Monday, December 01, 2008

Kind of accurate, isn't it? I love how the 'Zone of PAIN' encompasses both F-buddy and Friend without intruding on awkwardness.

Monday, November 24, 2008

When the World Ends.


He had always liked gloomy weather. The slow, soft feel it gave him. The nature of an overcast day, and the sweet melancholy it caused to move through him. The subtly self reflecting thoughts that would surround and cocoon him, while he strove to create something new and beautiful with his mind. As he worked on his creation, he whistled a slow tune. He recalled the times spent with her, when he'd banter - the slow exposure of intelligence, a kind of mating dance that moved through little words and silent smiles the other could not see, across a distance.

He loved working with his hands. The exertion generally gave him cause to know that something had been made, some part of him had been put into that which he had created. The way a person felt about something that was created from a scratch would never be completely understood or appreciated by anyone but a creator such as he was. The beauty he saw in the patterns, in the colour, in the swirls of his paint across his canvas showed him the grace and beauty of nature's creation that could only be truly appreciated by art - turned inside out, so the very essence of the world and its contents could be appreciated within.

A true artist can often be told by something as small as his ability to get his hands dirty. Newcomers will always hesitate to have paint on their fingers. They would be scared of the feeling, the sticky feeling of their medium on their hands. The amount you have on you can tell an observer how comfortable you are doing what you're doing. Artists will have gifted fingers, and more often than not they shall be covered in the mark of their art - clay, paint, stone dust ...

He smiled as he noted his own hands covered to his wrist in colour. While this might bother others, he was happy to feel his sticky hands. He was certain that this was the purpose, the understanding, the bonding of an artist with his medium. The complete rapture of not shaping, but knowing the shape the object wants to take. Of being a facilitator in bringing the vision that is communicated to your mind. It was nearly spiritual, as he was certain that there was an idea out there, just looking for a place to emerge into the world of the real. He loved being the vehicle for the idea.

He was certain that he was appreciated and understood, and that his works were the way things should be. He didn't think of this as hubris or excessive pride; while there was little he knew about political science, he found it amusing that he agreed with both Karl Marx and Ayn Rand when they spoke of pride in the creation of something. Of course, as in all things, creative minds can make new conclusions from the same starting point. He started as all artists did - with an empty space in which to put his creation. He looked at the roof of his small home, and saw how it was filled with his art, and it always pleased him. In this secluded part of the city, he could spend his time here blissfully imbibing the feel of the weather, and not be worried about sounds or any human presence.

He felt unique in what he did. He cherished the happiness he was certain he brought to everyone, since he was certain that since everyone lived miserable lives, art was the vehicle of relief for them. He sought to make a triumphant vision of the perfection of the human form, of freedom from all that in life that binds, that limits. He tapped into the ultimate freedom that has been given - the potential that is hardwired into each of us at birth. He tried to show how perfection was found in the way nature formed and nurtured the human body.

The processes that deluded millions into belief in God, when it was merely natural selection. God was in the little details - in the microbes, in the harsh world that shaped the way we would be born, and how we would die, and how we would live. He paid obeisance to the forces that moved our life. He liked to think of himself as a force, as was everyone with the control of anything. He just wished, sometimes, that he could completely control his reactions. But then, wasn't there humanity in the absence of control? In the lack of perfection? How could perfection be defined, unless it was in the absence of something?

Evolution, like everything, sows the seed for its own survival. Time carries on, as a concept we like to measure by ephemeral temporal phenomenon. And the human body is like a singular bright spark, before it vanishes into nothing. He hoped to bring that to life, by trying to put into pictures his thoughts on the frailty of the human body. For if nothing was done to deal with that which the human body could not cope with, another creature would soon superscede human will and thought. The dependence upon implements created through human ingenuity not attuned to making humankind more comforted as opposed to disposed towards survival, as well as the propensity to create destruction in unimaginable scales.

As he thought this, he saw the smoke trails in the sky, and he knew the end had come.
-----------------------------------------

Food.
Hunger.
Movement - trace sensations. Vibrations in the air - movement. Hide. HIDE.
Food. Move swiftly.
Reached food. Consume. Who knows when it would come next?
Run away. Extreme heat. Discomfort. Hot air moving away at swift speeds. Scuttle away.
Safety.
Darkness.

And so the meek, shall inherit the Earth. The small creatures we dismiss as irrelevant. The ones we do everything to get rid of, but make it their sole purpose to live. Civilized, or otherwise.

For evolution doesn't care much about intelligence. It cares about survival.

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Loving by Numbers



We were following the signs.

