again the concept of old wine in new bottle.
Define God – for scientists it’s seriously a tough one. For a common man like me, with zero knowledge in science it’s all that easy. Just read few verse from the Vedas and Gita, I am able to understand God. I need not go any further.
Yes, every physics has philosophical base, you test, re-test, multi test and after several tests prove philosophers are comical nuts.
Finally, for the sake of doing it, do not hurt the not so knowledgeable. What’s wrong if a man polishes a rock with turmeric and places few flowers over it and believes that, it is that god who will give him the day’s bread? Why do you have to go about proving that …NO, that is a mere piece of lava that solidified? After all you do not have an answer too. In what way you are being better to the mankind? You make it sound like, 'when God is a tough metal even for highly knowledgeable scientists, how you illiterate folks gonna understand god?'
To conclude, am seriously not against an individual scientist, definitely not against you…you could well be one among those scientist who gets up every day seeking God’s blessing to provide you knowledge to understand him…am only saying in the name of science, do not make certain simple understanding a tough one for common man.
Friday 24 December 2010
Friday 18 June 2010
Futile Attempt
Summer holidays of 1998. We retired after a long, hard day of cricket. We played six matches at an average score of twelve. I top scored the fourth match with a twenty seven. The seventh match I won the toss and put my brother to bat. My brother played formidable defense and made one hundred and twenty seven before sun went down. Not a huge one I know for I made a three hundred and thirteen few years back with the same opposition, my brother.
My brother was a good player of the game but not good enough to match my skills, mainly because when he was off for his post graduation for two years, I got to play lot of cricket, at school, at the streets, beach and at home all alone. I would practice front foot defense seven hundred times a day. Throw the ball at the wall – go for the defense and back to position before the ball arrives again. I would do this half the day and go for back foot strokes during rest. More than that, I mastered playing limited space cricket. In a sit out of three hundred and fifty square feet with an old broken shoe rack at one corner, a huge metal frame leaning on the wall behind the bowling end and another wall of the same height behind the batsman. This customized version of cricket was played with a light tennis ball and with no stumps. Three consecutive times the ball beats the bat, one is declared out and of course one pitch one hand catches were always part of the game. Every ball struck earned a run and anything hit on the shoe rack fetched two. Anything that rose above the metal frame was awarded a six and ball hit straight back at the wall behind the bowler below the frame was granted four. Sledging was permissible to any extent but physical abuse.
Strategies ran through my mind, prayers loped in my heart; my blood was warm amid frustration, set up a sleepless night for me.
The day arrived, a fresh start, a brighter day, and loads of confidence to salvage the bat from the hands of my brother, I began bowling. The first ball I bowled, I dropped a sitter, pitching plum in front of me. I gave it my right hand but could not gather. Never the less, I patted myself for the wonderful start.
My brother scored a one hundred and fifty soon. That was the last time I counted him raising his bat at me. Within an hour from then his score was two hundred and seventy two, three hundred and four just before we went for lunch. He snatched the mango from my hand and yelled “mangoes are not for losers”. I was calm as I knew it was part and parcel of the game. I had done more than this when I scored my triple century.
Back at the field, my desperate attempt failed to get his wicket well within three hundred and thirteen, my best. I failed, lost my cool and never attempted any half chances thereafter. He was scoring everywhere. I would have swayed my hands at least three thousand times at him that day. He reached eight hundred and seventy eight.
I felt miserable that evening. He declared the score to my dad at dinner. My mom, who hardly knows the game burst with laughter for even she knows a seven hundred plus score, was comical. Until then I thought cricket was the only talent I possessed, I felt ashamed. But I did not want to give up. As soon as I picked his wicket I knew that the bat would be in my hands. So calmed myself to sleep and got up fresh the third day.
Sad, his run making flourished again. Eight hundred in a jiffy, nine hundred and he derisively did not punch his bat in the air. He shrieked “I shall take that next at thousand bro”. At least before a thousand was only a distant dream. Thousand hundred and seventy four at lunch, I almost bust out of fatigue. One last try before I give up I thought and bowled post lunch but no good gods supported.
