This.

And this.

I never knew a search to better understand Bayes' Theorem could be so rewarding :-)

The honesty argument

In response to this post, a few comments talked about how honesty is a virtue. That it can't be a vice. My opinion is that "a virtue is simply a form of systematized behaviour that helps one to live life in the way one wants to", a means to an end. A vice is simply something which doesn't help the cause.

So let's suss this out.

Claim - Virtues can't be vices.

Counterclaim - Virtues are relative. Or, they can be vices depending on the "climate"[1].

One of the first interesting puzzles that one comes across in logical reasoning[2] is the "door-puzzle". A popular version of it goes like this - you're a prisoner awaiting execution. In front of you are two doors, a sentry guarding each door. One door leads to freedom, the other leads to death. The guards know which door leads where. You also know that one of the guards lies. But you neither know which door will keep you alive or which guard speaks the truth. You are allowed to ask only one question to one guard. What question will you ask? And which door will you choose based on the answer?

The key to solving the problem is consistency[3]; that the guards won't deviate from their behaviour; that both the guards are capable of virtuous behaviour based on their own moral code; that you can use your understanding of their moral code to your advantage.

What if the guard who speaks the truth speaks a different kind of truth? A truth which believes that the prisoner (who is actually guilty of theft) should be punished, that the guilty should not escape. According to that truth, he would actually lie (so that the prisoner chooses the wrong door and dies) but still speak the truth. What if the guard who lies believes in a different kind of truth? A truth which believes that theft is a demonstration of superior physical and mental ability. According to that truth, he would actually speak the truth (in terms of the doors) but still lie (if lying meant any act that helped the guilty escape).

I hope you are thoroughly confused now.

The point is, in the problem -

1. Dishonesty is a virtue as much as honesty is. That is if one looked upon a virtue as defined in the counterclaim.

2. Dishonesty is the opposite of honesty.

3. So what we are essentially looking at is something like -

Let's assume that, as per the claim, A is a virtue and A' is a vice.

Therefore,

A' = (!A) {inverse of A}

But as per the problem,

A' = A {the argument that lying/dishonesty is a form of truth in itself}

=> A = (!A) [4]

Or, if A can be a virtue, A can be a vice as well.

The problem with terms such as virtue, vice, truth, lies etc is that these are all dependent on the prevailing moral climate. The virtue (pun intended) of reading Nietzsche is that he awakens you to questioning the basic premise of society as it exists today -- why should the weakest survive? Why should the strong have to relinquish their strengths just to fit in with society? Protecting the weakest is the basic rallying call of society today. And honesty -- as a virtue -- is based around defending the weak. Defending the weak then becomes the way society wants to "live its life", and honesty is a form of "systematized behaviour" to achieve that. If society were to focus its efforts towards ensuring the survival of the fittest (fittest in any form), then the form of honesty required in such a society would be different. Why did the SS thrive during the Nazi regime? Why was betraying the Jews seen as honesty? Were they all so brainwashed? I don't think so. Just that almost all of them believed in the moral code which Hitler espoused.

To conclude, 'honesty' is just a term to denote a form of behaviour which helps society achieve its goals. What is important to note -- and think about -- is that there is no intrinsic value difference between protecting the weakest and ensuring the survival of the fittest[5]. They are simply two different ways of organizing society, each with its own arguments.

1 Climate being moral, social and political

2 A certain three-lettered exam should come to mind right now

3 Now is consistency a "universal" virtue? ;-) Answer to the problem somewhere on this page

4 "A is A" anybody?

5 Which is why I will always consider Pudhupettai a fabulous movie.

Shudder

It is a little petrifying when right after this (where mention was made about a "value-vacuum"), one should read this (err ... don't judge a blogger by the url of his links) -

To assume the right to new values - that is the most terrifying assumption for a load-bearing and reverent spirit. To such a spirit it is preying, and the work of a beast of prey.

Nietzsche talks about how the spirit metamosphoses from camel to lion to child. One can see how this is the basis of his argument towards the Übermensch. But somehow I have this nagging feeling that both Nietzsche and Camus had a similar end in mind while propounding their respective philosophies -- an end where man lives "non-destructively", despite the realization that life is futile and meaningless.

With Nietzsche, my problem is with the child phase.

But tell me, my brothers, what the child can do, which even the lion could not do? Why must the preying lion still become a child? The child is innocence and forgetting, a new beginning, a game, a self-rolling wheel, a first movement, a sacred Yes. For the game of creation, my brothers, a sacred Yes is needed: the spirit now wills his own will; the world's outcast* now conquers his own world. [Emphasis mine]

Consider a spirit having shed its camel tendencies and adopted a lion form. Now what is more easier? Creation or destruction**?

Nietzsche outlines three stages towards attaining the Übermensch -

1. Destruction of already existing "weak" societal values.

2. Creation of new values (purportedly anti-nihilistic values).

3. Continuous improvement or self-overcoming, so as to repeat steps 1 and 2 above.

But then the problem with the idea of a Superman, in my opinion, is in step 2. What is to stop these values from becoming destructive? What justifies creation? Why is creation morally superior to destruction? Even Nietzsche argues for relativistic values i.e. one man's virtue is another man's vice, which is in fact the founding basis for a Superman. So it is not hard to imagine a Superman who seeks values contrary to those of Nietzsche's idea of Superman.

In other words, why not a destructive Superman?

