Tat Tavam Asi

Sometimes its wonderful to gather memories in the palm of my hand, blow the dust off them and sort them out and place them gently on the table for examination. Also enthralling is the experience that is occurring while simultaneously there is a realization that this moment in time will be imprinted in the neurons of my brain and there will be a neural pathway that is formed. When I remember it will light up and form a pattern like that of fairy lights! Its marvelous that there are so many different patterns that light up- each so different from the other, but yet one pathway triggering off and tripping the lights of another! Its a freaking christmas tree inside my head!

My current exercise is to try & ensure that patterns are formed but to allow myself to be completely in the moment, not think of past patterns or those that are currently being formed inside while I experience the experience. Its a tough task- in may ways its like letting go of control and complete surrender to the experience; not being the doer, recorder, analyzer and the observer at the same time. It has taken immense submission of will to realize that I am more the observer and the recorder than the doer. Everything that is experienced must be recorded. A watchful eye must be kept on the pattern being formed, identifying how similar the current pattern being formed is to previous patterns, why it is so- it only means that the pattern must be broken but is not broken. There is experience and there is thought, then thoughts on those thoughts and more thoughts. Of course, the term is metacognition- cognition on cognition. I've been too busy in seeing lights form patterns, identify and analyze that in all of that I've forgotten to learn and just watch and be the doer. 

For a long time I have believed that 'I' am not my thoughts but never lived it. I have been a slave to my thoughts and bound by it. The lights in my brain- I have watched them dip, dim and grow. I have become them- my memories and my ego. I have let myself be defined by them. My existence as a person has been limited to the neurons in my brain- beautiful fairy lights- I am more than that. Tat tavam Asi

Nasrul Minal-ah-e- wah fatah un Kareeb

Wintering?

My first impression on waking was that of light. Light dancing of the the temple tree flowers, light sluicing through the bamboos, light shaping the folds of the blue skies that came down to meet the grass. Curled up in bed I watch the dance of light outside my huge glass wall. I had refused to draw the blinds the last night so I could wake up to light.

Jumping out of bed I open the glass & let the light in & let the wind wash over me. Peace. The wind never fails to delight me. My feet sink into the grass and mud. I laugh remembering my mother- she tried so hard to teach me to wear my footwear before stepping into a garden space. I'm thirty today and I'm still barefoot in the grass! Still a child.

I wonder if I'm supposed to feel different? Have a big life changing moment? Have some great revelation. There is no earth shattering insight- I like that. Light has come after much darkness I choose to enjoy it, without thought, without question, without past without future.

Peace gives way to my great musings. I wonder what cake I am going to get myself today. Apple spice, a chocolate tart? Do I have some new clothes to wear? Will I treat myself to something exciting? What may it be? I am amused- I "ought" in more conventional worlds be thinking about the larger picture- kids, life and so on, things that the world thinks is important!

I wave at the gardner who brings me flowers each day. I like the simplicity of my world. My feet in the grass. The wind in my face. Flowers in my hand. Open spaces and warm hearts. That is what my world is made of. Small bits of happiness. Chuckling to myself I acknowledge that maybe I am unconventional- I like going "home" occasionally. I don't miss my bed or my cupboard. I like flitting in and out of what is familiar. I like being like the wind blowing through leaves leaving no trace but in memory. I realize I am the nun and the gypsy. I am peace with the dichotomy and I am happy. I am thirty. I am crazily in love with myself just as I was when I was two! I guess time doesn't change somethings!

My promise to myself for starting on the complete wrong side of twenty is to see Russia. A present for the child in me. To laugh a lot, travel, dress to kill and read. Thats for the woman I'm supposed to be!

Thank you all for giving me a fantastic thirty years! I wouldn't be me if not for you!

Words- Yours.

I believe. No believed in words. No, I still do. But words sometimes are slippery as stones that have been left in water a long time. Sometimes, when I try to grasp at them they slide from my fingers as I try to examine them. Sometimes, they tumble upon me crushing me beneath them. I try to find meaning, my will swings between love, confusion, grief and remorse, and my heart won't stop stinging. What else do words bring?