At thousand one hundred and sixteen, I knew I did not throw the ball, but it left my hand at its will, and fell short at the pitch. My brother attempted an unintended stroke before losing his wicket by giving me a catch. I lay flat on the floor for at least five minutes with my brother brutally smiling to reiterate that it was nothing of my effort to get him out. I did not bother for bat was in my hand now Fresh energy got into my system, rushed of blood. I knew how to make big runs. I would have made it at least ten times more than my brother. I remembered all the fun I made of him when I scored my triplet. My first thought was to reach to hundred before the day ended.
Well, got out of the first ball. My brother shredded his ribs laughing at my upshot. He rolled on the floor mocking at me. I stood still, in disbelief. All that I needed was another chance, I cried foul at his genuine wicket, I protested I was not ready to face, I lost my sane and yelled, but all the while he was laughing at me. Finally, I begged him to offer me another chance to play, but, why would he? He played his turn, why would someone be interested to bowl? My brother got a call on his phone and went inside leaving me there
I fell pale and sick on the floor. I cried, literally. I was there on my knees for more than half an hour. Felt so lonely and wretched. 27th May 1998, that was the last day I played cricket at home. For the fear that I would lose the toss
My brother was a good player of the game but not good enough to match my skills, mainly because when he was off for his post graduation for two years, I got to play lot of cricket, at school, at the streets, beach and at home all alone. I would practice front foot defense seven hundred times a day. Throw the ball at the wall – go for the defense and back to position before the ball arrives again. I would do this half the day and go for back foot strokes during rest. More than that, I mastered playing limited space cricket. In a sit out of three hundred and fifty square feet with an old broken shoe rack at one corner, a huge metal frame leaning on the wall behind the bowling end and another wall of the same height behind the batsman. This customized version of cricket was played with a light tennis ball and with no stumps. Three consecutive times the ball beats the bat, one is declared out and of course one pitch one hand catches were always part of the game. Every ball struck earned a run and anything hit on the shoe rack fetched two. Anything that rose above the metal frame was awarded a six and ball hit straight back at the wall behind the bowler below the frame was granted four. Sledging was permissible to any extent but physical abuse.
Strategies ran through my mind, prayers loped in my heart; my blood was warm amid frustration, set up a sleepless night for me.
The day arrived, a fresh start, a brighter day, and loads of confidence to salvage the bat from the hands of my brother, I began bowling. The first ball I bowled, I dropped a sitter, pitching plum in front of me. I gave it my right hand but could not gather. Never the less, I patted myself for the wonderful start.
My brother scored a one hundred and fifty soon. That was the last time I counted him raising his bat at me. Within an hour from then his score was two hundred and seventy two, three hundred and four just before we went for lunch. He snatched the mango from my hand and yelled “mangoes are not for losers”. I was calm as I knew it was part and parcel of the game. I had done more than this when I scored my triple century.
Back at the field, my desperate attempt failed to get his wicket well within three hundred and thirteen, my best. I failed, lost my cool and never attempted any half chances thereafter. He was scoring everywhere. I would have swayed my hands at least three thousand times at him that day. He reached eight hundred and seventy eight.
I felt miserable that evening. He declared the score to my dad at dinner. My mom, who hardly knows the game burst with laughter for even she knows a seven hundred plus score, was comical. Until then I thought cricket was the only talent I possessed, I felt ashamed. But I did not want to give up. As soon as I picked his wicket I knew that the bat would be in my hands. So calmed myself to sleep and got up fresh the third day.
Sad, his run making flourished again. Eight hundred in a jiffy, nine hundred and he derisively did not punch his bat in the air. He shrieked “I shall take that next at thousand bro”. At least before a thousand was only a distant dream. Thousand hundred and seventy four at lunch, I almost bust out of fatigue. One last try before I give up I thought and bowled post lunch but no good gods supported.
At thousand one hundred and sixteen, I knew I did not throw the ball, but it left my hand at its will, and fell short at the pitch. My brother attempted an unintended stroke before losing his wicket by giving me a catch. I lay flat on the floor for at least five minutes with my brother brutally smiling to reiterate that it was nothing of my effort to get him out. I did not bother for bat was in my hand now Fresh energy got into my system, rushed of blood. I knew how to make big runs. I would have made it at least ten times more than my brother. I remembered all the fun I made of him when I scored my triplet. My first thought was to reach to hundred before the day ended.