Living by them and waiting for the fall.

We waited so well and patiently
Beginning and end - serendipity.

A start which was an intended end.
With a promise never to be seen again.
I fought those odds quoted, and won.

There was little to be said, and more felt;
In our little mobile world in which we dealt
Blows of sensation in bodily competition
With sighs of defeat; but never consternation.
I will miss the mirrored guilt of submission.

There were times when we found freedom
No dread of the future, as we saw them -
Parental censure and binding dodged.
Against the world, it seemed we fought
We fought the good fight, a little too well
Against each other, against ourselves
Wasted times, as I see them now.
What's done is done, anyhow.

All that begins must soon end.
The pain that seems to make our hearts rend.
The separation that comes by mutual consent
One we wouldn't have fathomed ere this dent
In our happy discord, our lovely personal chaos
Full of hope, love, and hilarious pathos
If the question is one of whom to blame
Neither of us can make that claim
To you, then, I dedicate this feeling
The one before which I'm constantly kneeling
My spirit stands strong, and I hope that lasts -
But you're the one who put it to task.
Never forget who I was.

Friday, September 19, 2008

When you're using Stumble too much.

Ode to the Nice Guys
This rant was written for the Wharton Undergraduate Journal

This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl’s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.

This is for the guys who escort their drunk, bewildered female friends back from parties and never take advantage once they’re at her door, for the guys who accompany girls to bars as buffers against the rest of the creepy male population, for the guys who know a girl is fishing for compliments but give them out anyway, for the guys who always play by the rules in a game where the rules favor cheaters, for the guys who are accredited as boyfriend material but somehow don’t end up being boyfriends, for all the nice guys who are overlooked, underestimated, and unappreciated, for all the nice guys who are manipulated, misled, and unjustly abandoned, this is for you.

This is for that time she left 40 urgent messages on your cell phone, and when you called her back, she spent three hours painstakingly dissecting two sentences her boyfriend said to her over dinner. And even though you thought her boyfriend was a chump and a jerk, you assured her that it was all ok and she shouldn’t worry about it. This is for that time she interrupted the best killing spree you’d ever orchestrated in GTA3 to rant about a rumor that romantically linked her and the guy she thinks is the most repulsive person in the world. And even though you thought it was immature and you had nothing against the guy, you paused the game for two hours and helped her concoct a counter-rumor to spread around the floor. This is also for that time she didn’t have a date, so after numerous vows that there was nothing “serious” between the two of you, she dragged you to a party where you knew nobody, the beer was awful, and she flirted shamelessly with you, justifying each fit of reckless teasing by announcing to everyone: “oh, but we’re just friends!” And even though you were invited purely as a symbolic warm body for her ego, you went anyways. Because you’re nice like that.

The nice guys don’t often get credit where credit is due. And perhaps more disturbing, the nice guys don’t seem to get laid as often as they should. And I wish I could logically explain this trend, but I can’t. From what I have observed on campus and what I have learned from talking to friends at other schools and in the workplace, the only conclusion I can form is that many girls are just illogical, manipulative bitches. Many of them claim they just want to date a nice guy, but when presented with such a specimen, they say irrational, confusing things such as “oh, he’s too nice to date” or “he would be a good boyfriend but he’s not for me” or “he already puts up with so much from me, I couldn’t possibly ask him out!” or the most frustrating of all: “no, it would ruin our friendship.” Yet, they continue to lament the lack of datable men in the world, and they expect their too-nice-to-date male friends to sympathize and apologize for the men that are jerks. Sorry, guys, girls like that are beyond my ability to fathom. I can’t figure out why the connection breaks down between what they say (I want a nice guy!) and what they do (I’m going to sleep with this complete ass now!). But one thing I can do, is say that the nice-guy-finishes-last phenomenon doesn’t last forever. There are definitely many girls who grow out of that train of thought and realize they should be dating the nice guys, not taking them for granted. The tricky part is finding those girls, and even trickier, finding the ones that are single.

So, until those girls are found, I propose a toast to all the nice guys. You know who you are, and I know you’re sick of hearing yourself described as ubiquitously nice. But the truth of the matter is, the world needs your patience in the department store, your holding open of doors, your party escorting services, your propensity to be a sucker for a pretty smile. For all the crazy, inane, absurd things you tolerate, for all the situations where you are the faceless, nameless hero, my accolades, my acknowledgement, and my gratitude go out to you. You do have credibility in this society, and your well deserved vindication is coming.

Fu-zu Jen, SEAS/WH, 2003


From http://www.stwing.upenn.edu/~jenf/writing/rant04.html, found using Stumble.

