Vegetarian woes on a Sunday morning

 

Peeeeee Peeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwww, I was honking my presence felt, with the thumb on the shrill vocal button of my sister’s Activa— that was already kind enough to carry a person heavier than it — unempathetically navigating it on a particularly slushy stretch at northwards of 60kmph. Early morning winds blowing against one’s face, while uncombing his hair is only as pleasurable as one’s mind lets it be, which at times turns way too turn cynical to acknowledge anything other than deep slumber behind closed doors as being beautiful. At that moment I was hoping I had learnt to drive a car, my mind wasn’t exactly taking to nature’s expressions of sunshine and zephyrs with open arms.

It was five shy of six in the morning at the Anna Salai stretch. I was riding home from a sleepover at a friend’s. The roads are usually modestly occupied at this time, but it was a Sunday morning. Or the aftermath of a Saturday night to put things into context. Most people taking the road at this time aren’t going as much as returning home. And there were those commercial trucks plying to and from markets, to accommodate the spike in consumption that was typically anticipated from the day.

I was at midway point, a few hundred metres before Gemini flyover, when I saw this bike before me. It had a pillion space, wider than an average bike, covered with a green coir sheet that was wrapped over what appeared to be a sizable heap.
Sometimes the most affecting incidents in life unfurl in a languorous manner, like toothpaste emerging out of a squeezed tube. No dramatic contraptions, just impact enough to pierce the most naked part of the soul.

A leftward bound gust of strong wind, lifted the coir sheet along with the normalcy of the morning. Lying below the sheet were pale mammal carcasses— goats most likely —one above the other. Aghast with a lump in the throat, I had to pull over to avoid getting any closer to the bike. It’s not like I was seeing meat for the first time. I’ve been around meat eating people, without making faces about erstwhile living being floating in their gravy boats.

Just that I’ve  always been this frail-hearted person without an appetite for seeing, say mangled animal carcasses on a busy highway, run over by vehicles . Or a suspended headless corpse hanging on the entrance of a shawarma parlour. I tend to cringe, reimagining the pain the creature would’ve gone through under the tyres of a speeding heavy vehicle or a swinging butcher’s knife. It could’ve probably been easier I were a vegetarian alone, but I was a hopeless animal lover.

Over the years I’ve learnt to come to terms with the world around me, in which meat eating people comfortably outnumber the non-meat eaters. I’m no stranger to the killing and their place in a parallel food chain—  that lets cruelty and cooking coexist — I’m not a part of. Just that the sight of the absolute insensitivity with which it is carried about is deeply unsettling. Like the guy on the bike before, who was carrying them like a batch of gunny bags with absolute disdain. The dispassionate conditioning of his mind to see them as mere raw materials was a painful sight to witness.

I started several seconds after the morgue bike had disappeared over the flyover. I was trying to undo what I saw by focusing on things a tad more pleasant like the sight of crisp vadas blooming on a frying pan of a tea shop, a neurotic dog cleansing itself with it’s eager tongue and an elderly couple jogging together on the pavement. And just when the mood was starting to lighten up like that, a truck overtook me from the signal.

It was carrying cages— arranged in columns —with hundreds of hapless hens, suffocating against each other from within. Here was a colony of birds, most of them aware about their impending end. Some were screaming resiliently, some were protesting at the cage doors, while some were still, having given up already. If they thought the commute to the butcher’s was the painful part, they had no clue of what was coming their way. The eyes with which they saw their first sights after hatching out, would be plucked out as waste. The beaks with which they made conversation and consumption, would be no different. As if this wasn’t gruesome enough there were a few dead ones scattered across the floor, like rotten vegetables, next to the feet of the men overseeing the shindig.

History unforgivingly remembers the ones who oversaw the holocaust of thousands of their kind to upkeep the whim of their patriotism, ethnicity and creed. Yet the violence perpetrated to usher every Sunday, that too in a city alone is enough to pale every significant genocide to insignificance as a blob in history. “Livestock” to me is the worst euphemism that there is.The churn in the belly left a bigger ripple this time as the lorry went past. At the back of my mind I felt a guilt colored helplessness about not being able to do anything about all this, than just feel bad  But I was glad that home was only a minute away. Wish I could tell the same about humanity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Patience and guys serving ice cream

 

From the time I’d learnt to understand temperature from places other than my under-chin, I’ve known Chennai to be this hot place, humidly so. On an afternoon, all one would just need is water,vessel and some suspension of shame to prepare Maggi on a terrace. I don’t actually need a widget on the phone or a news flash to know that I live in a city where the sun’s love fluctuates between 42 to 45 degrees. I just need to observe as to how long it takes for the beads of precipitation to form around my neck to go on and smoothen my shirt’s creases, moments after I step out. So not much of a surprise that Chennai has always been this hotbed for all forms of ice-cream activities.