Jesus F Christ.

Tyler Durden all over again.

* The outcast or he who is lost to the world. Very tempting here to draw parallels to Camus's The Outsider -- should the Meursaults of the world go on to become Supermen? Where Camus seems to advocate an indifference and apathy which is, to go out on a limb, characteristically French, Nietzsche is all for progress and creation, which, at the risk of generalization, sounds wonderfully German.

** On a moral plane. It all fits in now -- why Ayn Rand had to go out of her way to paint Ellsworth Toohey as a sissy, at least physically.

Competition

Sometime last year I won a badminton tournament at work. Even before it unfolded, I realized that there was something fundamentally different between this and other competitions that I have taken part in.

I have problems competing. I don't see the point in it. No, not that I find competing obscene or vulgar but just that competitions amuse me. Because I can never want anything that badly, and it amuses me to see people act desperate. Again, not out of superciliousness or condescension but out of, as Camus would say, "a gentle indifference" to everything that has to do with existence. That said, I'm more of a golfer than a wrestler (or a fencer) -- the conquest of the absolute interests me more than temporary subjugation. The course, defeat the course. Not the opponent.

Anyway, back to the badminton tournament. The idea came around because we have a court in the garden where we thrash around in the evenings and thought a tournament would help build camaraderie in the team. So, the draw was fixed and notifications sent to opponents. But then I was already deep into my everything-is-futile mode, overwhelmed with "existential angst" and I didn't want to take part. That was also the period when I was contemplating, and sounding out, Absurdity as a philosophy to live life by. And the tournament seemed like a perfect place to try it out.

Basically the reasoning behind my taking part went like this - the fundamental choice was to take part or not, with each of the choices intrinsically not being superior to the other. This is where I've had most of my problems -- the justification of a choice. Not taking part, while going with the natural inertia of my habits, did not excite me and implied a continuation of ennui. Taking part however intrigued me. Not for the challenge of winning and the temptation of the prize, but to see if I could confront futility, acknowledge the meaninglessness of action and still engage in positive activity leading upto accomplishment, thereby pushing further out certain personal boundaries. That, to me, sums up everything -- to know something is pointless and still engage oneself with it. It is not a compromise; a compromise is a barter, but with the absurd there is no gain. It's not giving in, it's not weakness. Rather, it is the greatest of challenges calling for a greater mental and physical endurance. And probably the only one left if one ignores suicide.

In the end, I won both the singles and the doubles. Not without pain or labour ... I spent the next three days -- including a weekend -- in bed, wheezing and recuperating from a marathon doubles final played in the most gruelling of conditions. And I didn't feel anything about winning. The victory didn't mean anything -- the trophies lie abandoned in my room now. The games don't mean anything. The scores, the arguments, the pain in the knees ... nothing means anything. All that matters is confronting the absurd and choosing to live in spite of it. It is easy to dismiss oneself as being dead for feeling nothing, but to me, this is when living begins, when the faculty of feeling is heightened, when life is stripped free of the kitsch that everyday emotion is, when one is able to have a greater appreciation for things despite being aware of their inherent meaninglessness.

That then is where I stand. At the precarious precipice separating life and suicide, vacillating between action and inaction, choosing stimulation over boredom. This then is how life is going to be, to quote Camus again (I know! I know! But how can one not feel respect?), "To work and create 'for nothing', to sculpt in clay, to know that one's creation has no future, to see one's work destroyed in a day, while being aware that fundamentally, this has no more importance than building for centuries - this is the difficult wisdom that absurd thought sanctions."

Camus and Einstein

In The Myth Of Sisyphus, Albert Camus says that suicide is the only really serious philosophical problem. True. But then it's based on the fact that the scope of Life -- as we know it -- is defined by Time. Would suicide still be the only philosophical problem if we had infinite time? I know all this sounds ridiculous and childish, this gibberish about infinite time, time itself having as much meaning as we give it. But it's a thought. And I guess Einstein might have had the same thought. To me, both -- Einstein and Camus -- were trying to answer the same question. In their own terms. One came up with Relativity. The other, Absurdity.

Slow poison

That is what the world is these days. A slow poison circulating in my veins, its venom diffusing through the hallways of my mind, desensitizing my soul to pathos and purity, ridiculing my ideals, clouding my vision about what's wrong and what's not.

The world is gray. Make no mistake about it. An understandable shade of gray, and this is precisely the frustration that I face daily. Nothing/nobody is so bad, or evil, that it/they can't be redeemed by a little (misplaced?) compassion and understanding. Everything is circumstantial, and nothing is absolute. Objectivity and opinion seem to switch places with alarming ease. There is no evil. There is only evil. Depends on what side you're on. Depends on how much you're willing, or unwilling, to allow. To even attempt to have a vision of life seems at once foolhardy and preposterous. For what is today, is not tomorrow. To try and transform from what you are to what you ought to be is futile, like trying to fuse together an object and its mirror image. One derives its sustenance solely through the existence of the other, and to merge the two would be to kill both. Because Life, the mirror, doesn't permit you to. The two are destined to be conflicting apparitions. Illusions because you're in a constantly suspended state, moving from one to the other. And at times you wonder whether you're moving in the wrong direction too. It's like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle where with every piece you place correctly, the puzzle modifies itself, forcing you to shift perspective and start all over again. All because the world is that way.

The world is a slow poison. And I'm dying a little each day.

