Nirvana

I tried to die today. No, i wasn't trying to kill myself. I was trying to die by will. Before i tell you if i succeeded, you should know why i wanted to die. I wanted to die not because i was sad or depressed, i'm better than that. When i retrospected my entire life, i noticed one thing. Nothing lasts forever. Cliched though it may sound, it is true. I've been happy, i've been sad. I've struggled really hard to get something and i've relaxed equally after getting it. I've laughed, i've cried. And all that had a beginning and an end. Nothing was permanent. And this revelation had a very disturbing effect on my life. Every time i was really happy, like really really happy, i couldn't ignore the fact that there will be sadness shortly and that it's quite inevitable. And this put me to worry and i will go from worrying to feeling sad. Really sad. Until one point when i will know i've had enough of sadness and i will start feeling happy. This was bothering me. Nevertheless, this nature of our lives intrigued me and i started noticing that this was the case with the entire universe.

If achieving nothing really gives one a permanent sense of satisfaction, what does the same one do? I tried to look for an answer and it's quite evident that the universe arranges itself in such a way that there is perfect balance. Everybody talks about perfect balance. Here's my spin. There is absolutely nothing that could offset this balance. And i realized that i can achieve a state of permanency only when everything about me is perfectly balanced. Because when i'm totally balanced from within there's absolutely no need for the universe to check my life.

So, i decided to renounce everything i got. I'm not talking about my worldly possessions, they are only a means to maintain the balance. One could easily give up material, that's not the challenge. Giving up ones inner world is the real task and i decided i will. This meant i should feel no emotion, neither love nor hate. No happiness and no sadness. No sympathy, excitement, desire, hope, lust, no nothing. When one is completely balanced he is no longer influenced by the universe, the universe will ignore him. And that's dying by will. Not easy but possible.

I sat on the couch in my living room trying to die. For this, one doesn't need to abandon his clothes and stuff. It is possible in your living room on a couch or anywhere for that matter. So, there i was trying to die. I slowly reflected everything that had happened in my life, everything sad, happy, good, bad, everything. Everything that accounted for the balance. I lost track of time now. I could feel all my emotions effusing out of me. I, now knew for sure that the love i had for everything i loved and the hate i had for everything i hated don't exist anymore. I felt no pain. I felt no fear. I felt no excitement. I felt nothing. I could now see a tiny spot of light in the distance. The light grew. Now, i knew i was going to part with the world, life and everything. But no, i cannot die now and i knew it, the balance is lost. I now desired to die and this desire will not let me die. I gave up. I knew i could never achieve a state of perfect balance.

But i couldn't wake up to consciousness. The light that i saw now got closer and brighter. It was blinding and all i could see was pure white light. I was floating in it. I was actually going to die now, giving up my desire to die caused me to be perfectly balanced. I saw my entire life flash in front of me. I understood the meaning of everything now. I realized what life was all about. I got answers to all the questions i ever had. I experienced bliss. My soul is now soaring at great heights or there was no sense of height where i was. Suddenly, i felt like i was falling. I was pulled down by a thought. A thought that tipped the balance. A thought that brought me back to reality. A thought of regret. Right.

Right, when i was soaring in the heights of bliss, i was hit by this silly yet legitimate regret. I forgot to flush after i used the toilet the last time. Here one needs to know that i'm the type of person that always flushes after using the toilet. And, if i didn't, the thought will eat my head. Why didn't i flush the first time if it's such a problem? Well, i did but the mechanism wasn't effectual. There was still some s##t floating there and i didn't have the patience to wait for the tank to be full again. I told myself that i'll flush the next time and i really can't believe you're still reading this. This is what happens when you have too much time in your hands. I'm bored now. I need to go, bye.

Black Panther - The Beginning

"You see things; and you say, 'Why?' But I dream things that never were; and I say, 'Why not?"
- George Bernard Shaw

The boy was born in one of the many villages of south India. He was raised in a world where injustice was commonplace. He couldn't stop noticing the cruelty of man around him. He knew he had to do something. He knew he was born to save the world. But, he was just a kid and he couldn't do much. But he will when he grew up. He had watched "The mask of zorro" too many times and "Batman" "Robinhood" and what not. He will become them someday, he knew. He did everything he could in his age to condition himself to what a superhero lifestyle might demand. He ran, jumped over walls, swam, subjected himself to mild electricity and tamed animals. By the time he was eighteen, he could run like the horse, and jump, swim like the fish, pass electricity like the high tension copper wire and he almost became an animal. He had given up studying since long. This put his mother to worry. She told herself that her boy knew what he was doing and that he'll never let her down.

