Gods and the bingewatching religion
In 1864, a former captain in the Union army by the name of George Mackenzie (1837-1891) was arrested and imprisoned. His crime? He ran away from the ongoing Civil War. And back then, desertion was worse than apostasy. Cowardice, or at least projected cowardice, had an ugly tag attached to it. Whoever tried to run away from ‘action’ in the trenches was set up as an example. Because the idea was to keep the morale high and not let the so-called traitors bring down the tempo of the battalion. Of course, we can’t argue against the principles of 1860s with the wisdom of 2020s. Those were completely different times and there is no coming back. However, our fellow Goergie was eventually released from jail in the summer of 1865, after the war ended. He carried the abomination of being a coward but he did pretty well. To save his face, he shifted to New York and focused on his first love: chess. Two years later, in 1867, he became the US chess champion. For about 15 years, right through 1880, he scalped through with 13 straight first-place finishes in tournaments, while winning six of seven matches, with only one drawn. That stretch of a record remains unbroken. For somebody who wasn’t courageous enough for a war, he surely knew how to win battles.
Nothing else, absolutely nothing else, tells you that your body hates you when you thumb your eye. It has the perfect cocktail of idiocy, pathos, grit and comedy. The initial shock of doing that to yourself, followed by the acceptance of a bigger picture that tells you you deserve it, is a script that writes itself. You can’t compare the frustration of stubbing your toe against the furniture with the brutal involuntary attempt at eye-gouging. No, you can’t. Your eyes are precious for a reason. The only time your toes are ever noticed — and that too by you and you alone — is when your toenails need to be clipped. I thumbed my left eye last week and my immediate reaction was to angrily ask my wife — “Did you see that?” As if it was a spectacle worth bingeing on Netflix.
After a lot of thinking and casual deliberations with like and not-so-like minded folks, I’ve arrived at a forlorn conclusion: gods are necessary but we can’t be sure about religion. As social beings, we need an anchor of faith. A know-it-all entity who would ensure everybody is scared enough to be good enough to be scared enough. This sky-dweller can unite as well as divide but the very fact that the G-word is common in all cultures signals her significance. Which brings us to the annoying subject of religion. Yes, there is no doubt that religion proved to be an effective (not always efficient) tool to hold the society together. However, in the Information Age, we don’t really require any ancient/medieval/modern compilation of tenets to guide us with our overall behaviour. If anything, we’ll continue to act like terrible clones. And before we realize it, we’ll be too similar. Just like our gods.
Speaking of faith-based systems, all organized religions (OR) enjoy their prime. Think of it as a sensex for the pure and pious. Interestingly, OR cares a lot about numbers. Seeking solace in god is as important as ensuring others seek solace in their god. The phrase ‘word of mouth’ must have its origin in this endless purpose. As of now, it’s a three-way fight for the top OR between Christianity, Islam and Content. The Church openly acknowledges the decline in memberships and attendance but they haven’t conceded yet. The various factions of Islam — particularly, the most dominant Sunni sects with patronage from oil-rich Saudi Arabia — won’t stop at anything before Ummah is achieved in the true sense of its history. Christianity might enjoy the numero uno position and Islam could be the fasting growing religion but neither are as addictive as Content. Content seems to be the real OG in the OR race. As we progress, with the advancements in technology and the resulting isolations — Zoom calls connect us but before they do that, they show us that we are alone — we’ll be sucked deeper and deeper into the Scary C. We are already tasting the starters. Let’s wait and watch how the main course will be.
As a kid, I mispronounced a lot of words. I still do but back then, I got it wrong because that’s what everybody else did. For instance, we thought a popular cartoon series was called Jan Robot. Years later, I learned it was actually Giant Robot. There were many such examples of unintended malapropisms throughout my childhood. For the longest time, we use to call buildings ‘bidlings’ without realizing our folly. Since a lot of my neighbourhood friends’ dads worked in the Gulf, I thought there was actually a country called Bargaon. In fact, when I first got hold of Atlas maps, I searched for this fabulous country where men earned money from and visited home once in 2-3 years. Turns out Bargaon was a Hindustani reference to “foreign land” — the equivalent of pardes. Also, with time, I learnt that far from the fancy gifts they brought home, these gentlemen had to lead the lives of second/third-class citizens so that they could help their families have a better tomorrow.
