RCB .... ಎಂದೆಂದಿಗೂ

Cuppu ನಮ್ದಾಯಿತು

ವಿಜಯಲಕ್ಷ್ಮಿ ಒಲಿದಾಯಿತು

ಶಿಳ್ಳೆ ಮೌನವಾಯಿತು

BURNOL ಹಂಚಾಯಿತು

RCB ಹೊಸ ಅಧ್ಯಾಯ ಬರಿದಾಯಿತು

ಬೆಂಬಲಿಗರ ಮನ ಹಗುರಾಯಿತು

ವಿರಾಟನಿಂದ IPL ಧನ್ಯವಾಯಿತು

ವಿಜಯೋತ್ಸವ ಶುರುವಾಯಿತು

#ಈಸಲCupನಮ್ಮದೇ 

Musings, out of context - IV

One Mind - Endless Possibilities

"There's Plenty of Room at the Bottom" - Richard P Feynman

I digress from quirks of Quantum Mechanics and nuances of nanotechnology to contemplate on the vagaries of human mind, to explore zillions of possibilities.

It's essential to stress upon the interests we have, besides our routine. Something which makes us pleasant, delving deep into the subconscious.

Music, poetry, painting, sport - all of these, can heal. It's perfectly fine to experiment, not being restrictive to a particular area. Anything that's not just a monetary endeavour adds tremendous therapeutic value. As humans, as long as we are learning and challenging ourselves, there's no end to experiencing everything that life has to offer. Humans, right from the times of Leornado da Vinci to Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan have been beacons of insight into a multipotentialite Microverse, where it's possible to revel in different realms of excellence.

There's an artform 'avadhāna' where a person is subjected to mutlifold, often multifaceted lines of thoughts. This is enough to prove how the brain can focus on 8, or even 100 things.

No human being would acknowledge that they use all of their abilities. The key is to widen the net, stretch the envelope. Nothing we do goes useless, it's all about contextualizing the acts. The modern adage ought to be "Jack of Many, Master of Some"

At the end, ability without empathy and humility, is bound to be a boat that sinks. So, it doesn't hurt to reminisce the lines from हितोपदेश -

विद्या ददाति विनयं विनयाद्याति पात्रताम् ।

पात्रत्वात् धनमाप्नोति, धनाद्धर्मं ततः सुखम् ॥

[Knowledge makes one humble, humility begets worthiness, worthiness creates wealth and enrichment, enrichment leads to right conduct, and right conduct brings contentment]

ನಿನ್ನ ಕುಣಿತದಿಂದ, ಎಲ್ಲಾ ಚಂದ ಚಂದ

ನೂಪುರ ನಾದದಿ ನಲಿಯುತಿಹೆ

ನಲ್ಮೆಯ ನಲ್ಲೆಯು ನೀನೆನಗೆ

ನೃತ್ಯದಿ ನನ್ನಯ ಕಣ್ಸೆಳೆದೆ

ನಿಲ್ಲದು ನನ್ನಲಿ ಮುಗುಳುನಗೆ

ಮನದಿ ಮಂತ್ರವ ಮೂಡಿಸು ನೀ

ಮರ್ಮವ ಭೇದಿಸು ಧೀಂತಕಿತಾ

ಮಾನಸ ವೇದಿಕೆ ಕಲ್ಪಿಸು ನೀ

ಮಂಥನ ಮಾಡುವ ಝಲ್ಲೆನುತಾ

ನಾನಿದ್ದೀನಿ

ಎಲ್ಲೋ ಒಂದು ಸಣ್ಣ ಆಸೆ.

ಸಮುದ್ರ ತೀರಕ್ಕೆ ಅಥವಾ ನದಿ ದಡಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗಿ "ನಾನಿದ್ದೀನಿ" ಎಂದು ಅರಚುವ ಆಶಯ.

ದಟ್ಟ ಕಾಡಿನ ನಡುವೆ ಕೂತು, ಪ್ರಾಣಿ ಪಕ್ಷಿಗಳಿಗೆ "ನೀವಾದರೂ ನನ್ನ ಮರೆಯದಿರಿ 🙏" ಅಂತ ಗೋಗರೆಯುವ ತವಕ.