"You'll forget"- you say with such conviction. Is that the nature of sorrow? That it fades with time? I believe otherwise. It stays lodged below the surface of things- a stubborn thorn beneath the fingernail, making itself felt every time one brushes against it. My petty mind cannot encompass the fact that "you forget" because unfortunately I am not as evolved. When I hear the words replay in my mind over and over I feel a huge emptiness yawning beneath my feet, ready to swallow me.

I have waited, impatient for a tone I heard a long time ago- the sound of temple bells that resonates, a voice as gentle as a brook wending through pebbles- the only safe and comfortable place - so safe -so undemanding. But your other words- like rumors flit around my ears like dusky moths. Maybe there are insidious bits of truth in each one of them.

I am struck by how brief a passing moment is. How revenge can be such an overpowering force for you. I feel like a tiny boat rocking unmoored on the shore of a huge ocean waiting to see where the currents will carry me. There is an unexpected freedom in understanding that one was not as important as one had always assumed!

A fragrance, a sight, a smell - a single regret explodes in my heart, filling it with showers of burning sparks. I am still unwilling to let go. Your words had struck like hot iron, branding them in my brain. I want to live it all again- with wisdom this time!

I am a child in my mother's house, chasing after butterflies reading Misha and dreaming of love. I chase after the butterfly that evades me, sweaty and teary until my friend holds out a hand. the butterfly lands on it, and silently the hand is extended to me. And, I understanding something beyond my years then, don't grab it but gently stroke its dusty yellow wings.

Home is a foreign place

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness"

Dickens, my one true love, comes to mind, so often in the city I now call home... As a child I had visited it and looked around in wide eyed wonder. The city famous for its chicanery and power made a dent in my little heart a long while ago. I remember wishing to be a part of it. A strange wish for a 10 year old.

Delhi, like truth, or like a diamond, has many facets- ugly and beautiful. It has many seasons- clear and distinct. It reminds me with each passing day that it is a truly transient world that I live in. In the city of wide streets, show and pomp, chicanery I have discovered parts of myself and strengths that I have come to cling to. I discovered a capacity for peace, for industry, for endurance, acceptance and for love that has reached past my body, my thoughts, my heart into some part of me that I hadn't known existed. It is here, that for the first time in my life, I felt myself coming apart like a braided edge of a shawl, the threads reaching everywhere. Delhi has seen me at my best and at my worst. It has let me flourish and contained my soul. In it I have learned to love with abandon and now to wear an armor of caution so that no one or nothing can pierce my heart.

I have found new friends, strangers, dogs who knew nothing beyond what I chose to display (which was really just an ointment face or a beaming smile) show strange affection and concern bordering on love, going out of their way to bring a smile on my face. In this city known for manipulation and power games, ironically, I learned to trust, based on what I sensed (may be one day I will rue it bitterly or maybe not).

Maybe Delhi, and everything in it was fate. I have felt despite my occasional sense of aloneness, I feel a door has opened- to the palace of illusions I dreamed of. A world of flux and change. A long time ago I lived in a fort with comfort, ease and protection- a little princess. Yesterday I lived in a palace of illusions, today I walk the road of changing seasons hoping winter is close and trials by fire will soon be done, tomorrow, who knows? Delhi, I say to myself. You've taught me a lesson, and you've taught it well.

Beyond the dark of my only window, a pale yellow moon hangs in the sky. What mysteries are hidden behind his pockmarked face? Time is perhaps a master player. But within the limits allowed to humans in this world that the sages call unreal, I will be a player too....

Don't panic.

Don't panic. There's Sherlock Holmes! I work at a place where people come with the hope of finding many times things that they have lost: speech, motor functioning, neurons and/or their mind! Sometimes all of the above. I lost my cell phone to one of the 'seekers' who came to have his son's mind back. Considering that finding 'cell phones' is not on the above mentioned list, I had to go to a place which did find mundane un-exotic things like that. The police station beside the work-place.

The complaint written out and the FIR filed. There's Sherlock Holmes who was waiting in the wings. Enter Sherlock Holmes. "Do you have enemies?" (My phone was kidnapped- was the line of investigation being pursued I suppose- and no, no ransom calls were made!). Sherlock Holmes called back after two months of some highly purposeful line of enquiry

Sherlock Holmes: "We have found your cell phone! Are you alone? Dont panic" (Was this the ransom call?)

CC:"Hmm.. have you recovered it?"

