Life, Laughter and Everything Else

This is the story of what the meditation retreat I went to in the South of Thailand in a Buddhist monastery ( I don’t want to name them in case they find out I killed mosquitoes while I was there) was like. There were about 136 of us of which about 130 were Caucasians with about a 60:40 guy to girl ratio. Most of them were, I suspect, between 20-30 years, with a handful of seniors and some who seemed to be going through a mid-life crisis. About 20% of them would drop out over time before the course was over. On Day 0, we were told to surrender all our electronic devices, watches, books and writing material and warned not to talk to each other or risk getting expelled from the monastery. I sneaked some writing material in but, like most others, adhered to the other demands to embark on a journey when every day was pretty much like the other. This is my story. Waking up The bell at the 2 storey bell tower ran punctually at 4 am every morning and the ringing went on for a

My left hand lies curled in a tight fist between my thighs, while the right presses stiffly against the coarse leather of the steering wheel, bearing the burden of the task. Though to call it a burden would be an overstatement of an activity that once gave me a sleepless 23 hour flight but now bordered on mindlessness. Now, being on the that road, at that time, when even the sun was too lazy to rise from its sleep, was second nature to me. Thoughts raced through my mind, thoughts about the destination I was headed to. The bulk of them recollected old frustrations and the remainder imagined new ones. My left fist curl tighter as I sped ahead in the air conditioned cocoon. I try to keep to the right of the two lanes as I drove, quasi subconsciously,  at 60 miles per hour on a a 65 mile per hour lane, which still had an additional legally tolerable 10 mile per hour buffer. Lost in my unending imaginings, I stay at that speed until an even slower traveler in front jerk me into

I lost $124 gambling. Statistically speaking, it was not meant to work that way. The first time I came across the game, roulette, was at casino in New Orleans when my friend explained it to me. One simply bet on which color the dice would fall on, red or black. If the bet was in my favour, the winnings would double. If not, I lost everything. I theorised, based on my years of probability education, that it was possible to win the game, as long as the stake was raised by double every time I lost.  Therefore, if the game had worked out the way I predicated, when I bet $4 for the first throw on red and lost, I had to bet $8 on the next. If I lost that, next bet would be $16. Do the math and eventually when one wins, which was a guarantee at some point because one always had a 50% chance of winning, one would have made $4.  Just that I lost every single round from $4 all the way to $64.  Call it sheer rotten luck. I bet on red and it did not turn up the 5 rounds I put my m

Radioactive by Imagine Dragons. For most people, this was yet another pop song that lingered in the Top 40's about two and a half years back. When I first heard it, it had a catchy anthem like melody and like every novel tune, it too would have faded into obscurity after days of continuous listening had it not been for one place. Sweden. It happened, by chance, that I caught onto the tune at a time when I flew over to Sweden for my exchange and it was the first song I plugged into listen when I had settled myself comfortably in the warm Swedish hostel. From that point onwards, the song to me became Sweden. The freezing winter, the quiet breakfasts, the dark afternoons, the anxiety as I tugged my luggage into my accommodation, the awe as I explored a city so strikingly different and beautiful, the excitement of just finally reaching there and wondering what the country held for me. All those feelings just comes flooding back when I hear that one song. Makes me want to ret

It was amusing, the two of them together, asking to take pictures at every corner of the street, at every sight they felt was interesting or eye catching, that they did not want to erase from their memory and wanted to show proudly to their friends and family when they went back home. They would wear their sun glasses and stand prominently next to their object of interest and smile. The 38 degree weather had clearly exhausted them, but when it came to photos, there was no stopping them.  The frustration and helpless in my friend was even funnier, him trying to coax the two older women to stop taking pictures, to move them along so that they could move onto the next destination. "Mummy, why do you want to take so many pictures?", he would implore. "Chottu, it is very pretty know?", his mum would respond sheepishly. He would grit his teeth. She would keep the ipad. And the whole process would start 10 minutes later.  And I would just laugh. So

"Sweeeeeet Caroline.......Ba Ba Ba", the crowd chanted in unison. I could not help in but join in the catchy chorus though it was the first ever time I had heard it and when it came to that part again, I sang even more heartily with the rest of the crowd. Thanks to that piece alone, the rather drab patriotic performance by the orchestra on the night of July 4th was saved. And as I stared into the sky in wonder as the fireworks started, I recalled that it had been half a year since I shifted residence to the 'greatest country on Earth'. I knew what to expect when I landed, for American soft power had been extremely successful in reaching every nook and corner of the globe, to the frustration of most intellectuals. Materialistic, superficial, know-nothings, paternalistic, endlessly interested either in the weather or the lives of their dogs and the list does not end (especially if you ask the French). Most of these cultural nuances, as I found out, were pretty spot

The videographer slid open the transparent door. The air blew in, fresh and cold. The pressure in my ears continued to build up and the twin propeller plane continued to rise in a steep ascent. The instructors and the amateurs shared fist bumps and high 5's to build some courage. "We will go third", she shouted in my ears behind me and I nodded in agreement. First went the videographer. Then the first pair went up to the door and they steadied themselves. The instructor asked the girl, locked to the contraption on his chest using a series of safety locks, to put her feet at the narrow edge of the plane while he placed both his arms on the two ends of the doors to hold them inside. Then after about 4 seconds he let go and they were gone, out of sight. The second pair did the same and my instructor pushed me up to go to the door. I moved up and placed my feet unsteadily on that thin stair at the edge of the plane. The wind was stronger. Before I had any time to think,