D

She caught me looking at her note-book.

"What do you want?" she demanded, annoyed, her eyebrows questioning.

"Nothing." I remarked."Your 'd's look nice."

She gasped, and before she could raise the alarm we got our next word. The teacher hollered from the front of the class:

"Emancipation! EMM-an-SEEEE-pay-SHUN!"

I finished scribbling and looked at her notebook again. She was still crossing her 't' and dotting her 'i's. I shot a look at my notebook, and shrugged my shoulders.

***

Do I believe in perfection? Do we believe in perfection? Do perfection and morality go hand-in-hand? If so, where and when and how did all these notions ever get into my, your, our head(s)?

It was Monday night and I was mulling the above questions over an unappealing dosa. And as I took apart the dosa piece by soggy piece, I remembered where, and when, and how.

D, of course!

And I felt like Archimedes out of a bath tub. No, no, before you ask I didn't, unlike the great man I have no illusions about my...err...anatomy. Not that many people would be interested in the first place anyway.

D was a classmate in school. We kinda grew up together. As in both of us were the tallest members in our class of our respective genders, and since we had this rule of a boy sitting next to a girl sitting next to a boy sitting next to a girl, we ended up sitting next to each other for the whole of primary school and for a couple of years after that as well.

Anyway, coming back to the point about perfection, it was an alien concept to me. Of course you can't expect 8 year olds to be bothered about perfection, can you? But then all that changed when D joined school.

You couldn't miss her in the crowd. She towered above the rest of the girls. And she stood out in other ways too. Everything about her was perfect. Right from her laminated text-books (which never tore even at the end of the year when I would be lucky if I retained the cover page on mine) to her spotless and shining shoes (maybe her Dad polished them at night; maybe she had a maid who took care of everything; maybe...) to that irritating oh-I-finished-my-homework-didn't-you-? smile of hers. And it hurt. Oh yes, it did. In a very juvenile, male-chauvinistic, how-can-a-girl-be-so-damn-smart-? way. Yeah, yeah, the male ego is fragile, I know.

And you know what hurt the most? Her handwriting. You could take a ruler and all her letters would line up, as in the legs and the loops would all be of the same height, down to the last freaking millimetre. I actually did that once when she wasn't looking, just to make sure, and I nearly died of shock. And mine? Forget it, you don't want to know...all that I can say in my defence is I was practising to be a doctor. No, really, I was.

But yes, being benchmates took its effect. And it was not long before I chucked my ego into the class dustbin and started taking writing lessons from her. She couldn't believe it initially, becasue we had this anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better clash going on. But once she got over the shock of schooling the enemy, she turned out to be a wonderful tutor (sheesh can't believe I just called her "wonderful"; note to self: tighten up! tighten up!).

We had copy-writing class, and my letters which would go climbing all over the page started dropping into a disciplined order. She would prod with her pencil and mutter under her breath when my 't's started getting lazy and began looking like my 'f's. She would taunt and tease me for my 'p's and 'q's. I guess that's the only way I would have learnt. But slowly, the writing improved and it was not long before my marks improved as well.

The reserve between us melted as well. We started exchanging books (I read most of Nancy Drew thanks to her), hell, we even did a play together in school which had just the both of us! And it was not long before she forced me into changing again.

I used to be a shameless cheat when I was little. Exams and games mainly, and there were other things which didn't matter at all.

It was on the day we got our Maths test marks -- a test in which I placed my notebook on my lap and copied my way into the cheaters' hall of fame. She looked at me in disdain and asked me, "How can you lay claim to something you've not earned? What are you proving? And more importantly, who are you fooling?" This was in class 5; we must have been 10-11 years old. Gee, the girls start early, don't they? I took a one-way guilt trip to hell that day.

And again it hurt. Not in a moral sense or anything, I was too shameless for that. In the same juvenile, male-chauvinistic, how-can-a-girl-be-so-damn-right-? way. And I decided to give up cheating. I tried. I struggled (old habits die hard). But I never cheated for the rest of my school life (or rather, for the tests that mattered; I still continued to do so on inconsequential tests which carried fines), and the thrill kinda died after that, and the guilt was overwhelming (All that changed in college though when the usual disilusioned-with-the-system phase hit home and cheating didn't matter anymore; at least morally).

Anyway, it was not long before we were slugging it out in the tests on honest terms, competing for the top honours in class, sometimes losing to the other by the slenderest of margins (you will forget what I just wrote. You are feeling sleepy. I will count upto three and you will forget everything. 1...2...). But she was a sport, probably the most sportive female I've run into, and she would be the first to congratulate and acknowledge her coming second. And I learnt to do the same.

Anyway, coming back to the questions I was mulling over, D was undeniably the first person to teach me that 'If something is worth doing, it's worth doing it well', that 'You cannot claim that which is not yours' and that perfection and morality are one and the same. D left school after class 7, which was quite sad actually, and I've not seen her anywhere since, but I guess I owe her a lot.

In this age of cover-your-back environments at work and cut throat competition around you, it's often quite easy to take the easy way out and compromise. Sometimes I stand tall. On other occasions, I've gone to sleep with a heavy heart. All the same, I guess D would be happy knowing how I've fared.

***

"Come on, let's go! It's late. We can tune the carby* tomorrow."

"We were supposed to finish this today. And what if the boss asks us?"

"We'll tell him we finished it. Besides how much more can we tune it? This is as much as it can go."