So I was outside Cream Stone, one of the better places carrying out such activities. I had initially found their ice creams to lack that character. The character that elevated some ice creams from a flavour to a favour. But like in a mature relationship with an average looking person were one slowly starts noticing the other good stuff, with time their cold stone preparations started growing on me as an acquired taste. I felt like a composer inspiring an orchestra with his stick’s wield; each time I told them to add more nuts, mash up a chocolate or leave the ice cream stiff from the other side of the counter.

It was a calm Wednesday night, well past eleven. Not the time of the day you expect to stand behind a multitude of men out to get their dessert fix for the week. But there I was, one among two dozen patrons, most of whom— I’m sure —didn’t go out to vote in the last election to avoid crowds. Probably getting an ice cream is far more rewarding than a chief minister.

So after elbowing past a few hapless gentlemen, I managed to make eye contact with my friend behind the counter.
French vanilla and dark chocolate, right?“, he yells to be heard over the raucous.
As always.“, I smile back.

In the next few seconds, roasted almonds and cashews get thrown into the cold pyre of ice cream without their consent, before a Ferrero rocher can further contribute to the collective identity crisis. And like that my favourite dish is prepared the way I like it on a priority basis without even having to intervene once. I smile again at my friend and he waves back as I walk out with my sin on a waffle.

Coming to think, things weren’t this Jarvis and Stark like between us some time back. In fact on my first visit, I was this standard template asshole who expected to be treated like royalty for stepping into a new franchise and he was this new guy from another part of the country, learning his job and the shenanigans of a new demography on the go. So what happened next was what usually happens, when high handed consumerism comes face to face with lackluster soft skills of cheap labour- Shopfloor friction. I lectured his manager about how to run a shop. Threw a tantrum. Created a scene that almost would’ve prompted a demigod to intervene as a civilian, only to walk away with a half paid bill.
A few hours later, I felt embarrassed by my performance earlier, especially the soliloquy on “customer is God”. I especially felt bad for cornering the poor guy who had served me.

He’s my first or on a really unethical meal day my second ice cream maker in a week. But I’m like his 100th bickering customer since morning, who’s been waving an invoice copy at his face with entitlement. Think about your favourite ice cream flavours. Now think about them surrounding your work station. You can do a lot of things with them: scoop them, whip them up, refill them, adorn them, take in their flavor, conduct an inter-flavour marriage and ogle even; but not have them. How thankless should a life be where all you do is deal in myriad flavours of ice creams with exotic toppings for a day job, only to give the resultant work of art to a person who’s riding the high wave of capitalism. And still we go about wondering how the crime rate keeps going up.

I could’ve handled it so much more better.

The next time I went there, few months later, I was conscious. I didn’t want an encore. I went up to the same guy who I had picked on last time. Don’t know if it was the number of people he had attended to in the past few months or the fact that the composition of my facial hair had changed since then; but he somehow couldn’t place me as the charlatan from last time.

I started the transaction with a sheepish wide smile. He smiled back. Then I audited the flavours and made started making some small talk.

“Where are you from?”
“Guntoor sir”
“I thought you were from the north, given your Hindi.” 
“I was in Hyderabad for a few years. That’s where I picked it.”
“So have you seen Bahubali?”

A movie buff, I’ve often felt the way to a man’s heart is through inquiry about movies in the language he speaks.

“8 times already. Will watch again.”, his face lit up like Anupam Kher on a Newshour debate.
“I can totally relate to it.”

And like that we became acquainted over Telugu movies and Hyderabad landmarks. This was so much out of character, initiating conversation and all. But I was glad I did that. And it felt nice talking to him.