ಘಟ್ಟದ ಮಡಿಲಿಗೆ ಹೋಗಿ ಚಾರಣ ಮಾಡುತ್ತಾ ಗಿರಿಗಳ ಉತ್ತುಂಗಕ್ಕೆ ಏರಿ ಆಹ್ಲಾದಮಯ ಗಾಳಿಯನ್ನು ಅವಲೋಕಿಸಿ "ದಯಮಾಡಿ ನನ್ನ ಆಲಿಸು" ಅನ್ನುವ ಅಭಿಲಾಷೆ.

ಇಷ್ಟೆಲ್ಲಾ ಸಾಧ್ಯ ಇಲ್ಲ ಅಂದ್ರೆ ಹೋಗಲಿ,

Silk board Junction ಅನ್ನೋ maze ನಲ್ಲಿ ಸಿಳುಕಿರೋ ವೇಳೆ, bumper to bumper traffic ನಡುವೆ, ಒಂದು Metro ರೈಲಿನ ಉದ್ದಳತೆಯಷ್ಟು ದೂರ ಕೇಳಿಸುವ ವಾಹನಗಳ Hornಗಳು ಮಾಡುವ ಕರ್ಕಶ ದನಿಗಳ ಮಧ್ಯೆ, ನನ್ನ ಅಸ್ತಿತ್ವ ಸಾರುತ್ತ "Please don't count me out" ಅಂತ ಸಹಚಾರಿಗಳಿಗೆ ಕೂಗುವ ಖಯಾಲಿ.

ಬಸವನಗುಡಿಯ ಕಡಲೆಕಾಯಿ ಪರಿಷೆಯೋ, ಪೇಟೆ ಬೀದಿಗಳಲ್ಲಿ ನಡೆಯುವ ಧರ್ಮರಾಯನ ಕರಗವೋ, ಅಲ್ಲಿ ನೆರದಿರುವ ಜನಸಮೂಹಕ್ಕೆ "ಯಾರಾದರೂ ನನ್ನ ಗಮನಿಸಿ" ಎಂದು ಹಲವಾರು ಬಾರಿ ಹೇಳಿ ಹಾತೊರೆದು ನನ್ನ ಅರಿವಿಕೆಯನ್ನು ಸಾಬೀತು ಮಾಡುವ ಹಂಬಲ.

Majestic, Marketನಂತಹ ಜನದಟ್ಟಣೆ ಇರೋ ಜಾಗಕ್ಕೆ ಹೋಗಿ ಇಡೀ ನಾಗರೀಕತೆಯನ್ನು ಉದ್ದೇಶಿಸಿ, "ನನ್ನನ್ನೂ ಲೆಕ್ಕಕ್ಕೆ ತೋಗೊಳ್ರಯ್ಯ" ಅಂತ ಬೇಡುತ್ತ ಬೊಬ್ಬೆ ಹೊಡೆಯುವಷ್ಟು ಬಯಕೆ.

5G ವೇಗದಲ್ಲಿ ಚಲಿಸುತ್ತಿರುವ ಪ್ರಪಂಚಕ್ಕೆ, "ನನಗೂ ಸಹ ಸ್ವಲ್ಪ ಸಮಯ ಕೊಡು" ಎಂದು ಕೋರುವಷ್ಟು ಕಾತುರ.

ಇಂತಿ

(ಅ)ಮಹತ್ವಾಕಾಂಕ್ಷಿ

UNSUBTLE ART OF GIVING A FUCK

You don't need to smile

To say to the world it's fine.

Don't listen to words like:

'That curve sets things right'

Hoping on people online

May not have been the best.

Those who became close

Faded as soon as they came.

Ones there since long

Pushed you into corners.

Out of sight it was, 

Turned out into out of mind.

At least some were honest, 

Accepted priorities changed.

It's for you to realize

Goalposts have indeed moved.

Ones near, not so dear

Took offence to casual words.

Labelled you thankless 

Maybe they were right.

There was no acceptance

Nor recognition of presence.

Those condescending souls

Never saw you as their own.

You need to stand fort

And not let apathy triumph.

They will remember you

Once they need something.

Then they shall forget

Of all things they forgot.

Let this bitter thought

Be nailed into your brain.

Years down the lane

The day you breathe last.

Only that day would matter

Not one you breathed the first.

