Melancholic Ecstasy - Redux

The sun set on my plains several years back. The eyes that once opened me to the light and dark, the high and low, the black and white and blue and yellow and red of everything, and everyone around me; they now stand clouded and shut - muted to a world that seems to be growing more and more vibrant by the day.

I'm not sure when this darkness sprang up from behind me; it couldn't have been too abrupt a transition, even though it seemed just so to the self that had perhaps been too engrossed on the peripherals. I think I noticed this change in my life only a few aeons back, and since then the question of what exactly led to that which led to the sun getting plugged out from my universe has haunted every single particle of my being.

Ever since yesterday however, there has been a change in the air around; the touch of that omnipresent emptiness has changed from one of indifference and cold detachment bordering on hostility, to one that is considerably more gentle, more involved, and quite simply closer to that very intangible yet potent conception of 'life'. It was no wonder then, that the eye albeit still closed, experienced something strongly reminiscent of the times of yore. Detecting such a flurry of activity in its environs, it didn't take the mind too long to stimulate itself into activity at levels that had long seemed extinct. Simulations began to run concurrently in the central imaging repository as part of attempts to guess the specific causal force behind all the excitement. Possibilities ranged from the fluttering wings of a butterfly, to the auralities emanating from a distant cuckoo bird, to a drop of water from the heavens, falling on the parched soul.
The next several hours were spent in this process, wherein logical probes into one's past experiences soon graduated to a complete and vivid recollection and reliving of the myriad colours that had punctuated one's life all those ages back.

And then, in the darkest hour of the night, I became suddenly aware of the flight of fancy that I was in the midst of; I saw the mirage that had been at the root of this whole trip all along; I felt, after what seemed like the entire duration of one's childhood, the very real sense of futility, meaningless and insignificance flowing in me, through me, and in everything all around me. Just for a second, I felt the emptiness spreading deep within me; it was a hollowing out like never before, for it was after all one that followed a ray of seemingly untouchable light, and love.

But just then, I noticed her standing behind me.
She was a muse that the world dared not touch; a beauty that had been among the most forlorn creations under the thousand suns above. Looking upon her, I thought I caught a fleeting upward glance, and then a hesitant backward step, as if suddenly aware of my awareness of her presence; a presence that had been there before we were, before I was, and would remain hereafter onwards and forever, as with all things celestial and pure.

Cognizant now of a soul more practised in the fine art of solitude than the most devout of sages, I knew this long and blinding journey had been for a reason. The elements stood still as did time.
And within the next blink of that cosmic eye, I had made her mine, and she had captured me for all of eternity.

To the world she may be the most sorrowful of embodiments; the companion on journeys always avoided. And I knew the doubts that could arise: of this companionship being an escape, a desperate attempt at clinging on to the last remaining semblance of meaning and purpose. But in that moment, I also knew that none of that mattered.
For to the world she might be the dark and disfiguring melancholia, but to me, in my hands, as I immerse myself in her being, she is my melancholic ecstasy.

Is this real?
But then again, what is?

Night and Day

How wonderful that night should fall
On a day that still has much to say
Like a mother tucking in her child
Still wont for song & dance & play

The stars up above they shine
Silent actors in the night's tale
And even if the child does whine
It knows its ships are set to sail

These voyages prepare the self
For mornings await the darkest ray
How wonderful that night should fall
On a day that still has much to say

FB and its ilk of whore bazaars

Pre-Scriptum: Before any daggers come out against this hapless observer and documenter on the title above, please note the following statement made by one of the pillars of one’s batch, back in the neck of the woods one calls one’s own:

“This world is made up of 2 kinds of people; there are those who do, and those who manage – whores and pimps.”

(Respects PP!)

At the level of abstraction defined by the above statement, is where the title resides. Thank you, now you may please disarm and proceed.

--

This relates to the massively pervasive phenomenon that is FB, and other social networking tools today.

The fundamental question that leads me to this thought train, is just why we do what we do on all such forums. The answer, one must realize, is comprised of several intricate layers, drawing equally from the depths of human insecurities, desires, monies and its ilk.. Indeed a gamut that is yet to be fully discovered, to be fairly objective.

So, what is it that drives us every single day, to log into gtalk, and think of a funny sounding status message; to open facebook and traverse page after page looking for opportunities to comment, participate and involve ourselves in an ocean of hyperactive insignificance?

