A hot simmering summer and a forlorn tree, placed prominently in the foreground, has  immeasurable wisdom to convey. The breeze is warm and blowing in all directions the mind can take, festering the land of man and women with whirl devils. Pinionated to its pride on the ground of its birth, this tree is an epitome of courage as if resisting rancorous thinkers of heaven and earth and at the same time exuding profound beauty with it terse arborisation denuded of foliage, symbolising equability in discomfit. The tree characterises a bouddhic melee with the nature of things, stultified and yet endowed with puerile hortatory of nothingness. Profanity would too find a place underneath this tree, among the penetrating and onerous light from the heavens and the swaddling winds of the land. An abrupt mystical and perspicacious vision fords this external torment with inner peace. Profanity in obsolescence may be the way to the singular religion when the self-pejorative, tenuous caul of beliefs are gradually denuded. And the lonesome tree once again will bloom to give comfort to the traveller, reborn in ignorance with the comfort of singularity. And then again another season shall follow.

some will yet take the challenge.

A lush green meadow caught my mind. A hillock boasted to a decapitated mountain plateau about how the thrilled trekkers would come together at the base camp, to GARNER courage before attempting to climb the daunting crag. The last evening would be spent around a campfire, with the leader making an INCENDIARY speech about the challenges of such an adventure. After he has satisfied himself about the fiery friction between caution and courage, the audience would precipitate into a cheerful and enthusiastic response. However as the night grew deeper, the wishful meadow would cast a spell of ASTRINGENT dreams, honouring life on the green home and giving every reason against a perilous advance. And in the morning, the visual beauty of the surrounding landscape would have the UNIQUE effect of further discouraging most of the members from taking to climbing. They would enjoy life as it is. Yet a few would opt for the alternative choice and proceed to face the uncompromising difficulties of the climb wishing only to see the beautiful meadow on the plateau.

Just a scribble-
' ... We AGGREGATED the cards on the table. They were stacked high, each one having been worked upon for years. They were the result of backbreaking research with various animal species, making a gradual ascent towards homosapiens. So what could be at stake? A dark cloud often betokens a storm, so does a meeting of contrarian thoughts BETOKEN a tumultuous argument, especially if it concerns rigorous science with ethical dilemma. Unfeigned efforts on both sides tend to stretch the cord to breaking points. And at such sunder verge, the stakes could be very high, enough to generate serious antagonism, breaking the barriers of veneration. For the crestfallen pole, it interprets doom. Such are the turbulence of rigorous scientific test of present day. These displeasures cannot be displayed ostensibly among the commons. And such hummocks are treaded every day by scientist working on the frontline with no space for COMMISERATION. Many are lost to oblivion, some revive, few thrive, and very few make it to the millions. This was one of those congregations where we lie between abject and appreciation. The brains pride was at stake....'

8/07/2018
On the streets of Mumbai - a memoir.

These streets are too many, treaded too often. Connected to each other and yet in a maze-like manner, it probably takes a lifetime to realize that they all lie in continuity. I use to walk the trail from Chatrapati Shivaji terminus to Jahangir art gallery with intent to CONTEMPLATE art thought to be an aggregate impression of the contemporary youth. As soon as I would exit the railway station, I would experience a qualm amongst the dense crowd unique to Mumbai. The streets would at once widen into the crossroads and then converge into a constricted pedestrian pathway. It was the dubious life on the narrow gangway which possibly attracted me the most. It used to be a showcase of virtue and vices. It was from such insensitive, moot, unscrupulous and reprehensible vendors that I bought books like the biography of Einstein and novels by Hermann Hesse and at the same time peeked at the cover packs of imported condoms and pheromones. Neither was the ear spared with incendiary invectives being deposited every now and then. Since they followed so frequently, none appeared to last long to parse and contemplate. It became imperative to quicken my steps in such situations, suspecting subterfuge with every pair of eyes fixed on me. I was taught that such shall betoken incendiary outcome too fictitious for the kind of politeness inculcated in me by my family. With such thoughts above and painful feet due to the dilapidated pebbled path beneath was an experience which would create exhaustion and exaltation. On reaching the street gallery, I would quickly glance at the many oil and water coloured paintings with a certain hubris or confidence about the contextual association with efforts at intellectualization. I still remember my prefatory enthusiasm experience an acerbic disappointment at the soporific and uninflected themes. The pain in my feet would revolt and sunder my intentions to enter the gallery. I have often spent time sitting on the stairs leading to the main display and rarely the exhibition inside. Or maybe my mind was more interested in leaving the gallery and walking on the streets of Mumbai, in its derelict and seemingly endless curiosity.