"Naa, let's tune it one last time. I'm sure we can squeeze some more torque here..."

"F*** man. Why are you doing this to me?"

"Because if something's worth doing, it's worth doing it well, and besides you don't claim something which you've not earned..."

"Spare me the philosophy. Where is that frikkin spanner when you need it? Might as well get started on this."

"Over to your right..."

***

* carby - Informal term for a carburettor

The Story of the Mexican Fisherman

An American investment banker was at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish and asked how long it took to catch them.

The Mexican replied, "only a little while."

The American then asked why didn't he stay out longer and catch more fish?

The Mexican said he had enough to support his family's immediate needs.

The American then asked, "but what do you do with the rest of your time?"

The Mexican fisherman said, "I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take siestas with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine, and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life."

The American scoffed, "I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. With the proceeds from the bigger boat, you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats. Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the processor, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually New York City, where you will run your expanding enterprise."

The Mexican fisherman asked, "But, how long will this all take?"

To which the American replied, "15 - 20 years."

"But what then?" asked the Mexican.

The American laughed and said, "That's the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions!"

"Millions - then what?"

The American said, "Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take siestas with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos."

-- From the internet. Author unknown.

Note: Do let me know if anybody knows who came up with this so that I can credit accordingly.

Roads not taken *

there are certain streets
i choose not to walk by.
there are moments when
i forget i have to cry.

these twisting roads, these paths they yield,
i know only too well.
my memory fails, my heart does not feel,
why, i cannot quite tell.

the shadows here hide
ghosts from yesterday.
should i stop? take a side?
or should i just walk away?

the walls and the corners speak
of stories i can't silence.
the pretense leaves me weak,
the guilt stains my innocence.

i know where every right
will lead, and where, every left.
where logic, with all its might,
will succeed, leaving emotion in debt.

so, do i paint the rainbow
with the colour from my bleeding hands?
or, knowing what i know,
leave these trails for better lands?

these are streets
i cannot walk by.
these are times
when i will not cry.

* - The title is inspired by Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken. With all due apologies to the poet.

The Alchemist and Ayn Rand

I've been pondering this subject on and off and I think it's time I put this to rest.

Ok, first up, I'm a fan of Ayn Rand and her "Objectivism" philosophy, but like with all things in Life, I don't go overboard with it, meaning I do realize there are certain shortcomings in the way she deals with a few things (idea for a future post?).

That done, I read The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho a long time back and even as I was reading it, what struck me was how everything that he says in the book is incongruous with what Ms. Rand has to say. And much as I'm against contradictions in Life, I liked the book. So this post is an attempt to see why people can like both the authors and why they don't.

Firstly where do the two agree and where do they differ?

The Alchemist, Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead are all books dealing with the single most important question Man faces in Life, which is: what to do in Life, and how to go about doing it. The authors, through their books, do agree, in principle at least, that it's all in your hands -- you make your destiny, you bring your dreams alive. The protagonists in these books are fairly strong beings, and coincidentally, have mentors to show them their way (note: the exceptions being Howard Roark and John Galt).

So much for how the books are similar. But the differences are too obvious and too glaring to ignore.

Firstly the characters. With Coelho's characters, there's always this air of "There's more to me than meets the eye", whereas with Rand, what you see is always what you get. Amusingly, this works both for and against both the authors. With Coelho, this aspect makes the characters endearingly human as in you can never predict how they'll behave in a given situation, but then cloaks them in mysticism, and this makes it difficult for a rational reader to take them seriously (admitted it's a fable and that you should not look for reason, but then the more 'unreal' the characters are, the more difficult it is to take them seriously). On the other hand, the WYSIWYG nature of Rand's characters reinforces your faith in the idealistic, but at the same time, makes them too heroic and such wonders of moral evolution that those who are not at the same strata of thought find them intimidating. This is what splits readers who've read both the authors into opposing camps.

Where Coelho consoles his readers by saying that destiny will not be denied even to the flawed man(by flawed I mean philosophically flawed), Rand vehemently advocates that destiny is the sole -- and even holy -- proprietary of the philosophically right.

And then there's always this thing about how Coelho leaves himself open to the "rationalist" attack. Phrases like "Language of the world", "universe conspires" and words like "signs" are nice to read in the book but they have as much practical value as a flashlight without batteries during a power-cut. On the other hand Rand is so bloody straightforward in her books that it hurts (if you're not ready for her), and this scores in her favour.

Simply put, the difference between them can be summed up with one question:
In times of crisis, when you're down, do you look inward or outward for strength?

Where Rand calls for unyielding will and enormous self-belief, Coelho falters in suggesting that apart from inner strength, you should also look towards "signs" for encouragement, guidance and help in your quest. That these "signs" can be interpreted in any way -- both positive and negative, and that it is virtually impossible to define a "sign" is what most people who hail The Alchemist miss out on. Like a friend once said, it's just subjective interpretation of objective reality.

Come to think of it, if you look at it in a certain way, the books are really self-improvement at a higher level. The only difference is in the degree of mental fortitude that they demand from their readers. While Rand's books appeal to those who have cultivated a good level of philosophical vigour in their thinking, The Alchemist -- as philosophy abounding in mysticism -- tends to appeal to those who seek safety and inspiration in the simple and the unknown.