The following would be my guesses on just what comprises that causal/correlated factor set:

1. The constant need to signal to the outside world, and potential mates in particular, the eligibility of the self for present and future consideration: While this may sound evolutionarily clichéd, this very certainly does seem to be the most obvious of the various reasons and influencing factors. Of course, one could also argue that this angle forms the core motivation behind everything we do, from education to career development, to collecting symbols of material acclaim; it isn’t too convoluted a path that links all of these to the need to procreate, and procreate well. I shall get back to this point in a while, or maybe I won’t; let’s see.

2. The online medium serving as a proxy that facilitates the process of satisfying the innate need for affiliation, and related derivatives such as acceptance and affection: With lives rapidly growing quicker paced than ever before, emotions are vying for space with their fast-food generation cousins. That the needs in man have not changed even in a drastically changed era, means the channels explored in the pursuit of said needs have evolved, with interesting consequences on his relations and interactions with his surroundings.

3. An idea elaborated upon by Ta-Nehisi Coates, and forwarded by Amit Varma, stating the overpowering fear of being left alone with oneself; of facing “the terror of (one’s) own singular thoughts”, as being one of the core motivations to rely on social media. As I write this, I realize this point could manifest itself at two levels:

a) A reluctance to indulge in what one is consciously aware as present in the mind of the self: In this category would come the drudgeries of everyday existence, in the form of short and long term worries and concerns. Thus social media, as the pub and a casual game of football in the olden days, serves to provide a short term escape from these, and in some cases, avenues to stumble upon a solution that would perhaps not have graced one’s senses otherwise.

b) The second level is relatively darker and deeper in shade, and refers to that very invisible, yet infinitely potent fear of one’s own core; darkness and dirt abounding. This fear, one must observe, is much, much harder to escape, and in effect requires one to either face and overcome it, or immerse oneself in a potentially endless sea of makeshift meaning, logic and illusion. This avoidance of reality may be rooted, in turn, in the following:

i. A fear of the unknown, in that one is terrified of realizing, and living with the fact that much of what happens in even one’s immediate vicinity is beyond the mortal confines of one’s reasoning and explanation.

ii. Again the darker one follows second, with the second possibility being of a fear of one’s own true identity. This point looks at that unexplored self as the bottomless pit of the darkest and most despised aspects of the world and one’s perception of the self. Solitude, by this school of thought, would force one to explore this mysteriously un-unraveled part of the self. To discover what lies beneath the seemingly intransient self-image would be a matter of pure and unadulterated terror for the best of us, what with the very definition of one’s identity comfort zone at stake.

To put things in perspective, one must realize that the said realization is the equivalent, if not much a considerably deeper denomination, of waking up one day to realize one’s family was indeed not one’s own, or that the world as one knew it was just a dream; and all of these analogies relate to things external to one’s precious self, imagine the plight of the poor child within on knowing he wasn’t what he had always imagined himself to be.

4. This point finds itself more applicable to social media tools such as blogging and the like. I believe a major part of the whole online expression explosion may also be attributed to the very human need for appreciation, importance and an overly reflection-based sense of self-worth. To elaborate, I believe we have grown to associate more and more of our self-worth with what we perceive others to perceive of us. Even though such an orientation is required, to an extent, so ensure benchmarking based improvement, going all out external in one’s pursuit of self-actualization just kills out the ‘self’.

And thus we have blogs (such as this one right here) sprouting up in every nook and cranny, with several levels of what is commonly (and in jest) referred to as ‘shameless self-promotion’. The writer, as the nightingale in the poem by Vikram Seth, gets used to an audience, and soon begins to derive more and more of his feel from the responses that he does (or does not) elicit from those around him.

5. Finally, I would state the most natural of replies to the question at the fundament of this whole post: that social media helps one stay in touch with a diverse network of people who would otherwise have faded away into oblivion. On the expression front, one may also say that to share and co-create is in fact the goal of all social expression.

And both the above arguments are fine with me as well, for I am of the same species as the rest of us; no purer and no more a sinner. However, what has caused this seemingly ‘holier than thou’ rant right here, is a nauseous mix of the following:

1. The unbearably loud “Hey! Look at me! I’m smart/sexy/cool/bored/alive/stoned/phucked/etal” cries from everywhere. And an accompanied, unfathomably dark realization that one’s voice is also present in that cacophony.

2. A very personal, and yes completely irrational, aversion to public displays of anything of significance.

3. A realization that had knocked on my head 194 (or maybe 200 by now) times previously as well, on the growing sinkhole of time and resource that is FB and its ilk.

