On Faith

I've tried to avoid posting things that are too obviously autobiographical, though most of these pieces are oblique references to people and events in my life. This piece will be less veiled, but perhaps no clearer than the others: my thoughts on the matter at hand are far from clear. In this post I turn to (or away from) faith.

I started to think about my faith seriously, like many others, during college. I decided that, if I was to engage my faith in any relevant manner, that I'd best reconcile it with the imperatives of rational, reasoned thought. Once that stage was over, I could move on, I figured. I didn't pick this process arbitrarily. My life and identity have, for as long as I can remember, been intertwined with the church. My grandfather is a minster. My father is also a minister who spent most of his adult life teaching History of Christianity at the United Theological College in Bangalore, where I grew up surrounded by young men and women who wanted to be ministers. No less than 3 uncles, 1 cousin, and 1 grand-uncle are ministers. In some ways, the priesthood is the family business.

But as I grew older, I soon became aware that not only had the church defined a large part of my identity, it had circumscribe my own mental awareness of the church as an institution, and Christianity as a worldview. I knew no other way of approaching the divine. I was so steeped in the church, that 'rethinking' it could only follow thinking about it seriously and critically. This realisation coincided with my slow disillusionment with the church, youth meetings, services, liturgies, the Lord's Prayer, Vacation Bible School, and bible quizzes. I soon attended church less and less, and the 'Evangelical' turn my youth group had taken only made it easier for me to mentally and emotionally disconnect from the church.

This period was very refreshing to me. The pleasure of not having to wake up for Sunday service was coupled with the realisation that, for the first time, I had found some spiritual breathing room. The more I disconnected from the church, the more I was able to think about my faith. Thus, I came to the decision that I could flex the muscles of my reason within the realm of faith. Till then, faith had merely sulked in the back of my head as an entity that was vast in its scope and importance, yet something I was only dimly aware of. In this period, I started to drag my faith out from the shadows into the harsh light of my intellect. The closest analogy I can think of is the scene in The Two Towers where Gandalf reveals Grima Wormtongue to be the snivelling schemer he truly I was. I resented my faith, much like Gandalf did Grima. I resented the circumstances of birth, societal pressures, and plain dumb acceptance that had led me to this state. After all, I wouldn't accept someone's political views without some reasonable justification, why should my faith escape scrutiny? The systems of knowledge that I had been brought up to know, especially the sciences, would scoff at the notion of Newton following his Laws of Motion with the following proof:
Trust me, it's true. God told me so.

It seemed to me that all through my Christianity-soaked childhood, I had lapped up many such proofs for the elements of my faith: praying to an unfeeling, unresponsive ether; thinking about a heaven that included me, and excluded my Muslim best friend; standing up during 'testimony' and spouting how good it had been now that I had 'accepted Jesus Christ as my personal saviour.' Why should I pray, go to heaven, or accept a saviour? I began asking these things, and the answer was, "Trust me, it's true. God told me so." When I asked people who knew better about the rational basis for this faith that they held so dearly, they quoted the Bible. The circularity was both troubling and amusing to me. What's the use of quoting the Word of God to justify God?

And so I now come to the present day; I am agnostic. There. I said it. To clarify, I hold this position because it's inherently impossible to prove the non-existence of God. It's just as indefensible to say "There is no God." as "There is a God." Instead, I am what others have called a 'tooth fairy agnostic.' I think there's as much a chance of God existing as the tooth fairy existing. I am not the kind of agnostic that believes that some amorphous being exists that can account for this world's existence, however far removed from the Judeo-Christian god that entity may be.

Also, this is not a rejection of my Christian heritage, which has had many positive outcomes, but no more than a Muslim, Hindu, or atheistic heritage could have provided. I can no more reject this heritage than I can reject being an Indian, a Malayalee, or a man. Instead, this a rejection of a system of belief that posits as its basis an essentially unknowable, non-falsifiable divine.

A friend of mine commented that it's a difficult time to be a believer nowadays with all the subtle and overt scorn for religion and people of faith. That may be so, but I come from a different realm of difficulty. I was born into a desert of indoctrination that has asked me to take so many things on faith, and has proved nothing to me. Yet it threatens the apostate with hellfire. If that's not scary, I don't know what is. I once saw a TV special about a Methodist who had become an atheist. He described the moment of his rejection of faith as a moment of freedom and liberation. (Interestingly, that sounds like so many people who have 'accepted a personal saviour.') I don't feel the same freedom. My rejection of faith is, perhaps, more furtive. The furtiveness does not stem from uncertainty about my position, but is instead the shadow of the faith I leave behind. That shadow whispers in the background the words of John 3: 18 "Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe has already been condemned, because he has not believed in the name of God's unique Son." I am comforted by the fact that, like so much of my past faith, that's just plain illogical. I feared its repercussions, but we all get over the monsters under our beds sooner or later.

