"One must have chaos in one to give birth to a dancing star..."??

My dad, by virtue of being a scientist, was an extremely organized person. Everything had a place, and everything would  be in its place, had it not been for us army of kids, always wanting to rummage through his drawers, his tool bag, his first aid box...we were curious, and his scientific mind embraced our insatiable curiosity as a genealogical trait, even though it meant never finding anything in its rightful place. Fortunately, for that, he had our mom. 

Our mom, on account of being a mother of seven, did not have much room for organization. How workable could such an idea be, anyway? She was not running a boot camp, but a household full of adorable kids. Fortunately, most moms come equipped with a  binary package of instincts and uncanny intuition. They are experts in gauging the workings of a child's mind, and follow the trajectory of their seemingly unreasonable reasonings. Owing to these wondrous characteristics, my mom  could find practically anything and everything that had gone missing. And, that too in the strangest of places: not only under racks,  or beneath a load of mattresses and pillows, but also in between the mounting pile of newspapers,  or tucked deep inside old boots, and in the pockets of stowed away winter jackets...our house was small, but with immense possibilities to lose things...or hide them.

"Sometimes, a disorganised mind can latch on better to new possibilities/concepts/ideas, which fall outside the orbit of logical thinking patterns".  

This is the conclusion which I recently formulated from my childhood observation. Not ground-breaking in its essence,  such a conclusion did however, impart a new perspective into the potential a messy person might harbour. Of course, the exercise itself stemmed from the fact that my son happens to be rather woolly-headed  and cluttered, when it comes to keeping his room, bookshelf, desk, and cabinets clean and tidy. He likes his mess. It is part of his individualism. "I know how to find my stuff, as long as you don't try to tidy it up," he often declares. Fair enough. I have to repose my faith in  his latent potential to detect patterns in chaos, and in his capacity to stretch the tentacled imagination to nooks and corners where  an orderly person might not dare to venture into. As Einstein once quipped, "If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?" While this was obviously meant to be a jocular way to justify his own lack of organisation, rather than some kind of a serious observation into the human psyche, there's a quantifiable amount of truth to it. 

A recent study by scientists at the University of Minnesota found that those with messy desks had greater proclivity towards creative thinking than those who displayed an affinity to cleaner and more organised workplace. Moreover, while the former was more inclined to take risks and proffer  new approaches, the latter was better at following rules and schedules. "Disorderly environments seem to inspire breaking free of tradition, which can produce fresh insights," the research concluded. In yet another study, conducted around the same time,   two sets of college students were each accorded starkly different ambience: one messy, and the other neat to the point of being sterile, and asked to 'invent' as many new usages for a Ping-Pong ball as they could. And, as per the report, based on the results, which was published  in New York Times, the students in messy workspaces ended up proposing significantly more creative ideas than those in the neat offices. Needless to say, that such experiments are not conclusive in a way that translates into messy desks a genius make.

Yet, could it be purely coincidental that in terms of being cluttered, joining the ranks with Einstein,  are other geniuses, like Van Gogh, Albert Ryder, Mark Twain, Thomas Edison, and to come closer to our times, Steve Jobs? I hope so... for, I do pride myself in having taken after my beloved dad, in terms of being superbly organised: everything has a place, and everything in its place. As Adam Frank, the American physicist, referring to the universe's love affair with chaos, likes to point out, "Life is order and structure hammered out, for just a time, to give the blind universe its sight." I guess then, the onus falls on us tidy individuals of the world to keep the bulb burning...

The Haiku Pedlar

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck.." 

The young woman sang sweetly as she made her way through the bustling Central Park, on a sunny spring day. Other hawkers with their hot dogs, peanuts and popcorn stands were busy carrying out a brisk business. The ground lay blanketed with pale pink flowers and every waft of breeze brought with it yet another shower of soft, feathery petals. 

Gina sat alone on a bench in a little puddle of crisp sunshine, absent-mindedly nibbling on Planters' roasted sunflower seeds. Lining the east side of the Reservoir, for several hundred yards, cherry blossoms scattered their ethereal hue of pink and purple. 

Exactly twelve years had passed since that ominous phone call in the middle of the night. It was her older sister. "Dad is no more, Gina", a quiet contained voice had said from the other side of the static. Twelve years, and yet, she had not gotten used to his not 'being there', not finding his neatly-penned letters, brimming with infinite care,  in the mailbox, not hearing the smile in his voice when they spoke over the phone, not seeing him at the airport, waving at them, when they went home for holidays... 

Feed your soul,

haiku, a buck

Feed your soul,

haiku a buck...

The source of the song was surely headed her way. And, as its implications dawned on her, shaking off the onrush of dysphoria, she began to warm up to the idea of buying a haiku to commemorate her dad's life.  "Yes, it would be perfect," she told herself, remembering his love for poetry.  