That tête-à-tête not only made my portion bigger that day, it went on to establish a bond between us. Be it tossing in a few nuts, suggesting a new flavour to try, giving preference during peak time; he started doing these little things to make my visit special ever since. And I continued to ask him about things other than the ice creams, like his shift timings, his girlfriend or the last movie he had watched.

All I had to do was just step a little, a tiny weenie beyond the line of “just-business” from where I could wipe the designation to see the person behind . From there I could see an anxious sweet guy who had left behind his friends and family, in the hope of a better life here. Not just another ice cream-sculpting- pixie who was supposed to attend to my cravings within a reasonable window. This shift in perspective definitely didn’t make me a bigger person, won’t flatter myself about that. If anything, a lesser asshole than I was. A better version of myself. The one I should’ve been since much before.

Patience and parents

Ask for Luxe cinemas on the second floor. I’m standing right next to it
I was giving directions to my dad, who was at the basement car park. I had reached the mall before him. We had come to shop clothes for the two of us, for my sister’s wedding. A loner, I’ve always liked to do most of the stuff alone including shopping. But this time dad insisted on both of us going together, as he trusted my taste and wanted me to assist him look sharp on the D-day. And I couldn’t say no.

Fifteen minutes had gone past and he was nowhere in my viewing perimeter. I had by then already checked out of two shops- hiding a few good shirts in not so noticeable parts of the racks to come back, making mental notes of the price range and condescending a few patrons who came out of the trial room for the want of a quick sport.

My instructions were quite water tight to be there under five minutes. Yet fifteen minutes later, he’s neither at Luxe or the second floor.What’s he up to? Has he turned dyslexic or what?

I was starting to get worked up. I called him again.

“Where are you pa?! I’m getting late to work.”
“I’m on the second floor.”
“Finally. Tell me the name of the shop next to you. I’ll come there.”
“Louis Philippe.”
“I’m coming.”

I walked in long strides towards the Louis Philippe showroom at the other end of the second floor, 150 calories away from where I was. En-route I was cursing the health of the next generation of every individual who was blocking my way, in pursuit of a selfie or stood there making unhurried small talk in the narrow corridor I was trying to weave a way through.
A few moments later, I could see dad appear on my viewing perimeter. Closer I got to him something strange started happening.I was starting to get engulfed in an endless supply of guilt. He was on the bridge connecting the two corridors. He appeared dazed by the hustle and bustle around him, if I were to go by the look on his face that resembled that of a child lost in a festival. Probably all of this was a making of my head and he was quite sorted. But somehow I felt disturbed. The sight of my father standing alone as people kept emerging from all directions around him, made me realize how vulnerable he had become in the world I was an adult. All the angry words I had told him over the years, came screaming back. For all my entitlement and claims of self awareness there I was as one of the worst people I knew.

Sorry raja. I didn’t hear you properly. There’s a theater there. Did you ask me to come  there?” ,sheepishly he asked pointing in the direction from where I had just come.

What do you think Luxe is pa?”, I smiled, embarrassed and guilty at once. “Let’s go, get you some clothes.”

He hadn’t heard me properly. What would he have done I wasn’t here. He neither seems to know the place or fashion. I should hang out with him more. He needs me more than he likes to admit. Fuck my “I’m a loner” rhetoric. And god, I need to be more patient with him.

Every time I’m on the cusp of an outburst with my dad, I hope god or sanity has the better of me. Each time I use a cuss word- that would sound ugly in a roadside brawl even, at him -the guilt sinks in from the very next second. But by then I’m already on a free fall, mind and mouth incongruent to each other.
Whatever the reason be, he’s lived my life’s duration twice and a couple of years more. Unlike me, he’s unconditionally loved me always. His heart is now a soft place, softened by the fatigue of a myriad experiences and his proximity to a second childhood. While mine’s still a hard place, hardened by overbearing confidence and distant memory of a first childhood. It’s my turn to be the bigger man.

When I can be patient in a traffic signal under the afternoon sun; patient with an eternally unreasonable boss at workplace and summon patience in a painfully boring movie just for an actor I like; I can bloody well afford to be patience with this man.
This man who was patient till I uttered my first words. Who patiently ran along side with me, till I started to riding my bicycle without his support. And patiently supported me till I could take care of myself.

I can never give him back enough. But I can definitely be patient with him and gracefully so.