How to get past the blues ...

I have never been quite so amused. It seems like the perfect way to get past the initial hesitation that seems to plague every potential couple/hook-up/interest/you-know-what-I-mean.

Isn't it awesome? I suggest that it be printed and carried everywhere. If used correctly, it would be considered rather droll.


"The world is a mess and I just ... need to rule it."

In such an odd place, right now. Caught in the midst of so many things, my mind flying from one thing to the next without a pause - like being caught in a maelstrom. And yes, I hear the deadlines whooshing by. And while I might like the sound, there are several that carry with it a person trying to ensure that the work gets done in time.

Of course, these are the sort of times where a crisis of motivation will enter and cause issues with your plans. Sigh.

I wish I could just mechanically do it.

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Puppeteering


And when you look into a mirror, think of me -
Hanging above, where no eye can see.
Pulling the strings, and making you move;
You, making notches in the grooves
That guide your motion - and make you mine;
Targets of my scheme sublime.

Consider this a victory march -
Of the wrongs that live
Within the patriarch.
Consider this a funeral dirge -
Of innocence in life and hopes
That did once stir
Beneath a surface -
Ne'er to rise again.

I am the master and the slave.

Friday, August 08, 2008

Death becomes her. Her, of the absorbing eyes and the smile that puts you both at ease and on edge, without having it quirk too hard. It's when you know you're at the mercy of something you don't quite know everything about - knowing that you have not a handle on things, yet things have control over you that you cannot fathom.

Thoughts come poring out of dreams conceived years ago - about ideas and expressions dealing with love, lust and all of that rot. But when one puts things in perspective, there is nothing more or less than what one wants at any given point of time.

There is nothing that is absolute - everything seems so utterly relative. Things said to you by an inane history teacher begin to make sense at the border between sobriety and the artistic attempt at fervour you dig deep out of your soul because you believe you ought to.

I'd recommend Madhushala by Harivansh Rai Bachchan to anyone who is even vaguely interested in poetry. Tracts translated into Hindi from the original Persian, they are brilliant depictions of the feeling of a man caught in a daze or stupor.

"I have not the valour to move forward,
Nor the courage to go back from whence I came.
To which of my deeds and hopes should I turn?
And far, far way, there stands the source of intoxication."

Hm. It does sound terrible in English.


Wednesday, August 06, 2008

The Fisherman

He trailed his line into the water, watching the ripples make circles on the calm surface that distorted his image. He let his consciousness flow through his line into the water.

Into the world.

He saw smiles, tears, hopes, dreams, and reams of unpleasant feelings. Glimmers of love, tempered by vast tracts of need, selfishness and greed.

Yet, the Fisherman fishes. For the perfect feeling. For the perfect hope. For the perfect symbol of humanity, however jaded it might have become. He searches for true giving, and generosity.

It might never come, but who knows that goes through the mind of the fisherman? One who angles through all thoughts and dreams. In a land where he glides on the surface of our consciousness in the perennial early morning. In solitude. In a land where all you can see is your own reflection, but that is due to lack of perspective - you see not a reflection of yourself, but of what the world sees as you.

The entity has no conception of existentialism - it doesn't believe in anything, for it need not. It has no hunger for justification, no need to prove importance, no requirement of anything but the simple desire to fish in the waters it is in. To peruse. To discover. Something hidden from the depths, perhaps.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Epiphany


The fog wears off, the high goes low -
Thoughts that ought not to be still flow.
I move to the music that plays on in my head -
Yet I can't keep from wanting to kill you instead.

Anger rises, and anger does fall;
The things that you made me feel yet call.
You're the one that's amusing, now -
Full of silly old idiocies, anyhow.

My arms now go where they desire -
Around friends and those that I admire;
My conscience is clear, my hopes might be dim -
I am who I am, but I am not him.

Not the one you wanted me to be -
No longer a strange slave to your misery.
Two feet to stand on that I call my own -
No need to have you my thoughts condone.

My mouth is big and my voice loud,
While I drown my sorrows in a crowd;
Take your strength and fuck yourself with it,
I'd like to be polite, but my heart's not in it.

You've done enough to kill my spirit;
It lives on, this and every minute.
I might not be strong, I might not endure -
But I sure as hell am not your cure.

So take your pretenses, and be happy with that -
It wasn't my fault you were such a prat;
I'm glad somewhere that things are such,
That I shudder to think of your touch.

I have my realization, my own little epiphany;
Things are finally just as they should be.
I've given up enough trying to be good,
And been far too often misunderstood.

