I Am The Maitreya

Note: Thoughts in this post are pretty disconnected; so please read it as a piecemeal to make a sense out of them, if there is one at all. I am sick and tired of formatting, in fact, I spend more time formatting my write-ups than writing them. So, I have come up with an igenious idea, for different paragraph different color code. Enjoy my rainbow thoughts…

If I were a Greek, and I were a God, I would have been worshipped and exalted for my only attribute—sloth. I wouldn’t be at the Pantheon on top of Mt. Olympus, why would I be, the God of Sloth himself, and climb all the way to the top that beats the purpose of my divine designation? Something like: God of Fire catching a cold. Interestingly, a thought did cross my mind—why not petition for Hindu pantheon instead, closer to home and culture, rather than sport a curly hair and curly beard, clad in toga, if accepted by the Greeks; rather I would be around familiar gods in Indras’s assembly. Then I said, ‘Nah,’ what are my chances of Chitragupta accepting my application form at the HR department of Heaven? When upper management must be seriously thinking of downsizing already bloated DR (Divine Resources)—33 Kotti of gods (1 Kotti = 10 Millions). All in all, there are ten gods for every Nepali. With that ratio, we should have been devoid of all earthly worries; instead we are the most challenged and beaten, destitute of destitutes. Why this fundamental disconnect with the divine? Very fundamental question, I guess.  Preamble to this post: I know, I know, preamble should have been at beginning, since there is a prefix—pre in the word, thanks for reminding. But what’s the fun at being conformist. The rebel in me says, ‘hell with the template,’ I do as it pleases me. So I place it here. This rant is solely inspired by my lethargy, which I released after a long self denial that I have mastered the art (of being lazy) in its finest form. By mere perfection of the craft, I am no more an individual, but an institution. The only object(s) I am willing to lift and carry around that defies and challenges GRAVITY without any complains are my own pair of testicles in their sac, other than that I get very very testy burning my calories. For that I thank the creator for giving men only a pair, you might say, a pair since, symmetry is human, but think of it, we could have got them in fours and sixes, still a symmetry. Now, just imagine my contempt towards carrying all those heavy boxes while moving my apartment, all day cursing for making me a member of ultra-consumerist-capitalistic world dragging blenders to bed, toothbrush to table, or not metamorphosizing me into a Kafka’s bug for no need of toothbrush and blenders, and no need of moving.  So, I thought, if I find carrying my own toothbrush around cumbersome, then I exemplify laziness to its finest, on how Kama exemplify Lust, Sarswoti exemplify Knowledge etc. etc. well, you got my point. With the same argument, I deserve to be the God of Laziness, if not, at least a demigod, like Hercules, not a man not a god, one in between. Which inspires me to fill a form applying for God-ness, and which takes you back to the original chain of thought. Fundamental disconnect, may be because our faith is based on miracles more than anything else. This is true for believers of all faiths, more so for Hindus (I am not taking about those who have done a serious readings). As a result, there are gods among gods, some are alpha-gods, some are lesser gods, and some are just god-men, on our part we discriminate while worshiping them. Our devotion is a reflection of a pop-culture; sometime Manakamana takes over Bhangala Mukhi, Bhangala Mukhi takes over some Deiv Than, but herding the pack is Bob Sai Marley Baba sporting that afro. That ubiquitous afro in saffron is really really beginning to get on my nerve, nothing to do with his pretension of being god; it’s his fucking hair-do. Every time I see his picture hanging on some wall, I get this urge to run him down with a lawn mower. All things said that hair-do only does justice on Hendrix or Don King the boxing promoter, Baba, please, you can keep your pretension, but at least get a hair cut for the greater good.   Sai Vaktas and Premis—my apology.  Running berserk from mountain top to mountain top, or to some kuti, making all those arduous vows and promises in return for bestowing devotee with their object desires—can be anything, if no job than a job, if has a job than a promotion, if has a lucrative job than a beautiful wife, for the women—man with a lucrative job who is looking for a wife, if has disease cure it– if syphilis cure this time and promise never to go back to whorehouse ever again, for the wife of the syphilis infected man—cure her husband this time around and she would keep a month long fast, in short anything and everything under the sky.  And, we completely understand that there is no free lunch, thus an age old tested barter system, so we make vows and promises like: I will not have sex with my wife for two months, I will shave my head, I will buy a dozen of banana everyday for next four months, I will climb bare feet just clad in dhoti to Himalaya, I will buy the biggest khasi/boka or the most colorful rooster in the whole of Bagmati Anchal for the sacrifice so on and so forth.  The whole affair is laughable and ridiculous, on the other had I do understand frustration and desperation, when the situation is beyond human control and reach, it’s obvious to turn to almighty for help or divine intervention, that’s the beauty of faith, which gives a glimmer of hope even at the direst of times.  But think from the perspective of god, what the fuck would god do with a dozen of DDT and insecticide infested crumpled up banana, when he dines on ambrosia, what good is your mullet or lock of hair to god, what interest does he have in your sex life or your abstinence from it? If I were a god, and a devotee were to snivel in that manner to cozy up with me for my favor, I would have fucking shoved all those fruits up his ass for insulting my intelligence, may be that’s why I am human.  If I were a god, I would have liked my creation to use the intelligence that I have bestowed on them while revering and worshipping me, which I didn’t give to any of my creations. Exercising the faculty of own intelligence would have been the ultimate devotion—using his gift to mankind. And what would the idiots in West do–come up with ‘Intelligent Desing.’ But, if people are all that stupid in their devotion, then I qualify for my god’s station too, for my laziness. One more in 330 millions, but sans saffron and afro—fucking dick.  Note: To keep the record straight, my mother thinks, I got a job in US, just because she took that Khasi to Manakamana.  