 

 

Share auto love stories

I’m riding peacefully at one in the afternoon, notwithstanding the unwilling pan that my city has turned under the heat, nope wrath of the Sun. The vehicles- beyond, before and behind seemed to going smooth. All of us were hitting steady pace, happy about each others engines and mileage, when the SUV before me came to a screeching halt, in acknowledgement of a share auto that had pulled over to drop a passenger. Caught midway in our trajectory,  we were back to cursing each other’s parents for consummating decades before and the State Government for letting the Sun go unregulated. It’s not the first instance of a share auto screwing up the rhythm of a busy road, you see. They’re omnipresent across roads, insignificant till the point of collusion reminds us of the influence they wield. They’re apostles of karma on road, that administer sweet caution and danger in uneven pockets, to spice up “just-another” days on road.

Better looking then a rickshaw and too ugly to be an auto, they’re cursed anomalies- love children of manufacturing defect and passenger commerce.

Thinking of share-autos, this line from an Amitabh starrer springs to my mind in which he says the line begins from where he stands. Share autos are like that. No respect to traffic conventions. No regards to the syntax of driving. While a bus commuter’s journey ends at stops, the share auto stops where the commuter’s journey ends.

To understand the turmoil of caged hens that are carried in trucks, one needs to step into a share auto, at peak time. You’ll know how gas chambers were and where to look for Hitler’s spirit the next time. Its’ the most egalitarian of places, with people of different social standing, faith, size and shapes fitted exactly in homogenous spaces. So there are people in seats, people in leg space and people perched in places meant for spare tyres.
The icing on the cake is the front, where the driver sits. There are two men strategically placed sidewards on either side of him, that their formation resembles the three lions in our coins emerging from the same set of buttocks. Before population can be controlled in the country, it needs to be in these vehicles.

The price of privacy in an average Indian household

It’s pretty much like the conundrum of whether the chicken came first or the egg; the influence of movies on the society and the society’s influence on movies.It was in the mid nineties when, Sooraj Barjatya in North and Vikraman in the south spearheaded the renaissance of placing family before individual, making a virtue out of it. In the process killing privacy as a collateral necessity, making a vice out of it.You’ll see families in this movie walk in horizontal human chains- members on left and right extremes spilling out of every frame -even to modest places like blood donation camps, invading each other’s bed rooms spreading cutesy and going on picnics together. In this ecosystem, family was no mere crowd, but therapeutic. These movies talked about the trauma of being alone, establishing solitude as a comeuppance if someone dared to stray to the other side in the name of self discovery or love.

If you’re someone who had been raised on a firm diet of Tamil movies in the nineties, chances of having missed this spectacle called Suryavamsam are bleak. For the uninitiated it is one of the several evolutionary-anomaly Sarathkumar movies in which grandfather,father and son all look the same and get played by him. In a pivotal scene in the movie, the son’s kicked out of his house with his share of wealth for daring to get married to the love of his life. Notwithstanding the condescending nature of his overbearing dad, he somehow doesn’t part with the wealth to a farther haven.Because, it is hard after all, for an illiterate man pushing forty to choose between his hateful dad and an extended family that only acknowledges his existence while buying anti-fit khadicraft shirts on birthdays alone, on one side and a prosperous life with a loved one on the other. His rather prosperous stay apart from his colony sized family is made to look like a stint at Shawshank, throughout the movie’s running time.

The thing about these movies is that the individual always put himself, his love, aspirations behind his family’s and dissolved in its well being. One off movies like an Unnal Mudiyum Thambi were rare, where the son at ideological loggerheads with his father abandoned ship. Such movies appealed to a niche, because they didn’t pander to popular beliefs and were seen as isolated Utopian instances.

The resounding success of these kind of conservative- and regressive -family films reiterated the moral code of most families across the board. The elders identified with what was sold off as non negotiable virtues and the youngsters were naive to believe idiosyncrasies to be traditions. These were strictly above-the-belt movies that would sermonize on vanilla values that were digestible, inoffensive and non-debatable. Even when it came to couples, they never went beyond the tropes of innocent stalking, crass duets, wedding ceremony and the coy first night sequence when the shy camera would pan up at the prospect of below the belt activity about to ensue once the couple were done establishing chemistry over cold milk and ghee sweets. This attitude to over preach sentiments as values and push icky topics below the carpet has systematically percolated from one generation to another to create elders who didn’t respect the post puberty phase of a grown up. For instance If a teenager’s found whispering on landline, the parental instinct would be to launch into stealth mode. Pick the extension from another room and eavesdrop; for it might be a member from the opposite sex. Obviously the nefarious act had to be stopped. You can’t afford to be friends with him and joke about his flirting skills, right. It doesn’t fall under the Suryavamsam family code.

