Disquiet

And it is 2013. It feels like a watershed year. Spent the tail end of the previous year working over my master plan and am now spending most of the time working up the courage.

Fragility and frailty of life as experienced by the people I know and of the people I have met, all make for uncomfortable reminders of mortality. Sickness, breakdowns and deaths - seeing the circle of life played out accords little comfort to fellow journeymen, and dont we all have our one-way tickets.

As years blur into each other, time takes liberties on the body, mind and spirit. And as so often happens to the middle aged, we collect responsibilities as we once we collected dreams. Being trapped by fear and duty, it becomes easy to justify the paths not taken.

Tolkien articulates this best as Lady Eowyn describing her fear

A cage. To stay behind bars, until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recalls or desire

A bit high brow to be quoting Tolkien so early in the year. Still its the hallmark of bonafide geeks who don't go out much. I digress.

But it's one thing to be knowing yet another to be doing. And deciding. A career change, going back to school or fleeing to the hills, I would have the priestesses of Delphi on retainer if they still existed.

The most debilitating human ability next to worry is regret. And I have made oscillating between the two close to an art. More than stressful work, I am quite convinced that an idle mind will send me rolling into the grave much sooner.

Still here I am. Like a boulder at the edge of a precipice. Brimming with potential energy yet too weighed down to fly off the cliff. Perhaps all that is needed is a swift kick.

Dhaka

Whatever is here, is found elsewhere. But what is not here, is nowhere else.

One of my most poignant memories of Dhaka is of sitting in an airport cafe, alone, at midnight, sipping chai, waiting for my 1.20 am flight back home. A little surreal in the sensory aftermath of what is the intensity of the city, the insane traffic, the smiling doctors, the shameless beggars, the vibrant colours coated in dust.

I was exhausted from being awake for 20 hours although the last 7 hour wait at Chittagong was not exactly unpleasant. I found Chittagong fascinating. I have never seen so many tankers on the waterways and because it was days before eid, there were rows and rows of cattle tied to stakes alongside the main road. I felt sorry for the poor skinny cows.

Spent a good part of the day at the boat club eating chips, falooda and this dreadful thing called chicken manchurian upon the goading of my Indian counterpart. It's a Indian interpretation of meatballs done Chinese style. In the land of spice and rice and everything nice, this was an abomination. Seriously.

Of course the boat club was just a place to park after the day's mission which was essentially to visit the Chittagong general hospital. Crowded, dark, lacking in facilities, lacking in nurses, herein lies humanity at its most humble, desperate and forlorn.

From what I have seen, God does not reside in gilded houses. God walks the peeling corridors and sweltering rooms, gathering prayers of hope and fervour as only the sick and poor can offer. Its the same in every hospital. In my suit, I felt embarrassed for having so much in a place that has so little. With time people get sensitise to this. I hope never to. The professors we met were very hospitable naturally and they lament their lack of resources to save lives. It's not so different from Dhaka after all. Or the rest of the developing world.

In the previous weeks, I did get quite a bit of ribbing from the people at the office for my Bangladesh assignment. Being a third world country, it is hard for people unaccustomed to poverty to feel any affection for it. Understandable I suppose.

Still I despaired so much when I saw the poverty that I missed the beauty, music and art therein. I wondered if I was so condescending that I was blinded to happiness just because it does not conform to my ideals. Oh what a disservice.

I am reminded of the passenger seated next to me when I first arrived. Upon landing, he breathed a proud "DHAKA!" as he has not been back for the last 8 years. And while waiting for my luggage I see bundles and boxes of blankets, toys, clothes. And the families waiting at the gates! I then ardently wished that more people back home could see how our migrant workers are also dearly loved sons and fathers. But sadly too many are too blind because it's much easier to exploit the nameless.

It was a very moving trip in many ways. The disparity of course still upsets me. But then, what good is a broken heart. Self pity is self indulgence. Point is to do something.

The trip also lead me to the Mahabarata where after I confided in my colleague of my philosophical reservations in what I do, he promptly told me to seek Arjuna. But that story is for another day.

 

Stream of consciousness

We do not write because we want to; we write because we have to.

I am certainly no Somerset Maugham and despite all solemn aspirations to write regularly, attempts have been feeble at most. Time is no friend of mine. From the premature crows feet to the open all hours purgatory that shares my employer's name, its my karmic retribution for listless days squandered in idleness.

Nevertheless the need to write overtakes me with such passion at times that I ought to get checked out for whiplash. And despite or rather in spite of turning over many a leaf, it's the familiar motivations that draw me back to the keyboard - the same desire to take stock of the world, seeking that elusive clarity and redemption.

Still, writing is an indulgence. Like a truffle, heady, arduous and mostly because some pigs have been involved in getting one to this point.