Sorry, readers, I couldn’t put anything substantial this week. It’s been very hectic at work, and on weekend I had to move my apartment. Right now, I am all beaten up—black and blue.

One more move, and I have decided to live in a cave, devoid of materialist world. I will even get a Flintstone’s car…hehehe…but for a lazy bastard like me, car that runs on calves power is not promising.

Let me settle down, then I promise to put up something here.                                    Zero CO2 contributor

Ok, when was my last entry? 12^th February. And, today is 18^th, six days without ranting, pretty impressive, I would say. Above all, such a relief to see the madness of Valentine day fade away. Every freaking blog had an entry on it, if my memory serves me well, even I had one, talk about hypocrisy. But, who isn’t?

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Every time, I sit down to write, I think, I will put down something so profound and enlightening this time, which would sake the very foundation of conscience of the readers to tear down the rickety sense of their purpose of living, something like Any Rand’s ‘Objectivitism,’ loaded crap, or Paulo Coelho’s ‘The Alchemist’ over simplified crap, this guy should be shot dead for falsely inspiring clueless souls.

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Bogged down by the pressure of producing something profound profound (two profounds, not a typo mistake, but to emphasize, how profound it ought to be), and wading through the most intellectual part of my brain, where all grey matters are packed like mulla ko acchar in ek maana ko horlicks ko botal, I doubt I have such a bottle in my head, to come up with any brilliant idea—something of tantamount of New Testament. And, I would have called it New Testament Version 2.0, with free patches supplied every week in my blog, but with the disclaimer: the glitch in the product would cause many wars and ethnic cleansing, install at your own risk.

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With all that mental somersaults, what do I do? I end up delivering utterly nonsense rants—mostly on human (female) anatomies. May be, I have put forward inadvertently the classic argument of Deconstruction, when life itself de-constructed comes down to primordial carnal—animal that we are. And all the righteous bastards reading my blog, unable to bear by insolence and lack of morals by their standard, cringe so hard that the pressure on their belly pushes their testicles up their throat, choking them to die, or hurl themselves off the cliff since we can’t share the same space and time, but before splattering on the ground like a pumpkin, they hurl few slurs, or spew those bile soaked testicles at me. Did I hear that splat; did I help you to die? You are welcome, sometime; I do pro-bono—euthanasia. I think, I have advocated for norms of civil discourse. Arrrg! Just fuck it. It’s no fun, pretending civilized.

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You might have noticed, how I would like to give a whiff of intellectualism to myself by dropping loaded words like—Derrida and Deconstruction etc. etc. Don’t be afraid, I am a mere mortal, but the pretentious one. I don’t know about Deconstruction a word more than what is written in Wikipedia, or on Nietzsche more than the quadruped Golden Retriever. How easy it is to appear learned in this age of Information. #————————-#

But, in closer scrutiny, why are my rants any less profound than Moses’, when he came down of Mt. Sinai after talking to the burning bush, with inscribed tablet? He was scoffed too in the beginning, who people thought was ranting too, unlike mine; his were brief, in fact bulleted ten points. Once, blamed for insanity, by his own desert dwelling people, now people go insane for having taken their rights away to host that monolithic ‘rant,’ inscribed on the stone in the public places, and pagans threatening to take them away.

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I hope into the far far future, people would find my rant, chiseled into the stone; I refused to have them stored digitally, it loses its purpose. It should look like, in the far far past, which is 2007 AD, god himself descended from the heaven to had down the tablet to me, to pass it down to the people of far far future. #————————-#After this post, if I don’t put anymore entries, think that god has struck me with the lighting bolt for my heresy. And the righteous people of the world, do rejoice my death.  

I haven’t read any books lately, though I have started a few, but none to completion. Probably the problem of commitment, the books I have picked were fairly interesting. Scared to my bone, if my love affair with the literature were to end in apathy like this would be a tragedy. Like any other relationship, I decided to give mine a little variety, in order to save it. So, I said to myself, how about reading some more literary works by South Asian Writers aka ‘desi’ writers—English fiction.

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It’s a huge pool to choose from, ranging from literary giants like V.S Naipaul and Salman Rushdie to the darling of the left Arundhati Roy to nominees/winners of Booker’s Prize to aspiring Booker’s Prize winner to relics like R.K Narayanan. In short gigantic pool of talents, you will have to dedicate a good part of your life to read each of these writers’ works. Dilemma. In such a situation, usually, the best bet would be to go with your friends’ recommendations, or the reviews in the papers, or pick up the books that won the prizes. Beware, but prize winning books are not always better, after all it has been chosen by a committee, weighed by many factors—mostly their politics.