What The Alchemist does -- and does well -- is to interpret chance as having a pattern, and meaning, to it, and this is where I have misgivings about the book. As a fable, as fantasy, I found it fascinating, its metaphors and symbolism do appeal to the romantic in me, but only at a "story" level. To carry its effect over into the realm of daily life is just stretching it a bit too far.

What is random should be treated as random. Unless we know otherwise.

But it is still possible to enjoy both the authors despite their conflicting view-points. All that it needs is to know where to draw the line.

Trust

"So you think you can't trust her?"

"mm hmmm ... yeah, you can say that."

"Considering the position you're in, that's intriguing...but I've never understood why you need to trust someone at all? I mean, what's the point?"

"Huh? What do you mean why? We all need to to be able to trust people, don't we? Isn't every meaningful relationship based on trust?"

"Yeah, that's what everyone says, but then probe a little and you find things are different."

"Different?"

"Yeah, different.

In my opinion, trust is, in some way, connected to expectation. There is a want, a need, to trust only when you want something in return. When you want nothing in return, there is no need to trust!"

"Huh? You just lost me there..."

"So what's new?... See, say you have a motorbike ok?"

"Ok..."

"It's 5 in the morning, it's freezing cold, and you have to get to some place in half an hour. And the only way to do it is by driving your motorbike there..."

"mmm hmmm..."

"...and this is a bike which you've shelled out a fortune to own. A bike you expect to conform to a certain level of performance. A bike you expect to come to life when you kick it on a cold morning, when it's freezing and when you have barely enough time to make an appointment; you expect, you trust the bike to start..."

"Of course, but..."

"...and when it doesn't, you feel let down. You're disappointed. You curse the bike, you bad-mouth the maker...all because you expected the bike to perform..."

"And what's wrong with that? After all I have invested so much on it haven't I?"

"Exactly. You have invested so much on the bike, you expect it to perform, you trust it to start when you need it the most, and when it doesn't you feel disappointed."

"So? I still don't see what you're getting at..."

"I'm trying to tell you that trust, of any form, invested in anything, demands from the object of its attention an emotional fulfillment; a satisfaction that the object was worth the trust..."

"Yes, I think you could say that."

"But apply the same analogy to people, keeping the emotional satisfaction part of it out of the picture -- have you ever asked why you need that emotional satisfaction at all with people and why you would want to trust them?"

"Huh?"

"Say you have a secret. Now you can do one of two things, apart from not telling anyone about it. Declassify it as a secret by revealing it to everyone. Or, confide in a friend, trusting him to keep your secret, expecting him not to divulge it. Now when he keeps your secret safe, you get the satisfaction that the trust you invested in him was not in vain. Or when he doesn't, you get disappointed and lose your faith in him."

"That makes sense, but still don't see what you're tring to say"

"When I shifted the analogy to people, I invalidated a fundamental assumption that is implicit in something like a bike.

A bike, like most machines -- within their working lives -- is not expected to deviate from its expected norm of performance, at least within tolerable limits. And unlike people, it's possible to know everything about a bike, take it apart, analyse it in detail, put things back in place, get it working again, and reinstate your trust in it.

But when it comes to people, firstly, it depends on your own faculties as to how well you can judge people. And even when you can judge them well, it's only with respect to those aspects of their behaviour which you have had an opportunity to observe in the context of certain circumstances. And secondly, people are notoriously prone to change, it's in their nature, it's the only way human beings, being creatures subject to varying emotions, thrive. So when you are not a good judge of people -- I believe nobody ever can be -- and when people are going to change so much, you have two courses of action if you don't want to be disappointed..."

"Hmm which are?"

"...you either trust everyone, expecting nothing out of them, in which case you can no longer call it trust; or you could decide not to trust anyone and not reveal anything at all, thereby totally eliminating the need to want something in return. Either way, don't expect anything out of people."

"But isn't that just being self-defensive?"

"No, it's just being logical..."

"Ah, this sophistry is nice when it comes to trivialities like secrets, but how about a practical situation -- say at work? Don't you need to trust people there?"

"Here again, you are depending on the power of money implicitly. You trust that when you give someone X amount of money to do a good job, you trust the power of money to ensure that the job is done well. Of course, secondary causes like emotional satisfaction, personal growth and loyalty also play a role in the quality of the work done, but that is entirely a personal trait. You as an employer have no control over it. In fact, you have no control over the person's behaviour; he could do an excellent job, or he could contract the mad cow disease overnight, go insane and leave you in a quandary. The only expectation here is what you have out of the money that you offer, and money, like a bike, is a non-living thing whose 'performance' is established, something whose power you can trust not to change."

"But don't employers, who invest so much in an employee, have a right to expect what they want in return?"

"Of course they do, but for that they don't have to trust their employees. Because trust or no trust, the employee doing the job well depends on how much the money means, or doesn't mean, to him."

"So what's your point?"

"That even when it comes to work, there is no point in trusting people, and when I say trust, I mean expecting something in return. Rather, trust your money. If you're going to trust people, then be prepared to be disappointed."

"Ok ... but what about love? What about marriage?"

"What do you do when you love someone? Love itself is just an idea, an abstract one at that. But let me stick to the conventional meaning of it.

Conventionally, when you 'love' someone, you expect a lot in return -- like you want to be loved back, and in certain situations, through the love that you offer that person, you impose on him/her certain implicit demands, like loyalty for example, though this need not be the case always.