Despite trying to straight jacket my right brain so that I can crunch figures all day without wanting to throw myself against a wall, I deeply envy those whose daily jobs involve mind bending creativity. (financial creativity does not fall under this category. Mostly it's called fraud. Not good.)

Speaking of art, after my tour of museums and their respective catalogues, my observation is that yes, glory can be harnassed and nailed on the wall. Yet today, everyday creativity - pure and unadulterated, lives on the streets. No longer the vestal virgin in hallowed halls but the wise cracking, weed smoking, sex mongering, public space occupying Eco warrior. Its in your face with its subtle nuances and makes you wonder, what the hell is this all about and how do you come along for the ride.

My current infatuation is with Herakut. Hera and Akut are two German graphic designers who do awesome-est street art. Something that can and will get you arrested in Malaysia if it's slogans are too rebellious for political zealots ever ready to go the punative route to demonstrate their righteousness. My favourite piece featured here.

Back to the hoity toity art scene. What I find, as a stranger looking in, is that while the expression and appreciation of art and even music, is all embracing, yet the fraternity is unapologetically clique-y, requiring initiation of some sort into their esteemed presence. Between snobbery and pride, who is to say which one is which. Yet, I am sure you will at some point or anther, find yourself in the company of a particularly distinguished practitioner, or worse - critic, who will forget that they are mortal and invite bodily harm by being an educated asshole. You can usually hear them from afar as they be speaking the English as if they were tutored by Princess Anne herself. And they be obnoxious as a cat and loud as a donkey. Still, I should not be insulting the animals.

Okay enough with the insults. Time for bed.

 

Peanut

Nut brown bun

Sometimes one needs reminding

Tadaa!

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Reading list!

And the list is done! Please check the new page and with me luck!

Sense making

Sense making.
I like the word. Although I am not so sure if there is any use in embarking on such an endeavour, because the most important things in life don't really make sense and frequently won't matter either way.

Be it broken hearts, war or  irresistible attraction to high calories.  Life sucks one day and redeems itself on another.

Perhaps our human need to explain the universe is the one thing that propels us in the opposite direction. The more we learn, the less we know and we can either drive ourselves mad in trying to figure out if is it us, or if it's karma or if our marionette strings are being yanked randomly by some higher power.

I suppose what really matters is what are we going to do about it.

Postscript :

Having a change of mind after lunch  ( Tempe and  ikan kembong  I'd have you know) would warrant a rewrite of the above but I admit that I am lazy.
The left brain was a little disturbed that its counterpart suggests all abandon of dissection and critical thinking to obediently  accept the pronouncements of the fates, and just wing it as it comes along.

Surely our study of history is testament that we look upon the past to find out why we did what we did.  Sometime we even learn from it.
E.g. Don't arm dictators.
Don't buy hillside properties.
Don't drink beer and durian in same sitting.

It just occurred to me (with rare optimism) that we are on this never-ending quest of connecting the dots  all for the sake of avoiding more conflict, generating more happiness and to  finally finally arrive at the point when after the 1001th attempt, the  lightbulb will not blow out and instead shine true.

It's the mother of invention, catalyst for creation and even basis of absolution.

So do I make sense?
So in the spirit of randomness here is a picture of a  dog

Mainstream misogyny

Now, I am not one who would call herself a feminist by any traditional sense (long story, buy me tea and we will talk). Yet I am very disturbed by all the trash talk that is directed towards women in the public sphere. I can't even read the comments in stupid sites like 9gags even without leaving feeling deeply offended. Sure infantile humour is the nature of the beast of sites like these but I refuse to think that it makes it justifiable.

Having a sense of humour and a sense of decency ought not be mutually exclusive. And what is troubling is how it is flourishing across numerous online forums and communities, and unsurprisingly based in first world countries where gender equality and mutual respect have claimed their highest victory. Greta Christina has an interesting discussion on misogyny and the firestorm that was over the threats of rape of the 15 year old girl who posted on Reddit. You can read it here

Of course of course I am neglecting the numerous others which have little tolerance for such crude behavior and as the world will always have fascists, child molesters and murderers, there will still be jerks who don't know better. I am ashamed to say that I personally know a few too.

As it is terms such as bitches, whores and hoes have become increasingly mainstream. The sexualising of women remains and as new derisions creep into our daily lives through the power of language, it gives those references credence and implicit acceptance by the collective.

I feel so strongly about this that I am herewith even going to plagiaries Oprah. She derided young women from calling each other bitches, hoes and what-nots because by calling ourselves that, we are telling men what to call us. I refuse to believe that anyone will not be insulted if she was thrown a humiliating and degrading remark, and by not standing up for another woman it's sheer betrayal.

And guys, although you may think it scores points with your other mates and would make you sound street/ghetto/ whatever cesspool you think would matter, it speaks volumes of your own upbringing and strength of character.

The Power of Introverts