My take

Book : The passions of the mind

Author : Irving Stone

When I bought this book at a premium price for a seconds, I was full of expectations for an enriching experience. I had already read two more  books authored by Irving stone, namely ‘Lust for life ‘and The Agony and the Ecstasy ‘ and had a mixed experience about the characters.

Biographies are end results of an amalgamation of the nature of subject and the authors efforts at presentation with a worthy analysis. This book unfortunately did not satisfy  either and the onus of responsibility falls heavily on the author for bringing forth a disappointing story  about  the life of a persona whom we visualized as a light-post during our search for knowledge. As for myself, am not interested in the trivialities of inter-personal relationship and the groveling for honorariums and awards. It was certainly the unlikable part of the story albeit it may be true. It was like reading words by its letters and forgetting the intended meaning or the context.  What was missing most was an independent analytical composition about the person and the very reason of remembering him today and for ever in the future. I suppose the book caused greater harm than good to the image of the man glorified in our textbook and scientific journals. Do I then intend to suggest the there was a need to censor the contents and reveal only the truth that is likable by the scientific community or the pro-Freudians of whom I am a representation? On the contrary, I wish to insist that the purpose of the book is to highlight or bring forth in an analytical process the strength within the weakness of both the person under evaluation in the context to the existing society and cultural behavior of the time. Authors need to develop, in the reader, the right perspective of the matter in discussion, by inserts and concluding notes along with the textual facts.

In most of all humanity, and possibly, generations to come , the history of the famous and the reputed scientist will be marred by the tryst for professional and public recognition. Without doubt some are successful in it and the others are not. Those who are not , most often get their  recognition post humus.  Among the fears for not being recognized in the life time and the non-acknowledgement of the science, the prior looms large. Self recognition is a primitive motive and often over-shadows the rational thoughts of a person. Fear of being over-thrown by a competing idea which creates monsters within, burgeons jealousy, putting a halt to assimilative creativity and results in irresolute censorship of the idea or the person. Both of which would be unnecessary if one gave a little seat space for the new idea to  fit in and for all one knows, the added knowledge with fill in a lacuna in a complicated process. If Freud did believe in his science of psychoanalysis, he should have been able to give some play of leverage to the possibility of integrating the thoughts of his colleagues. Certainly he lacked it gravely since he did not loose one but many friends who, did independently, contribute to the science and are remembered as masters in the field. Assimilation needs reasoning, that all beauty cannot be possibly perceived from a single perspective and another thought or view point may be able to contribute. Such an argument takes a lion’s heart and a fearless mind. 

Sigmund Freud’s biography was hijacked by many characters during his many stages of his life. His need for recognition by the university and the opinions of the eminent neurologists of his time were overbearing. And yet he budges in the direction of not continuing academic career , a decision which was influenced by Martha in his life. Through out the story as related by Irving stone, he continues to be often remarkably affected by the opinions of Martha – may be a trivial more than what is considered reasonable today. Freud’s personal life certainly has much to do with his thought process and the ease and rigidity with which he managed to associate much of the etiology of neurosis to sexuality.  The aspect of his personal sexual life remains fairly concealed for the biography of a person who attributed the same in abundance to the scrutiny of every other patient under evaluation. Of course, it may be claimed, indulging into such details is no longer necessary, since over the period gone by, we have a far better view point of personalities like that of Sigmund Freud. The whole biography should have been reviewed with an epilogue from the perspective of the modern concept of psychology.