Sherlock Holmes: "Madam your cell phone is in your house only- your Mom was playing a prak I think! She is using it".

CC: "I think you've got it wrong. My cell phone was taken from my work place. My mom is certainly not using it! Have you been able to trace the calls?"

Sherlock Holmes: "Oh no! The person is very clever he has not turned on the cell phone only. We told you maybe it was your mother so you would feel you left it at home.We wanted to make you feel happy that we solved the case!".

Elementary dear Watson, but what line of reasoning, or what curve of reasoning was Sherlock Holmes following- trying to do the "knowing where one's towel is"? Perhaps, there's a reason that the police station was located in close proximity to the institute of lost minds?

Rasta Reads

Ah well...

Pups for sale in the oven! What next???

Ah well!

Family Matters

Scene: Bee returns to an empty home( that is being renovated)from work after a long day. Feet propped up against the day bed with his laptop trying to finish up some work (or so he claims). Door bell rings. Stirs, annoyed he opens the door. Two men standing outside with a.

Man 1: "Sir ye bed deliver karna tha. Deeri hogaya"

Man 2: Stares

Bee (Points to the room where the bed is to be placed) "Waha raklena" Irritable goes back to working on the comp.

Man 1 and Man 2 place the bed and stand beside the main door discussing something with great seriousness and looking at Bee. Man 2 urges Man 1 who finally hesitantly come to Bee and says

"Sir kuch chai pani dena" (Meaning give me some bakshisk/ tip).

Bee (who is always gnerous, but not too good with hindi and implicit meanings in the language)annoyed at having gotten home late and tired misses the implicit meaning and with sarcasim dripping says " Aree mai ghar mei akela hu, kya mai jakar thu logo ke liya chaai bana du?"

Man 1 is stunned. Man 2 steps in "Sorry sir. Good night" and run away.

Scene :Pizza is watching the tele. There is a break and ads start up. The owner of Country Club flashes on the tube (since he believes in starring in all his adds- which pizza didn't know!). He grins and says some "countrt club wabi blabi klabi Dubai" (county club opens in Dubai or some such thing).

Pizza is astounded. "Where do they get fellows that look like that? And why do they make them star in ads?!"

Well Pizza "wabi blabi" cause he's the star!

Bee goes to the dentist and is worse for it. He's home and he realizes that the session hasn't gone too well considering post the filling his tongue is bleeding owing to his problem tooth having become sharp? Or the filling come off? In agony he telephones the dentist. He is greeted by the receptionist (who is more interested in painting her nails as opposed to taking down appointments). Bee says "Hello, I just met the Doctor. I think the filling's come off I need to come by because my tooth is cutting m tongue. It's bleeding and it hurts".

Receptionist with profound advice "Ayo, you just don't eat with that side. Don't talk.Yella ok then tension yake?"

The "You" and "I"

Human beings are remarkable for their ability to remember and reason, and therefore to comprehend the circumstances of another without self experience. And yet, for this remarkable ability to remember and reason we human beings will never truely understand each other. Our comprehension remains just short of complete because of our individual memories and interpretations. This makes everyone alone, and this global communal "alone-ness" is the tragedy of human kind.

The Other Side of You

“The door of a novel, like the door of a poem also shuts. But not so fast, nor with such manic, unanswerable finality”. Serendipity happened in the form of Vickers’ “The Other Side of You”. A wonderful blend of both genres. It meanders, yet at the same time there it is: the beginning and the end at one breath while captivating you through its 271 pages. I didn’t go looking for it- it found me perhaps.

The novel revolves around a failed suicide who is admitted to the care of a psychiatrist. Vickers portrays the therapeutic relationship in all it’s messy glory-its imperfections, its conflicts, its possibilities yet it is so much more than a mere insightful narrative of a relationship between a client and therapist. The Other Side of You is about relationships- the impact of (certain relationships) and the depths of the human soul. The style- simple, honest and beautifully subtle and wise in dealing with the complex subject of human relationships which Vickers does with unusual clarity. Her territory is the fault line along which memories of loss are experienced by an individual both as integral to his identity and as constraints on the engagement with the present. The lives of the characters is gently absorbing as it continues to resonate with pain, possibilities, regrets and redemption- all mirrored by art- implying that we all endure.