Su Do Nym

They had known it all along; the moment was fated to come. And come it did. The month of October ushered in a toothless, long-limbed wonder. All parts (and spares) in good working order. Thank god for the spares, his mother thought. There must have been some deep wisdom in deity for it to decree, not one, but two kidneys. If one failed there was the other, ready to take on the duty of purging piss with doubled vigour. If both failed, then we can always get him a transplant. After all, what’s one kidney from another? But the name sticks forever, his father thought. If the boy’s name was in bad shape, he would be stuck with it forever. Unlike a kidney, if he changed his name at the age of eighteen, his high school friends would say, weren’t you called Abhimanyu in school?

Abhimanyu? What type of name is that? she asked. Her boy wasn’t going to have a vile, common name like that. Her son would be named for enigma, for beauty, and for victory. Enigma Shenigma! his father said. He’ll have a good Indian name, one that honours his family. After all, he is our firstborn. My firstborn’s fate will not be decided by your whimsy. Whimsy? She had dreamt all her life of naming her son after someone great. Maybe for Milan Kundera. Maybe for Alexander the Great. Something lofty, beyond the parochialism of her small-town life. Milan!? That’s a bloody girl’s name. Or a city.

But, as in all things, they managed to make a deal. A compromise acceptable to all concerned parties. They had decided upon a good name, the best kind of name, with tradition and spice, and everything nice: Avijit Arthur Michael.

*Note: any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

The Onus

The Onus is on us, my dear
To wring the wretchedness,
Even a Penny's worth,
from this grotesque distance
between us.

Even a Page from you
Would do.

Puhltiks

I have endeavoured to keep this blog largely free of political content, but I feel compelled to break with 'tradition.' Let's keep it simple: if you vote in any US state, I urge you to vote for Barack Obama.

Subjectless poetry
Is objectionable.

Notes in Repentance

Fourteen lines give me just enough time
To dumb the guttural ring in your ears
Of the slow edge of rage that sliced in the cold
In the hope that it would freeze out my fears.
For our tropical love and monsoon sojourn
Have no time for desert despair
Nor do temperate climes suffer the cold
And the wail of glacier care.
But I stare at the clock, and revise my prelude
Reams may never suffice
For words have a way of blowing hot air
That simply will not melt the ice.
As words, tides and thoughts recede
I promise to make amends in deed.

My Friend(s)

Is a slow evening fire, religious during a dawn crisis
Sharp as half a rock, solid and Strange as a whole one
Is a base for his own unrequited love, and requited lust
Sipping from a cup, and mulling over the chronological order of things
Is a headstrong royal, loving and unrepentant
Steely-eyed, iron-willed
Is the lighter vein, jocular
And the master of the subcultural insider
Is an open ear, and soothing tongue
Though golden, never quite mine enough
Is the one I almost lost,
And through tears and anger, found again
Is the two for one
Spiritual soundingboards and spectators to skepticism
Is the stealer of hearts, for good or bad
And the pulse of pragmatism
Is an anomalous addition, she’ll agree
The guiltless subject, of guilty poetry

A Hasty Apology

Since you, my dear
Are more than a friend
It’s only right
That I make amends.
I forgot to call
There’s no defense.
It’s a day that deserves
Remembrance.
But keep in mind
As the years advance
Like rolling marbles
So does the chance
Of senility,
Greater abdominal girth,
And me forgetting
Your date of birth.
But I beg you ma’am
Hate me not!
How can I be blamed
When Orkut forgot?

A momentary lapse of reason...

That binds a life to a life.

Keeping Score

I'm no Newton.
This is how I count:
Pinky to lifeline
Ring beside
Middle to mole
And index hides
Beneath the cover of my thumb.
That's five.

And as I finger through the pages
Of this rambling log
And I count them just so
One...two..
The tally is honest
And the calculus true
Lately, I've written the most verse
For you.

Healing

There were rumors spreading from the centre of town. Of course, it was from the centre. The origin was of no consequence, but the content boasted great things. Deadly things. Things that deserved respect, fear, loathing. She could, by letting the blood out of greedy monkeys, cure maladies of the liver brought on by too much drink. By sucking at wounds, she could cure the breath of frogs. And most unbelievable of all, with a soft word spoken, she could cure the symptoms of love. But it happened, as people walked through the jungle to meet her, braving flies and dragonflies the size of dogs, that she could not cure maladies of the liver; neither could she cure the breath of frogs. She could only cure the symptoms of love. With dark vials of pungent liquid and incantations of eternity she purged the specters of youth, foolishness, and humanity. But only those who dared come.