Further reading about more analytical works by other authors, who were critical of Freud, both with regard to his personal life and the professional work, reveal a very murky side of the story marred by lies and deceit. Hence the contents of the book were certainly censured at multiple stages. It was indeed evident towards the end chapters that an attempt to prematurely terminate the discussion was being forced. 

We walked together, my father and me

A feather from nowhere flew in front of us

With an expression of deep pleasure 

For the feather to rest, my father held his palms together

He said he knew the quill well, long before I was born.

It was the belonging of a bird who lives many stories

And someday disappears to return to the child who will be to follow.

This bird is mine and the feather carries memories

I was intrigued at the mention of memories and immediately requested

What else does the feather say?

As he  read the feather and the message was as follows

There is a decoration  about which we are to be proud

The owner was unpretentious and kept the matter in humble mention

He lived a mundane life with the common success and errors in  his mind

He assured his father was never disrespected

 Because to the common he was reputed

As years passed the little piece of metal was safely kept away into a common mans chest

I was shown this piece when I was a child

and often had a feeling  of pride

With time I too lost the thought

to some part of my pleasant memory.

In the meantime the tinker lay in the darkness of the chest quietly

So dark it was that a generation passed by

Lonely and untouched it thought it was lost to the abysmal depth of the timeless

And look now this feather has reminded me of the forgotten medal.

They who forgot to value, forgot it even existed

And quietly we walked along

I could feel my father feel his begetter

On inquiry I was able to retrieve the medal from an aunt who loved me.

She was prompt to give it to me as a family memoire

When I showed my father his lost inheritance

there was a face flushed with memories

But once I saw the eyes of a son

the pleasure of being identified through his father

Nearly a century later the tinker found its value

as a memory keeper  to our family

And with silent pride in the heavens he heard – we love you father.

As we walked the stretch talking about the medal

My attention was drawn off the feather

I realized that it had disappeared and my father’s hand was by his side following the swing of his stride.

To my surprise he reassured that the feather will come back at another time

When I shall walk the stretch with my son

 to remind me of something I will have forgotten

and hence is preserved the link – not in the object with the memory

but the bird who sheds a  feather in its flight

A beautiful mind is a wonderful reading. I read the book after seeing the movie and there is no doubt that the movie is a wonderful remake of the books content. It is an amazing story of a genius, as has been commented in so many of its reviews. The genius in Prof Nash remains exceptional and at the same time seen a common form among many other men and women of the same order esp among mathematicians. My attention however was drawn to another aspect of the story line. It is the story of the understanding and changing attitude towards the illness which we today s easily recognize as schizophrenia. This is an amazing illness both due to its intellectual association and its shadowy presence throughout human civilization and its evolution. It will not be wrong to say that society has cultivated this kind of mind related illness and started preserving them among us, and not for reasons of mere succor but also due to the unparallel contributions they have made. Is this then a cultural strength or the outcome of liberal views?

Men and women lived during the ages of darkness, had children, cultivated lands had their meals and died at a certain age. We still do the same with yet immense light beyond the darkness, we have lit. We still have the same adversities and the same distance, the same lack of essentials in spite of the amazing scientific progress we have made in the century gone by. And yet we all agree that we are in the right direction of progress. Where then do we place Nash and Ramanujan? This is the investment that we do in our society waiting for spurts of progress. Don’t we  also risk the possibility of increasing such personalities traits in the community? A rather objectionable thought!  I thence come to my greater enduring point. The role of science in the understanding of this and similar illness. Today we have been able to understand the psychopathology of this illness with fair certainty and yet more will be known in years to come. We are able to intervene early in organized societies and thereby allow their strengths to be recruited. During my last 15 years into clinical practice I have seen a remarkable change in the approach to such patients and their betterment. I have experienced depression and anxiety beyond limits myself. I have experienced the benefits of insight development. I have come in close correspondence with existentialism and a lingering tag of , if not schizophrenia, something close to it.

And some day in my dream

I see myself  surrounded in me

Cluttered by resounding staplers

I protest in the wake of freedom

We exist and they fail to agree

Who but our  own reflections

Simmering beneath  a running stream

Pratyush