The novel deals with usual people- of real relationships, of suffering, hope and impact- of true connectedness, of love- which is in essence “…difficult. And demanding. And a nuisance”. It is raw and yet moving in its emotional tone which ironically though laden with charged emotion is neutral. It is a multi layered book that reminds me of the themes of Eliot’s “The Cocktail Party”. A sustained examination of love, exploration of the connection between faith and people, levels of human trust, art and redemption. It examines love through timidity or lack of self worth, of how we allow it to elude us; of relationships, of choices and responsibilities and the search for self and truth. Despite dealing with themes of love, self, life it is not a “mushy” or vaguely romantic novel. Rather, it suggests that suffering is necessary and part of life and that opportunities for happiness should be taken whenever offered. It resonates a thought that I have often had myself in the context of therapy and my own life “There is no cure for living” as one of the characters puts it. Although deceptively simple in form The Other Side of You tackles huge and troubling questions of human relationships- of people living in people and being inextricably tied to another in soul- of love being here, then not, then here again, transforming and transformed. It is a brave, insightful book on the quest for honesty and human authenticity

It has traces of Eliot all through. It is a fantastic read albeit a serious one. How shall I describe it? It made me think of how certain people/ relationships become a part of one’s existence and being and cannot be washed off not for want of trying. Sort of like a clear glass globe, self complete, very pure, with a forest, a place, animals or people in it. You turn it upside down, then back. It snows. Everything is changed in a minute. A lifetime has changed in a minute. It will never be the same again in there- nor the fir trees, nor the gabels, nor the faces. Nor life. There is another who is you. "Ferociously readable"!

“Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
…..
-But who is that on the other side of you?

(T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land)

Edward Scissor Hands

I decide to get my hair trimmed (note trimmed). The lady who deals with the tresses has quit. I decide to try "Habeebs" on the recommendation of a particular someone I accidently tried to poision (with coffee!). I walk in. Everyone seems rather unoccupied. Ouch! Maybe it's not such a good idea- but it's pouring cats and dogs outside. Hence, the decision to have the tresses trimmed. Bad decision- I figure in retrospect!

Male with pink lips, effiminate mannerisms and a blond streaked hair do (which was far from inspiring confidence or style or anything positive) is to be my hair dresser. I repeatedly tell the chap ('cuase I'm wondering if he comprehends English- most hair dressers don't) that I just want a half inch trim (also 'cause I don't want my head looking even vaguely like his). Plus, I did'nt trust his sense of "style"! He mumbles something and smiles with exaggerated flourish! He's done in about half an hour. Voila! He's chopped off over 12 inches in jagged patterns to resemble what my grandmom would have reffered to as "ili thindhange" (rat eaten). I glare daggers. He smiles with all his pearly whites. I want to remove them and put them in his palm for him to count! " Whats wrong with you? I said half an inch trim! Which part of it did you not understand?" He's still smiling now looking like a weasel- moron "Madam it became a little short! What to do?" "You crazy person it's over eleven and a half inches short"(His math was even worse than mine!) " But madam, a haircut and a trim cost the same!" Your's truely is generally a very peace loving creature but at that moment all I wanted to do was poke him in the eyes and say " You see luv, this is what they call shooting daggers!"

The Zoo -School

The Valley (a school I moved to in fourth grade) was more of a zoo than a school! It housed a panther (or two), scorpions, snakes, mongoose, monkeys, wild boars a wide variety of birds (I even saw a bird of paradise once) a whole lot of birdbrains and of course strange kids including us! A geography teacher whose idea of teaching us about sedimentary rocks was to make us watch "Cliff Hanger" with her in the theater! A chalk chewing history teacher!A games teacher who used to wear a great neon green stone ring and threaten kids including your's truely with "Shut it your muth before I cut it your pants and make it your shorts"! A math teacher who sang more than he taught! A stoned sociology teacher who attended classes (rather taught- I liked her) in absentia. There were of course several strange creatures such as Sam (he was from Amrika) who taught us or rather attempted to teach us topography. I have a vivid memory of him since he always smelt of dog powder and he believed we were all so poverty striken in India that we couldn't afford paper or pencils (plus his head was always dirty!)! Weird! We also had shoe flinging kids (belonging to teachers) who would run into class and casually fling some footware into the class maybe trying to distract the class little knowing there was hardly anything he was doing for there was no class and we were distracted to begin with!