You have your intolerance, your greatest tool -
The one that makes you the biggest fool
In the world that we built for ourselves
The one you tore down since it matched not your ends.

I'm done with us and you, the two the same,
For they were no different, and you're to blame
For imposing yourself on so many things,
To pull everything with your strings.

This rhyme is rude, and goes on too long -
The message is simple, if a bit strong;
Fuck off, and go your own way.
You'll find your own epiphany, one of these days.

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Words.

Little islands of meaning that float and twitter over the consciousness. That meander across the meadows of thought, begging for understanding. Little pockets of space-time seeking to encapsulate the intent, thought and conditions of the person who first thought them into life, and connected them together. Travelling across the flotsam of the white noise that we inhabit daily.

Love.

A word with some meaning. Weight. A purpose. An intent, and a hope that moves beyond things that we know, or care to know. I love, and I hope. And I look to the future, and there is brightness in the wings of rhymes and songs and thoughts that make me glad. And I also see the alternative - dark elements of silence, that blot out all the colour in the words that would otherwise inhabit that void. We choose.

Choice.

Another word with weight. Weight upon shoulders. Human responsibility. Shrugging, or carrying. Hoping, or living. Life is full of this weight. And we move along, in the wake of both our choices, and the ones we let others make for us.

Sunday, May 04, 2008

Absorbed.


Is being selfish a simple matter of looking out from your own eyes, and not being able to conceive another's? Is it simply a matter of letting all else die but that which you seek the most? When does a legitimate protection of self turn into a situation which makes others wish they were dead for all the pain you are causing them on your account?

Where ends thy need, and where begins my hope? I have met many people in my life, and everyone has had an active part of them continuously working towards ensuring their own prosperity, hope and courage. 'tis but a shame that in their avid desire to save their own hides, they must lose out on so much that would seem great for their own selves.

A healthy amount of saving oneself effort and trouble is rational and expected, but a complete aversion to anything that might cause a mite of risk but lead to a plethora of gains is strange. A selfish person is very content with letting others stick their necks out, but shall protect his/herself at the cost of nearly everything else. That seems to be the rule with which they lead their lives.

Pity, that.

Monday, April 28, 2008


She sat in the dark room, watching the thin sliver of light. It moved towards her - motes dancing and shining in its path. She, of the darkness, and for the darkness. The light - a threat to who she was, and her way of life.

What was she to do? The light was different - harsh, sharp, yet composed of warmth. The darkness - cold and damp - yet comforting and non-threatening. At a level that no warmth could ever reach. The level at which the cold sliver of ice that lies within each heart resides and rules over the selfish part of each man and woman.

She considered the light. Felt it on her skin, felt how it made her feel. The light moved through her and within her, giving her a peace. But - it was new. It felt dangerous. Sin, coming in from outside the darkness. It burnt her eye in its brilliance. It represented that which was not comforting, which was different from all else.

She felt the darkness bathe her, and let comfort choose her as its future. The bright blue sky and its many wonders abroad never saw her face, or graced her with their presence. She avoided it, even though she missed the sensation. Such was life.

And such does life prove itself to be. Over and over again. Must everyone lack courage?

Saturday, April 19, 2008

Justice.

So, today - while perusing through Westside, I found some vindication for my general apparel while sleeping.


Guess in what section the lovely garments above were found -


Men's Sleepwear.


:-D

Thursday, April 10, 2008

"SARTORIO"

The pile giveth; and then, the pile taketh away.

There is always the desire to rise to the top. He felt it, too - the need to rise above all else, be the chosen one. To be favoured and be so close to someone such that there is nothing separating them. That intimate feeling that overrules all other sensations. And one day, after so long, his chance came once more.

A great hand from the sky came unto him and picked him up and lifted him upto the gates of heaven. He felt himself being weighed and considered; and, after an interval where he held his breath, he was Chosen. He had been personally picked to protect and preserve. It was his turn to bathe in the glorious light. He hoped to never have to return to his damp and dark home - the glory had come to him and removed him from it, and saved him from an existence of ignonimy.

He spent an infinity of glorious occasions with his charge, being an inseparable companion at all times - being right with him at mealtimes, with him on his his, with him even in the gentleman's room; this sort of complete access made him feel incredibly special and favoured.

However, the glory trip began to lose steam. He felt an aura of disenchantment - felt that he could no longer feel as bright or happy as he had previously done. Could not serve quite as well. Tired, wrung, wrinkled, jaded, and worn.

Suddenly, the pain of separation - being discarded, as yesterday's good. The pain of rejection, the humiliation, the feeling of being used all crashed unto him. He was no longer his smart self: no longer as sharp or fresh. He felt dirty and shapeless.