And it's precisely because you have invested so much love, so much emotion in that person, and because you want all this (loyalty etc) in return, that you trust the person to accept your love and not to act in a way which would cause you disappointment and hurt. And you do all this thinking you know how the person is on the inside and thinking he/she won't change, when we very well know that they are going to change.

So, when you stick to the conventional meaning of 'love', it means 'trust' which in turn implies you want something in return.

But if you would care to delve deeper into the meaning of love, if you seek the truth, you would learn that you love someone for what they are, for what they stand for, for the way they make you feel in a certain way about yourself, about them and about the world. And not because you want something in return. And when you love someone like that, it really doesn't matter what they do, what they say, whether they hurt you or not, because you would always understand.

This, to me, is unconditional love, the love that you possess for someone without expecting anything in return. This is different from another form of 'unconditional love' some talk about, where you love someone without cause or reason.

The love I'm talking about is the form of love that a father has for his daughter or a son for his mother; you just love them for what they are, you don't expect anything in return. And when you love without expecting anything in return, there really is no need to trust is there?"

"But there is something wrong in what you say ... since you say people change, and if you love someone for what they are, for what they stand for, when they change from what they are and become someone different, someone whom you don't like, someone who doesn't make you feel the same way as they used to before, what then? Would you still love them?"

"I would neither love them nor hate them. I would just become indifferent."

"Even if they were your parents?"

"Even if they were my parents...because that's the only way the love I feel for them would have any meaning."

"How is that possible?"

"Precisely because I didn't expect anything in return. And since I would love them for what they are, when they change into someone different, I can walk away unaffected because I didn't want anything in return for my love for them. I would accept and understand that they have changed.

And I would also accept that my love for them is no longer valid because it was spawned by what I saw in them before; not loving them for what they have now become is the only way I can lend value to the love I would offer to others. And I would not hate them; I would just become indifferent.

And if my love is capable enough, then it would seek those who are worthy of it, those who would change, but only within their tolerable limits, like the bike, those whom I wouldn't have to trust but just love, those who wouldn't expect anything in return from me and just love me for what I am and those whom I would love for what they are without expecting anything in return."

"But by saying that your love for them is based on them not changing into someone whom you would not like, aren't you expecting the 'not changing' aspect of them in return for your love? Aren't you, by loving them, trusting them not to change?"

"Yes, but it is not an expectation in the usual sense; if that expectation is not fulfilled, I would not be disappointed because I don't derive any emotional satisfaction from them not changing. Again, the 'change margins' are different. When someone says 'I love humanity' the 'change margin' is huge; when someone tells his/her partner 'I love you', the 'change margin' is highly specific."

"But isn't that a contradiction? Is love not an emotional satisfaction?"

"No. Love could be called an emotion, but there isn't any satisfaction or disappointment associated with it."

"But isn't love by itself a form of trust?"

"That, my friend, is the point.

Love is not trust. Love just is. It exists for the sake of itself.

Love is based on the 'not changing' aspect. However, I don't have to 'trust'. I don't 'expect' anything which would bring me emotional satisfaction; I don't expect 'anything' which, when I don't receive, would cause me disappointment.

But trust isn't; trust never is; trust needs that something, that emotional fulfillment, in return to sustain itself.

When it comes to filial relationships, the 'change margins' are pretty much non-existent, anything goes, and it takes a great deal before the love -- for our parents, for our siblings -- vanishes. But when it comes to someone we want to spend our lives with, or our friends, we somehow are more stringent; we expect a lot in return, we are looking for someone to trust, looking for someone to hang onto in an ever-shifting world, for someone to vindicate our existence...we are not looking for someone to love, we don't want to give our love unconditionally.

We want security, we are happy to seek refuge in the inferority of need and trust, rather than celebrate the glory of love and the freedom of not having to trust."

"That somehow doesn't make sense to me."

"It never does. All of us have to figure it out for ourelves. We have to, some day or the other..."

"But I still don't think I can trust her..."

"I can only wish you good luck, my friend."

Questions

Even now, they take me by surprise. The questions, I mean. After all these years of constant confrontation, of retorting with unambiguous answers and convincing arguments, they still come back, a renewed vengeance in their voice, a sadistic purpose underpinning their queries.

Every person I know has his/her questions. Questions that appear superfluous, but deep down, the answers they demand define the purpose of one's existence, answers that will shed light on the remainder of one's days on this planet. Some people are unfortunate - they are only too aware of what these questions are, and the nature of the answers that are needed to counter; while some are lucky enough to spend their days in a state of blissful ignorance. And some others are so scared, they seek refuge in outright denial.

Quite often it doesn't matter to me what these questions are. The only worthy consequence of having to face these questions day after day is the struggle that they cause on the inside. A struggle that is fuelled, rather than suppressed, by the stop-gap answers that I'm enlightened with from time to time. Because an answer often means the mushrooming of more questions, and I find myself back at square one. And it's this constant question-and-answer cycle that has resulted in an evolution of my psyche. More so in the past year or so.

I remember saying in one of my earliest posts that it's the simple things that I find difficult. I think it's because of this need to justify everything to myself -- even the tiniest of acts. And it's precisely during this process of trying to reason out my motives that my questions take form. And what was until then a simple act becomes a moral monster. Because I would know that I was wrong if I erred in weakness.