The time has come. He was now strong enough to fight the wrongs of this world. It was time for the superhero in him to surface. He was going to need an outfit and a mask. Every superhero needs. He designed his own suit and mask. The suit was in the darkest black, this will give him some invisiblity in the night. The mask was in black too. The mask bore the face of panther. And he called himself black-panther. He kept the black-panther suit and the mask in the side-box of his bike. He might need it anytime.

He wore the suit and the mask and stood before the mirror, he looked super. He admired the way he looked from every aspect. He then got into regular clothes and set out into the city, on his bike. He rode slowly, with the air of a superhero. He rode for hours, everything seemed alright. He needed a plan, he thought. With ideas to make this world a better place, he rode gallantly. Just as he was sinking into his thoughts, he heard the sound of a siren, it was a police car speeding along on the other lane. He missed what was in the front, but he had all the time to find out, he was no ordinary person. He was now a superhero. He turned around at the end of the road and as he began racing behind the car, he remembered that he wasn't wearing the suit and the mask. He knew he couldn't stop to suit up. But he certainly could wear the mask. The mask was in the side-box along with the suit. He wouldn't stop to get the mask. He instead wrung all the way to top speed, then he got the gear to neutral, he got the key out and bent backwards to reach the side-box while the bike was still moving quite fast from the momentum. He managed to open the box and get the mask out. He did it swiftly and gracefully. This was a walkover, superheroes are made for more. He had the mask in his hand now. His speed was declining, he needed to catch up with the car. He also needed to wear the mask. Now, he realized his gimmick had created quite a stir around there. People have seen him. He couldn't possibly let them see him wear the mask. Now, caught in a profound mental hang-up, he lost focus for a bit, and before he could come back, he was sliding on the ground, in the middle of the road. And, before even he knew what was happening, a harmless biker ran over his leg. The superhero crushed his leg.

Few weeks later. He was sitting in a wheel-chair, in front of the TV. His leg had suffered multiple fractures, from the misadventure. The doctor had said he will walk, but with a limp. But before that, there will be an intense regimen of physiotherapy. He was bored. He bellowed

"Amma, amma, get me the remote"

His mother came from the kitchen.

"Ayyo, en thalaiezhuthu, yen da ippidi nachi edukire. Kaludhe padikattiyum paravale edhavadhu velai thedi polaichikuvanu bike vaangi kudutha, ippidi kale udachikitu vandhu en uyire edukire. inime bike thottu paru solren. Ippo nee TV paakati enna vandhuchan, indha, idhule inglisu vere"

He took the remote ignoring what his mother said, numbed by her countless tirades from the time he fell. He turned on the TV. He lifelessly changed channels and he paused for a while at HBO, "Batman begins" was on it. He heaved a wistful sigh and continued to change channels. He finally settled for "Adithya TV".

Superheroes aren't there, dude. So, don't try anything stuppid. Just go drink water, younger brother, drink some water. And don't take quotes seriously.

Perspective drawing for depth

The Old Man

He brooded for a while, staring at the newspaper, the old man. He was a painter. His paintings hung on the walls of every great museum of the world. These paintings left every beholder speechless, like they were caught in a time warp. No critic ever criticized his work, for every time they looked at his paintings, they got disposed in such a way that they started to believe that it's a sin to criticize them. They instead idolised the painter and worshiped him, they became his puppets. People of all types admired his paintings, the rich, the poor, the wise, the greedy, the lover of art, the not and what not. There was always a big multitude in front of his every painting. They would gaze at it in silence, there was something Godly about these paintings they thought. They thought, should his name die, it will die with the world. They called him 'God's painter'.

He brooded for a while, staring at the newspaper, the old man. His face was devoid of any sign of happiness, like it had long gone. He looked like he was wearied by life. He looked sad. They knew why, the people, the talkers, the blind lookers. The story had many versions. The story about his son. The son that was colour-blind. The son that was gone now. Some say that he ran away, ashamed to face the old man. Some say that he killed himself, ashamed to live. The most traveled version, the one that they preferred to believe, is that the old man killed his son. The son that couldn't paint.

He brooded for a while, staring at the news paper, the old man. The headline read "Have we found the rightful heir to the God's painter? - Young painter catches the public eye". The old man read the article below. He didn't look impressed. His face bore the same wearied look. The article spoke about a new-found talent that was making news in the country. It said that the young painter is the true heir of God's painter, for like the latter, he came from the ghetto too. It said, the best critics in the country find his paintings modern and yet flawless. It also said that 'God's painter', the old man had nothing to say about the young painter or his paintings, when questioned by the media. The young painter says that he is utterly hurt and disappointed that 'God's painter' had nothing to say about his paintings. He said, "Censure, i can handle, but not inattention". There was a picture of one of his paintings on the newspaper, the old man looked at it, he heaved a sigh and closed his eyes and relapsed into meditation.

