Why Open Source religion isn't religion

Required reading: Open source religion

There's something wrong about the idea of an open source religion, especially the ones doing the rounds on GitHub. For starters, their basic definition lacks any purpose: to distribute authority instead of letting it be accrued, to make it more participatory and democratic instead of authoritative, and to have consensual agreement on all developments concerning the tenets/axioms of the religion.

Granted, OS religions require a drastic redefinition of what it means to be a religion, but once that is broken, the religious essence that makes people flock to it, stay with it, and die with it, could easily be lost.

An essential part of partaking in religious faith concerns its soteriology - its doctrine of salvation. By making it less authoritative and more democratic, the concept of sacrifice loses meaning. If everyone has their own way without having to give up on anything important, then there is no sacrifice to be made, no discipline thereby to be gained, and no retentive faith to be instilled. Consequently, salvation becomes meaningless: the world to come will be no different from the world that is/was.

Another source of retentive faith is the presence of a concept that separates the faithless from the faithful as well as the faithful from the orthodox. Usually, they are things like "purity", proselytization, absolution of material desires, etc. Without centralized authority, however, there is no way to establish the dos and don'ts to characterise such laws.

Both these issues make OS religion simply a way of life and not a religion at all; even if it seeks to redefine what people think of religion, the result is only something that has lost those aspects of itself that set it apart in the first place.

The Castle of Brithombar

After the plague,
Water gathering in puddles, running like waves on an oily seabed,
Out of the wound, a gouge in the sky, and into our hands;
Droplets between the lines of a map, navigated by probing fingers,
To invite the maggots to gather, festering in the flesh, crawling,

Upon the holy land!-
Blasted from shore to shore by winds blowing from the west;
Sand in our ears, sand in our eyes, sand on the tips of our tongues,
While soldiers and priests alike look down at the dead god.
We are climbing out of the soil to look up

At the Castle of Brithombar,
Windows of stone set atop pillars of foreign steel, framed,
Sinewed, with the gold of the atheists, the non-believers;
Spewing plumes of red smoke, packing the heavens above
And clouding the stars from our drenched eyes behind the water;

Faceted and cut
Like rotten diamonds, glittering at the whims of untrained eyes!
Calling upon the Fallen with stern guidance, our new commander
Taking its place, squatting, on the limp palm of divinity past,
Where fingers malformed once were are flights of stairs

Unto the feast halls!
We walk, we walk, shoulder to shoulder, back to back;
Invisible spear points jutting into our spines, we walk, we walk.
As the faithless we leave to forge our faith anew,
Where we may kneel before the face of another stillborn

Within the Castle of Brithombar:
Resplendent with the hollowed bones of the dead, wherefrom
Hang candles of clay instigated with the blood of our wives;
From the walls hang carcasses of the children of our brothers,
Ill-begotten, for that would be the essense of our entreaties!

Henceforth will speak
Only a doctrine of the centuries-old laws of human civilization,
Whereupon the wheel once spun keeps spinning on and on!
Creepers and vines will find hold beneath the thrones heaviest
And with blighted hands invade the seat where the kings fall!

Thus, their promises,
All but gone like the whispers of hope lost from our hearts;
Suppurating sweat, tears, cleansing each other of our memories:
We are reminded, alas, that faithlessness alone is faith itself,
For the first amongst them is now the king of man

Within the lost Castle of Brithombar!

Insistence

It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I lay my fingers
One, two, three, four, five
Where my palm lingers
Where it will till the day I die

It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I lay my lips again and again
One, two, three, four, five
Until I can feel the pain
A memory to cherish till the day I die

It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I shed my many tears
One, two, three, four, five
Where I will bleed my final fears
And be diseased till the day I die

It is upon the cheek of insistence
That I inter my hope of resistance
And wave to all a pleasant goodbye
So I may succumb to eternal quiescence
So cowardly in my sleep may I die

The sons of Moirai

When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.

I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.

Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.

The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.

That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.

The sons of Moirai

When writing about any other such man, I would've been bland with my contrivances: an inherited fortune, an all-expenses-paid-for education, a world outlook that bordered on dilettantism while seeking out some moral higher ground to continuing to sleep with whores. No. He was not quite all those things—there was something different about him that may have never come across if not for a remark I overheard. He was a zealot, a man given to a cause, living out a straightforward life—debauchery notwithstanding—whose excesses were moderated with a sense of judgment spiked with spiritual devotion. He kept to himself most of the time, never indulging in small talk, and would often leave me wondered if he had nothing to complain about at all; whenever we met, he would ask me what I was writing about these days, whether I'd read any books lately, and with a sincere seniority, he would give me advice on what not to do in general.