Another dreaded recurring occurrence in most Indian households must be the Sunday morning special visits. That’s when an out of town relative would come unannounced into our life like a pimple. But that or their amusingly large breakfast appetite wouldn’t even form the primary concern. Like a frog run over by a lorry, we would peacefully be sleeping in the safe confines of our bedroom in an awkward position when mom would come to wake us up to say, “hello”. Even before your brain can begin to process, a lecture about how showing courtesy to a guest is more important than precious life would begin. This would go on for several minutes. And it would only be a matter of time before her persistence would take the form of a loud scream, promise of a bad lunch or the most dangerous face expression before emotional blackmail. That’s the time when you would know that you’ve got no way out. Your eyes would detest. Your entire body would resent. But you’ll somehow drag yourself to only say that dreadful, “hello” and go back to bed in the hope of better karma.And just when you thought that the misery would be over with the thirty painful seconds, the relative incapable of understanding body language or silent “fuck offs”, would endeavor to stretch your tenure with one sensitive question after another. By the time he/ she gets done with you, you would start hearing the liver churning bile from within.

The sudden invasion of a dad or uncle into bedroom while generating handmade pleasure is one of the most disturbing things to happen to an average Indian teenager. What’s more disturbing than the ocular exchange between the two, would be the awkward silence that follows, as he contemplates euthanizing and the elder behaves like having walked into a satanic mating ritual. The sexual curiosity of the youth, his coming to terms with his own body that’s looking different with each passing day and his sudden mooning over girls his age is something the elders diligently push under the carpet, courtesy the  Suryavamsam family code.

We in this part of the world never really acknowledge the importance of an individual’s identity. His coming of age, his love, lust, failures, successes and how they shape him as a person. His dreams, aspiration, yearning to create a legacy of his own. His alone time. His spiritual growth. Notwithstanding all this, all that matters is that he has to be married at a certain age. And she has to be married as well by a certain age that often comes a few years before. The dreams can wait, goals can and aspirations…stop joking..are certainly not as important as creating a family at the right time.

Most elders operate with the sole purpose of getting an individual deeper and deeper into the institution of family, drifting him further and further away from himself. Not every flower needs to get into a bouquet, some can look beautiful by themselves. An individual’s privacy has to be respected. His personal space has to be acknowledged after a certain age. And more importantly his values have to be let the place to fashion themselves into something independent, not necessarily agreeable.

 

 

On the pride of a blogger

Who are we, the bloggers? The guys who scavenge for left over attention of the reading populace, after they’ve soaked their feet deep enough in works of conventional content creators- “accomplished” authors, columnists, journalists, photographers.

What does the blogging community mean at all in the literary demography? A roof above the head of the heterogeneous clique of greenhorns, wannabes, grumps, prudes, average and awful writers to bring a false sense of entitlement.

The answer for all the politically incorrect rhetoric, would be a resounding “no”, as it obviously comes from me. A “yes” would mean my spot under the sun as a writer was also a making of my delusion, depriving me of a place to continue to bask or an identity to wear as a badge of honour.

There are skills, that need pruning, curating, polishing, assessing and regulating from time to time by a professional body like- medicine, constructing, accounting and law to name a few. And there are skills like painting, singing, dancing and writing that don’t need such external recognition to pursue. The former set belongs in an inflexible square box with overseeing guardian angels from the fraternity. The practice of the same is an external process with an impact aimed at fixing, curing, building, solving or approving something. The outcomes could be in the form of a cured patient, an audited balance sheet, a seven storey structure or a jail sentence. As you can see the performance has a direct impact on the recipient and the society he belongs. Hence the practitioners need to be regulated from time to time. And hence the sheen around the qualification.