In spite of the above however, one’s awe for the power and potential of web2.0 (not FB) never ends; and thus bloggers, open source evangelists, and the entire merry clan of the land of 2.0 shall always be the recipients of my choicest respect. The conundrums faced on the publicity front are of course an issue (in my book), with no easy solution in prospect; for any idea, if it must achieve anything close to its potential, must invariably sleep with several hosts, and such a free flow of potential is exquisitely facilitated by the very forums this post seems to decry. And it is nobody’s business to pass judgment on when a posting transfers itself from socially active to obscenely vane.

Finally, as with most things in life, it is the bhaav which determines the purity of any thought, word or deed. Perhaps therein lays the answer, though subjectivities abound there as well. But yes, that is important, the point that web2.0 isn’t the evil, if there exists such a term.

Much to the dismay of the few who get spammed by me, I shall continue to write and share, for contentment with self-sharing of ideas is only false conceit. I shall look forward to a wider, deeper, and more holistic experience bouquet courtesy the wonders of 2.0.

Also, I shall indeed endeavour to kill off FB from my life. Yes, this shall not be my last post on this subject, and that this post shall be advertised on FB is undoubtedly ironic, and I also realize that I shall return to FB as well, being the social animal I am. However, one day FB, one day you shall cease to exist in my universe.

And at a point in time in the distant future relative to the above mentioned milestone, expression too shall lose its meaning on most fronts. And then web2/3/4.0 too shall become defunct in my little universe. Then, shall reign pure enlightenment, or pure madness – as time, and the kindly observer may deem it fit.

For all that lies ahead duniya, Godspeed! We shall meet soon enough..

PS: As goes without saying, all views are subject to the eyes of the beholder. So if you're keen on taking offense or any of its derivatives, go take it! :P

The Kerala Tourism video

Quite the FB phenomenon this video has been over the past few days/weeks. Slightly delayed, but here is what I made of the little beauty..



Details of the video per se, are irrelevant to this post, given as you can peruse through them at your convenience, from the embeddiment above, or otherwise. What one attempts to look at, is what it 'says' to you, and the why's and the how's of it.

The scenic opulence, almost a given with Santosh Sivan, is rather grand indeed. With the music to match, the stage sets itself for the key element to be revealed.

And then... what exactly happens then..?

In the remainder of the video, once your eyes and other such have adjusted to what is on offer, it tells you something very simple, in a manner that is unprecedented to your experiences on this front thus far. Furthermore, what it just whispered, in spite of its relative simplicity and what not, also happens to be one of the relatives to the universal existential crisis that plagues us all, among other things.

"Your moment is waiting"
Never before, in the many diversely hued tourism promotion campaigns one has witnessed, has the core message addressed something this intense, this deeply human; going beyond the relatively trite levels of culture, history and entertainment.
The moment may be taken to mean anything it means to one, but the audacity to link that to something as exploited as tourism, and then through an audio-visual masterpiece, do some semblance of justice to such a steep ask, is commendable.
That fleeting, invisible moment of transcendence, of realization, of life, has been portrayed like never before. One can completely imagine Sivan shaking within even as he thought up the fragments in his mind.

It is of course fitting, that this exploration of the inner domain, albeit facilitated by external supports, should be showcased by a province of this great land that has for millennia has pioneered in such endeavours.

Mortal arguments that the video doesn't say too much, given that such 'moments' may be lived in other places as well, shall receive a brief look from me, and the following:
Yes, the message of the moment is universal, and quite frankly, location invariant. However, that does not take anything away from the fact that nobody had thought of/dared to put such a thought to film before, at least in India; and also that in spite of the idyllics on display in the video, the coming together of elements so as to introduce oneself to oneself, is completely imaginable and possible, and in fact not as idyllic as the locales that surround it.

To me at least, the video purely as an indicator of where we are in terms of what and how we express of that which infests the mortal mind, is reason enough to smile, and laud the efforts of those behind it.

Its been a while..

There comes a time every once in a while, when one feels a certain lightness of being; where one, not consciously aware of the reasons or causalities underneath, or even perceptive of a need for the same, just looks around, takes a few steps random-wards, sees things in a manner that had seemed distant and forgotten only a few moments back; allows a fleeting smile to escape oneself, takes a deep breath, and says, "Its been a while".

Cheers duniya..
Float on..
:)

Our twisted relation with beauty

While there are many things that could be read into the title of this post, I shall at the very outset, in a fashion that is somewhat contrasting with my usual self, bring to light the specific context and meaning intended.
(The above sentence of course reassures me that I'm still in the element I have come to know as my own! But yes, moving on..)