The young painter

The young painter, whose paintings the critics acclaimed, was now the cynosure of all eyes and so were his paintings. He was all over the news. Riches came to him. The rich desired his paintings to be hung on the walls of their fashionable houses. They couldn't make head or tail out of his paintings but they were ready to pay anything for it and they did. They claimed that they could understand his paintings. They claimed that his paintings brought in peace and good fortune. They said, "These paintings are divine, straight from the heaven. The old man is too proud to embrace the vernal painter". 'Bloody phonies', thought the old man. But he said nothing, he never said much.

The young painter regarded the white canvas in front of him thoughtfully. He needed to paint, his masterpiece. He dropped the brush that he was holding, he is not going to need it for what he was going to do. He dowsed his hand in paint from a jar and sloshed the dripping hand on the canvas, producing a splodge and tiny spots of paint around it. He dipped his hand in a different jar and sloshed, another splodge. He needed more colors on the canvas, and he supplied. Now, he rubbed the sheet with his palm to smear the colors into one another. His strokes were crude, but crude is what makes a masterpiece he told himself. He daubed some more colors on what was to become the masterpiece.

Word spread that the young painter was painting his masterpiece. In no time, it brought in to the country, the art lovers, the rich and the critics in multitudes. They were eager to get a glimpse of the masterpiece. There were buyers already, that approached the young painter, offering a fortune for that painting. The painter dismissed them all. He said "The painting awaits glory, glory that will last for eternity. But glory, and glory it will be only when bestowed upon by the righteous person, the rightful person, the God's painter. And after that, the painting will be so precious that God couldn't afford it".

The grand gathering

The day arrived, the day on which the masterpiece will be unveiled. The hype had been built and the world was waiting, hoping to get a peek of this glamourous piece. There was a huge crowd in front of the gallery. The huge hall couldn't accommodate the crowd. The people did not mind, they waited outside patiently. They were content, just to witness the grandeur of the gathering. They were content, just to be a part of what will go on to become history. The streets and roads on the other parts of the country were empty. The shops were shut and so were the offices and the schools. The huge hall was occupied mainly by the rich and the ones that could afford it. And of course, there were the critics, in the front.

The painting was there, in the front, on a specially sculpted marble pedestal. The painting was hidden behind the drapery. The young painter was standing next to the painting. He looked elated, but he will wait. The crowd inside the huge hall was a little unsettled. They couldn't wait to see the painting. But, the young painter had to see the old man before he could unveil the painting. He waited patiently, he had all the time in the world. Suddenly, a rustle rippled across the audience. God's painter had come. Many whistled and hooted. He walked to the front. He looked at the young painter gravely and the young painter held his stare for a little, gravely too. The young painter offered the old man the switch to the drapery. They never spoke.

The crowd grew restless and the hoots grew louder. The old man turned to the crowd, he raised his hand gesturing them to calm down. The crowd obeyed. There was utter silence. The old man pushed the switch, the drape slid away to reveal the painting. The crowd witnessed it,  there was utter quietness. They couldn't tell what they felt, they were still, unsure if they liked it. But their eyes were glued to the painting. The old man stared at it gravely. He stared for a while. The crowd was still, as though time stood still. The old man turned to the crowd. He still looked grave, the young painter gulped. The old man said

"This is art itself" he paused for it to sink in, and continued "This work of creativity could not have been done by any, other than the greatest." he held the hand of the young painter and hailed it and continued "This hand, is the hand of God. And this man here, the creator of the painting that's nothing short of a genius' work, is God himself" and he smiled at the crowd.

The crowd roared in applause and stood there applauding and cheering for what seemed like infinity. The young painter waved at the crowd triumphantly. The old man stood there smiling. He had to smile, he knew. And he turned to the young painter and the dude looked. They smiled at each other for a bit and the old man offered a hug, with his arms wide open, the old man embraced the painter. The painter held him tight, he was crying, he couldn't stop it and the old man whispered into his ears

"Son, you can never paint. But, what you have painted, and what you will paint, will be painted by every painter to come. Your name will die with the world"

"Thank you father" said the son, tears were rolling down his cheeks. "Thank you father!"

"Anything for my son" said the father.

The always useful pouch

He brooded for a while after the phone call, it was a blow, like a disappointment that you fear is likely to come, yet there's little hope, and it comes anyway. He was a writer. He didn't make a big living out of it, but he survived. He used to write under the pen-name 'the freeman' for a weekly magazine but that was shut down owing to insufficient turnover. So, now he wanted to publish his works, and had met with umpteen publishers and all turned him down. There was this one guy from a certain publishing house that seemed a trifle interested, but now the news from the phone call is that he couldn't convince the board to approve it and that he was sorry.

