Banaras - 1

Banaras. Varanasi.  Kashi. 

Banaras called me. It has been calling me for some time at least, I cannot remember for how long. I have come to the conclusion that sometimes it is hard to pin point the exact origin of a desire. Some desires linger for a long time before you even notice them, perhaps Banaras was one such for me.

I am not in any sense a devout hindu. I have no conscious desires of making any teerath yatras. So I am not sure why Banaras was calling me, what could I have to do there. I wasn't in any hurry to respond. 

The reason for a watchful delay on my part was that years ago haridwar had called me, and I went. Only to be sadly disappointed in myself and in Haridwar. It was just so filthy and dirty, I did not get it. Why could we not even manage to keep our holy cities clean, why did they have to be so full of stray dogs, cow dung, and flies. Why did we insist on playing to the Indian stereotype in the western world. How could we expect non-indians to modify the image they have of India if we cannot modify our own behaviour. I was angry. but more importantly I was dismayed that I could not bring myself to bathe in the ganga. Now call me a hopeless romantic, but to me there is something very grand and poetic about ganga nahana. and I wanted to do it. Only I couldn't. Just did not have the stomach for it. and I kicked myself after. I mean, what the heck, how could I have been such a sissy. How could I have travelled eleven thousand kilometres to specifically take a ganga snan in harridwar and then chicken out just because the water was so dirty. I am not sure I have completely forgiven myself even now.

Hence, in no hurry to run to Banaras. I would go, as far as reasonably possible - I would go, at my own pace, in my own time, without any discomfort to anyone.

This time I would go prepared, expecting the worst, if foreign tourists could do it, so could I. This time I was older, wiser, stronger. What is a little bit of dirt.

What was that – easier said than done. Yes sir.

I had said that until I watched flies buzzing over feces and then sitting on top of mounds of dough being rolled into balls for pooris not one feet away. Feces, and pooori dough, and rasgullas all next to each other, right there. I cannot get that image out of my head. I wasn’t sure if some poor fly had not been caught in the roll and was trapped inside the little peda ready to be rolled and fried. I feel like I am going to throw up even as I write this. And no, as strong and resilliant as I think I am, I could not bring myself to eat any poori kachodi from any stall in Banaras. And man was I glad for the rain the spoiled M’s plan to eat chaat papdi after ganga arti. More on that later.

For now the story from the beginning, a quick flashback in true hindi film style.

At some point in the last year or so I became aware of a strong desire to go to banaras. After my lovely Yellowknife trip, I figured why not. I asked my husband, he said why not. I asked M, she said why not. Since none of us knew the answer, we just went ahead.

I think M did face some resistance at home, some querries that weren’t completely answerable, I am assuming her husband must have asked her the opposite, why, why banaras. And she must have not cared much about where she went as long as she went somewhere by herself without kids and husband, just being out and about on her own would have been reason enough to say yes to Banaras.

And so it came about that I found myself sitting beside M, on a flight to Banaras, unable to get rid of the incessant humming in my head of this crazy loop of ‘thaathon me thaath banarasia. Ghaaton me ghaat banarasiya.’ I had this reccurant image of a kathhak dancer in a white anarkali, gold dupatta, fragrant flowers dancing on a ghaat in banaras, and maybe a part of me wants to be that dancer.

There is a part of me that wants to dance right here in this flight, only, no leg room. Did you know that if you wanted to sit in the exit rows you must pay extra now, because they have extra leg room.

I had never heard of that. Time was they offered to move you out of the exit rows if they had space coz no one wanted to sit in them. Perks of getting older – when things surprise you, they just completely surprise you. You have absoblankinglutely no idea when the paradigm shifted, and how bloody long you have been out of the loop.