Why can't I walk up to a girl in a train and say "You're one of the most beautiful persons I have ever met", without the very real possibility of getting lynched?
Why/How have we as a society evolved in a manner that so closely intertwines beauty appreciation and leching?

I understand that mother nature has programmed us in a way that much of what we do since our voices are done cracking, revolves around the theme of procreation. Is it that this instinctive understanding has now transcended to the realms that dictate how we behave at a social level?What then, becomes of the artiste who seeks beauty, and upon finding the same is filled with the desire to express it.

Even as I write this, images of MF Hussain with his muse in Madhuri, or that of a fashion photographer in the midst of an assortment of exposed physical beauty come to mind. Those are cases, certainly, where appreciation is taken to be at a level above leching. So does my initial question transform to a class issue: If one is a renowned artiste, then said appreciation is aesthetically tasteful, else it is a sympton of female objectification. Said class consideration then would certainly extend to the subject as well.

More later I guess.
This was about all I had to say for now.
Cheers duniya..

"Dil Karta Hai Sadkon Par Zor Se Gaoon"

The title to this post was a status message I chanced on a couple of days back.
The following is what it led me to, reproduced with no express permission from the user of the original status message; but then again, that shouldn't invite too much of a legal hassle one hopes.

And thus..:

Dil Karta Hai Sadkon Par Zor Se Gaoon

Jaane kya hai hawa ke is aangan mein

Har rang rukh kuchh badla badla sa

Baatein kuch dheemi dheemi si

Alfaaz chuninde taaron se.

Dil karta hai sadkon par zor se gaoon

Ek dhun jo parindon se ja milein;

Phoolon ki har ek aahat ho jis par

Ki awaaz bhi us ko kam padein.

Us roz ka intezaar rahega har dum

Jab tareekh ke saath dil bhi nayi khilein;

Jab yaadein ruke na rokein mann ko

Jahaan kal ke saath aaj bhi saath rahein.

Dil karta hai sadkon par zor se gaoon

Aaj ke is din mein bhi

Jab kadam kahin khoye huey

Sau baat zubaan par tiki

Ek dil jo ghoome baawra

Ek aur jo jaanein na bhala

In dilon ke beech hum hain khade

Ab aur nahin jahaan the badhe

Dil karta hai sadkon par zor se gaoon

Dil karta hai sadkon par zor se gaoon...

---

Yes its good to be back.. :)

Writing...

Even while one bleeds in a growing want of attention and care, one realizes that the perceived loss is indeed a gain to one's very roots.
And thus, one smiles away the unthinking tear, looking ahead to a changed meaning; a changed purpose.

Kandisa! :)

PS: Mwaah my little precious!

THE Potter's Village

The story is done, documented as mortally possible from the subliminals that this track had brought to one's mind.

For the benefit of the rest of humanity, here it is.

Thank you,

Love and peace.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 12 (of 12)

A week after the trial concluded, Rahman was publicly beheaded in the presence of the priests, 2 ministers of the sheikh's court, and the general public. It was a low key affair, concluded by 8 in the morning. Karim had never felt as aggrieved as he did now, but was surprised to find a different element adjoining that sorrow.

As the crowd dispersed, he walked away aimlessly, and soon found himself near the sight of the weekly food market, some miles from the village. Some yards in front of him stood a tiny hut, in which he thought he saw a light moving. With steps that followed no thought or direction, and a mind as blank as a slate, he entered the little temple. Two days later, he would walk away, and never be seen again.

---

In the potter's village: Chapter - 11 (of 12)

The third day of the trial was almost a formality, lasting just 10 minutes, as Masood summarized the proceedings, and delivered his judgement. Having known the outcome from the moment the trial began, Karim had spent the last 3 days in a state of stoical waiting.

The previous evening he had visited Rahman in prison.

The two looked at each other, and knew exactly what they both knew.

Karim: How can you just sit there, knowing what is to happen tomorrow?

Rahman: I can, because I must. It is the path I have chosen, and that has chosen me.

Karim (hesitating): Do you know where you shall go?

Rahman: It is unto my father that I proceed, how else is one to see one's life fulfilling itself?

Karim: But what if there is nothing.. no light.. no truth.. nothing divine at the other side?

Rahman (smiling): What is light? What is truth? What is divine? Are they not figments of one's belief in the end? Then how does the case of the contrary arise?

Karim: No.. yes.. no, what I mean is, what if you find yourself floating in a sea of darkness looking for the image you see in the hut, but find nothing at all?!

