Is Casteless India possible? Simply.

Modi could have done it overnight. Since Modi is the new father of India and his party has the majority in the Parliament, and since he has got the credibility, he simply could have done it.

RigVeda mentions Varna, not caste. Varna means social class, not caste. And even if it did?

Our society is already weary of caste. Especially the youth and those who are underprivileged simply because of the caste they were born into.

Think of this!
We have classification based on economic backgrounds. For example, we have blue and white collar jobs. In most corporate offices, while eating, those in uniforms do not share the same space as those not in uniforms.
So now the perils of capitalism? Only man could have thought of classifying himself.

I’m brave beginnings, easy endings

I’m improbable shots in the wind, unlikely gamble on the earth, lost tears in the sea.
I’m often found in the dust you pat off your back, the worries you ward yourself from, the sweat you wash off your face.
I’m the ineffable depression, the unexplained mood swing, the unthinkable cause.
I quietly sob during the day, wander groggily in the night, stay numb in the twilight.
I’m the fatigue of a hard day, the simplicity of a bad day, the inadequacies of a good day.
I’m hard stones on a good path, pain in a kid’s eyes, smile on wretched lips.
I’m brave beginnings, easy endings.

-Himani

These words, written in January, 2014, is still make my favourite poem describing how I felt torn between my creative quests and the world. How many times have some of us felt like we were a centre of radiant anomalies!

If you mostly feel you don’t fit, it is likely that you don’t.
So take a chance. And don’t fit.
And if you have that gush of wind in your gut, you will create your own space. As for others, they have rented their space in the world.

On interpretation

My habit is to blog regularly for a week or so and then not blog for months.

My next blog will be On Interpretation. This is severely against my current heroine Susan Sontag’s views, who stood against interpretation of art.

I am against interviews, though. Against the rush to interpret. This, however, is what I am practicing with full hypocrisy because whose loss is it after all to judge in some gross minutes what you cannot in months or years? Nobody’s. Those who believe that there is loss must remember that it is a shared loss, a fleeting loss, a temporary loss and a loss that is redeemed sometime later or never.

The best thing is that the one who loses never knows this loss happened.

If I must be free…

If I want to be free, I must be free of every story.

I must be free of the needs of religion, money, labels, success, failure, morality and meaning.

I must rethink all of the above, and if the result is negative, which my guess is it will be, I must free myself of each idea and recreate my own if need be. (If I really need these principles to live by.)

Does that mean one can never be free while living a typical life?

One can be. One does not decidedly be free. There comes a time when one has no other option but to reject and rethink philosophy of life.

Should you conceal your scar?

I almost do not blog because I believe it is a waste of my time. I did not know that I had readers. I did not know that someone would care to read (despite having had people coming to ask why there has been no new blog of late.) I don’t even know some of them personally.

I have been writing in private and not rambling here as if I was an overtly serious young woman. Writing in private has given me the liberty to edit, strike out, rewrite. A chance to improve the same work till it meets the standards I have set for it.

There may be no other blog in the next few months or more or even more. I am writing this one because I suddenly want to, and someone out there might feel good after reading this.

In the process of working on myself, improving on the subject that I am, I am constantly under my own observation and, honestly, I break at times, that is, when I cannot bend well enough.

My great observation is that I could never convince myself to quit. My stance only grows stronger with every passing storm. It will be pretentious to say that it is my own hard work. Truth is that it is a gift. Precisely a gift to stand up every time I have been kicked and laid to cry. (Noticed this first when I was 12, as far as i remember) I have never cried because I have been busy fighting. Isn’t this enough gumption?

The entire fight does not involve any pretentious activity. It does not involve seeking approval in any way.

Read this a few days ago:

It is better to be hated for who you are than to be loved for who you are not.

Nothing could have been more accurate.

Went through this recently:

Should I conceal my scars? I asked myself.

No. Never. Pat came the reply.

Here is the story behind it:

I was born to parents who discouraged the importance given to vanity. My father discouraged my mother from even getting her eyebrows shaped. When we were children, he discouraged us from painting our nails, powder-puffing our faces. His reaction to us tending to our bodies was, at times, frustrating, and, almost always annoying, to the extent that applying pressed powder to my face made me uncomfortable in my skin. Now that I look back, I see that he had been launching a kind of revolution against the artificiality of grooming.

As I grew up, my mother insisted upon never to put so much importance on outward appearance that it enslaves you, never to try to look appealing. I learned to love the beauty of the pores of skin, the boldness, not the shyness, of a small pink acne on the left cheek. This goes for entire body. Anything worn to meet the acceptable standards laid by nobody-knows-who makes me grit my teeth like I have been lied to.

I learnt that cure is for a disease not for nature.

I once wanted to gift my mother a Swedish body massage and her reason for not obliging was that she does not want to indulge in such a habit that makes others serve your body for money. I had once had a friend who believed that he did not think that he ‘deserved’ a massage from anyone. What a thought! Humility. These were the thoughts that dwelled in me like they were part of my body. I have lived with this rich idea of not giving a damn to the definitions of beauty others have. How, then, can I ever fall into this trap of seeking others’ approval for restoring my self-worth?
I have grown to believe that a single definition of beauty is dangerous. Yet again, my resolve to have my own definitions has stood the test of time.

I have spent my entire life living to set an example of being unapologetically me. Even if I have wanted something badly, I have, by nature, not given up to the blasphemous and undue demands of it. I have decided not to pay a price so huge that it questions my stance on the principles I have lived by.

I am sure this principle knows no method of bowing down.

To constantly try to look how I actually look and defy the definition of perfection (because perfection is a myth) is for me a fight against my own insecurities. A worthy fight. The belief in my beauty is so strong that it fails to move.

The answers to all questions remain the same.

Whatever price I pay in the pursuit of being unapologetically me, trust me, is never big enough.

All those things and people that cripple your self-confidence by helping you receive acceptance belong to the trash bin.

P.S. My views are personal. They have helped me survive the insanity of the world. Also, treating them as prescription won’t harm.

I do not, however, mean to demean those who subscribe to the fanaticism of (boring) conventional beauty.