It gets tiring at times, this search for answers. Mind-numbing too. And it's changing me, slowly but surely. I've begun to scare myself these days. When an answer is denied or when the solution-seeking process is lengthy, out comes this mask I wear to shield myself from the world until the puzzle makes itself clear. And I'm getting good at this mask game, and this is what scares me. I can be anything that I want; I can be anything that others want me to be, expect me to be. And I shift between the two with such consummate ease that it scares others too. I can see it in their eyes whenever the real me takes over from the fake me.

Case in point: I've always hidden the rebel in me from my family. I've played along as this nice kid who would never give his parents sleepless nights. But last Sunday, he came out. Had to, I guess, in hindsight. We were at this meeting where a discussion on should-parents-be-emotionally-dependent-on-their-kids-in-this-age suddenly turned into a heated argument over arranged-marriages, duty, obligation, freedom, independence, dating, live-in relationships etc etc. And being one of only three participants under 30 (the other two were my brother and sister) , I was asked to voice my opinions on the issue. My sister had just made an insular argument, while my brother chose to follow the silence-is-better-than-valour route.

Now, at home, I'm the youngest of three. And some time ago, I realized that I was never going to be taken seriously. Another reason, why I never rebelled - because there was no reason to rebel! Anyway, never one to shy away from an intellectual war, I told the audience -- demographically on the wrong side of 50 -- in no uncertain terms about how I felt on all these issues. Needless to say, it was totally 'anti-establishment'. I spoke about everything that I'd never spoken to anyone at home about, because it was always thought I'd toe the familial line. I could see my arguments drop like bombs on the audience. Uproar ensued. Vehement counter-arguments were issued forth. But I held my own, and stood the tide. But that was not to be the end of it. Like I said the real me took over and it scared everyone, including my mom -- especially because I said parents should learn to let go of their kids, and not hold on to them for emotional support, and instead make something out of the rest of their lives. On the way back and for the whole of that day, my mom and sister looked at me like I was a stranger whom they didn't know. They kept talking in hushed tones, and would stop when they saw me approaching. Things improved the next day, and were back to normal the day after. I guess I finally broke out of the 'youngest child' mould.

Whatever I said in that forum is not new. Every principle I hold dear, every opinion that I voiced that day, has evolved out of this question-and-answer process. Every answer has been questioned thoroughly till I'm satisfied it is watertight. And this knowledge that I'm right and that others don't want to know they are wrong, is exactly why I'm forced to wear my masks. Because, at the end of the day, I prefer to play along -- as long as it is harmless -- than hurt people by showing them what they really are. And my questions will continue. Becasue the answers are -- at times -- not complete enough. Which reminds me, the earliest question that I had was whether I wanted knowledge or wisdom, and guess what I chose?

***

I'm aware that this blog is beginning to look like a diary these days. Maybe it's time to start a separate one...

Train, Of Thought

He yawned his sleep away, wiping the tears from his tired eyes. He never could sleep on trains, and didn't on this one either. He looked out the window, his cheek resting on the grill. Dawn was forming, the promiscuous sky welcoming her new lover, looking forward to the new clothes he would bring...he would get off soon. Looking at the sun prepare his canvas for the day, he smiled, remembering other days, other trains, other journeys, other dawns.

He scanned the compartment he was in -- empty except for the tramp snuggled against the toilet door, and the college kid in the next booth, with loud music filtering out of his head-phones. Newspapers lay strewn along the aisle. Some had been read, and then thrown away, used. Some had served other less noble purposes. The stories, the reports, the cartoons -- now shunned for the latest. Occasionally, a swirl of wind would catch the papers and spin them around in an eddy. The papers would play along, happy for the momentary respite from lying around, feeling used. Some memories were like that. A forgotten emotion would come by and swirl them around, examining everything that had not happened, everything that had not been said, before leaving those frames from yesterday in their resting places, along with others of the past...Yesterday was fleeting, fading, and today never stayed. Tomorrow is only what everybody has. The next hour, the next meeting, the next station...

The train trundled along steadily. The wind ran its fingers through his travel-weary hair, parting it in newer patterns, almost as if fascinated to see how he would look if he'd combed it differently. He felt the chill of the morning in the hollow of his prickly, unshaved cheek. He pulled his collars up and hunched deeper into the corner of his seat. And in doing so, felt the pressure of the ticket in his pocket against his chest. Instinctively, he reached inside, feeling for it, reassuring himself from the coarseness of the paper that it indeed was the ticket. Everyone took care of their tickets. Except the ones who never bought one, of course. Some got good seats, some didn't. But everyone took good care of their tickets. At least, they tried to. Until the journey ended, that is. The tickets would then be thrown away, used. Then all that remained was to buy the next ticket, wait at the station, board the next train, and look forward to tomorrow.

The sun had climbed up a bit now, striving for a better look of his land, checking if something had changed from yesterday. He wondered if the sun ever got bored. But then it was perhaps the hope of change that kept it going. Like his hope that these rail tracks did indeed lead to a better place. Travel itself is a great exercise in hope, he thought. Of newer lands, newer dreams, newer tomorrows. Better tomorrows. But then, so is Life. So is Life. Even though we convince ourselves with iron reason that something is worth doing, we hope that the fruit tastes good. If we get the fruit, that is. And until we taste it, we never know if it will.

The train turned a bend abruptly, and drew into the station. He had to get off. Tomorrow had become today.

Choices

The sea lay ahead, roaring out a boisterous welcome, as he trudged heavily through the sands, carrying his shoes. He liked it by the seashore and had never cared to reason why - a simple acceptance of a simple reality in a complex life.

