The Brave Pedestrian

Hanuman, like Spiderman, is an imaginary superhero. The people who imagined and wrote the Hanuman stories -- as part of a larger story called Ramayana -- are ancient people, revered as sages. They lived in India many millennia ago. The sages wrote these imaginary stories for the ethical upliftment and entertainment of the illiterate masses, and filled these stories with morals. Through such stories, many generations of sages improved the quality of life of many, many generations of Indians, and helped to regulate society. Through such stories, they propagated rules for proper living, and also gave people something to believe in. But that does not change the fact that Hanuman is an imaginary superhero. He did not exist at any point of human history, and he does not exist today. Hanuman -- and the whole pantheon of superheroes, demigods, gods, demons and super-villains -- are imaginary. Time to stop being senti about our dhoti-wearing gods and grow up. Ancient do...

A certain prophet who existed 1500 years ago is said to have decreed that women should completely cover their bodies and faces in a largely shapeless, dull-coloured garment and veil. Why? To render them unattractive to males… To prevent males from getting the slightest glimpse of their femininity… To sanitize their interaction with males and to render their communication sexless, genderless. I wonder what the good prophet (peace be upon him) would have to say if he could see that 1500 years later, some men and women wouldn't even see one another, and communicate facelessly, voicelessly and even namelessly with only alphabets on a glass or plastic screen. "Wonderful! The faces and voices of both men and women are completely veiled! Praise the Lord!" he might have said in an ecstacy. And then some worldly soul would have gently and painstakingly introduced the immortal prophet to the ways of the blogosphere, chatspace, email, Facebook... "Well, I sense t...

There was a time, about 7 years ago, when my blogger nickname was Friendly Ghost or FG. And just to debunk the myth that I am always a serious-minded person, I want to repost this blog about a chat that I had with a bubbly blogger-buddy whose nickname was Saakshee. March 12, 2007: Those of you who are privileged to know the quirky Saakshee know that she's looking for e-pals now. There ain't nobody on this iLand who has a cyber-libido like her, and who has as large an appetite for cyber-flirting as she does. But here's some breaking news: until Friday, it seemed as though she was devoutly an atheist who turned up her nose at the Hallowed Spirit. But one found that she falls down most ardently before Him. Indeed, she wishes to embrace Him with a passion. How did a ghost make this startling discovery? While chatting with her of course! Read on: FG: So you don’t wanna talk serious tomorrow? Saakshee: NO FG: You wanna flirt as usual? Saakshee: YES FG: okeedokee… Sa...

My neglected Mother who is largely unworshipped, You gave me dreams and daydreams Of being your footstool when I was tiny. I have not forgotten the ecstacy of those dreams. Mother, decades ago, I pledged my right hand to you And gave only my left to your rival. Bless me then to fulfil this oath. Let her be at arms length May I never prostrate before her. May I never pray to her whom the world worships. I beg you, Mother Don’t curse me by casting me away Or lose me by letting me drift. Or let me be one whom the world swayed. Don’t let me wake up one morning, Mother, And discover that somewhere along the way, I mortgaged myself in bits and pieces To the bitch goddess of wealth. Bless me that I may watch the dance of this goddess With amusement befitting your child, your plaything. When she turns her face to me, let me not be charmed. When she turns her back to me, let me not be anxious. When it looks like she has gone, let my heart not sink. When it ...

PRAYER – I Softly, softly He enters my heart Wearing masks I can never recognize. In my innermost recesses, He cuts me, leaves me bleeding. Gently, gently He wounds me, And in my bleeding, he rejoices. Mere mehboob, mere dost My beloved, my friend… Silently he sits with me And shares my sorrow, my grief And through his own tears, smiles. His smile makes me forget my tears. He laughs with me, He laughs at me, Sometimes the distinction blurs And frankly, I don’t care. I gaze at his radiant face And pray that he never stops laughing. (If he does, I shall gladly play the fool Let him laugh at me.) But I see him raise his hands To secretly wipe his eyes. And I seize his hands Because his salty tears are mine Mine by right to kiss away and to drink. PRAYER – II Mere mehboob, mere dost, mere aaka You struggle to express your love And then you struggle to conceal it. I have felt your wounding touch. My be...

Love, they say, conquers all… Does it? Does it, my friend? Does it? Then let love find a way! The world stares me in the eye and laughs, and mocks. Love is a wisp of grass, it says. It dries in the sun, It rots in the rain, It withstands nothing, It withers in pain. What love do you speak of? The world asks with a laugh. My brave arguments die in my throat. I lay down my arms.