Cryptic Karma

‘It’s his karma and nothing else’, he said to the man with him as the third parted.

 I was standing in a queue, ahead of them, waiting for my order to be delivered. I took my packet and started for home. But somehow the conversation stayed with me, as I walked.  

There’s a lot of invocation of subjects as intricate as Karma, in our daily parlance. Regular chit-chats are replete with allusions and casual mentions to Karma and Destiny, like household subjects.  Krishna’a treatise on Karma, the beloved Hindu scripture, ‘Bhagawad Gita’ – has had innumerable translations by men of towering stature. It's popularly known as ‘The Gita Rahasya’ (the mystery of Gita) – and the phrase sums up the human dilemma about the good, the bad, the ugly and the unknown.

In very crude terms –  we interpret karma in terms of gain and loss. Whatever leads to a gain is a good karma and all that results in a loss is the bad karma. I feel such definitions are a little too myopic. Karma should serve as a stepping stone, like the one set by a hiker for his next step, as one tries to realize his purpose of existence. Gains or losses are a part and parcel of every event. How can they ever be the terminal indicators!

Many individuals, who come across as the believers of the ideology that they are the makers of their destiny, show up the chinks when they lose. One can see that they’ve given in to the thought that - All that makes you lose is devised by the people or circumstances around you and all that makes you gain is in accordance with your abilities. We are many a times one of them. It takes a heart to bear it all by yourself otherwise !

Whatever it is, however complicated or simple. I think it's a cake that each one cooks and has it too - through one birth or many. Perhaps the remedial lies in the word -  Chireveti ! Chireveti ! (Go On..)
 

In the name of '___'

She daubs her face with a foundation, lightens the dark circles with an under-eye shade, puts a touch of mascara on the eye-lashes, smears some anti-wrinkle cream  and colours her lips with her favourite stick. And as she looks close to being 'naturally' beautiful, she rushes out, checking her watch to keep an appointment. She has to conduct a workshop on trust and openness.

Her bag has a laptop with presentations on many such subjects, which are a proprietary of XYZ corporation, for which she works. She had been amongst the brightest in the fraternity and her work gets her to deal with the best in the industry.

Today's theme is - 'How to maintain a familial eco-system in a growing organization ?'.There are many intellectuals present to deliberate on the issue. And her contention would be with building trust and openness.

Quite a few of her subordinates have spent long hours to get the slides in place. Cribbing about her high-handedness and being a taskmaster. The rebellious few, sometimes playing a hard-ball. They believe that they are merely being used to reap the gains. The other intellectuals have subordinates, who too feel similarly.

It's evening and it's been an extensive discussion. After the high-tea, she heads back to her apartment. Almost fighting with her thoughts, trying to keep them at bay. But succumbing now and then to her own vulnerability. Approaching a home broken on grounds of loss of trust , and working with people researching and deliberating on issues of organizational and human relevance - each failing with them, in his/her own way..

'C'est la vie..' - she sighs..

Be with me - in my violence !

A lot of media stories are talking of atrocities on infants and children these days. And needless to say, mostly they are about the female child and human trafficking sometimes. Babies found dumped in dustbins, children who’ve succumbed to the blind lust of lecherous men – trying to suck out their innocence. Infants, who’re products of violence and have been consumed by it.

Media works for its ‘bites’, and such stories attract good attention. But I have seen such mishaps with my eyes- when ironically, I had more pressing concerns, such as, catching a train on time or putting my car on ignition as the lights turned green, at a red light. I couldn’t have possibly done much in all those situations, given that I had been a girl myself and there were hoards of approving or indifferent eyes around. But they left some deep-seated impressions and a powerful imagery.

In some public places, as acts of downplayed violence, even in a ladies queue, women constantly nudge you to move ahead, with no space to move. Leave alone what would happen with men around. You’re sized up for the girth of your curves with those scrutinizing eyes, badgered with some lewd comments etc. In exclusive circles, the handling is subtle. For sure, all this is not generically applicable to both genders.

Violence is being manifested in many different ways.. The ones in thoughts, actions, words and emotions. There's a social amalgamation taking place with the advent of globalization, media and internet. Social thinkers had predicted such implications long back. But what worries me, if at all, is the realization of a theory, that we, human beings understand but little, of morality, fairness and other such beatific and pacific ideals - that it's a venal humanity subject to morality in the purview of self-interest.

Although, the debate that whether institutions would always be needed for decorum, or can we be instinctively led, would be a long ranging one - but it's just a wish, that one day we would. Unfortunately, even peace is interpreted as a case of one-up-man-ship mostly. It's an every soul's need. And by virtue of a human birth, I believe, it's deserved too..Till then, I think, we'll be looking up to the heaven's above, seeking some solace in our individual violence !

Story Teller

Ron the master story teller had been spinning some of greatest stories of his time. He was from the city of Joy. He and other story tellers would tell stories and the rest of the city’s inhabitants would live by enacting them. It was a good city, where peace and calm prevailed. Life in all its colors was embraced by one and all. It bordered the city of sorrow. The thematic being that of, travails and tribulations, which bind a human spirit in unrelenting shackles.  The city of sorrow too had story tellers and actors, enacting the pangs of misery and pain.

Though the two cities were in neighborhood, they were dreaded by either of their inhabitants. Because once anyone had lived in both, he always left for the third world- never to come back. And no one knew what that third world was.

Ron, a virtuoso, had a deep and sublime idea of well-being, which would shine through his works. But he knew that he was still missing the forest for trees. Like a man possessed, he would spend hours in dissertations on happiness, to verify its veracity. But it being the city of joy, had nothing contrary to offer. As time passed, his idea grew bigger than himself. He started to experience what he never had – queasiness and an inexplicable flurry – that alienated him amongst his men. His loneliness which he couldn’t define started to affect his work and clarity of thought.

One fine day, he thought it was his calling. The third world had summoned him. He started for the city of sorrow. And as he went around the city, he slowly found meaning to his own state. He was familiar with tears, but these were warm as from deep despondency within. His heart would contract, mind would be numb. He would be feverish and would spin some heart-rending stories for the actors.

Some years went by and he started to lose the art of story telling. He was lonely again - but this was the most comfortable state he was in, thus far.. The quality of this solitude was what he was seeking. Stories died and he was unwanted, unsought again - giving him the indication to his final destination.

Nobody knew where he went thereafter, but his parting words were - 'I come to freedom, melted and warm - mould me, the way you want'