The politico-religious wave

An electromagnetic (em) wave travels through space at an astounding 299,792,458 m/s. This number, colloquially known as the speed of light (a form of em radiation), is the speed limit for anything that moves in the universe. While such a wave moves through space, it barely loses its energy. Light from an exploding star billions of lightyears away reaches Earth, and retains the signature that dignifies it as light from a dying star—even after travelling through space for billions of years. How does it do that? The answer illustrates the ideal symbiotic relationship: an electric field that generates a magnetic field, and a magnetic field that generates an electric field, each perpendicular to the other, each feeding into the other, carrying themselves through space and time.



This description of the propagation of an electromagnetic wave parallels, with striking similarity, the relationship between politics and religion. Each entity thrives on polarization, on creating and consuming potentials, on penetrating all regions of space unless shielded by some leaden obstacle. Even though each is a necessary manifestation of humanism, one is dissociated from all mortality—exhibiting a dangerous tendency to be omnipresent—and the other is associated closely with the very act of being—wielding an omnipotent weapon. Of course, in the course of their independent existence, they are strong, weak, focused, diffuse, directional, pregnant, and many other things. Together, however, they are a lethal combination—for governance as well as discovery.

The dualism of determinism

At the centre of scientific inquiry lies enshrined the deterministic proclivity of empiricists: by understanding the Universe, we no longer remain completely at "its mercy" but, with the knowledge accrued through methodological investigation, become capable to extend our influence to include nature itself. Through understanding, it is that we may finally assume the seat of the charioteer. It is not so much a fear of any absent measure of control over our own lives so much as it is the want for all that control upon discovering that such is possible. In that regard, would that empiricism be the most accessible medium of inquiry and epistemological pursuit, its ontology then finds purchase in the basis of determinism—social and otherwise.

On the polar-opposite of this weltanschauungen lies the god-believer, whose belief in a supernatural being is a reflection of his or her surrender to the summa of indeterminable entities. The being itself, however, is one of human construction and, thus, the truism of its influence is incalculable. As opposed to the case of the atheist/"moral autodidact", the case of religion is one of the fear of want of all that control and not its absence. Given its foundations in ontological and soteriological bases, religion in its current form and denomination serves to discipline more than explain. However, be that as it may.

Even if not for the sake of this argument, consider: for as long as the positivist argument cannot defy its contradiction by the argument of universal negation, science, too—as a construction of constructivist empiricism—cannot lay claim to assisting with the "process of determination" because it remains just as much a construction as is religion. Does that not mean that they partake in equal measure of the doubts of the thinker? Does he not dispute that one—probably science—is assuredly deterministic while the other is not when it is so clear that the privilege of proving a tautology rests with neither side?

Losing my religion

"Good morning, sir. I'm XYZ, am from Chennai and am in the print stream."

"Good morning, sir. I'm PQR, am from Bangalore and am in the TV stream."

"Good morning, sir. I'm ABC. I'm a Catholic priest, am from Chennai and am in the print stream."

Why was the bit about being a Catholic priest necessary? What's the need to advertise religion as part of an introduction that didn't until that point include it? To purchase favours in the form of special treatment? To remind the listener of the pseudo-necessity to recognize religion as being pertinent in a classroom? To make the listener aware of one's virtues and goals and how or she must be considerate toward them because it's a matter of faith? Fine, cast aside religion; did the person intend to include the status of his priesthood as a matter of declaring one's profession? I don't think so and here's why: 'Language and style' 101 - "I must disclose at the outset that I'm a Catholic priest." What's "at the outset"? An indication that someone might be interested in what he did? Yes, I was intrigued by the priest in my classroom. Thing is, I wonder why he couldn't be a priest in my class.

Losing my religion

"Good morning, sir. I'm XYZ, am from Chennai and am in the print stream."

"Good morning, sir. I'm PQR, am from Bangalore and am in the TV stream."

"Good morning, sir. I'm ABC. I'm a Catholic priest, am from Chennai and am in the print stream."