Rahman: The answer would then be clear, wouldn't it, that the divine indeed lies in the path one takes, and not where one ends. One lives and is one with the Creator during his life, for that is all one has. There is no 'ending', for there is no end. The end and the beginning always meet.

Hearing this, Karim stood up, walked slowly backwards, dropped down to his knees and offered namaaz to the prisoner in front of him. Then he ran away.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 10 (of 12)

The trial was adjourned to the following day, after all the participant members found it best to close for the day. With Rahman having rested his case with his elaborate opening statement, proceedings moved rather linearly the next day. Both prosecutors called on witnesses against the potter, making strong arguments in front of the judge. As the clock struck the noon hour, there was little left to do than the judge to deliberate and announce verdict. The same he deferred to the next morning, allowing himself time to think and evaluate.

As he stepped out of his seat the judge, Masood, could feel the earth moving underneath his steps. He had anticipated something on these lines the moment he was briefed on the case, but what had transpired in the last 2 days was beyond what he had imagined. It was exactly what had been foretold all those years back; the day that he had hoped would never come; the only one thing he had feared all his life thus far. It was the day when he would need to make a choice. It was the point of no return between his ideological past and present; in fact, the point where the two met, beyond which neither could reconcile the other any further.

During his travels, in fact towards the last few weeks, which he had spent in India, he had grown to question the seemingly theoretical nature of the academia that he had espoused all those years. This question had led him to a wise man that people referred to simply as 'JK', who had, after listening to his story, told him the following:

"Masood, you are indeed correct when you label your current exposure to academia as too theoretical, and even bookish in nature. And that must be so, for learning finds its purpose only in action, and its time will come. Till then, your days shall be comfortable in that things shall be a smooth flow in your head. The time for action would be the true test, in disturbed waters."

Years later, when he was under the tutelage of the radical imam Maqbool Hasan, the cleric had smilingly told him that no matter how much he studied and learnt about the scriptures, it was all a sham till the day of deliverance came; till the day he would be forced to choose between the one thing he would translate from learning to practice, and the rest of the universe on the other side.

At that very instant, sitting next to the imam, he had recalled JK's words, and was struck by the similarity in the views expressed by both. The fact that the two polar opposite ideological tracks, that he had so intensely followed, could actually intersect at this one point convinced him of the veracity of this prediction; that one day he would be standing on a path, where it would be impossible to carry on in both directions; when he would have to choose his way, his boat, his life. He had realized it in that instant, that till then, he could afford to be ambivalent internally, but only till then.

In the trial that had taken place, Masood was split right down the middle, for there were indeed two voices within him. The Masood of yore, exposed to the most diverse mix of ideas and philosophies known to man knew exactly what Rahman was doing, and saw no wrong in it. There was no case even to be considered; Rahman was a free man. However, the other side, of which he was a more active subscriber now, and had been for the last many years, told him otherwise. In his eyes, Rahman had blasphemed beyond what words could describe, spoken against the rule of the king, and belittled the very socio-religious fabric that had given him a position to stand in. And thus, he deserved no less than to pay with his life. Rahman had to pay for his sins.

As these thoughts played around in a little wind in his creased head, he saw the clock had crossed the 3rd hour of the night. Just then, a young man not unlike his self of many years back walked into his room. He stood in front of him and smiled. In that instant, Masood realized it was indeed he himself, returning to Khemnuur after the voyages that had been. In a fit of terror and a reasonably distant cousin of rage, he picked up the closest object at hand, and threw it wildly at the impostor. His image was shattered, and with that his dream.

Masood welcomed the next morning with the most bitter of feelings in his stomach, and a coldness of being that stifled the tears before they reached their rightful place beyond his eyes. The case was closed.

In the potter's village: Chapter 9 (of 12)

Rahman: I am Rahman, a potter by profession, and a free human being created by the Creator who created us all. I arrived at your village, which has accepted me graciously ever since, over 3 years back. My task was to work as a potter, which I have done as honestly and in as committed a manner as I could have. During this time, I have come to interact with some of the most interesting people I have ever come across. And even as I realized this within myself, I could see all around me a great amount of disenchantment, and an increasing detachment from the lives that the people here felt had been forced on them.