Now let’s take the latter pool which thrives on the fresh air outside the square box the former finds itself in. These are creative processes; disruptive, inventive, imaginative with no specific structure to adhere to or fall in line with. They’re primarily works of art. A reflection of the creators moods. A peak into his soul. An artifice to make his ideology palpable to the connoisseurs of the art form he pursues. The stakes are different here. A great piece of music could bring sleep or open tear ducts sealed for ages. A well made movie could advocate a school of thought or propagate a taboo through its mainstream sensibilities. A book could engage, evoke, instigate or just bore to death.  As can be seen, this stream unlike the former, doesn’t necessary leave behind a specific-tangible footprint, necessarily. The outcome or the experience is subjective changing from one subscriber to another depending on beliefs and predispositions.

Coming back to the blogsphere, I see it as a sort of fringe community that exists outside the conventionally recognized art-space. A rebel outfit of sorts.  While there could be an acclaimed Chetan Bhagat doling out one best seller after another, when not commentating on social issues; there could be a rank novice touching upon similar stuff albeit in a classier manner, to a smaller section in his personal blog. While a Vairamuthu might have Rahman to embellish his lyrics, an average joe would put a smile on a fewer lips with his limericks in his wordpress account. A photographer could be crowned by National Geographic, while a better photographer would have his work liked by 83 followers. Apples and oranges, right!

Who is to say, what is frivolous or what is not? The purists or the populists? Does an art form become better because it holds more eyeballs under sway? Or does an artist become smaller because he caters to a niche? Not necessarily. An underrated short filmmaker might be a master of screenplay, while a popular mainstream director could be churning hits after another without the slightest clue. But nevertheless, both are part of the same ecosystem.

We never know what influence our creations would hold on this world. A 220 character poem on childhood might bring a perspective to a parent, a best-seller or parenthood couldn’t. A political article could stir up some fury, if not disobedience; who is to decide we can’t be the final straw to break the camel’s back? . A technical blog could just prevent an ill informed buyer from sinking twenty grand on a mobile with glitches. A story is a story, whether it comes from Ruskin Bond or grandma.The prominence of these creators and their works might scale with time to become something bigger or not. But the work’s their legacy. An extension of them to the world. They could be a lone apple in an orange cart or an apple orchard. Who is to say if it’s enough or not?

On living among gods and religions

It all started in the woods, we were forest people. The first conversation. The first love. The first spittle to make mark it. First time the man got wooden and woman became wet there. The first consummation. The first pregnancy. The first birth. First instance of man manufacturing another life. The forests owned us along with the trees, animals, birds, rivers and rocks. And it was our habitat as much as we were a precarious part of its ecosystem. Precarious because the forests that loomed over us knew that the day wasn’t far off when we would begin to loom over them. And in time loom did we, shrinking them in tandem with our tribe’s endless extension of headcount and greed.

As far as life was in the precincts of the woods and dependent on its resources, we worshiped it. We were a gullible lot; content when it came to needs and sentimental about utility received. We saw the trees that bore fruits, provided shade and let their bodies be used to make our homes as gods. We saw the mountains and the forests that let us live in them as gods. We prayed to the rivers that quenched our thirst, kept our crops alive and transported us. We remained cordial with other creatures some of whom we hunted out of hunger, not for the want of a sport or cuisine curiosity.

Man’s worship of nature went on till the intelligence improved. When it did, worshiping trees, mountains and rivers seemed impersonal. Not just that it was almost defeating to bend down before manifestations who were at his mercy, didn’t talk or look like him. The alpha status of the human race had started to kick in, around the same time his civilization pangs began. He had learnt to demolish, destroy, usurp his way to a better quality of life, the need and definition of which kept changing with time. His peers in the jungle became minorities who were relegated to being- in the zoo; in the circus; in a cage; his pets; in labs; his agricultural machinery; the centre part of a burger, if not his Sunday meal.

As Utopian aspirations took over his soul with him progressing beyond the brink of civilization, the next stop was changing his god, nature. The old god, couldn’t continue to exist in his concrete homes. After centuries of plundering her, he had started to feel more powerful. Not only that, he started to feel that every other manifestation was at his mercy.He appointed himself to be the god’s deputy on earth, picking and choosing utility for other creatures. The milk giving cow was holy, he let it be alive and domesticated. The bull was strong, but tasty as well; he let it either toil in the fields or boil in the stove. The dog was faithful and protective, he let it live and watch.

