Drugs, Alcohol and Religion

As I write this I feel the last strains of scotch and weed ebbing out of my body. I have been and am suspect to a plethora of addictions, not all fluid in nature. Yet nothing rouses epiphany as does alcohol and weed. Reflecting back, I guess it was the first conscious decision that severed our links from a parochial culture. By succumbing to the poison with a troubled conscience most of us took that leap, we made sure that we had a semblance of control about our life. While it has been argued that abstinence is much more difficult than addiction, I believe the conscious embrace of non-conformance also argues for more steel than society gives due credit for. As for the pure visceral pleasure of it, I suppose few things would come close to give it a run for their money.

The images that alcohol evokes of the last five years is indelible. We just seem to shed off the veneer and seem human and fallible not berated for it. While alcohol brings the best out of our social nature, could there be anything that plunges you to unfathomable morass that is your subconscious than weed. The primal pleasure that engulfs every single pore of your body on being able to discern individual notes of The Doors or Pink Floyd is an experience stranger to weed-virgins.

It is a singular thing that religion is oft mentioned in the same breath as drugs and alcohol. Maybe it is the same exhilaration that people seek in something intangible and yet powerful enough to lift their spirits from the daily hum-drum that life is. As for me I am a Hindu, in the true sense of the word.

A Season of Faith's Imperfection

Seasons as we know it baffle me. Something that has permanency etched all over it, yet remaining so transitional. They are primal in nature, our earliest memories remain attached to them, but their innate fleetingness doesn't leave much of an impression other a half-remembered post-card from the past. A sense of deja-vu is probably the most one can glean from the passage of seasons. Me, I believe the seasons leave their best imprints on our moods. My moods decide my seasons. They can range from delirious sunny ones, to overcast with doubt and indecision, to the tipsy and trippy akin to the first showers, to the keening acuteness of cold reason and the far in between balmy spring ones.

And this has been a season of faith's imperfection. For a cynic like me, having faith has always been a crown of thorns. The longing to step out of the darkness, from the miasma of doubt and dispassion is as strong in me as it is with me everybody. And for once I thought I belonged. For once I felt understood and as normal as I could wish it to be. I was happy. It was something I had been seeking and found serendipity. Yet all good things come to an end, often in a manner that make you doubt if they ever existed. It passed by leaving in its wake a cauldron full of unsaid thoughts, boiling resentment and a barely concealed anger and hatred. Blind faith had turned me blind. The light had dazzled my eyes. And it is time to slink back to my dark shell once more.

The Scales of Imbalance

Often I am suspect to spells of crystal-clear thought and moments of incredulous wisdom. Sadly most of these occur under the influence of alcohol. A remarkable person I know, deciphered some lines of sense amongst a mindless babble. And I believe, being the best judge of myself, that those four lines of sense encompass my whole being and vindicate that maybe astrology has some truth to it.

I am not trust, neither am I doubt. I am the indecisiveness in between. I am Justice.

Musical Me

My balls cringe with shame when I realize how juvenile I was four years ago, when I along with three other morons belonged to the crappiest group in Orkut- I hate music. Thankfully I came to my senses soon and Orkut is history. But then, I sort of redeem myself when I think of the shit that Bollywood dishes out in the name of music, that had made me turn away from music in the first place. Fucking retards, the whole bunch of them and the public who thinks that lots of jiggling melons, preferably white( and we crib about the Australians being racists) accompanied by some plagiarized tunes is music.

Well it took a bit of Nirvana to shake me out of the notion that music was either about some Bolly-mindless-romantic crap or booty show featuring Ricky Martin, Enrique or Snoop Dogg. I discovered that guitar and drums could traverse the entire spectrum of human emotion. They could give an expression for all the angst and frustration building inside you. They could soothe frazzled nerves and provide a panacea for all the wounds you sustain. I could go on and on. But I don't think anything, I can ever write can do justice to music, my music. How do you describe life itself. Its better left to the strains of the guitar and throbbing of the drums to speak the tale.

Be Yourself

The question of the past, the doubt about the future and the hoariness of the future is omnipresent in our lives. Any plans for the future almost always land one in the most unexpected places. The present is a rudderless ship. The past haunts, chides and presents phantasmagorical images of what-would-have-been presents and futures. Its almost like living in parallel worlds, only you are not living in any of them. And the reality has none of the allure. Do we learn anything from the past? Is experience all that vaunted as they make it out to be. Would the future be what we would like it to be, if we start acting on the present. Or learning is all a myth, and our actions are either pre-ordained or plain randomness. What if the anthropic principle is the grand truth-that this present is the best of all possible worlds. Then does the past has any significance. Do the intrinsic qualities of man define his actions or the social and environmental constructs play a larger role. Does it make any sense to adopt any philosophy or set of ideals and change one's psyche under such randomness. If there is no independency of the fundamental opposites then where do we decide to align oneself. Or is being rudderless, the way it was ordained to be. To make serendipity possible. Yes, maybe being yourself is the best decision that we can take under the circumstances. Atleast knowledge of the self wouldn't land one in any unknown shore or uncharted waters. Is there any answer?

February 2011

I had intended to start this on February first. Yet as I am an ardent follower of the philosophy of procrastination, it inadvertently got delayed one day. But its better late than never.

So, February, yet another February, the shortest month of the calendar, the month of purification according to Romans and in modern connotations, the month of Cupid where you get your wallets fleeced, as these days even love comes attached with a price tag.

What are my goals for the month.
1. Stick to this list, which I have never done.
2. Stick to office hours. No more arriving late and leaving at inhuman times in the night.
3. Get back to my old reading frenzy days.
4. Write more often.
5. Prove to my relatives that I am not as anti-social as they deem me to be.
6. Start sketching after a ten year long hiatus.

Enough for two months. I think so.

Inspiration

From the days of prancing around in half-pants to the days of self consciously attiring yourself for your first job interview, one question transcends that vast gap of time. Who has been an inspiration for you? From hackneyed answers like Sachin Tendulkar to the flabbergastingly dumb answers like Mother Teresa(relive Priyanka Chopra-Miss World title), we have seen them all. The spectrum of the answers are also mind numbing. From fathers and mothers to celebrities to business tycoons to sportsmen, actors, models, we seem to have spared none. The bloody self-help writers have made a killing out of the phenomenon of people needing an inspiration.

And yet, no body seems to have answered the fundamental question. Why the hell do we need an inspiration. If every jackass who had Sachin Tendulkar as his inspiration, achieved even an iota of their idol, a Murali Vijay wouldn't have had a chance to flop three times in a row. And as for having your father and mother as an inspiration, I think its a terrible lack of imagination. And instead of trying to ape a Ratan Tata, its better to divert one's efforts to actually try one's hand at entrepreneurship. And I wont even start on actors and models.

I beg to differ. Its hard enough to live upto one's own expectation. And then you have your parents, relatives and peers. I don't subscribe to the foolhardiness to add to that wretched list. I am just about happy being myself.