Why was the bit about being a Catholic priest necessary? What's the need to advertise religion as part of an introduction that didn't until that point include it? To purchase favours in the form of special treatment? To remind the listener of the pseudo-necessity to recognize religion as being pertinent in a classroom? To make the listener aware of one's virtues and goals and how or she must be considerate toward them because it's a matter of faith? Fine, cast aside religion; did the person intend to include the status of his priesthood as a matter of declaring one's profession? I don't think so and here's why: 'Language and style' 101 - "I must disclose at the outset that I'm a Catholic priest." What's "at the outset"? An indication that someone might be interested in what he did? Yes, I was intrigued by the priest in my classroom. Thing is, I wonder why he couldn't be a priest in my class.

An exploration of Tormont: Episode I

When I finally awakened from my drug-induced stupor, the first things I noticed were the Adenacra Globules, the nearest a mere mile from the high balcony we were all lined up in. The massive sphere, almost a mile in diameter, was already being caressed by two, three probing tentacles, each long and spindly arm culminating with what I could only say was a powerful spark plug. Having been a matter of legend for all these years, witnessing the gawdy monstrosity from close quarters was a disillusional experience—for one, it meant that divinity was no longer just the content of contentious debates; for another, it meant that we were looking at history with irreversibly wrong perspectives. One way or another, on that day, I became the prisoner I am still, and over the course of these months, it has become an uncharacteristically easy choice between asserting my existence as a Senator of Sepulchra, where I am from, against asserting my liberation from its ideological throes by "getting distilled into a higher plane", as it were. I now serve in Heaven, and I do not lament the loss of kingship.

The Adenacra Globule C-3144K—named for its size (C), cardinality (3144) and function (K)—was responsible for a small star-system in the Japonica Drift, and even as we watched, a fourth tentacle unattached itself from the spine-mounted quiver and extended itself to the shimmering blue surface. A Tormontell—a race of people we had known earlier by the more ubiquitous name of "Gods"—archiver stood before us, a little under 12-feet tall, surveying the array before his/her eyes (we had no way to tell the men from the women), his/her coal-black eyes hidden behind taut epicanthal folds, dull grey hair cascading down his/her shoulders. I could tell he/she was an archiver by the flowing mud-brown ropes he/she was garbed in, trapped gently around the waist by a broad probably-wooden belt-band.

It was raining on Tormont.

A tale of a temple

There is a temple.

In Year I, it has an annual draw of 0 pilgrims.

In Year II, it has an annual draw of 1,000 pilgrims.

Existing funds are utilized to address the needs of 1,000 pilgrims per annum (PPA).

In Year III, it has an annual draw of 1,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year III, the temple is viewed as good.

In Year IV, it has annual draw of 2,000 pilgrims.

In Year V, the temple is expected to have a draw of 2,500 PPA.
In Year V, it has an annual draw of 2,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year V, the temple is viewed as not-so-good.

Existing funds don't exist.

In Year VI, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 5.
In Year VI, it has an annual draw of 2,000 pilgrims.
In Year VI, some funds are utilized to address the needs of 2,000 PPA.
At the end of Year VI, the temple is viewed as good.

In Year VII, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 10.
In Year VII, it has an annual draw of 3,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year VII, the temple is viewed as good.

In the Year VIII, it has an annual draw of 4,000 pilgrims.

Existing funds are utilized to address the needs of 5,000 PPA.
Surplus funds are utilized to address the needs of 1,500 more PPA.

In Year IX, it has an annual draw of 5,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year IX, the temple is viewed as very good.

In Year X, the temple levies an entry of Rs. 15.
In Year X, the temple has an annual draw of 7,500 PPA.

Existing funds are utilized to address the needs of 10,000 PPA.
Surplus funds are utilized to address the needs of 2,000 more PPA.

In Year XI, it has an annual draw of 8,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year XI, the temple is viewed as excellent.

In Year XII, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 20.
In Year XII, it has an annual draw of 6,500 pilgrims.
At the end of Year XII, the temple is viewed as a business venture.

In Year XIII, it has an annual draw of 5,250 pilgrims.

In Year XIV, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 10.
At the end of Year XIV, the temple is viewed as good.

In Year XV, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 10.
In Year XV, it has an annual draw of 5,000 pilgrims.
At the end of year XV, the temple is viewed as crowded, noisy but necessary.

