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"Hey, you philosophysing Hindu. Give me a break, Buddy. I was just pulling your leg. [...] I want the rest of the story. Really, I mean it.” Theson said nothing. [...] “I can see you’re mad at me. I was only clowning to get you out of there. You realize how long we were in there? The Mensa closes at three.”
“Really, there’s nothing much more to say. I don’t know how I fell for your faked eagerness...[...] I don’t know if you’re serious about Krishnamurti either.”
“No, really, I swear on my mother’s head. I’m dead serious. I want to know all you can tell me about the Baagvedgittaa or what d’ya call it.” He came closer to Theson as they got out of the building. “Do ya want me to stand on my head to prove that I mean business? That I’m damned sorry about it all. Hey, Buddy? Then, here goes!” he announced, and proceeded to take the position of the shirshasana yogic posture right there in the middle of the entrance to the Mensa building. Dev interlocked his fingers, knelt down, lowered his head, placed his palms on the crown of his head, and was just about to pivot his legs up and above his head when Theson held his legs and brought him down. Some students who stood nearby in little groups of twos and threes turned to look at them. They probably must have thought Dev was preparing to perform his afternoon prayer, facing Mecca, but then he was facing northwest while crouching down and would only have faced southeast if he could have completed the yogic posture.
“Okay, I give in. Let’s go sit there. There… under that tree,” urged Theson and directed him by the arm towards an aging oak tree.
…how long does it take to live one life…learn the lessons of a lifetime…find the time to live…find the time to sort things out…know what you did was wrong…know in whom lay the blame…what court hears your plea over your unwanted unwilled birth…who is there to tell you here is where you went wrong in the choices you made…take you by the hand and tell you this is not your making…this is all a dream…a dream that’ll never come true… what… is the maker a masochist…to what enduring purpose have you been asked to join the rest… would you want sex if you knew who you would put into this world… is there a crime more despicable than the life you engender into a world you cannot foresee… can you live as long as your progeny to protect them from the torture your genes prepare them for… can you provide for the unforeseen… for the dark that awaits you…your own faults visited on someone else you could never have conceived in thought…since the yonder is dark unknowable for all you know empty… why continue… what ultimate purpose aeons from now affects you… is there a purpose to purpose…we search and search and see far enough only to be told we are getting closer and closer to the truth… nearer and nearer to the eternal truth… the one single formula to explain it all… the unified theory of theories… only to be told in between lie the dark matter the black holes three times the known dimensions of worlds hidden within unfathomable dungeons of universes buried beyond sight beyond thought… all exploding colliding intermingling intersecting in the unreachable distance that may have been but never probably was…that the infinitely tiniest world releases the infinitely bigbangish universe… who is to believe we’re going anywhere… who is to believe we are going some place…can you conceive of anything of anybody of anybeing of any self-making engine who/which can create an ounce of space let alone the mighty exploding skies hidden within atoms… can you conceive of a plan so complex so minute so self-propagating so complete so thorough from time immemorial to time eternal from the ends of the endless space which could have inhabited some mighty self-sufficient all-mightiness…and yet it is true… it must be true…how else can you explain this eternal laila this eternal ephemeralness this eternal dance…nadarajah stomping twisting flailing his six arms in all six pairs of eye-directions…siva the destroyer…siva the adept dancer…siva the twelve to twenty-nine strings dancing vibrating in dimensions unseen to the eye… IT is there to be seen and be wondered at to be felt and to be suffered to be thought of and to keep thinking about to be befuddled about and to be flabbergasted about to know that IT exists… touch yourself and you touch the IT… think you’re touching and you’re the IT thinking… but spread your fingers and cry abacradabra… no matter materializes no ready-made canvass no finished book no symphony drops from your hand… is this a mystery… is this a joke… if i’m part of the IT why is there no nothing at my command… are we then part of the IT… can we be part of the IT… or is the IT split into smithereens no more the IT… no more the creating preserving destroying omnipotent IT the dancing Nadarajah the thundering Rudra the wailing Vayu the slaughtering Kali the admonishing Krishna the cool beneficent Vishnu…is the IT then in need of its sundered parts…must we all come to gather come together to save the IT and put IT back into place… put IT back in ITS self-conceiving womb never again to see the light of the Brahma Day…is the IT in need of all the consciousnesses IT split into to constitute ITS once inconceivable consciousness…is this the Christian redemption… is this the Mohamedan heaven watered by streams of milk by date-palm oases to the sound of the singing of seventy-two virgins… is this the Buddhist nirvana… is this the Taoist-Stoic submission to the ways of Nature…if not what purpose is there to a finishing finite world… what purpose is there to extending a quest for betterment when the Aztec sun drunk with human blood never rises again…when suns quasars galaxies universes are all doomed to be exploded out of their orbits… what purpose to so much human suffering and animal and insect and plant degradation…
(c) T. Wignesan. Ice in my Eyes Smoke in Yours. Allahabad: Cyberwit, 2016, 672p.
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