He knew that there would be another chance, but for this he must lose himself and remove the baggage and the dirty habits from his time of decadence. He was removed, with some of his peers, and taken to where he might be Redeemed.

He felt the cold sharp sensation of being drowned in the waters of introspection, and the sharp abrasion and pain of the removal of his dirt, his sullied nature, from himself. He then faced the harsh sunlight - baked in it, heated until all his burdens were burnt away, revealed to himself and all; yet, this made his worries evaporate.

Soon, he found himself flat on his back - burned, pushed, and pressured. He was forced back into the right shape, the right form of mind - return to what he was, as opposed to what he'd become. It wasn't the same, though. He was a paler and thinner version of his old self. There was, however, hope. Always, there was hope, even as he returned to the pile in his dank neighbourhood, awaiting the moment of his delivery once more. Once again, he waited to be picked.

To rise to the top of the pile.

To him, there was only being used and worn. This was his purpose. And he gloried in it. And this glory came to him, as once more he was picked.

Vipul felt his sleepy mind playing tricks on him as he pulled on his t-shirt - he seemed to be hearing sounds of celebration and rapture. He shook his head and carried on.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008


I don't use drugs; my dreams are frightening enough. - M.C. Escher.




Walking down the path, he couldn't feel his legs - they seemed to be walking their own path. Like those times when you've walked so long, but you're walking further, and you seem to be moving on your own accord. Floating, with no sensation; lost, in thoughts and considerations and fantasies that distract. He found there to be no destination that he had in mind, nothing to look forward to. There was only the walk; and a strange restlessness that pervaded his being, marking his thoughts with an urgent need to be elsewhere, doing something of true import and meaning, stretching beyond the confines of his narrow life.

He was in a featureless place, and there was nothing but the path, and nothing to occupy his senses. No breathtaking sights; not even sights that might cause him to continue watching. All there was a dark sky, starless and cloudless; flat ground.

And the path - paved in gold, and with yellow milestones that passed, with no indication that there was any destination that they were heralding. No numbers. No guidance, and no points of reference.

He dreamed within the dream. He dreamed of lives of meaning. Of companions of learning, of whispered conversations in the moonlight with glasses of wine with friends and lovers of things that had come and gone, of the structure of the universe, and the structure of the human mind. Of whether there was only what one perceived, and not what truly existed. The reduction of reality to electrochemical impulses in the brain. Of the nature of a reality where there was no pain.

Pain, acting as a guide. Basic instincts which keep you from harm. What would happen without them, he said aloud to his companions. How would you know where you were going? One of them laughed, swigged the blood coloured spirit in his hand, and said - you could measure the distance travelled with the blood you leave behind. The lack of pain would deaden you to the monotony of existence. Pain makes you strive. The hallmark of a tedium that owns you is one that causes you no pain, not until you're caught. And there is realisation, and a thought that salvation lies only on the other side. And you just keep on walking. In the hope that you are still whole when you get there. For even if you are on your knees, and you're submitting, you might just escape.

Suddenly, his little fantasy faded. He was back on the path. After some minutes of walking, his gaze shifted downwards. He noted without much surprise the sharp ground that he was walking on without footwear. The world exists, he thought, without the brain realising a lot of it. Without pain, it would realise less. The only way to truly know existence was to see the blood you leave behind. He turned his head to see miles of red behind him. His bleeding feet, torn; with chunks of flesh being cut by sharp rocks. Yet, there was no sensation, and no escape.

There was only the walk.

He began to whistle jauntily, as his big toe fell away. Life would only be on the other side. Perhaps it was fatalist, but he might as well try and make it there.

----------------------------------------------------

He awoke - slowly, as if he was coming out of a warm bath. A slow emergence, a heavy brain trying to emerge through the clinging fog.

Another day. He had to face the nightmares.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Reflections.



As he raised his clenched fist, he recalled his observation - that reflections aren't ever accurate; they cannot be.

His fist came crashing down upon the glass, and blood flew, as he tried to make it as accurate as it could be.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Slow thoughts trickled down his mind, teasing slowly, like the sensation of sweat moving over skin. The prickling feeling that moved to the forefront of his consciousness and made all other thoughts unviable and difficult. Obscuring, irritating, and yet alluring in a strange fashion.

He moved, shifting his weight, as he considered the nature of human character and the many conflicting impulses it engenders within. How every course of action, every choice is an amalgamation of all the different facets of you that drag you off in different directions. About how the many desires that one has can cause such a dilemna that is not easily explained or sorted out, for the many different perspectives which cause a rational mind to come to different conclusions, simply because of the different weights you give to different considerations.