He shirked company on these special visits to meet his old friend - the sea. Bringing someone along, he felt, would break the unsaid trust that had evolved between the two - he would come visiting during moments of crisis, and the sea would yield answers. The last week had brought about another. And he knew he needed help. Desperately.

He liked the sand clinging to his feet, leaving behind a fine film of grain as it fell; he noticed how the film grew finer with every step he took forward. He chuckled involuntarily, as he remembered telling a bemused friend that the sand was actually cleansing the feet before the water touched them. To him, the walk was a sort of preparation before a sacred ritual; a chance to clear his mind before confronting the truth - whatever that truth was.

He sought his hideout - a small cove surrounded by sea-weed. The cove changed shape with the tide, but he always found it. He slowed his steps as he strode towards what he had come to consider as home, and a faint smile broke out on his lips. Throwing his shoes aside, he fell in a heap, settling down as if on a couch, and brushed the sand off his hands on his trousers. He felt the damp mud give way under his weight and throwing his head up, he took a deep breath. The wind had that tinge of salt to it which he had come to like - another stage of cleansing, he told himself. The sea never failed to fill his senses - the cerulean water, the eternal song of the spray, the lingering taste in the air that was an exotic, eclectic mixture of sea-weed, salt and sand...The sea was always a total experience, of which he could never have enough.

After a while, his thoughts turned back to his crisis. He had to make a choice. Between two things he loved. Equally. He had tried to fool himself at times that he was more passionate about one of the two. But during those rare minutes when he allowed himself to see the truth, he knew in the deepest of his hearts that he loved them both. Equally. All his life, he had evaded making choices; waiting, holding on, until the choices resolved themselves. It was a trick he had learnt well. He had tried it this time around too, but it seemed like Life had finally decided to test him.

He saw a lone catamaran on the water, scything through the waves as it bounded towards the shore, its narrow confines overflowing with fresh fish. He watched the fisherman, his ebony body glinting in the evening light, struggling to steer through the stubborn waves. Life and Death on the same boat, he thought to himself. It was always like that. Life derives greater meaning in the proximity of death, he mused. And Death had many forms.

A crow cawed somewhere, splintering the silence, breaking his thoughts, and forming them to focus upon his crisis. He remembered the thought he had had a few days ago. What if every day was actually two days in itself. Then he would live one life one day, and another life the other day, pursuing both his passions. A double life, he joked to himself. Life was full of 'What-ifs', he philosophised, and he was facing the biggest of them today. 'What if...'

A wave broke upon the shore, and swept towards him. He welcomed it. The tension that held his body tautly together left him momentarily and he stretched his feet out. The foamy water lapped about him, wetting his trousers as it retreated half-heartedly, the sand changing colour with the receding wave. He liked the rich brown shade of wet mud. It had Life to it; a Life that drained rapidly as the water evaporated. The water lent a certain pride to the sand, he felt. It was no longer the servile sand that he had walked through, no longer subservient and clinging to his feet; it had Life which could be given shape and form. Life always took form, he observed, through the choices that one made. Better the choice, better the form it took. Like the sand that had chosen to be by the water, rather than further up the shore. The choice mattered, he knew. And he feared to make one now when more than ever he needed to. 'What if...'

He looked about him. The evening was fading fast into the sea and dusk was descending. He perceived a certain melancholy about dusk, quite unlike the arrogance of dawn. Maybe it's because the day is dying and it doesn't want to, he thought. A death it did not choose. He saw the stalls on the shore come alive in the distance as the hawkers lit lamps to keep alive their day. What choice did those people have? Living a life in which there never was a choice. Swimming in a river where the current of their destiny always took them to a waterfall. Should one be lucky to have a choice at all?...He was more puzzled now. He liked the confusion. It was always a sign that he was heading for a solution. He smiled as he realized how well he had to come to know himself. Getting up, he shook the sand off his clothes and headed for the cool of the water.

* * *

Lying awake on his bed that night, he marvelled at the ability of the sea to inspire wisdom in him. He had finally realized that when it came to choosing between things he loved, the actual choices didn't matter. They never do, he reasoned. What is important, however, is that there is Life in every choice. Whatever one chose, one always had the chance to discover Life through it. One only had to have the courage to choose, the faith to take that first step in the dark. That - the act of choosing - is what counts for more. As for the choices left behind, Life always has this funny habit of throwing others like them one's way at a later stage. Again, one needed just the courage to choose and the wisdom to recognise the choice. Life never cheats. Life never 'sucks'...His thoughts trailed off, as sleep threw its cloak over him. He had chosen, and he was not going to look back.

Freedom

The bubble ascends
From inside the kettle.
The heat suffocating,
The light inviting.
Seeking freedom,
It rises,
Desiring a world
Beyond the circular confines
Of this ceramic coffin.
It floats
To an early salvation.
Its is a fleeting existence,
A forbidden freedom.
Its is a futile dream,
A forsaken death.

The kite tugs at the strings
That gave it height,
That gave it flight.
It sees a world
That the hands cannot.
It seeks a world
That the heart knows not.
Wants to fly, unguided,
Wants to mingle
With the clouds above,
And live those brief minutes
Before earth and death
And trampling feet
Catch up.
Its is a complicated existence,
A controlled freedom.
Its is a consuming dream,
A captivating death.