 "I'd like to  buy one", she muttered  to the woman, whose dark brown hair framed a face which seemed to hold the universe, and a lazy eye. 

"I am glad you do. I think it's a perfect day for a haiku. By the way, name is Krystabella," saying she pulled out a spiralled journal from her bag, tore a page, and began scribbling:

"Cherry blossoms sing,

The robin  listens, silent

 melodies  weave magic

And, handing the paper to Gina, off she went...

"Feed your soul..."

Gina dashed after her, another dollar bill waving in her hand, shouting, " I'd like to buy one more, please...".

Krystabella smiled, ripping yet another page off her journal, and wrote:

Scatter far the seeds,

they've returned from a long

journey: these tired birds

"Yes, yes, that's exactly what I want to do." And, Gina took fistful of the sunflower seeds from the Planters' packet, dispersing them as far as she could. Within minutes she heard them: the  cackle and honking of a whole gaggle of geese, as they landed to feast on the seeds. She watched them, trapped in a bubble of enchantment, freed fleetingly from the burden of a daughter's sorrow.

On returning to the bench, where she sat a while ago, she found a small pebble resting on yet another scribbled-upon paper:

what shall 'I' become

when this body is gone? 

a cherry blossom

on its way to Fuji Yama?

or   a  sarus crane

flying over the great Kanchanjunga?

or a breath of

stillness 

abroad on the waters

of Muncho Lake?

who knows?

and, does it matter?

Far away, mingling with the fragrant sunshine of the spring day, happy like the quivering shadows, she heard the fading voice of Krystabella, for one last time:

"Feed your soul

haiku a buck..."

It, Which Knows...

As a storm brews ten kms south of here, electricity fails, internet service drops automatically, Brahmin ants scurry for protection in the grooves along the keyboard of the unsuspecting laptop...When one lives in the tropics, close to the ocean, along with all the poeticness and romance which  images of hammocks swinging between lanky coconut trees conjure up, the residents have to put up with the hazards of high humidity, under currents, over currents...and no current. 

For a low-tech individual like me, it is of little import whether I am well-connected to the cyberspace or not. But, for those who like to zoom up and down the internet highways, the day revolves around uploading/downloading, connecting/sharing,  putting out a slice of oneself out there for others to devour, and swallowing morsels of what others serve them... Unfortunately, an unforeseen hiatus in this insatiable exchange of appetites can often result in hyperventilation in some individuals.

For a great majority of the millennial generation, every time, the internet service drops, or the payment for the plan runs out, or most frequently, the automatic updation on the laptop laps up all the juice,  a sense of alienation sets in.  Social skills drop to negatives. Words falter, looking for a way out. It is as though, without all the hi-tech mobile devices,  life comes unplugged, severing itself from itself. Even one's palm suffers from the empty nest syndrome, devoid of its beloved smartphone, and fingers fidget aimlessly, eyes stare in the void, trying to find meaning beyond the screen.

It is unnerving to think that this one inanimate object called 'smartphone' has us on a leash. And while it gets smarter and smarter, we become dumber and dumber. Our dependence on it, not only in terms of communication and information, but also with regards to entertainment, commerce, banking, and education, have donned on monstrous proportions. Holding answers to all our queries, leading us into virtual libraries, giving us tours of famous museums, playing our favourite television serials,  it could literally be our very own, and personalized Alladin Lamp! 

There used to be a time when people knew by heart not only the phone numbers of close family and friends, but also their addresses, along with hundreds of poems, couplets, songs, multiplication tables... statistics,  countries and their capitals. And, despite having a head crammed with a thousand things, there was still  space and time left to try to figure out the meaning of life for oneself, invent explanations for notions one did not understand, unscrew any gadget to crack its circuit and components... And now? Now, we don't really care to learn. For we are in the possession of an omniscient device, nicknamed, 'It Which Knows'. Would I be exaggerating if I were to say that mobile technology, especially the smartphone, is not only turning us  into superficial thinkers, but also making us stupid? 

An expression of absolutism, the smartphone, has us all in its thrall. Like everything else, it is upto us to choose to be its masters, or its slaves, to use it as a tool, or as a weapon of self-destruction.

If the advent of television marked the beginning of a couch potato generation, the mobile technology could herald the age of walking zombies. God forbid, but if there were ever to be a meteoric EMP (Electro-Magnetic Pulse) interference,  wiping out all connections to our electronic gadgets, where would that leave us? Would we know, how to ignite the kindling, and start all over again? Our only chance of surviving a catastrophe of such enormity, would be to  re-learn  to hold on to precious moments and to each other, in lieu of a phone.

