Immortality

Gods need to be understood. It's easy to dismiss them for what they appear to be - cold, capricious, vain, insensitive. Consider Abraham and how he is led west and then east, blessed and cursed, in a rather whimsical manner. Consider Poseidon chasing Odysseus around the seas. Or Lord Shiva's inordinate wrath and vengeance. One might contend that this is a clear case of misuse of authority; a wanton and almost sadistic subjugation of the weak by the strong.

Have you considered how much time they have on their hands? It is an eternity that they have to pass. They have tried sleeping through it, and I am sure there might be some wise Gods who lie asleep, having realized inaction is just as useful or useless as action. May be we haven't heard of them as they have been sleeping all along. Or they stay awake and conscious. Now that's a struggle - to stay occupied for an eternity. A God may spend his time chatting with other Gods, or in some form of entertainment, but even that can get repetitious, considering eternity is a long time. That is probably why they created the universe in the first place. As the bible suggests God created the universe in 6 days, and on the 7th day he rested. But surely on the 8th day, he was left with a choice. Should he rest some more or do something else?

Consider the consequences of either. Sitting by and watching could mean people doing what they pleased and we all know that means people killing themselves. Lifting a finger and interfering, could also leave people in a rather helpless state. They would realize that God would act, they would grow to fear God. And then of course they would try to appease God, by offering prayer or sacrifice. That would result in notions of duty, religion and right or wrong. Which would result in law and order, and of course depending on the interpretation of God's judgment, it could mean man acting on his behalf and dealing with the non-conformists.

Having observed the consequences of action and inaction, any God could easily work out that there is no difference in either approach. Besides even if a man suffered for a while or for years or if he lived his days happily, whatever be his circumstance, he would eventually die. In the course of an eternity, what difference does it make to anything. As a God, his primary concern would be to stay occupied and interested during his waking hours. Why would you blame Him for being insensitive or uncaring? It is not His fault - it is the curse of immortality.

Blot

The sky drenched with ochre,
Careless drops of cyan,
Blot the body with
Unfamiliarity - a sensation foreign,
As yet unknown,
Of cold fingertips on my bare back.

Each drop feeding of its centre,
Breaching the definition,
The opacity of rationale,
As worms leafing through
A parchment,
Of unspoken authority.

A mythic mouth,
With bulbous lips,
Sucking the air,
And whispering,
As a wind through
A lake of reeds.

The firmament,
Is what you see,
In human waste,
Shells, debris
Of ambiguous shape,
Imprinted on the sand.

Left

There is a portrait of my father that I drew when I was 17. It was night time, and he was sitting in the drawing room of our old home. His feet would have been on a stool. His head inclined, looking down upon a business magazine. The TV was playing a news channel. He was absorbed in what he was reading. I had drawn him lost in his book. I had drawn him in charcoal. I was probably sitting on the floor and so the portrait is from a strange angle. He looked like he didn't want to be disturbed. Though I am sure after the drawing I would have shown it to him and he would have had an encouraging smile. When my father wasn't absorbed in work, he was a collector of beautiful things. Of sculptures, paintings, strange looking furniture, wall hangings and all sorts of things you would use to fill open spaces in a showcase, cupboard, or on the floor and the walls in our room. I had once painted some deer on his bedroom wall in Mumbai. Sometimes in the darkness, the headlights of a distant car would flash upon the deer, and they would run frightened. We left that place and he was sad we couldn't take the deer with us. He was very volatile, a strange chemical that would react differently and often unpredictably under different circumstance. Sometimes he'd be full of good humor and say something so witty that we'd be laughing uncontrollably. At other times he'd be exploding in a fit of anger and turning everything around him into vapor. He had inherited that temper from my grandfather and has duly left it behind for me.

My grandfather with his frizzled white hair might have been sitting shirtless, with his thick, foggy glasses scribbling his finances religiously on a piece of paper while listening to my grandmother who would have been pacing up and down the drawing room. My mom would have been at the kitchen. Victor would have been under the bed where he liked to rest, so that I won't bother him constantly. My grandfather was a meticulous man, who started a pauper but left my grandmother a house with betelnut trees that swayed agitatedly in monsoon, and my father his values and a strange sort of pugnacity to fight off the bureaucracy that seemed to follow him like a shadow. He left me an aspiration.

In my grandfather's bedroom is the portrait of a man I have never met, neither have my father and my grandfather. He is my great grandfather - my grandfather was a posthumous child. They say he died of cholera and that he loved music.