I guess kannada classes were the most fun- for several reasons. We got to sit cross legged on the floor and place the hard bound kannada text on the low table and doze behind it's hard bind to the background of "Chinte matu etra kathegalu or Kanyakumari matu itra kataglu"!If Babbu caught you dozing which he did once all hell would break loose with "An maduta iddiya? Nenge gotta nanu tumba freocious agbid thene!" Well he did have reason considering once the dust bin we placed on the door unintentionally fell on his head when he walked in instead of our intended target! Considering all things Babbu was a kind soul- with not a bit of fierceness in him!

Us zoo animals were given a regular diet of ragi malt at 10.00 am, lunch consisted of apparently vegetarian food which included dishes like bolt garnished upma, papad fried with a spider, cockroach flavoured buttermilk etc and snacks (in the similar range) and the director (a true speciman) believed coke was unhealthy (but grass was not????) and took it upon himself to help us "grow" (in twisted ways?) by taking "culture" class (what culture meant to him he still has'nt been able to convey) and how one should "not" make money yada, yada! We leared that people differ(and how!), learned to grow in harmony if nothing else ! And think of strange things as not so strange!

We Dreamed of Africa

The Asoka pillar at the center of the assembly area was also the center stage for much of our six and a half year olds play activities. Perhaps it made us seem the center of the universe. To six somethings the universe is pretty small. It was around the pillar that several things revolved. That’s where Supriya (I wonder what happened to her?) tied her five year old brother’s hands when Sow and I were playing (the fool apart from simply running around and trying to catch each other). “Supriya why ya (“ya” was in our vocabulary an extremely hip term then!) you’re tying his hands?” Engrossed in tying his hands with a blue checked handkerchief she responds wiith a profundity that baffled me then (and even now). “He (what his name was eludes my memory) is very naughty. I don’t want him to run about ya, so I’m tying his hands because if I tie his legs together he’ll open it no- so only I’m tying his hands!”

Another sunny afternoon it was my turn to give profound answers. Sow and I were playing some vague game around the Asoka pillar. Green has always been one of my favorite colours. The cactus by virtue of it being green must have inspired some totally random neuro chemical reactions causing a short circuit in my already hyperactive brain. A reaction that was most often contagious. A plan is hatched. Sow and I all of six years are transported to some African desert (I’m certain we imagined a name- we were full of particulars and it was always all about the details) dying of thirst. (Our imaginations would not have let imagine that we would be dying of hunger considering we used to find eating an ordeal and had a truly “good” friend Neetha throw our tiffen/ and lunch into the next door quary- an activity code named “dabdab"! Or she could eat it if she wanted!). Anyway, we’re broken out of our spell by Sr Stanisless (who I fondly in my speech constantly called “Stainless steel” without any malice- only it seemed to me simpler to simplify what I thought was a mistake in how she referred to herself!) “Girls what do you think you’re doing?” Matter of factly or trying to include her (foolishly) in our make believe play I say boldly “We are in Africa. There is no water. Sister we are thirsty”. Kindly she says “You can carry a bottle of water into the desert children. Stop eating my cacti!” Having devoured between the two of us a large part of a fleshy non thorny cactus, sour faced we look up “Sister Stainless steel but we are in Africa! Are you thirsty too?”

The Invention of Hugo Cabret

Serendipity is Brian Selznick’s “The invention of Hugo Cabret”. The story is rather simple with a touch of Dickens. Orphan, thief, timekeeper Hugo lives in the walls of the busy Paris train station. He has pain, yearnings, dreams and secrets. His survival depends on anonymity, secrets and the clockworks. Everything is threatened when he is caught by a bitter old man while attempting to steal from him. Then comes an eccentric girl. Everyone gets interlocked- like the gears of the clock he keeps- with his own life. All their stories intertwine. All their secrets are threatned. There’s a treasured book, a stolen key and an automaton man – a hidden message from Hugo’s dead father. In them lies the secret and the fulfillment of their dreams. The book is a tender, intricately constructed story with a rather predictable end.