"My mum used to tell me. Never chase after girls. Be successful and they will chase after you" , he proclaimed with all due seriousness, something that amused me given the passion with which he chased after (and successfully seduced) them. "I am not sure if that is the type of girl I want. Because it sounds like she wants my success more than she wants me" , I retorted. He thought for a quick second. "She did not mean it in that way. She meant have the right kind of character and you will attract the right kind of woman" Wishful thinking or reality? As they say, only the mother knows...

At last Philip said:  “Well, I can’t say anything about other people.  I can only speak for myself.  The illusion of free will is so strong in my mind that I can’t get away from it, but I believe it is only an illusion.  But it is an illusion which is one of the strongest motives of my actions.  Before I do anything I feel that I have choice, and that influences what I do; but afterwards, when the thing is done, I believe that it was inevitable from all eternity.” “What do you deduce from that?” asked Hayward. “Why, merely the futility of regret.  It’s no good crying over spilt milk, because all the forces of the universe were bent on spilling it.” -Of Human Bondage, W. Somerset Maugham Once in a blue moon, life brings a quotation or epiphany to light that altogether changes one's perspective of something. Elizabeth Taylor's 'Nothing lasts. Did you notice that?', was one that reduced the exaggerated importance of the to-do list that society imposed on me.

radio: . . . garrison already decimated by the Vietcong, who lost 115 of their men . . . woman: It’s awful, isn’t it, it’s so anonymous. man: What is? woman: They say 115 guerillas, yet it doesn’t mean anything, because we don’t know anything about these men, who they are, whether they love a woman, or have children, if they prefer the cinema to the theatre. We know nothing. They just say . . . 115 dead.                                                                                              —Jean-Luc Godard, Pierrot le Fou It was like any other postcard, brief and handwritten briskly. It described something that had caught the writer's eye, something that had reminded her of her childhood, something that she wanted to share with someone who was part of that childhood. I found it while clearing his table, stained by water and decay in the box under the table. I did not know who he was, the man who used to sit at the table. I did not know if the postcard was intended

Having temporarily being resettled in Houston, where pedestrian paths are either absent or empty enough to make you wonder why you are walking, I have had no choice but to hop on a car rental program. Interestingly, the program requires that the car be returned every month for a new one, a practise while seemingly troublesome, is a joy in experimentation, with every car bringing with her, her own unique character. Here are their stories... Mitsubishi Lancer The very first one. She eased me into the American life, their left handed habits and showed me the freedom of America's big highways. Rarely demanding and quietly efficient, I had no complaints, except one.  She came with a smell.  I tried what I could. Perfumes, air fresheners, all, but the smell wouldn't go. At first uncomfortable, I got used to it after a while, but every time one of my friends met her, they would ask, "Oh, whats that smell?" or "Waah! The smell still there?" and

Couple of days back, I was in the lift with a couple of friends, on our way to lunch. On reaching the ground floor, the doors opened and one of them remarked. "Have you ever tried to move something with your mind? Like you stared real hard at it and hoped it would move?" I had. So had the other guy. And perhaps so have everyone else.  Not that we knew that it would move.  But what if it did?

"Lettuce, tomatoes, onions and spinach", I pointed out to the lady wearing the apron behind the counter. She looked at me questioningly. "LET-USE, TOE-MAT-OH, OH-NION, SPEA-NATCH", I repeated with better enunciation. She looked back down at the the multiple compartments of colourful mix of vegetables, leaves and fruits and methodically grabbed some from each, while repeating the names of the ones she grabbed. "Let-us, Toe-mado, Ah-nion, Spee-Nuch", she clarified. I shrank a bit in embarrassment. With every passing day in the country, my belief that the English education that I received in a former British Colony, that set high and rarely achieved standards in English for its students, was of substandard quality, strengthens. In a well intentioned effort to assimilate, I have over the past couple of months tried to mimic the pronunciation of the Texans. "Howz'it goin man?" "Ye'no"   "Can I ha

You walk into the hall. Inside, the sermon has started. The rows of dark brown wooden benches with a thick bible looking book tucked behind a craftily made shelf announces that you have entered a church. The moment you walk in, the pastor, dressed in a suit and standing on the elevated stage in front, points the crowd to turn to hymn 108. Everyone rises while you locate yourself strategically in the corner of the last row. The choir erupts in a christian like melody and you suspect if you have entered the wrong room. It was supposed to be middle eastern music. The crowd was primarily white, middle class and retired, accentuating your belief that you had arrived in a church. But there is no cross in front, nor a statue of Jesus, just rows of blocks of wood pressed against the wall like a incomprehensible, abstract contemporary art. The music is soothing, peaceful and when it ends, everyone takes their seat. The pastor then narrates something and the crowd chant a phrase in unison. You