I'd once heard that he'd been suspended for assaulting a younger colleague—it could not have been him. However, knowing that both were true—his unassuming nature as well as his record of being unnecessarily aggressive—told me that his "cause" was something to beware. Then again, I didn't find out that he was a terrorist until years later. He had a sister, he told me one evening over a cup of tea and a cigarette, a younger girl who was studying "something or the other" in Pune. Apparently, she'd had a thing for law—a gift for the polemic—but the voice of her parents had been drowned out by him: "I mean, you tell me, she is a girl. She is going to have a hard time. Just do something in literature, etc., get married, settle down, have kids. There is nothing more than is due a woman. I am supporting her. She is going to bear children. I don't see the problem!" The lines around his eyes and mouth pointed to a lack of any other kind of reason in him; he was convinced about whatever he was talking about.

Another time, a box of pizzas had arrived for my room. I had ordered it for me and a friend who had a night of talking/writing/drinking ahead of us, and we wanted to do away with the pretentions of having bread and salad for dinner. Unexpectedly, he showed up. He had nothing to say about the liquor in the room. He just took a look around and left. The next morning, I met him on the way to the Main Hall. Even as I walked up to him, he turned away and raised his hand. "Don't talk to me anymore," he said, "I did not expect any of that from you. You are drinking at this age?" In those two seconds, there was a bestial rage in him and he was speaking through gritted teeth. I said nothing, and soon, like I'd expected, the heat snapped and he cooled down. "I will meet you in the evening again for tea. Don't try to meet me or speak to me before that." I muttered something—I don't clearly recall now—and left him. I waited for about 40 minutes that evening but he did not show up for tea. I had work to do at the office and left.

The vainglorious disciplinarian that he was, I was a little surprised to see him during dinner hour at the mess. He dragged me away from my seat, the ghee still sliding down my fingers, while the others watched us for a moment before turning their attention back to their plates. He seemed agitated. "I need a favour from you. Will you do it for me?" What is it? "Well... OK, you must not tell anybody about this, OK?" Alright. I assumed it was something diplomatically fragile to do with his managerial duties. I was right: "I am part of this club in YK Nagar, and they need this packet delivered to this address here"—he produced a card—"and I am held up at the moment. Can you deliver it for me, please?" OK. By when— "As soon as you finish (he waved at the dinner table). Thank you so much." He left quickly. I have never heard from him since. The package itself was some sort of a chemical substance, and that night, I made sure I handed it over to the police and told them about this man who I worked for.

That was in 1995. I've had a daughter after that, and then my wife died in the bridge explosion two years ago. I hope you don't condemn the abeyance of my spirits because, even in all of this, I continue to wonder where such men come from. He had bought me that house in Krishna Nagar, he had given me a job even though I was underqualified to hold it, he had always been there to listen to me when I'd had anything to say. That was when I was married to Revathi. Now, she is dead and I am forced to question my faith in many things—why am I not in mourning? I don't know. I don't know who I am, or who I would have been if not for a lot of things. They say I must have faith, but faith in what? Faith in men just like me, I suppose, who come from nowhere and are expected to be somewhere.

Surrendering & Salvaging

Before you begin: The following story is meant only to elucidate a point being made in this post; any events detailed therein do NOT correspond to real events. No content here is meant to misinform or mislead the reader.

There was once a woman, a poor woman, whose husband had left her when their first child was born, and she was forced to give up the child for adoption as she had no means of supporting it after a few years and no intention of condemning the child to a fate similar to hers. The child, now adopted by an affluent family, grows up to become a healthy young man. Then, his birth-mother, now left begging by the sidewalks of the large city, spots him on the road one afternoon and begins to follow him, asking him for alms. He does not know who the old woman is, never having been old enough to be expected to remember anything at all before his new home. The woman, suddenly overcome with a surge of pleasure at having seen her son again, tells him the truth. He does not believe her, but has his doubts allayed by his adopted parents once he gets home. The next time he sets out, he wishes not to meet the old woman again because she forsook him when she should have not - at the same time forgetting that he wouldn't have been who he was if not for the surrender.