The end.

A tale of a temple

There is a temple.

In Year I, it has an annual draw of 0 pilgrims.

In Year II, it has an annual draw of 1,000 pilgrims.

Existing funds are utilized to address the needs of 1,000 pilgrims per annum (PPA).

In Year III, it has an annual draw of 1,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year III, the temple is viewed as good.

In Year IV, it has annual draw of 2,000 pilgrims.

In Year V, the temple is expected to have a draw of 2,500 PPA.
In Year V, it has an annual draw of 2,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year V, the temple is viewed as not-so-good.

Existing funds don't exist.

In Year VI, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 5.
In Year VI, it has an annual draw of 2,000 pilgrims.
In Year VI, some funds are utilized to address the needs of 2,000 PPA.
At the end of Year VI, the temple is viewed as good.

In Year VII, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 10.
In Year VII, it has an annual draw of 3,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year VII, the temple is viewed as good.

In the Year VIII, it has an annual draw of 4,000 pilgrims.

Existing funds are utilized to address the needs of 5,000 PPA.
Surplus funds are utilized to address the needs of 1,500 more PPA.

In Year IX, it has an annual draw of 5,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year IX, the temple is viewed as very good.

In Year X, the temple levies an entry of Rs. 15.
In Year X, the temple has an annual draw of 7,500 PPA.

Existing funds are utilized to address the needs of 10,000 PPA.
Surplus funds are utilized to address the needs of 2,000 more PPA.

In Year XI, it has an annual draw of 8,000 pilgrims.
At the end of Year XI, the temple is viewed as excellent.

In Year XII, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 20.
In Year XII, it has an annual draw of 6,500 pilgrims.
At the end of Year XII, the temple is viewed as a business venture.

In Year XIII, it has an annual draw of 5,250 pilgrims.

In Year XIV, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 10.
At the end of Year XIV, the temple is viewed as good.

In Year XV, the temple levies an entry fee of Rs. 10.
In Year XV, it has an annual draw of 5,000 pilgrims.
At the end of year XV, the temple is viewed as crowded, noisy but necessary.

The end.

Rusty and Sharded

Before I began writing this, I thought to myself how I would begin this entry. That's when it struck me that this is my diary; I can write whatever I want to write - and so I began this entry! Haha! It is difficult to understand why people pour out their sorrows in thousands of words but joy comes out in not more than a hundred words. If it weren't for a "special" relationship I believe I have with the words I put down, I wouldn't think words are oppressed that way. Would they rebel? In a world of words, what would the rebellion be like? Will the world "bloody" be draped across a thousand pages of their chronicles? Perhaps, but words are often used together with the logic that comes with using them - not grammatical but the one accompanying the justice (or judicial capacity) of reason.

He was a coward who said a picture was worth a thousand words; he was a coward because he couldn't bring himself to concede that each image is worth hundreds of thousands of words; he was a coward because he chose to remain shielded behind the idea of progress when he could have stepped out and up to realize the continuum of realities that spanned the gap between "the now" and the future. The sheer volume of information is stupendous. How can you stop at a thousand words? The "aphorism" itself seems like a bit of an irony: if the sayer was going for a metaphor, then saying "thousand words" is equivalent to asserting that a picture is worth a million words, a billion words, a zillion words... if you can't stop, then why put them together at all? A picture's a picture and a word's a word; let them bloody be! You don't have to understand everything for it to be a continuum. In fact, if you did, it wouldn't be a continuum! Think about it! I use a million words and, just like that, someone adds or removes a word to give the picture a completely different verbal form.

Anyway, there's one thing I don't understand at all. How can people not think? How is is possible that people haven't thought about of the things I've thought about? How in the Lord's name is it possible for a mind to be at rest? The mental sophistication is so easy to acquire that it's laughable! In turn, thus, it would mean that such people have probably visited all those realms of possibilities and still choose the verboten-addicted reality around us. Guano.