But he needed someone mighty above him to god him. His god had to look like him, talk like him, possess supernatural prowess and be a much, much better person than himself. So with time, he started scouting for gods among his tribe. The virtuous, the powerful and the honourable among him were celebrated as gods. With time he spun their lifetimes into folklore, passed it onto the next generation. And the next. And the next. And it went on. His gods were growing in stature through his imagination and Chinese whispers.
He put this god in charge of everything beyond him and above his control. So if a meteor struck, it was god’s doing. If it rained during a famine, it was god’s doing. If he wanted or didn’t want something badly, he turned to god. If he got what he wanted, god gave him. And if he didn’t, god chose not to give him. His birth started with god and his death took him there. Life became peaceful with accountability for the unknown shifted to another entity. The suspense account in his balance sheet finally had a name.

With god appointed, the next necessity was to regulate, preserve and curate gods. For which he designed a way of life around them and called it religion. Religions were nothing but philosophies,prescriptions, dos and don’ts, procedures to tread along the path of a certain god. God might’ve formed the religion, but it is religion that put a roof over his head and a sanctum sanctorum around him. This difference from one god to another were the things they stood for differed, their ethnicity and as a result, their teachings.
The transition of religions is a curious one. Over time, religions became competitive institutions, breeding grounds for one-upmanship among their affiliates. Religions also started becoming cannibalistic creatures that would often feed on one another, poach followers from one other and even bringing chaos and destruction over peace and prosperity. How much the followers consumed beyond the surface level of hymns and austerities is another thing. From nuclear ecosystems of worship they grew in stature to become formidable scaffolding to political belief, to fashion the way countries were ruled.

With god and religion being appointed to point fingers at a direction above or within, the next endeavour was to get to the bottom of a happening or a consequence. Thus was born Karma, the spiritual excuse for coincidence. If hardwork didn’t bring results, it was one’s karma. If dumbness kept prosperity intact, it was a forefather’s karma. Karma became the reason for god’s discretion.

With every invention, scientific breakthrough made life definitely became easier. The effort out of processes gets drained. The satisfaction increases; the quality of output improves. Life becomes that simpler. If once there was a phone to talk, camera to take pictures, radio to listen to songs, theatre to watch movie, computers to automate work and compass to find directions; today’s smartphones are all of that rolled into one and more. Not only has the quality of communicating improved or the world shrunk in size, but utility of several gadgets are found in one place. But while breakthroughs no wonder make life simpler, they don’t necessarily make it happier. They’re materialistic influences that have an impact, largely external. Add an A/c to a car, journey becomes cooler. Add a stereo, you could hum a few songs along the way. Have a GPS, it spoon feeds with the navigation. And add to it a seat that reclines, your back is pampered. The purpose of the car doesn’t change. The destination doesn’t. Just that every breakthrough makes the journey that comfortable. That’s the thing about comfort it distracts you from yourself by the external experience.

That’s where the last, but strongest stop of the god-religion shebang comes, the internal personality- the soul. The concept of soul is that every individual is made of an inner manifestation that regulates his conscience. It neither has a beginning nor an end. Like water, it takes the shape and color of the person it is within, reflecting his state of mind. The soul needs to be at peace for the individual to be happy. Some agree. Some laugh. Some diss. But for the sake of this rather long piece not turning longer, let’s agree.
The thing about the soul is it doesn’t get influenced by sensory experiences that bring comfort, entertainment and desire fulfillment. So while biriyani might be sumptuous food ,the soul would remain hungry. A good article might be food for thought, but the soul would still crave.

Religions and gods address the soul. For all of them through their teachings and philosophies single-mindedly pay attention at enriching this entity. While we can debate the soul’s existence, we can’t but agree about how the core of every religion is directed towards the internal journey of an individual. Religions don’t address hunger, education, entertainment or travel, but talk about karma, good deeds, virtues and salvation instead through anecdotes and holy verses, that are largely abstract concepts. That’s why the eternal appeal of religion and faith that attend to the internal itches.

While there is a price to most commodities and awareness of the place to get them from, there’s neither a price for an abstract commodity like peace of mind leave alone a place to get them from. Given the fact that eight out of ten people are believers in a higher power or faith that gives them a ticket to it, the few who claim to know the whereabouts of god, salvation, karma automatically become monarchs in a seller’s market that can put a price it deems fit. Because as far as soul-searching goes, neither the pain or the antidote are defined; nor are the search and the eventual discovery.