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Born To Die

Desire to live long has agitated human heart for ever. Our myths are built around the immortality of gods in heaven and the transience of life on earth. In their longing for an unending life our ancestors adorned their gods with preposterous life spans. A day in Brahma’s life, Kalpa, comprised 4.32 billion earth-years. This was followed by a night of similar length, Pralaya. Humans are the only animals aware of their mortality. By being aware I mean, we, unlike any other animal, can vividly imagine a future where we would not be around. To preserve life is an instinct of every living organism. But none can imagine the scenario of their own demise. Prospection, an ability to look into the future world, is a unique human attribute. The prospect of death, magnificently illustrated by our foresight, is inconceivably disturbing. Longing to live for ever is born of this fear. Death is negation of living. It is the irrevocable end of everything that a life represented – a companion, a spo...
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The Quiet American, Innocence at large

Cultures across the world find innocence an endearing aspect of personality. This is innocence in its meaning of ‘freedom from guile or cunning,’ a synonym for simplicity. But Innocence is also a euphemism for foolish naivety.   Graham Greene says in his 1956 novel The Quiet American  that in life one needs to be as much wary of innocence as of duplicity. I read the book more than two decades ago. I found in the character of the protagonist, a most skillful portrait of innocence ever drawn in literature. Over the years, details of the plot vanished from memory, but the poignance, the humour, and the tragedy of Alden Pyle remained and rose occasionally, whenever I came across similar themes in my readings. I read the book again, a few days back. My opinion that this is one of Greene’s finest was reaffirmed. Greene was war-correspondent of The Times , based in Vietnam in 1951-1954. He drew extensively on his experiences to lend verisimilitude to his story. The 1956 novel, ...
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Graveyards of Mind

Words lie inert on the pages of a book. Process of reading breathes life into them – and the inanimate squiggle of ink on paper wakes up with vigour. Sensibilities and idiosyncrasies of a reader endow the same book with various lives in the minds of different readers. I am often astounded to discover that books which moved me to peaks of ecstasy or depths of gloom, have fallen off the conscience of other readers like water off a duck’s back. Way of looking at the world is shaped by our nature. No two natures are alike. Hence, a book cannot evoke mirror worlds in different minds. Reading a book is an experience like all else in life. Except that it is intensely personal, often involves heightened emotions and feelings, and changes the reader a little, although, only occasionally, and perhaps transiently. Philosophers and physicists do not accord time a prime role in a material world, but the world unfolds in our consciousness on a melody set by time. We experience life in its in...
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Kerala Literature Festival: A book-fiend’s manna

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Reading is a solitary pursuit. It thrives in seclusion. For decades, books have filled my solitude with boundless joys as I sought both - books and solitude - with a perseverance an addict reserves for his fix. Ironically, this lonely indulgence also seeks like-minded people to share the pleasures of the written word, to hear contrary opinions, to be told subtle interpretations that escaped one, and to learn about the books one has not come across. Alas, such company is difficult to come by. This utter deprivation is often suffocating. Literature festivals have become popular in India for some years now. A decade ago, one heard only of the Jaipur Literature Festival, and that too sporadically. Now, there is one in almost every state. Come winter and there is a buzz among book-lovers, which I witness on the media, as one city after another announces its show. These gatherings seemed the right recipe to stimulate, nurture, and sate my craving for the book-talk that I sought in vain, ar...
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A Passion Born

I was posted at a small hospital in NCR. Work in operation theatre was moderate, just sufficient for a single anaesthetist. Colleagues were pleasant. Surgeon was always full of interesting, amusing, and intelligent conversation. My daughter was studying for a course of her choice in a college of Delhi University and visited us every fortnight. My son, never too keen in academics, appeared to like the coaching he was taking for IIT entrance. Archana had, for the first time in her career, secured a well-paying job in a NOIDA hospital. Station was famous for its golf course: a verdant stretch of rolling turf, with rows of trees guarding its distant boundaries. It lay just across our house. I walked its perimeter in the evenings; three rounds fed my diet of nine kilometers. Large ground surrounded our house where we planted a variety of flowers. In winters I read books here, lazing on a reclining chair, contemplating the good turn my life seemed to be traversing then. Nearness to Air...
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Mamiji

I received her in the cartel of relatives that followed Archana, my wife, into my life. She was the wife of Archana’s maternal uncle. I met Archana first, at her place. We sat in a room lined by tall book-cases. From their spines, books appeared old, many were leather-bound. Atmosphere was stiff. None appeared comfortable to make light conversation. Stilted inane talk filled the room and made the air heavy.   Mamiji salvaged the situation. She spoke to me with a candour that belied the fact that we were meeting for the first time. She asked me direct questions about my job. She wanted to know how Archana, who was then pursuing post-graduate degree in Pathology, would practice her profession in Air Force where I had been commissioned a few months back. There was not a trace of hesitation in her voice, but neither did she sound nosy. She keenly listened to my answers. I instantly warmed up to this elderly lady. Those days Mamiji lived in an old house in Bengali Market in Central ...
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