I am a human person who has always found enough in my surroundings to make do with, be it in terms of subsistence, or the need to think, be questioned, and explore. It is this higher level need that I feel demarcates us from the rest of the inhabitants we share this world with; this ability to think is what enables us to experience the myriad emotions that colour us, to make sense of the world as a place that is larger than what we know and perceive. When I first came here, I found this propensity to think for one's own self to be severely lacking in all the people I met. The whole village seemed shrouded in a pall of gloom, one which everyone freely accepted, without putting up any form of resistance to protect their own happiness. This really pained me. In my time here, I have always sought to find out the reason behind this passivity. And for this, I have spoken to people; I have asked questions that seemed most natural to me, which would often surprise many people in how simple they were.

My guiding light, in all I have done wherever I have traveled, has been my Father. That you don't consider your Creator to be your Father is your perception, but to me, there is no truer form of guidance I have experienced, ever. How we see our relationship with that higher power is of course a highly personal matter, one that I have never advised or questioned anyone on. The time I have spent outside my shop here, and in some ways even the time within, has been a continuing exploration of the human nature, through the diverse sample presented to me here. Wealth, social position, family issues, vocational conditions, and a thousand others are the parameters that characterize each and every one of us, thus giving rise to a countless number of unique entities in our individual selves. Yet, there are these commonalities that transcend different boundaries in different cases, peculiarities that colour all of us in a similar shade; which is a fact that I find too interesting to not explore. And thus, I do. I question, I inquire, I find out.
I find out why the local barber is unhappy even after having married off his 2 daughters, and built a new house at the ripe age of 65; I question how the ruler of a land can stake claim to the produce of his subjects without being their servant, if not by brute force; and all of this I do, simply because these questions come to me, they surround me, as they surround us all. To ignore these little facts and puzzles is to ignore the very essence of life itself, which I hold too dearly, and which I find precariously deficient in all the people around me here.
If to open your eyes to the hardened, numbed unhappiness that you had come to espouse, is to "create unrest", then I have nothing to say in my defence there.

Honourable Mr. P1 had mentioned a "most compelling instance of my seething unholiness" in a sight witnessed by the priests. If that were to be true, then every namaaz we offer is an instance of said holiness. For if one were to attain communion with one's Creator, and seek His blessings and direction, how must it matter if that be attained in a bejewelled monument to His name, or in a hut that is as much His creation. What I see in that time, and how I perceive its presence in my existence, is a matter to be determined by none other than my own self, for it concerns no other being in this world. As for the sight per se, if it surprised or shocked the spies following me, then it is by virtue of the sin that they themselves have within them, for how can the embodiment of the Creator be evil or dark; how can the loving embrace from the purest light to have existed, made to a pure heart, be the seed for anything dark. The seed, thus, must lie in the mortal observer.

I am but a creation in the hands of my Father. My work here is done. I rest my case.

With that, he sat down.
The audience in front of him, judge, prosecutors and public, that had sat motionless, entranced and unblinking, suddenly came back to the earthly recesses of the courthouse. Karim on the other hand, could only weep.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 8 (of 12)

The trial was uniquely carried out, in that there were 2 prosecutors, one each representing the priests and sheikh's court. In defence, Rahman stood for himself.

The crux of the proceedings may best be stated by way of quoted sections of speech made by the different players in this little game that ensued. For the sake of convenience, the prosecutors shall be referred to as P1, P2.

Judge Masood: Opening statements, first by the prosecution.

P1 (standing up, exchanging a glance with P2): "If I may begin, this is a case of unprecedented stature and significance, for we have in front of us a man from an alien land, with a talent for a craft that surpasses human imagination. But even while he has fascinated all, including traders, children and far off royalty with his skill, his actions outside the potter's shop have been far from the diktats of socially acceptable living. He has been known to incite unrest in the minds of the peace loving people of Khemnuur, by means of ideas that go against the Holy Word. This is not a one off instance, rather something that has become synonymous with his presence. Finally, the prosecution would like to bring the attention of the court, to the single most compelling instance of his seething unholiness, the sight witnessed by the priests at a small hut in the nearby market region of Farakhi, only a week back. I would now hand over the floor to my esteemed colleague, P2."

P2: Thank you P1. The prosecution would now like to bring to the notice of the court, the charges of sedition and intrigue against the sheikh and his rule of law. As previously stated by P2, this man is known to spread ideas that are against the very fabric that underlies any social setup. His origins are unknown, and the motivations that drive his actions can only be imagined. He could be a spy from a distant kingdom, an agent directed to enter the social structure of our land, infest it with ideas that shall one day leave it hollowed out and empty. The truth appears rather dark in his case, and we hope to unravel the details in the course of proceedings here.