Once upon a time.....

This is by far the most clichéd beginning to a story. Just like "There once was a king..", "Long long ago.."

 

But it's interesting to note that "You know what?", "What happened was..", "I woke up in a hospital bed", "On the first day of ĀshāDa" - beginnings such as these have found their way into public memory.

Everyone and everything has a story to tell. Long/short, comic/tragic, monotonous/pulsating, bland/eventful - it really doesn't matter, as long as the reader forms a bond with the words.

Grandparents' bedtime stories or those stories from friends which inadvertently creep into a combined study session or the stories from the beloved over latenight phone calls or texts; stories which enlighten or entertain us or the ones which push us towards slumber; stories of travels, or the twists and plots within a book; or the ones enacted with liveliness on stage or the ones narrated with a crisp screenplay on silver screen or those that blend themselves into the notes of melodies to transform into an audiovisual spectacle of a ballad - each of these barges into the creative consience of the audience and rules their imaginary multiverse, sometimes for eternity.

A well written book, a crisply narrated video, a meticulously scripted film/play, an artistically articulated mime show, sometimes even a manic monologue - all of these potentially have tales woven into them. A simple knot of a shoelace or as interwoven as scripts of Christopher Nolan's films; assuring as the harness of a bungee jumping rope or annoying as the entangled wires of earphones - there's variety aplenty.

A linear fairytale brimming of optimism like Cinderalla or a long drawn tragedy like Hamlet, a layered anthology of kings and kingdoms like Kathasirithasagara, the One Thousand and One Nights (aka Arabian Nights) with the accompanying narrative of Scheherazade - each one has an intrigue of its own.

All in all, stories define us, by mirroring who we are, by presenting a periscope to the society around us, by turning into a telescope to explore a distant world. They are capable of teleporting us across space, time and perspectives. Stories transcend every certainty and lead us to a realm of unknown.

Stories aren't just liesure. They're experiences, learnings, warnings which add to our education. They're our collective heritage, to be pondered, discussed, cherished and treasured upon.

Stories are a tradition to be passed on, to be reinvented and retold, across generations and epochs.

Not all of them need the air of finality. The creators' subtlety allows us to understand, and form our own conclusions. To resonate better with this, we have writings of Tagore, Ruskin Bond, and Saki; or a film like ಉಳಿದವರು ಕಂಡಂತೆ (Ulidavaru Kandante) [As seen by the rest].

For the rest, there's always "They lived happily ever after".

Stuff, dreams are made of - I

Guests at the back-end

Up from a staggered sleep, early on a summer morning, as dawn descended to the melodious chants of little winged inhabitants of the Earth interspersed with grunts of the first vehicles on road, I couldn't help but recollect the past few minutes of an encounter in the course of a dream.

You know, one of those functions when loads of people stay for days together. On the final day, once the dust settles, as the hosts retire to their homes, some close guests, mostly extended family or first circle of friends, accompany the hosts to help them out, or to have a relaxed talk, before they bid goodbye.

At night, everyone has their dinner, sharing the food from the afternoon, at convenience. These folks aren't actually hungry but there's a palpable camaraderie all around, as the regular dishes are savoured with as much joy as the delicacies of the day. Unlike in the actual event, everyone including the matriarch among the hosts, sits together for a finale of sorts.

Fading into oblivion, are some people too inconspicuous in their absence, to be offered a seat at the table. They don't, and in most cases, can't forcibly assert themselves, and claim their share of the pie. These may be the oft neglected non-earning members of the families or the long serving domestic helps who, given a more considerate, heart-in-the-right-place and progressive environment, would have been considered an integral part of the family. They are too shy and embarrassed to ask for food.

I dreamed of myself as one such person, and it wasn't the most pleasant feeling in the universe. The bitter emotion of feeling left out has no parallels.

This is probably how the reserve players who went gameless in a huge victorious touring squad; or the 'behind the sets' technicians or uncredited extras of a successful blockbuster, or the ghost writers of a popular show or the contract employees working for a highly profitable project, feel like - thankless and forgotten in the din of multitude. They chug along, like the thousands of bolts and nuts in the wheels of a chariot at a fair followed and revered by millions of believers, with a sense of gratitude, helplessness, and anticipation.