He felt numb, he was too disappointed to feel disappointed. He had crossed the point to feel sad or angry or hurt. All that he felt now was emptiness. He used to be a believer, a lover of life and he always believed that no good or bad lasts forever and that change will always come. This thought drove him to enjoy both joy and sorrow, which in turn made him write. He wrote about poverty mainly, about the strength and determination of the poor and how they strive to live, pushing through the obstacles of life and yet how they also find happiness in their way, and how when they look back in retrospect feel the completeness of a life thoroughly lived. He now had nothing to believe in and there seemed no hope or it seemed too far away, out of sight, the phone call came as the last straw. He could have broken down into tears for a word of comfort or sympathy from someone but there was no one for him. He could have cried just to feel better but instead he decided to die.

He decided that, not because he was a coward or because he's given up, he felt that he had nothing to give up, he felt, an obstacle or a problem he can overcome but not the nothingness. He planned to take sleeping pills, one by one, leaving a gap between each, so that he could first fall asleep and die in his sleep, without feeling any pain. So, he kept the pills ready in front of him, he felt no fear or agitation at the thought of dying. He swallowed a pill and waited for it to take effect. He waited patiently, he felt no signs of drowsiness after he waited for about half hour and he took another pill. He still waited when the door bell rang. He answered it, it was a sales guy peddling dictionaries and encyclopedias. He usually never entertained any sales guy, but today was a little unusual as he was going to die. So he let him in, talking with him might put him to sleep, he thought.

"Hallo sir, how are you today?"

"Well, i was about to die"

"Ha ha, funny. Now sir, what i got here are some of the most useful books ever published, and good ones like these are hard to come by at the shops and even if you do the prices are way too high, but that's alright sir because today is your lucky day as there's a huge discount on the already humble price and on every single book it is"

"How much for the encyclopedia?" the writer said

"Well sir, i invite you to have a look first because .."

"How much?" the writer interrupted tersely

"500 rupees sir"

"And the dictionary?"

"300, sir, for the big one and there are small ones too"

"I'll buy two in each, the encyclopedia and the dictionary, the big ones"

"Very good sir, it's a very neat idea to gift these to a friend sir"

"Just leave them on the table, I'll go bring the money" he disappeared into a room. He went to get the last of the little money he had saved in the past. He is not going to need them where he's going to go. When he came back the sales guy was curiously looking into the bookshelf and the writer said

"Here's your money, you can leave now"

The sales boy seemed absorbed into the bookshelf and the writer said

"Your money's here"

The boy turned and said "Yes, of course sir, nice books you have got there sir, and of course a collection of 'The Peasant', you must have been a subscriber"

"No, i used to get those copies for free, i used to write for it"

"Oh, interesting, what did you write sir? It's a shame though they had to close down, i was a fan and it still kills me to think that i couldn't read the end of 'Heaven is here', what a tale?, you've ever read it sir?"

"No, not really, but i wrote it"

"You got to be kidding sir, you didn't write it?" said the boy in disbelief

"I'm afraid i did"

"You couldn't possibly be 'The freeman', he must be a lot richer than you are"

"Well, i don't know what to say to that, but i happen to be 'the freeman' when i write" the writer said

"That's the biggest surprise I've ever known, it's a privilege to be talking to you sir. You don't happen to have the last episodes of 'Heaven is here' by any chance do you?" he said looking excited

"Well, i do I'm afraid, I've got the manuscript, not very legible though" he pulled out a bunch of papers from the shelf and said "You can go through it if you like, here and do take a seat"

"That's an honour Mr. Freeman, thank you, this turns out to be my jackpot day" saying that he sat down and started reading it. The writer waited patiently for the guy to finish it. The boy looked engrossed in the story. He didn't blink an eye before he read the end of the story. He then looked up at the writer looking ecstatic like his dream had come true and said

"So the depression ends, What a fabulous ending, couldn't have been any better, it was terrific sir"

"Thank you, i'm glad you liked it" said the writer and he meant it

Then, the guy told about himself, he was a student and his salesman job was part-time. It turns out he was a small time writer, and he'd written essays and short stories for his college magazine. They spoke for a while about themselves and the rest. Then the boy realized he had to go and said

"I guess i should go now sir, a lot more houses to do before i can head home"

"yes, yes, of course" said the writer

"So will that be all sir? 2 copies of each"

"Ah, well, let me think now, i won't need any to tell the truth but i'll buy one copy each though" said the writer with a smile

"Whatever you like sir"

The boy bid farewell to the writer after thanking him and all that. The boy paused for a moment at the door and turned to the writer and said

"Would you like to get a drink this weekend sir, it will be on me. I figure that's the least i could do, you see"

The writer thought for a second and said "yes, of course, why not"

And later that night the writer slept really well.