What is fascinating is not the story. It is how the story is told. Selznick has broken open the novel form to create an exciting read blending the picture book technique with that of the contemporary novel form. The novel consists of over two hundred pages of pencil sketches- very Van Gough like, captivating, enticing- light diffuses, darkness dispels both literally and metaphorically! What makes the read more exciting is that the mystery in the novel revolves largely around movie making- the technique Selznick uses in the pictures compliments the theme of the movies. The sketches are initially of large land scapes, as one turns the pages, the images become clearer in detail- there is a zooming in and words have a small part in telling the story. It’s a completely new reading experience while reminding one of childhood story books. It is a stunning cinematic tour de force of intertwined lives, dreams and secrets by a boldly innovative story teller and artist!

Bad Monkeys

I met the last of the Bronte sisters (Charlotte) in an interview with her shrink. She's a woman with loads of attitude, a serious drug problem (among other problems!) with a licence to kill ( with this fantastic orange gun that causes MI, CI and Narcolepsy if want the target alive). She's in a psychiatric set up (all white-metaphor tabula rasa) after being arrested for a murder; a target she eliminated without being commanded to do so. Therein unfolds her story/ stories! She claims to be a member of a secret organization, her division "Bad monkeys"is an execution squad determined to eleminate evil from the world (evil not crime- there's a distinction). It sets the stage for a si-fi mixed with aventure with thriller genre- a heady cocktail really! Is Jane Charlotte's brain (she has one and later to my joy I found she grew a spine- though late!) a little bent with the drug habit? Is she lying? Is she plain crazy? Or is she playing a different game all together?

The book is a really fantastic read. Nothing is what it seems. It's a multi-layered piece of fiction. An onion! At one level it's a psychological thriller (like no other!). Highly engrossing, speculative, entertaining with it's multitude of motely characters and settings. It takes you through a sleepy town, the deserts of ozyamandias, clown city, LA- Nevada and an intricately constructed (as also is the story) ants nest! There's Charolette's narrative (which has many an unexpected turn, visions and revisions) that introduces a hoard of characters: a high strung (?) single mother, Phil her good kind brother who is kidnapped by the Troop (Was she responsible? Did she hate him? What were her intentions?). A "Friendly" police officer. Representative of the organization Bob True, probate officer Anne Charles (who also has a story). Mr. Dixon a blond crew cut-leather trench coat- pebble glasses chap who is attached to Malfeasace (a Panopticon division- the organizations "eyes"!), a set of "Scary Clowns" led by "Love" (the name's ironic- they're in the same game- to rid the world of evil) an anit-organization, the "Troop" devoted to exactly the opposite end. A host of bad monkeys, a bad Jane who comes into existance through the drug related "altered state of mind" theory and a whole range of x drugs that can change the laws of physics; and a story that doesn't fit- and a story that keeps changing. It's funny. It evokes a range of thoughts, emotions and reactions. It's at times laugh out loud funny but thrilling through out! Ruff is "enormous fun"; he doesn't disappoint!

If one chooses to peel off a layer of this onion (which one is likley to do if one is as insomniac- it takes up time!) the reader is transported to a new dimension. It's not humour that hits here- it's the reality of bad monkeys! There are bad monkeys (amongst us)- there are essentially two categories of them. Sociopaths and Malefactors. It amused one to think that the general conception is that sociopaths can't tell right from wrong. Ofcourse thats not true! They know the difference- enough to hide what they do- they choose not to care about it. Moral Maritains. (At least their behaviour is consistant with their moral indifference- I respect that- appreciate it immensely even in a bad monkey!). To me, the malefactors are harder to take. Malefactors seem to possess a normal sense of conscience. They experience guilt but it doesn't stop them. Both bad monkeys lie. Sociopaths lie to other people. Malefactors do that too, but they first lie to themselves.... an elabourate story... in order to justify... It's not funny (the novel) if one chooses to process this layer. I chose to and I have no intentions of sharing my thoughts so don't be worried! Or mortified! No morbidity I promise!