Isn't it just like the night to whisper

its secrets

when nobody is listening,

to plaster our dreams with absurdities,

when all we want is rest.

to squander on our beggared world its  measureless riches 

and set it afire,

and to laugh its screeching laugh

as we scramble

and stumble to seize and snatch, filling our tattered 

soul with crumbs from eternity

Isn't it just like the night to draw us into its embryonic poise,

only to be hurled across

cavernous chasms

skirting the back wall of reality,

where its army of demons,

and pack of angels

in patience await

to bounce us around 

against the flailing walls

of our hardened self.

And, isn't it just like the night to steer us away from 

the littleness

we grow so wont to...

and launch us onto the wild 

wild sea: sans compass, sans captain,

not even the Vesper in sight;

just us and the ocean,

with all its billowy music.

...and a day slowly rising.

What's in a name?...More than we choose to believe

What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.

The above aphorism might hold water in Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet,  but when it comes to naming one's infant, the dynamics change.

Think about it, had naming a newborn not been of importance, we would not have had books on beautiful/spiritual/unique baby names hitting the stands, and becoming best sellers year after year. In India, amongst the Hindus, we would not have an auspicious day for the naming ceremony,  with the beginning letter of the name being determined by the position of the celestial bodies during the time of the birth. 

Yes, believe it or not, naming one's child is regarded as the biggest decision parents will make for their little one. In fact, many  couples are said to suffer sleepless nights, and several discussions, trying to come up with that one perfect name which would reflect their own beliefs, and aspirations, with the hope that the child will osmose into it.

In my case, I was named Seema, meaning 'limit', by my mom, in order to put a period to the long succeession of daughters. Whether, it was the power of my name, or the determination of my grandma who sought guidance from her guru to endow a son upon my aggrieved mother, one could either surmise or speculate. But, while eventually my mother was blessed with two adorable baby boys, I got stuck with my name and a soppy story. 

Then, a few years ago, I met a ferryman at the ghats of the Ganga. He was named 'Soukha', meaning 'dry', for he was born in the year of the drought. So there, Mr. Soukha and I had something in common: our unceremonious names!

Now, if Soukha and I were born into a Sioux Nation, in the Dakota country, we would have to go hunting for our own name. For, amongst the Sioux, while the child was given a temporary name at its birth, on reaching puberty he/s was expected to go into the wilderness alone on a quest to find one's spiritual name. Sometimes, this young adolescent could be out there for days together, before in a moment of sudden awakening, a vision would be granted. On his/her return, the Shaman of the tribe would interpret the vision, and communicate his/her new name. And on the name would also depend the secret potion to be administered during the time of war, and the medicine to be given, if ill, or injured. 

This coming of age ritual not only tested one's survival skills, but also the ability to hold communion with Nature, and the Great Universal Spirit, in order to receive guidance and light towards fulfilling  one's Life's purpose. And, the finding of one's name was a crucial step towards that journey. For, one's name in native American tradition was not only a way to classify an individual within a social forum, and differentiate him/her from others, but a direct metaphor for the life-path the individual is expected to pursue. From this beautiful tradition, emerged names like Crazy Horse, Sitting Bull, Red Cloud, Walking Buffalo, Eagle Wing, Shoreless River...

The black population of twentieth century America, encumbered by the culture their ancestors were forced to inherit by their white Christian owners, also sought out new names to assert their distinctive identity. Malcolm X, for example, inspired by Eliza Mohammad and his call to his fellow brethren to go back to their African roots, and reconnect with the time before their forefathers were shipped to America as slaves, converted to Islam, changing his name to el-Hajj Malik el Shabazz. And so did, the iconic Cassius Clay,  better known to the world,  as the boxing legend Mohammad Ali. 

On the other hand, many of the Blues artist of the fifties, sought 'out-of-the-blue' names to reverberate with their individual musical style. A few names that some of them adopted at the start of their recording careers, would become epical in the world of music, such as, Muddy Waters, Taj Mahal, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Guitar Slim, Harmonica Shah, Buddy Guy...Howlin' Wolf, T-Bone Walker, etc., etc. 

Some famous authors and poets too chose to have a nom de plume, or pseudonym. Mark Twain's actual name, for example,  was Samuel  L. Clemens  and George Orwell's,  Eric Arthur Blair. Sometimes, having a nom de plume, provided the writers with more literary freedom, by keeping their real identity hidden. Did you know Samuel Clemens enjoyed several pseudonyms? One can just imagine the kick he would have gotten out of writing under the most bombastic and  bizarre name of W. Epaminondas Adrastus Blab! 

So,what's in a name?

Here is what our old friend Anne of Green Gables has to say:

"I read in a book once that a rose by any other name would smell as sweet, but I've never been able to believe it. I don't believe a rose WOULD be as nice if it was called a thistle or a skunk cabbage".

 Ditto!