Judge Masood: The accused, and defendant, Mr. Rahman, you may now speak.

The public assembled in the room took a collective deep breath, for they knew that this statement would go a long way in determining the outcome of this case. All present were struck by how composed the man was, facing a trial which could cost him his life. Karim, seated on the second row could feel the tension building within him. With the judge asking Rahman to speak, all eyes moved to him, as did Karim's. And at that instant, he knew exactly what was to happen.
The smile that graced Rahman's face at that instant seemed singularly untouchable, with a sense of awareness and knowing that seemed to resonate with his surroundings, in a manner which lent the entire scene an air of surprising tranquility. It appeared as if the person of Rahman was in a bubble, deeply enmeshed yet inexorably insulated from the world, and from all that it wished to throw at him. Karim was the only one who saw this scene for what it truly was, with each passing moment spelling out a story that was reaching its conclusion.

With that, Rahman stood up, and started to speak.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 7

Rahman was produced in court soon after, where Masood, the oldest judge in the land had been called upon to preside over this rather exceptional case. His exemplary record and experience notwithstanding, the fact that he was a staunch believer in the written word of God made him a clear choice for the priests.

Masood had been born to the second wife of an aging clerk in the sheikh's court. The fact that his father died when he was just 11, leaving behind two wives and four children, and that he was the youngest of the lot, born to the considerably younger wife, meant that his childhood thereafter was a continuous stream of challenges. In fact, had his sharp academic drive not been noticed by an affluent trader named Jamaal, just returning from the high seas, he would probably not have received any formal education. The grapewine would tell one that the education and nurturing he was provided with was more a result of his mother being prepared to go to any lengths to ensure her son's future. By the time Masood was 17, his mother had formally become the fourth wife to the trader, even in the midst of considerable hue and cry in social circles. However Jamaal with his considerable clout ensured that the union was blessed by none other than the sheikh himself, thus silencing any voices that had even considered dissenting. Even though biologically not his parent, Masood was Jamaal's favourite. By the age of 26, the young man had been a part of several of his patriarch's travels, and had seen much of the known world. In his travels, he was struck by a sense of oneness among all the disparate races and societies he had interacted with; something which showed him an underlying layer of what may today be referred to as 'humanity', beneath the superficials which differentiated these peoples.

Overcome by this feeling, he felt stifled in the trade business he seemed set to inherit from Jamaal. Thus during one of the trips to the Orient, he fled the ship, handing it over to the able captain to reach back home. From there, the next 9 years were spent in traveling and studying at universities across the world, subjects ranging from philosophy and literature to astronomy and mathematics. When he felt he had had enough of this world, the much learned Masood returned to his homeland. Initially greeted with skepticism, he soon proved the veracity of his claims, made easier by the presence of the ship captain who had last seen him. Jamaal had since handed over the business to the captain, who always had been the most capable, and innately talented to take up such a responsibility. Masood knew that his father had given the business to deserving hands. And yes, he did refer to Jamaal now as his father.

Within 4 years of Masood's return, Jamaal died in a freak accident during the loading of a ship bound to Africa. And with that, Masood's life took another critical turn. Unable to reconcile with the loss dealt to his mother and himself for the second time in their lives, and now increasingly conscious in retrospect, of how his father had never completely approved of his academic explorations, wanting instead for him to take forward the family business, he found himself coiling up into a shell. Desperately seeking any semblance of relief and anchorage, he chanced on one of the imams at the local mosque which he would visit regularly. The words he heard during one of the readings of namaaz seemed to resonate with his state of being, "Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream; for the answer shall come to you in the Word of the Lord". Intrigued by this line, and unable to comprehend its full meaning, yet knowing completely that it was key to him regaining his peace, he met the imam later that evening. He was Maqbool Hasan, known to be radical and rigid in his beliefs, and a purist when it came to following the Word.
Over the course of the next 12 months, Masood would meet him and spend hours discussing several diverse issues at least twice each week. At the end of this period, he was a changed man - more orthodox, bordering on radical, and soon entered the judicial system, where he created quite a fan following, by virtue of the strictness and fairness of his judgement, sometimes laced with a touch of the philosophies and thought he had chanced on in what now seemed like a previous life, but always agreed upon as just.