Another layer peeled brings to the forefront several important issues. Of freedom, choice and responsibility. Ruff is a geniuos. In his stories within stories within changing stories helps see the light. Truth unfolds: you are shown through the streets and days where one made choices and became what one became. Underneath the humour is a world of illusions dispelled; where darkness settels in with portraits of people- Mom, Phil, Truth, Dixon, Love- all of who are metaphors (Names!). All of who are attempted to be destroyed. Stories of Jane, by Jane. Of Bad Monkeys- are they a Nod problem (ref:Bible story of Caine and Able). In the novel there are no stories of heros (despite it being almost sifi adventure), just of ordinary men who make choices- to take a hard fall, to stay till the last dance, of extraordinarily evil men - liars who choose to be bad monkeys- who know of love, truth and intergrety but have perhaps never understood it- all they know is manipulation (I give they have a brain- spine some do). It's really a fantastic story about a simple (mundane) truth- "Omnes Mundum Facimus" (We all create/ make the world- It takes all sorts to make the world). It drove home a point! It's helping me set my house in order!

It's a thoroughly enjoyable read. Fantastically satisfying at which ever level you choose to interpret! It's about choices- you "choose"! It was a great start to a brand new year and a brand new day- well worth the sleepless night! I second the Daily Telegraph " If you leave this book on a train you'll buy another copy tomorrow"

Case File 1

Case Files of Depart- Ment(al):


Dr xyz is on leave.

Q: Why?

He fell off the bed and fractured his shoulder.

Q: (With all due respect) On which floor was his bed and which floor did he fall to? :/

Blue Bin Burning

This is a story (real) of a long, long time ago. There were two six and a half- seven year old kids waiting for their parents to come back from the PTA meeting. The teachers had for some reason decked up the assembly area with diyas. We were tired of waiting and perhaps of the slide and the swing and all the other entertainment the school had provided to keep us occupied. We walk back into our class room (STD I) which was left unlocked for some reason again! (If you look back at all the “some reasons” the universe was conspiring to create mischief!).

We wander around class aimlessly, draw pictures on the black board- attention is short and we look for something else to do. One of us brings in a lit diya (for some reason which will soon reveal itself to our minds!). Sow and I are wondering what to do next. Voila! A plan reveals itself in the form of a full overflowing blue plastic dustbin. Sow looks at it and says “Hey, there’s so much paper we can clean it. Lets burn it”. To me it sounded like a plan but there was the fact that plastic burns which I mentioned to her. They had taught us that at school (well they had also taught us that we shouldn’t play with fire –yes, yes, I guess I forgot that part and so did she!). “No, ya, my mom burns things in the dustbin nothing happens” “But maybe your dust bin is metal?” “No ya, it’s plastic only” “Sow it’ll burn and melt”. “No nothing will happen” “I’m telling you I’m right, it’ll burn”. “No it won’t” “Ok. Lets burn it and see”. Two geniuses and what do you think happens next? The fear of Sr. Rosemary (our grade I teacher) didn’t make it to our hearts before we carefully lit a sheet each and threw it into the blue plastic bin! Well, look at it this way- it was just a scientific experiment!

The paper burned and with it the blue bin. Were we afraid? “Sow, I was right” “Ya, but how does my mom do it? It doesn’t burn at home”. We watch the blue blob oozing and curling. It hits us. Oops we better get another dustbin before Sr Rosemary finds out. We decide to replace it with another dustbin from another class. Determined we go in search of another blue dust bin. Not to burn this time. Were we afraid? I don’t remember do you Sow? I don’t remember if our search for a blue dust bin was exhaustive. Our parents came and we went home without having replaced it.

Sr Rosemary comes in the next day and is (as expected) shocked and annoyed looking at the remains of the dust bin. Blob of blue. “Children which one of you has done this?” she asks. No response. “Class leaders ask who has done this?” One girl with a short crop another in pigtails stands up. That’s us. Ironic. No, we’re not standing up to say yes it was us- now fear of Sr Rosemary has gained roots in our small scared little faint hearts. We ask “Who did this?” We did put money from our “dumb box” (why was it not called money box?) to buy a brand new blue dustbin rather than gooseberry and mangoes coated with filthy masala and lollypop. A feeble attempt of saving our souls!

That was a long time ago. A few weeks ago my friend got married. I was introduced to her husband with the story. We laugh. (We do that quite a lot actually!) She says “But you know, I’m sure my mom burnt things in the bin”. “Sow, maybe it was a metal one”. “Or maybe she put off the match before she threw it into the bin?!”

Answers!

In my brief stint as an under-grad lecturer I came across much creativity; some in the course papers that I taught. I wish I remembered more!