There is a strong analogy between this story and our daily lives. The old woman, impoverished and bereaved of any means to support herself in a fast-changing world with her antediluvian tools, is the culture we often find lacking in so many people when we talk of the decadence in India: the westernization brought on by globalization and liberalization of economies to survive in a world where the rules are set only by Big Brother.

The young child given up for adoption so early in life are the youngsters born today, living today, the very same people that our previous generations tout as the face of the future. Our culture as such is imposed on us by our parents and those who nurture us, teach us and care for us as we grow up; it may not seem necessary since it is definitely not innate, but the need to belong is, and so we seek to be native and "one" with some group of people. It is strongly tied in with our identity. However, when the culture seems lacking in some prime aspect that WE need to survive today, albeit succeed, it not only surrenders us to another culture but we also proactively seek out an alternative - if a restaurant I enter does not have the soup I eagerly seek, the manager will have no reason to force me to stay, and I will have no reason to remain, either. Neither is to blame but there is a resulting dissonance.

The affluent family is the second culture - the one that is equipped with those rights and liberties to exempt ourselves from unreasonable duties, duties that could hamper us, hinder us, in our quest for success in a world that no longer moves by the hours but the fractions of a second. It has to be conceded that there are many unreasonable expectations made of a youngster that do not so much as acknowledge the nature of the changing times, leaving one to decide whether one is prepared to lead a penitentiary life or, on quite the other hand, break free of the shackles and emerge free. Penance is a sin against practicality and freedom is a sin against faith. Which road is a child to take but the one that is available immediately, the one that provides the next morsel of food? If survival necessitates a change of sides, then so be it.

The old woman did not want to condemn, the young man did not want to come to naught, the affluent family did nothing to be held culpable for, but there innumerable grudges, favors waiting to be returned and a gratitude expression system that seems to be going haywire. Where are we in all of this? Rather, how are we in all of this?

[caption id="" align="aligncenter" width="240" caption="What does it mean to be Indian?"][/caption]

If and when you want to endorse a revolution in your country, your state, your city or your village, then ask yourself this: how is it fair to expect all those born on this land to embrace their natively endowed gifts when the gifts themselves, inadvertently, forsake their receiver in the long run?

What is to be righted is the culture itself - even though it may not have wronged at all in expecting obedience in an age such as this, it must change in order to survive, or it must make peace with its senility and forgive defectors. A non-resident Indian (NRI) cannot be expected to listen to your calls; he will ask you how you expect him to be a hero when the rewards of heroism were dwarfed completely by the penalties for foolishness. That is, undeniably, an unfair expectation I myself have had innumerable times.

Persistence, That Fool

The imprints of little feet in a felicitous field of wheat
Know the weight on afternoon’s shoulders of toil’s burning heat

Fingers bruised and temples wrinkled from frowning
Till the reeds are low and the stalks are down

The master’s truck is waiting at that end with the ploughs
While a crowned father lies drunk in a faraway alehouse

That is the design of this precarious wold seen from distant fences
That have wept not for a callow limp, born now, dead then

It is persistence, that fool, that grants clemency
For such a small price as the surety of faith

Insofar as the loss of all doubt is guaranteed and the alliance
To piety and the fealty to grace is  native trait

Even as age lends maturity and borrows heavily
From innocence, it has only persisted in its duty

That ensures that the leaves of spring will wither without halt
And tomorrow the cold winds of winter will blow surely

A ripple on which rides the kingdom’s earth knows the pull
Of its mortal end, surrenders, and is pardoned as beautiful

Little droplets of immortal purity trickle with rancor
Into the ocean of solitude, in some City with ripening fervor

As schemers and conspirators, thieves and sloughs
As the wings of change and old broken boughs

The farm is readied and seeds made to rest in wombs pure
That endure, for money does not rest, money resists for sure

It is persistence, that fool, that lures hunters to their prey
Just as the prey to its escape, a calamitous charlatan of chance

Waylaying men already broken from the path of men
Spurred unto gold, woman, drink, nay, every mirthful dance

This is reward and reward not at all lest it remains idle
In his keeping and labors ceaselessly in your stone halls

For he who knows not what he awards must not award at all
He who bestows the prize must neither heed the receiver’s call