He looked down upon her trussed up form, wondering what to do with her. He traced the curve of her jaw with his knife, and smiled as she strained to move away from the weapon. He smiled at this, and yet inside he felt disgust at his own actions. Remarkable. He loved eliciting reactions to stimuli within himself.

He hated using himself and other people like lab rats. Manipulating them, controlling conditions, opening some doors to make them run into mazes, chasing something elusive, while you watch from above. He loved the sense of power, the way he could determine their actions, decide who gets to live or die. He loved the look of abject terror in his victim's face. He hated the way they screamed. He loved the way he could cut it off. He hated the smell of death. He loved the sight of blood on his hands.

He paused once more, and marvelled once more upon the inherent strangeness of a fragmented brain. About the convoluted nature of man. Of how misleading it was to state that someone was single-minded. How stupid the concept of 'second thoughts' as a specific instance.

We all doubt. We all second guess ourselves. We always hate what we do, and love what we do, all at the same time. There are no absolutes. No images. No identities, just a cacophony of connected images separated bizzarely from each other yet fitting in perfectly to form a visage that truly represented the fractured reflection of a tortured and torn human being. He realised that mirrors were false, for they showed one image and one person; but a person was many, and existed in many places and thoughts at the same time. The real person was a fractured reflection of his broken physical self.

He turned to see himself. He saw it wasn't true. He decided to fix things.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Three years later, law enforcement finally caught up with him, he was found in a room with a broken mirror, writing apologies on the wall. The victim's face had been cut in a disjointed spider-web pattern, and he was caught laughing and crying alternatingly. He begged forgiveness from the world one second, and tried to kill all of it, or at least the parts of it near him trying to keep him in custody during the other.

The papers found on him were a long psychological treatise upon the variegated nature of human thought, reflected in the many fissures in society.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

He was found dead in his cell three days later, killed by a shard of mirror that had somehow come into his possession. Investigation revealed his left hand had been found attempting to stop the right.

Friday, February 15, 2008

In the defence of Atheism



*Sighs*

Forgive them, Father. They know not what they do.

These words, spoken by a man who was not the Son of God, are the only things that redeem him, in my eyes. It is a good principle to live by - forgive those that harm you through ignorance, through unintentional action. For a lot of these things are motivated by fear, and fear makes humankind act in a manner not entirely 'human'.

So, I got my response from the Ex-atheist. I think I'll call him 'The Ex', from now on. It'll make matters simpler. So, The Ex messages today, and begins by complimenting me on my blog. Thank you, I work on it occasionally. I'm glad to know it bore some fruit. He then went on to say that one must have 'trusted sources' of information. Also, agreed. However, trust is an issue, because I do not trust the Koran one whit.

He stated that his method of research was as follows -
1. Does God exist?
2. If yes, then which religion is the true one? He says he went through their authentic sources.
3. If the source had some scientific error, then it couldn't be the word of God. Since the Koran stated many 'scientific facts' that have only recently come to 'light', it must be the word of God.

Hence proved, he says. Of course, he follows this up with the scientific facts, and substantiations. He mails me some text that I am sure is taken off some website or the other, proving the perfect nature of the Koran.

This particular part of the message speaks first of the theory of probability, of which I am sure anyone reading this will be familiar with, and states that the Koran predicts, primarily, 3 scientific facts, before they were discovered or realised -
1. The Earth is round.
2. The Moon reflects light.
3. The human body is made of water.

He states that there are some 30 conceivable shapes of the Earth, hence odds of the Koran guessing that are 1 in 30. The odds of the moon reflecting light are 1/2. And the odds of the human body being made of water are 1 in 10,000, assuming 10,000 other possible substances. If one multiplies these three odds, there is a .00017% chance that this has been arrived at through guesswork. Hence, this being so overwhelmingly likely that God wrote this since it is right, and so unlikely that this is guesswork, this is the word of God.

There are two parts to the logic above - one, that these can be likened to guesses, and hence probability applies; and second, that such overwhelming odds would create a definite tendency to believe that God wrote the Koran. There is a third part to my defence of atheism, but I shall come to that at the very end.

Guesswork
These three statements by the Koran are called 'guesswork' on the basis that the 'prevailing viewpoint' at the time was to the contrary - the World was supposed to be flat, the moon was thought to be auto-luminous, etc. However, these are the prevailing viewpoints only in a certain part of the world - in Europe. It is a testament to the westernization of education that we truly believe that the world was conceived to be round only when, during the Renaissance, it was shown to be so.