One of the course particulars involved basic neurophysiology , brain functions and methods of studying the brain. Semister exam time. One feels one must ask basic questions to assess fundamentals and it assesses fairly most who fall in the+_2 SD of the normal distribution.

Question 1 (2 marks) Define neuron. "Basic" absolute basic- everyone should know. Right? Wrong! I am.

Answer: "It is some cells in the body which go to the brain and move all over there looking for information. It keeps on moving fast fast to find information. It goes somewhere and all after that."

Question 2 (5 marks or 10 I forget): Diagramatically represent the brain, label it and explain the functions of the visual cortex.

Answer: An elabourately drawn eye (like at the back of several auto-rickshaws), with long eyelashes, lenses shaded and wide dark pupil. Arrow pointing to pupil label beside: Visual cortex!

Basic Statistics and Research Methodology: Q: Normal Probability Curve (5 marks)

Answer: "It is a mountain that is used by statisticians. The shape is like mountain. Single mountain. Staticians find out many things like who is normal by looking at this mountain with numbers in their mind! "

In a course on basic learning theories one of the theories that speaks of insightful learning had been included for the test paper. Wolfgang Kohler demonstrated insightful learning through a chimp named Sultan. The question "Write a brief note on Wolfgang Kohler" was aimed at eliciting the paradigm he used to demonstrate insightful learning, and his theory yada yada.

Answer: "Wolfgang Kohler was the owner of Sultan the chimpanzee. He was a kind owner he gave it many banannas!"

Well, answers do come!

Howard Roark???

One of the many things I've been wondering about is who the architect (with the amazing aesthetic sense) of the new hopsital buildings is. He/she has an odd sense of humour (don't know about sense!) reflected in a few things.... To aid in population control and increases disasters at the hospital! Well gets us more business i suppose! For one the new psychiatry casualty has glass so low that seemed to be designed keeping suicidal patients in mind- with the specific aim of helping them complete their attempt successfully- and yes, the new rehab center does'nt have doors to prevent people from checking out the view from the balcony or even jumping from it! All he has to do is sholve his head/ hand and voila! For another, the floors housing the psychiatry patients is wonderful off white glossy polished (read slippery) tiles - good skid ground for our "not so here and now" lot; no wonder the pavillions are strategically placed beside the neurology/ neurosurgery casualty- we are a multidisciplinary hospital after all! The neuro emergency apparently says "suswagatha" (welcome) too (for good reason)!!! Rehab, is a glass structure (Dark Tinted) and has no central AC; and the candel making chaps have no ventilation- breathe the smoke and wax coat your lungs and reduce your duration with us! It amazes one that the rehab (where the most chronic of cases) come has no loos! Is it an attempt to be therapeutic and learn bladder control? Well it certainly (the buildings) is novel.... the road to hell is after all paved with good intentions!

PS: The architect has managed to simulate the experience Lazarus' rats must have had in the maze!

Round Notes

A few exerpts from work

On rounds we see this manic patient ( it seems to be the season for maina!) and the history is presented and diagnosis confirmed. But what the heck it's supposed to be "teaching rounds" so Chief decides to ask the resident to do a Mental Status Examination (MSE) on the patient and asks the resident for his impression in the various areas assessed. The chap (resident) was looking stumped when it came to his impression of personal judgement: the patient had responeded to his question of "What would you do in the future?" with " I want to serve you all here and this institution!" Chief helped him out with the obviously right answer "Social judgement impaired!" His and ours!

India's such a collectivistic culture etc etc I never cease to hear that in our Depart-mentals, nevertheless this was the heights of it. . . Hospital rules have it that all patients in the open ward must have an attender 24 hours. There's this manic chap (a rather disruptive one at that) who'd been with us for over a week. Owing to his symptoms his caretakers had fled since he'd been giving them more than a blue eye! On rounds we decide he's better and since he has no attendent he ought to be discharged- we ask nevertheless " how are you feeling now? etc etc and who is with you- looking after you here? "My wife ran away and my relatives are'nt willing to come but thats not a problem- my neighbour's attender s now my attender! Love thy neighbour no sir!" Real collectivist!

Yet another Manic being assessed on "insight" into illness. Patient says he's in a hospital and the JR asks " But what kind of people come to this type of hospital?" trying to elicit the response indicating someone slightly mental. The guy goes "Why sir, doctors like you!"