Well, got out of the first ball. My brother shredded his ribs laughing at my upshot. He rolled on the floor mocking at me. I stood still, in disbelief. All that I needed was another chance, I cried foul at his genuine wicket, I protested I was not ready to face, I lost my sane and yelled, but all the while he was laughing at me. Finally, I begged him to offer me another chance to play, but, why would he? He played his turn, why would someone be interested to bowl? My brother got a call on his phone and went inside leaving me there
I fell pale and sick on the floor. I cried, literally. I was there on my knees for more than half an hour. Felt so lonely and wretched. 27th May 1998, that was the last day I played cricket at home. For the fear that I would lose the toss
Wednesday 10 February 2010
A deadly story
A crab appears and moves around restlessly with nobody around in absolute tranquility.
A bright sunny afternoon on a lonely beach. Rohini and Shiva, newly married couple, apparent by the wetness of turmeric on her mangal sutra, sweet smell of mehndi, array of bangles and the fresh jasmine on her hair, warily playing with the sand, with her newly married husband next to her.
A distressed man comes into view out of the flashy sunlight at the beach. He approaches the waves and picks up a shabby doll by the rope tied to its neck.
‘Mahesh!’ Cries the young lady as he comes into her sight. Moves towards him in excitement. They, Gleefully greet each other. Mahesh asks ‘Rohini – how come...Here?’. Rohini replies ‘The bus that rolled down at Yercaud hills – in which 20 people lost lives…….’ as she speaks, her husband comes up to her. She stops abruptly and introduces Mahesh to him, “Mahesh, he is my husband, Shiva. He is Mahesh – you remember? I told you ………at the college”. Shiva shakes his head in acknowledgement to her words. She pauses, and all the three start walking along the waves.
The crab, now twitchy, moves about all over the place.
She breaks the silence and enquires Mahesh,” Mahesh! I heard, you committed suicide?”
Hush all around that place with only the squirmy crab quivering in the summer sands.
Inspired by a short film emitted on television.
A bright sunny afternoon on a lonely beach. Rohini and Shiva, newly married couple, apparent by the wetness of turmeric on her mangal sutra, sweet smell of mehndi, array of bangles and the fresh jasmine on her hair, warily playing with the sand, with her newly married husband next to her.
A distressed man comes into view out of the flashy sunlight at the beach. He approaches the waves and picks up a shabby doll by the rope tied to its neck.
‘Mahesh!’ Cries the young lady as he comes into her sight. Moves towards him in excitement. They, Gleefully greet each other. Mahesh asks ‘Rohini – how come...Here?’. Rohini replies ‘The bus that rolled down at Yercaud hills – in which 20 people lost lives…….’ as she speaks, her husband comes up to her. She stops abruptly and introduces Mahesh to him, “Mahesh, he is my husband, Shiva. He is Mahesh – you remember? I told you ………at the college”. Shiva shakes his head in acknowledgement to her words. She pauses, and all the three start walking along the waves.
The crab, now twitchy, moves about all over the place.
She breaks the silence and enquires Mahesh,” Mahesh! I heard, you committed suicide?”
Hush all around that place with only the squirmy crab quivering in the summer sands.
Inspired by a short film emitted on television.
Monday 1 February 2010
Recur
Both rose with their eyes into each other. Cold wind brushed through the ventilators slipping into her damp hair. She shivered of cold. He placed his chin on her shoulder and pecked her neck. He held her close to him for a brief moment and whispered into her ear. She shook her head and gently rested her head on the wall behind. She felt his eyes on her and looked up. A tiny tear gingerly made its way down her cheek as she bit her lip.
Both rose with their eyes into each other. Hot wind blew through her dry hair. He placed his chin on her shoulder and pecked her neck. He held her close to him for a brief moment and whispered into her ear. She shook her head and rested her head on the wall behind. Memories ran in her head. She brushed away her thoughts as she picked a strand of dry hair trapped in the wall. Fears of the past clouded her mind; a tiny tear gingerly made its way down her cheek as she bit her lip.
Both rose with their eyes into each other. Hot wind blew through her dry hair. He placed his chin on her shoulder and pecked her neck. He held her close to him for a brief moment and whispered into her ear. She shook her head and rested her head on the wall behind. Memories ran in her head. She brushed away her thoughts as she picked a strand of dry hair trapped in the wall. Fears of the past clouded her mind; a tiny tear gingerly made its way down her cheek as she bit her lip.
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