I don't believe that; it's too wonderful an explanation... and so is the "still mind". Why isn't everyone as curious as I am? Why can't the best engineers do with machines and logic-constructs what even an unaccomplished writer such as I can do with words? Or have I not seen it? I don't think such things would've escaped me. And before you, you Faustus!, begin to defend yourself, mind: I will always hold that logic has its own exotic designs. Only yesterday, I had stumbled across this site/page called "But Does It Float", and behold! What an awe-inspiring collection of images! Short descriptions here and there told me most of it was either avant-garde or "deconstructivist". "Deconstructivist"? Really? Why can't you name something with whatever comes first to mind (on an average) amongst the first thousand people who see it? By that suggestion, I'm going to call avant-gardes "rusty" and deconstructivists "sharded".

Anyway, there were hundreds and hundreds of images on display. At first sight, they were ALL excellent. After a few minutes, once the standard of excellence's been raised to accommodate the findings, about 30% of it is simply stupendous and the rest is... well, stupendous. Talk about logic and its designs! Only the truly insane can manage a recreation of chaos, and even then, sporadic manifestations of logic will become observable. Rusty and sharded both captured certain moods splendidly, and by "capture", I mean the freeze-frame trapping of the mind's infinite form-dance. By looking at the perfect painting, you suddenly become aware that your mind is a small individuation of the entire universe that the painting encompassed. That moment of oneness is truly fascinating; moreover, it feels like a release. Imagine an obscurely curved pipe which must be inserted into a bigger shaft; the engineer twists it and turns it and jams it, but when the orientations of the cross-sections match, the pipe just flows in without a complaint.

It's a world sans friction.

Sometimes, the banishing of logic itself seems like a kind of logic, and when you witness a creation fashioned on that basis, you know that rebellion is the order of the day. Literature, I now believe, has a similar, if not the same purpose: some liberation. That liberation, obtained via art of any form, I will always recognize with the individuation - the "charitocratic" vessel within which we sail, and the mind that enables such a journey is therefore not within us but without, at least in that moment. In hindsight, I recall having simplified the writings of Abhinavagupta for a friend. While Abhinava called that mind-universe coupling "God", I choose to call it the mind's awareness of itself, the ultimate permission to think, to keep thinking, to think whatever.

Rusty and Sharded

Before I began writing this, I thought to myself how I would begin this entry. That's when it struck me that this is my diary; I can write whatever I want to write - and so I began this entry! Haha! It is difficult to understand why people pour out their sorrows in thousands of words but joy comes out in not more than a hundred words. If it weren't for a "special" relationship I believe I have with the words I put down, I wouldn't think words are oppressed that way. Would they rebel? In a world of words, what would the rebellion be like? Will the world "bloody" be draped across a thousand pages of their chronicles? Perhaps, but words are often used together with the logic that comes with using them - not grammatical but the one accompanying the justice (or judicial capacity) of reason.

He was a coward who said a picture was worth a thousand words; he was a coward because he couldn't bring himself to concede that each image is worth hundreds of thousands of words; he was a coward because he chose to remain shielded behind the idea of progress when he could have stepped out and up to realize the continuum of realities that spanned the gap between "the now" and the future. The sheer volume of information is stupendous. How can you stop at a thousand words? The "aphorism" itself seems like a bit of an irony: if the sayer was going for a metaphor, then saying "thousand words" is equivalent to asserting that a picture is worth a million words, a billion words, a zillion words... if you can't stop, then why put them together at all? A picture's a picture and a word's a word; let them bloody be! You don't have to understand everything for it to be a continuum. In fact, if you did, it wouldn't be a continuum! Think about it! I use a million words and, just like that, someone adds or removes a word to give the picture a completely different verbal form.

Anyway, there's one thing I don't understand at all. How can people not think? How is is possible that people haven't thought about of the things I've thought about? How in the Lord's name is it possible for a mind to be at rest? The mental sophistication is so easy to acquire that it's laughable! In turn, thus, it would mean that such people have probably visited all those realms of possibilities and still choose the verboten-addicted reality around us. Guano.