This is ridiculous in the extreme. The Koran is estimated to have been written in the 8th Century AD in Arabia. In the 6th and 7th Centuries AD, there was an Indian philosopher by the name of Aryabhatta, who had come to these two conclusions already. Also, given that trade between the Western coast of India and Arabia was common at the time, such ideas were easily communicated to Arabia, and in fact the Renaissance was borne out of these ancient thoughts being transported to Europe through the interaction between Europe and Arabia many centuries later.

To the credit of the Europeans, though, they came up with this even before Aryabhatta - the Ancient Greek Astronomer Anaxagoras, from the 5th Century BC, had already thought of this, too - more than a thousand years before the Koran was written. So much for 'guesswork', really.

There is, of course, the 'guess' of the Koran with relation to the composition of the Human Body. It is stated in the Koran that the human body is made of water - well, this is a gross misunderstanding of biology, as far as I know it. While the cells of the human body are composed of 65-70% of water, it does not mean that the human body is 'made' of water. There are no components, the arbitrary 10,000 number besides. It is a ridiculous statement to make, and if God exists and did write the Koran, it must be something that causes him merriment.

Odds and Proof
Even if one assumes that the last four paragraphs have not been written, and that the Koran does make these statements against prevailing thought at the time, I think it's more than a bit of a stretch, to use probability to prove something. Probability gives odds. There is no proof in saying there's a .00017% chance of something being false, hence it is true. To mandate that millions lead their lives the way you want them to, to make them bend, bow, and scrape to an idea which may or may not be true, given that these are odds, is a crazy one. To prove something scientifically, it is not enough to prove that it is likely - a single exception would prove a scientific theory false. Hence, the mere chance that the Koran is guesswork is enough to disprove the definite existence of God. His existence might be likely, even overwhelmingly probable, but that is not enough. That is not proof. Proof, in science, is beyond any doubt.

God Existing v. Atheism
The final, little bit. Assume Atheism is wrong. Assume that God exists. Assume that the Koran is his word. What, truly, binds me to follow his word? Nothing, really. Merely the threat of punishment in the afterlife. If, in his infinite wisdom, he gives us will to do as we choose, and to follow or not follow his words, than clearly it is a decision for us to make. We can choose to take the paradise and the houris (I always wondered what faithful women got - forced lesbianism?) or we can choose hell.

I choose hell, honestly. I'd rather suffer that torment than force myself to do things that don't agree with my conscience. Islam means to 'submit' - your morals, for someone else's. I won't do that. I do not submit.

I thank you for you patience in reading this horribly long thing. If anyone is interested, I shall be glad to forward you the Ex's message, and/or send you links from Wikipedia dealing with Aryabhatta, etc. Also, if someone could find out what the real prevailing notion in Arabia was with regard to human body composition, I'd be much obliged.

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Atheism, and Why There is (Fortunately) No Heaven For Atheists.


My mother has always been concerned about my immortal soul, to be honest. I displayed a disturbing tendency, in my youth, to concentrate on the wrong parts of the holy lessons I was meant to be learning. Being brought up in a 'good' Hindu household, I learnt a lot about Lord Krishna. I would pointedly ask my mother why he was allowed to steal butter, but I was not. Not to mention, the clothes of women (I never understood why till much later). This, perhaps, set the stage for my subsequent lack of belief in God - he was permitted to mess around, but I was damned if I did anything of the sort.

Atheism came very naturally to me, even while young. Show me God, I would say, to my perplexed teachers in the Christian school I went to as a child, where under the guise of Moral and Remedial classes I learnt a good portion of Biblical tales and fables. While I found these stories interesting, I always questioned their veracity. To date, I am fascinated with religion as a way of life, but continue to stand against anyone who wishes that I believe in something I have no evidence to suggest exists.

My belief, if it may be so called, in the non existence of God or heavenly beings at all was further reinforced when I read the excellent book The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins. He looks at the 'God hypothesis', as he refers to it, and summarily rejects it. He considers all the things God has done, and proves that since these cannot be proven, there is no reason to believe that God exists. And being the healthy pessimist that he is, he states that he will not believe in something unless there is proof.

What is the proof most often given by the religious? They speak of the miracles that their texts claim to have witnessed. They speak of the resurrection of Christ, or the ascension of Muhammad. They speak of Christ turning water into wine, and of Gabriel speaking to Muhammad. And all the antics of the Hindu pantheon - don't even get me started. Nonetheless, I have continued to be absorbed in religion, which confidently refuting my faith in a so-called Higher Power.