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Side Note: It’s pretty sad, most of the English fiction writers are of Indian origin, would have been more interesting to read works by Pakistani, Bangladeshi, Nepali, Sri Lankan or Bhutanese writers—more flavors. But, I am limited by my ignorance.

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So, my roster looked like this with descending priority:

1. Midnight’s Children By Salman Rushdie
2. The Inheritance of Loss By Kirin Desai
3. Two Lives By Vikram Seth
4. English August By Upamanyu Chatterjee
5. Interpreter of Maladies By Jumpha Lahiri

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I went to the book store with the intention of buying one book from my list. I said, ok, Mr. Rushdie, I will add another $14 to your millions. Fortunately or unfortunately, the book was out of stock, looks like people don’t seem to get enough of Rushdie.  Went for the second book, while fiddling around with Ms. Desai book, miser me took over, what’s the point of buying books when you can get them at the library? Not a sound finance to buy all the books that you want to read. I patted myself for my own prudence, and decided to enroll into a public library, since I am no more a student. But, I hope they do carry books by South Asian writers, if not then I will have to make these writers richer than they already are.

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But, the positive side of borrowing books from library is, you are free of guilt of buying them, and not reading. And, moreover, I wouldn’t be the victim of South-Asian-Pseudo-Intellectual syndrome, where people buy books to decorate their book shelves and never read them. Among such prized gems is ‘The God Of Small Things,’ ‘Satanic Verses or Midnight’s Children,’ and ‘A House For Mr. Biswas’ by V.S Naipaul according to Times of India column.

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But, I am almost there; I have ‘The God Of Small Things,’ (read it) and ‘A House For Mr. Biswas,’ (not read it). Had I bought ‘Midnight’s Children’ and not read it, I would be branded a show off—a quintessential sophisticated desi. But that might be a tad exaggerated, since most of the visitors or friends I have would not know a difference between books by William Faulkner or Sidney Sheldon, for them few hundred pages stacked together between covers, all the same, my lame sophistication wouldn’t make any impression on them. Benefit by association.

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But, my Indian friends are prompt to claim V.S Naipaul as one of theirs, even though he was born and raised in Trinidad, and wrote a scathing book on

India’s social dogmas and pretensions. Social fatwa was decreed against him by Indian civil society, but when he own Nobel Prize, he was again their darling. May be disgusted by this double standard, he proclaimed he was not of Indian origin, instead, he believed, his ancestors came from Nepal, since his last name sounds similar to Nepal. Had he have known Nepalis better, he would have regretted his claim, we are no better than Indians in social pretensions and dogmas, just their side kick.#————————#

On a different note:

I am thinking of revoking my membership from ‘desi-ness,’ love fest, which I had been celebrating, after reading news that Aishwarya Rai weds trees on the advice of some astrologers. What’s wrong with these people, most privileged and most educated bunch? I can understand why Naipaul wants to distance himself from desi-ness. My heart aches and I cringe with disgust, when educated people who have seen the world fall prey to such mindless social/religious customs/practices.

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If desi-ness just means eating ladoo-peda, and revering a cow as a mother, marrying a tree, and watching a movie by an actor who marries a tree, reading suras in Arabic without any understanding what it says, or strapping a thread (Janai) all life without knowing the significance of it. I had it. I would have lost my essence and individualism, if I ever feel the need to associate myself with some club/culture to define myself. Such regressive customs/practices/thoughts encourage Who-I-am to take precedence over What-I-am.

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App ki culture/customs aap ko mubarak. Here, I hurl my membership card out of window. If I ever had an urge to see a circus again, I will go to Mardi Gras, and eat ladoo-peda in

New Orleans.#————————#

Adieu, desi-pan.  

Above is one of the comments I received for my post ‘Picasso’s Vagina In My Pocket.’ Boy, I must have hit a nerve, to get some people so worked up. Everyone is of different belief system and opinions, and I always welcome a discourse within the norms, we might not change each other’s thinking, but in the process I expect to learn something positive from discussion/consultation/argument/even confrontation—but without losing a civic sense. 

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Am I supposed to get hurt by the above incriminating comment? Hell no, apparently I have a thick skin, but does reflect where the person is coming from, and his state of mind.   #—————————————————#

The said comment was posted from Amsterdam with IP Address 212.138.64.197, and the fact that the person can type asserts that he/she is a literate, from middle or higher social class, probably a male of age 20+, one of the fortunate few to cross the national border. Albeit, all these privileges in the land of literacy rate less than half, you couldn’t think of anything better to say.

#—————————————————# But, the commenter is hilariously stupid, not even to realize that he is addressing his own father. At a closer look, this is how it reads… 

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मेरोबाउ ओए रन्डीको छोरा भोटे……

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Stupidity galore!