I don't believe that; it's too wonderful an explanation... and so is the "still mind". Why isn't everyone as curious as I am? Why can't the best engineers do with machines and logic-constructs what even an unaccomplished writer such as I can do with words? Or have I not seen it? I don't think such things would've escaped me. And before you, you Faustus!, begin to defend yourself, mind: I will always hold that logic has its own exotic designs. Only yesterday, I had stumbled across this site/page called "But Does It Float", and behold! What an awe-inspiring collection of images! Short descriptions here and there told me most of it was either avant-garde or "deconstructivist". "Deconstructivist"? Really? Why can't you name something with whatever comes first to mind (on an average) amongst the first thousand people who see it? By that suggestion, I'm going to call avant-gardes "rusty" and deconstructivists "sharded".

Anyway, there were hundreds and hundreds of images on display. At first sight, they were ALL excellent. After a few minutes, once the standard of excellence's been raised to accommodate the findings, about 30% of it is simply stupendous and the rest is... well, stupendous. Talk about logic and its designs! Only the truly insane can manage a recreation of chaos, and even then, sporadic manifestations of logic will become observable. Rusty and sharded both captured certain moods splendidly, and by "capture", I mean the freeze-frame trapping of the mind's infinite form-dance. By looking at the perfect painting, you suddenly become aware that your mind is a small individuation of the entire universe that the painting encompassed. That moment of oneness is truly fascinating; moreover, it feels like a release. Imagine an obscurely curved pipe which must be inserted into a bigger shaft; the engineer twists it and turns it and jams it, but when the orientations of the cross-sections match, the pipe just flows in without a complaint.

It's a world sans friction.

Sometimes, the banishing of logic itself seems like a kind of logic, and when you witness a creation fashioned on that basis, you know that rebellion is the order of the day. Literature, I now believe, has a similar, if not the same purpose: some liberation. That liberation, obtained via art of any form, I will always recognize with the individuation - the "charitocratic" vessel within which we sail, and the mind that enables such a journey is therefore not within us but without, at least in that moment. In hindsight, I recall having simplified the writings of Abhinavagupta for a friend. While Abhinava called that mind-universe coupling "God", I choose to call it the mind's awareness of itself, the ultimate permission to think, to keep thinking, to think whatever.

The Bloody Crowd

It becomes too much to expect to be able to sleep for two hours in the afternoon when you're the only grandson in an illustrious family - the span of the illustration being quite vast.

After a morning spent in a temple without any ventilation whatsoever and watching sweaty, old men bathing idols in scented water and milk, I came back for a ghee-drenched lunch, which isn't all that sumptuous when you can taste ghee in the water you're drinking. After that, I "reserved" my imminent tenure as occupier of a bed with a novel but soon found it in vain after platoons of relatives arrived in Maruti 800s and Swifts - always the brand loyalists - and turned on all the lights in the house. And by all the lights, I mean all the lights, like some occultist army bearing down upon the mood lighting-seeker. Oh, the cacophony!

I should have said this in the beginning: today is my grandfather's 79th birthday and you can find out all about its auspices in an old entry here. I'm not sure I comprehend the semantics but on such a wonderful day, he has to stand facing the east while his wife, nephews, nieces, children, their cousins, grandchildren, their cousins, and our neighbours prostrate before him and seek his blessings. Today, he's god. I can't quite place my finger on it but there's an irony hidden somewhere in there. In all of this, I'm pushed and pulled all around; a brother of my grandmother who hadn't seen me for years wanted to check if I was as tall as I seemed. I wouldn't blame the man, though, he did have quite a horrible memory and severe astigmatism.

I don't want to seem insensitive but sometimes (if not at all times), fat's fat, and my cousins definitely showed it. I had short bursts of panic attacks when, one after one, they mistook my laptop for a slate and decided to scribble on it with a chalk. So, between running from my stool in the corner to where my laptop was seated on the sofa, I was uprighted, made to probe beneath cots for lost earrings, forced to recite my academic qualifications again and again (I'm from south India, where four years in Dubai means I'm a sweaty Thor Heyerdahl), get glasses of juice for anything-but-phlegmatic uncles determined to seem smarter than me when I hadn't said a word.

Sleep would have to wait. Something had to make up for all this, I thought, something really had to. Perhaps dollar bills would be handed out to commemorate this memorable reunion, perhaps they'd offer access to some of their notable contacts along the way, perhaps... No. There's no such thing as a free lunch¹, but sure as hell there's a lunch to be paid for with an arm and a leg.