I made a friend when I went to Pune, notwithstanding the fact that she was primarily responsible for me wearing shocking pink lipstick due to a dare. I recall that at some point while sitting down, I noticed a small bracelet, which I picked up, looked at, and then asked who it might belong to. It was a beautiful little thing, with a verse in (I'm assuming) Arabic/Persian/Urdu inscribed upon it. It is likely to have been a verse from the Holy Quran (or Kuran/Koran/Corran), and I handed it back without issue to the person whom it belonged.

I thought it'd be the last of anything religious I'd see for a while, from her or from anyone related to her. I had no reason to believe that religion would ever be something that I would discuss with her, or her kin, considering that I knew very little and next to nothing about her. That was before this message from her brother found its way into my inbox:

DUDE I WAS WANTED 2 SAY THT I WAS AN EX-ATHEIST BUT NOW AFTER MUCH RESEARCH I CAME 2 KNW THT THERES NO GOD BUT ALLAH N PROPHET MUHAMAD WAS LAST N FINAL MESSENGER!!!!
DUDE FIRST I WAS OFF DE OPINION THT PLP WHO BELEIVE IN GOD JUS HVE BLIND FAITH N THT GOD WAS JUS IN THEIR MIND BUT DUDE I GOT A SHOCK WHEN I STARTED RESEARCHING ON DE TOPIC!!!!!!
1 CAN PROVE SCENTIFICALLY N LOGICALLY DE XSITENCE OF GOD!!!!!
N KNW ALHAMDULLILA IKNW THT ALLAH XSIST ....
SO DUDE IAM SURE U MUSNT HVE RESEARED ON DE TOPIC CAUSE IF U WUD U WUD DEFINELY KNW DE TRUTH WITHOUT A DOUBT!!!!!1
SOO DUDE BEING N X-ATHEIST IKW XACTLY HOW IT FEELS BUT JUS WANTED 2 TELL U THT START RESEARCHING BEFORE ITZ 2 LATE!!!!!
IF U HVE NE DOUBT OR NE INQUIRIES 2 MAKE ILL B GLAD 2 HLP U!!!!!
GIV ME A CHANCE N ILL PROVE IT 2 U SCIENTIFICALLY N LOGICALLY THT THERES NO GOD BUT ALLAH N PRIFET MUMAMMAD IS HIS MESSENGER!!!!


I spent quite a bit of time staring at the screen, trying to reply in some fashion in my head that I thought would make sense. None came. None, at least, that I could send back as a personal missive to him. Unlike many others, he is trying to do 'good'. Given such sentiments, my normal vitriol is best avoided. I shall attempt, as far as possible, to understand what has been written.

Let's look at this, then, through kindly eyes - or at least as kindly as we can make them. The first thing stated is essentially a declaration of sorts. I was an ex-atheist, he says. I researched, and found that Allah was the only God, and the Prophet his last and final messenger. Now, I would like to respond by simply stating that I am an atheist, and have done enough research of my own to determine for my own purposes that there is no higher power of any sort.

The question, of course, now becomes what research did he undertake to thus turn him around? I cannot fathom this from the message, and anyone who can, I'd like to know what it is, so I can respond to it. All I know is, and continue to know, is that I know more about religion(s) than the average individual, because of my avid interest in mythology and religion. This stretches from the Ancient Greek and Egypt to Scientology, and I know quite a bit about Islam. While I agree that I am not a scholar, I find certain parts of the Quran to be so completely alien to my morals and my principles that I cannot stand by that text. There are several examples I could cite; however, I know that my morals are not something that I can expect others to adhere to, nor are my standards. Since these are, in essence, beliefs of mine (in the mould of "I should not do this"), I do not want to compare Islam to them, for that would be inappropriate as well as unnecessary. But the texts of Islam often condone or encourage behaviour that would be bizarre by the standards of most This is one such example: http://www.islam-watch.org/MuminSalih/Breast-Feeding-Man-Islam.htm
*NOTE: The above site is an anti-Islamic site. It's views are not mine - but the episode it alludes to in the life of the Prophet is accurate, according to the Koran. Nonetheless, it's not very intelligently written. Please read with caution.*

Let's see, shall we? I don't need saving. I don't need paradise. I don't need belief in anything but myself. Those things might be good, they might help others when they need sustenance, but I need myself in those times, and I really can't have so much to deal with in one go. I don't believe in things - they exist, or they don't. I exist. I believe in that.

If the existence of God can be proven to me, I shall believe. But I shall still not follow his precepts (if they are indeed, his) nor his rules, for I am me, and I have rules of my own.