“Healing needs faith. God only knows what faith needs, for I know not.”

But those who had faith and heartache came. Those like me, who only had heartache, and who found their faith floundering with each tropical step: we failed.

Picture Painting

If the words of silence I deny
Then a picture will tell me
When to say goodbye.

Bangalore Traffic: An Economic Model

This is an attempt to recast the state of Bangalore’s traffic, oft maligned for its apparent state of anarchy, in the light of a more organized overarching structure guided by empirically observable principles. While the functioning of its various components may seem arbitrary and chaotic, I propose that in fact, Bangalore’s traffic represents the purest capitalistic system in the known world.

Firstly, as in any capitalistic system, the basis of Bangalore’s traffic and its state of obdurate existence in the face of an almost self-destructive façade has to do with the dynamic interaction of a group of properly functioning individual vehicular units. The comparison goes further, in that it is imperative that each of these units function with the purest intention of self-gain. In such a system, not only are the needs of each unit met, but the welfare of each unit also is directly dependant on the selfishness of its comrade-on-wheels. To exemplify, only if my comrade seeks, in dire recklessness, to cut off oncoming traffic am I able to proceed towards my destination through the path he has cleared by his brash egomania. He has no particular affection for me or mine, but his actions reflect unbidden altruism and symbiosis.

Secondly, as in most market economies, any attempt at governmental regulation is often detrimental to the welfare of all parties concerned. Despite their heroism, no Bangalore Traffic Police official has ever done anything more by directing traffic flow than succeed in creating greater chaos than when he or she arrived.

Finally, this traffic system follows a system of social justice that most capitalist economies are unable to create in their hunger for greater profit. This trait does not run counter to the capitalist ideal, but in fact embodies its very nature. In Bangalore’s system, there is a true sense of vehicular equality as each unit is afforded no more power than its comrade. Unlike the imperfect manifestations of the capitalist system we see elsewhere in which units join together in leviathan-like ‘conglomerates’, Bangalore’s units follow Chandy’s Law of Positional Preeminence, which states that

All vehicular units, regardless of spatial influence, must acquiesce and duly react to the choices of the vehicular unit to its anterior.

A less eloquent but equally insightful corollary to the law formulated by AbhiBass Koffee runs

The f***er behind him must sit and be happy that he’s in front of someone else.

Further insights, laws and criticisms are welcome.

Slip Slidin' Away

A friend of mine commented:

"The world is smaller because people move so far away."

The Lotus One

She deserves
At least a line or three.

What's the use, really,
Of continental splotches
That mark her conquest
Of my nape?
They are eloquent
But sorely transient
Testament to her charms,
And my capitulation.
Moreover, they make no mention
Of my willingness in the wake
Of her Yesterday-waft,
Today-talk
And Tomorrow-we'll-see.

What we need are lines to speak
In smooth stone
Of how her generous words
Tread on each others' laces
Like schoolchildreninahurry.
And her giving giggles
Echo in their wake.

But what she needs
Is a quiet moment
To shampoo out her cares
And condition the clutter from her hair.

The wise man walked up to me today and asked, "Where has the fire gone?"

Maladies of a Historian's Son

There’s a quiet knock on the door
It must be my regrets come to call
On me. Drink some tea.
Spill some crumbs.
Irk me.
They said they'd arrive at eight.

My family are the next to arrive.
The ones I love too close
They are. Like scars.
The ones I really like,
Too far.
My family is rarely late.

And they proceed to get well acquainted.
Helping each other. Passing the buscuits.
As they enumerate my flaws
In the small pauses between their pointing fingers.

I diligently archive their lists
For future reference.

I got...

...a new strat! NARF!

Radio Gargle

New stuff (including an article by me and the esteemed Jugular Bean too, incidentally) on the revamped Split Magazine. Check out the truly cool Split Radio, spinning your favourite [sic] Indian Rock tunes.

Oh, and by the way, I saw Bill Clinton today. Yup, Ye Old William. Ask me how 'twas.

Passages in Imperfection - I

Perhaps there was some deep sadness in their life. A marriage that writhed and seared like a wound of the diabetic. Destined to fester, but never quite devouring the flesh that marks its borders, held together against the ravages of infection by the ancient mechanics of propriety and passing memories of long-deceased passion. Perhaps he fell. She forgave. She sunk. He saved. They may have laboured in the delusions brought on by some Sisyphus cycle of combined struggles with each other, finding fulfillment in the daily task of doling out hate in tiny measures, treading everyday on their growing mountain of regret.