I’ve reiterated and will continue to repeat that we don’t understand our country. You can hug a tree but you can’t hug a mountain. We, the English-speaking wannabe elites fall in the worst category; our disdain for the vernacular buries the root of our ignorance. Whatever little we know, or pretend to know, merges from our many assumptions. We read too little and learn much less. We travel very miserly but pay rich attention to our phones. Only those who have been through the length and breadth of this land know what they are talking about. The rest of us, the book dwellers, are doomed to cherry-pick an idea and remain stuck to it. Although the rote tradition ingrained in our literacy system — education is not equal to literacy — gets a lot of flak, it’s incredulous how little we actually remember from our school days. Ask around something basic — how many time zones apply to India? — people scratch their hand before looking at their watch. And somehow, these are the same ‘proud Indians’ who wash their stupidity in public. Online as well as offline. One factor is imperative: those who know seldom speak out loud. Which is why, as far as vast topics like India are concerned, seek the quiet lot. They will enlighten you with the minutest of details. They call themselves ‘boring’ because truth, by nature, is boring. Fortunately, in my lifetime, I’ve stumbled upon such gems. Such individuals base their theories on their own experiences instead of borrowing others’ hard-earned knowledge. They will tell you why India is synonymous with unique in terms of abundance as well as dearth. They will show you what Gateway of India truly means to our independence. Or where precisely one must go to time travel in Hampi. Or how Taj Mahal marries architecture with religion in the most memorable way possible. And when do you get to see the indigenous humans of northeast at their finest.
If only we could go back to this country.
What is reality? But before we delve on this timeless question, let’s try to fathom what is the opposite of reality. To us simple-minded souls, the opposite of sky is land, the opposite of love is hate, the opposite of black is white, and so on. In a similar vein, what does reality stand against? My best guess is dreams. If not, is there an alternate option. To be honest, I am yet to conclude anything worth your salt. However, I have drawn some theories around reality. It depends from person to person, circumstances to circumstances, moment to moment. For somebody in search of food, hunger is a reality. For somebody in search of fame, shallowness is a reality. For somebody bored of his privileges, luxury is a reality. You, see, realities change but its core definition remains the same for everyone.
You must have heard the good ol’ idiom positing happiness multiplies when shared. In my relatively short life, I’ve had the lucky fortune to share mine and enjoy others’ mirth. Those who love you bask in your glow; always remember this little piece of truth. Regardless, the happiness of chess can’t be shared. There is no way you’ll find somebody who would be truly happy for you when you beat an opponent who is 200 points higher rated than you. Which, sadly, leaves this peculiar species of happiness quite endangered. In fact, I’ve learnt that chess-related happiness, thanks to indifference-related complications, doesn’t multiply on sharing either. On the contrary, it shrinks.
Last week, Rishi Kapoor passed away and woke janta didn’t even wait for 24 hours before mudslinging his legacy. Not that there’s anything wrong with stating the recorded facts. Just that we can do things (read: angst journalism) with utmost decency too. Aren’t we all fighting against the lack of empathy in the first place? Anyway, I happened to meet Mr. Kapoor twice during my journalism days. Once I even sat down with him for a proper interview. Within minutes of our interaction, I noted why he had a reputation for short temper: he was remarkably impatient. But at the same time, there was no hint of a facade bollywoodwallahs are often associated with. Everything with him was too real. Perhaps because he simply didn’t care. No wonder he had the most fun answers to the most moribund questions.
Last week, in his memory, I posted a picture from 2013 when I last met him and a lot of people messaged me to know what was he showing me on his phone. So, here is what happened. We met on the day Nawaz Sharif was re-elected as Pakistan’s prime minister. And when our interview ended, we talked about random stuff and somehow the subject of elections popped up. At this point, he whipped his phone out to show me the exchange of congratulatory messages between him and Mr. Sharif. I didn’t realize it that day what this warm friendship meant. But much later, I read how Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan’s first official performance in India was arranged by Mr. Kapoor during his wedding in 1980.
No matter how you feel at your worst, life is indeed precious. And it’s incumbent on each one of us to make the most of it. With a little help from strangers we might just make it. Don’t you think so? After all, who isn’t a stranger in this overcrowded planet of ours? One day, a person you know is alive and the next thing you learn is that person is gone for good. Only a vague paint of memories left inside a termite-infested cupboard called brain. You don’t have to be a Buddha — yes, there were many Buddhas before Gautama and there were many Buddhas after him — to acknowledge the essence of your existence. We are here to fill a gorgeous gap. We may not be everything but we are something and that is not nothing. As for others, isn’t it amazing that the very fact that somebody you love and admire is alive somewhere is more than enough for you?