It had been 21 years since then, and he now proceeded towards the court to hear the curious case of Rahman, a potter from an alien land, who had been witnessed indulging in blasphemous practices, and even cited as spreading ideas and thoughts that were labelled 'anti-social' and 'seditionary' in nature. Several of the quotes attributed to him reminded him of his traveling years. The proximity that the potter exhibited to those ideals of yore interested Masood greatly, and perhaps even made him a tad uncomfortable, as he walked into the court that bright spring morning.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 6

In front of them, and the innocently watching Karim, was a scene playing itself out in truly unaffected glory. It was not entirely human, and not entirely mortal, the meaning of what their eyes read to them at that instant.

The little hut, with no furnishing whatsoever, had Rahman kneeling at its centre, gently bowing to a light that seemed to unfurl out of itself, in a continuous, unrelenting song of power, grace and majesty. It was a sight that instilled an overwhelming sense of fear and awe into its onlookers. For minutes, both Karim and the priests stood frozen at their positions, unable to make sense of what it was they were witnessing. Finally, Rahman broke the deafening silence, asking the light what he was to do, in a tone that was in contrast to his usually elevated self. His voice bore the signs of a continuous and unconditional surrender, albeit without the flavour of resignation that one may have expected to find.
This question was followed by a long and pregnant silence, which would be breached by a voice that would send shivers down the spines of all the assembled bystanders. It was a loud, bellowing voice, which emanated from the very centre of that regenerating mass of light. It said, "It is not yet time for you to leave. There are eyes and ears to these walls, which shall guide you to your destiny."

Both Karim and the priests jumped back at the allusion made to them. They stuttered backwards, and then fled back to the village along the respective paths that they had taken.

While Karim was intrigued by what he saw, convinced that the incident was key to the question that had been haunting his very existence for over 3 years now, the priests felt they finally had one key accusation to make against the seemingly flawless potter; A convenient mix of idol worship, blasphemy and bigotry. It was armed with this weapon, that they headed to work the next morning.

Said next day passed off just as planned by the priests. After a closed doors meeting with the king and his court, a decree was issued against the potter, denouncing him as an outlaw who had offended the holy word of the Lord, and indulged in practices earning him the title of infidel. A prize of 100 gold coins was placed on his head, and within hours he was presented at the royal palace with a line of claimants on the reward money. The priests smiled at their partial victory, for it had been a long and arduous task till now, which seemed on the verge of delivering the results they had set out to accomplish.

In the potter's village: Chapter - 5

As Karim walked hurriedly from the priests' quarters he could feel a sense of urgency in that which he had somehow become a part of. And he knew Rahman was at its very centre. Without a second glance, he sped off to the potter's shop where Rahman spent his nights. It was now late in the night, and such footsteps often attracted unwanted attentions, for it was the hour when clandestine deals were struck and cosummated. He thought of none of this however, and knocked on the potter's door repeatedly, till finally Rahman opened it, weary eyed yet with a smile on his serene face. Karim was quick to narrate to him the details of that evening. Rahman's unchanging expression had an air of having seen it all before, or so Karim felt. Puzzled and concerned, he asked him the reason for that. He replied with, "My father once said: Make your work the goal of your life, and you shall find me in all you see; in me you shall find all from the oceans to the sky and beyond, and in them, me."
Karim was speechless at the level of incomprehensibility, loaded with an equally compelling sense of the mystique that greeted him in those lines. Overcome with that feeling, he picked himself up, muttered a "Rahman, please take care.", and stumbled out of his door. The state of bipolar perceptionary extremes that he had been thrown in from the moment he had met Rahman, was now entering another level.

As he sat in his bed, his wife now increasingly aware of the distance creeping into their relationship, he could think of nothing else but Rahman, and the words he had so effortlessly spoken. At some level he was concerned for his safety, and at another, he felt envious of the kind of conviction with which he lived. He knew only that he had to know more about his origins, and the source of that sense of immovable calm.
Thus he awoke the next morning, and headed off straight to the potter's shop. Unbeknownst to him, the priests had sent a messenger him to the court, who had promptly been redirected to the shop by the concerned wife. The messenger proceeded towards the shop, only to find it closed for the day. He brought word of this to the priests, who were astounded to hear it, for never in the last 3 years had Rahman been unavailable at the shop during the opening hour of business. They knew this was a potentially critical moment, and called on the royal guard which immediately dispatched its spies, who traced Rahman to a small hut located 4 miles outside the village. The priests reached the spot by evening, taking care to approach it by a different path, so as to escape the attentions of Karim, who had been kneeling besides the northward facing wall peeking in through a gap all this while.

As they approached it, they caught sight of a light moving within, and carefully perched themselves along the southern wall, peeking through the aging cracks in the wood. Their eyes widened at the sight that beheld them.