We take a couple of selfies, and then for no apparent reason M asks me - तेरा गंगा नहाने का तो कोई प्रोग्राम नहीं है न.  Now, in all honesty I had not thought of this option, yes, going to Banaras, not thinking about this, slow-poke. But now that this question has been asked, I am thinking about it, and now that I am thinking about it, I suppose it is the only logical thing to do, मतलब  प्रोग्राम था तो नहीं पर अब हो गया है. Talk about the observer influencing the observed. M tells me in no uncertain terms that she is not joining me in this lunatic plan. I offer no resistance. As long as she is not going to stop me from dipping into the ganga, I am good to go.


We decide to hire a taxi from inside the airport, figure that is the safest - बनारसी ठग मशहूर हैं, सुना होगा आपने. And as soon as we walk out are we glad we did that or what. Because even though the airport on the inside looks very similar to Delhi airport the scene on the outside is certainly different from Delhi. Men in white dhoti- kurta with long saffron tilaks, and ray ban sunglasses, riding triplicate on a motorcycle - sorry I have only seen that in movies.

To my credit I very quickly picked up that I was not actually on a movie set, so I corrected the curious smiling expression on my face as I ogled these people. Wasn't sure if M saw that, I would have gotten a glare if she had. I tried to hide my glee, and be mindful of what I looked like from their point of view. Two brown Indian aunties in capri and jeans had seemed so normal in the flight, but right now all those other people had somehow vanished. We were on new territory and we looked conspicuous. So we were glad to locate our taxi and prayed we find a decent driver. I think we did, he was a nice kid.

On route from the airport to the hotel.

I loved everything about our ride from the airport to the hotel.

Banaras was living up to my expectations. I had walked back in time, right into the India of my childhood, the small town India.

गलियों में घूमती गाय , साईकिल की घंटी, और छोटी दुकानों पर हाथ के पेंट किये हुए बोर्ड.

 Delhi with its high powered malls, and crazy car infested roads does not strike that chord with me, or so I found out as I clicked pictures here in Banaras.

M thought I was acting like a tourist (not meant in a good sense on her part).

My goal in taking these pictures is not to present an artistic composition, but to show you what you would have seen had you been there.

By the time we reached the hotel, I decided that I was not acting like a tourist, I actually was a tourist, and it was time I got comfortable being one.

So I told M to get over it and take my pictures as I let the lady at the hotel greet me with a traditional tilak, like I said if the goras can do it so can I.
















That is the beauty of a good old friend, you can tell them stuff, and they can take it. You can be comfortable doing things around them even those that they do not completely approve of. M took my pictures and slowly eased into accepting this new me.

It was still early for the hotel restaurants to open for lunch, and I was itching go eat real Banarasi food anyways. M had me hankering for malai gilloris by now.

At least three different people we spoke to in the hotel assured us that you could simply walk out on the street and find thelas for kachoris, so what if three other people in that very same hotel had given us the how-do-I-break-this-to-you-this-is-not-a-good-idea expression. They didn't know us, it seemed like a fairly easy goal to accomplish.

We asked them for a name to tell the rickshaw-wallah to take us to. I laughed at the door man telling me - आध घंटा रुक जाइए, इधर लंच शुरू हो जायेगा, आप खा नहीं न पाएंगी वहां पे. Yeah right. You think I have travelled all the way from Toronto to eat in your five star hotel.

मुझे तो सड़क के किनारे खड़े किसी ठेले पर, पत्ते के दोने में, खट्टी चटनी के संग, खस्ता कचोरी खाने की इच्छा खींच के ले आयी है. अब तो बस वही खाएंगे।

Not to ruin the surprise but, we when we left Banaras two days later, we left without eating either - malai gillori or kachoris.  आखिर किस्मत किस चिड़िया का नाम है...

We found a rickshaw who asked for forty rupees to take us to this place, which did not seem reasonable to me, for did they not tell us inside that we could just walk out and find a thela for kachoris, isn't that the standard nashta for Banaras. Why are we being sent to this far off place, I am not eating in any facny shmancy restaurant. Thankfully M does not think like I do, she also does not like standing on the road and arguing with rickshaw-wallahs.
अब बैठ जा.
चालीस रुपये?
कोई बात नहीं, तू चल बस.
पैदल का रास्ता होगा
She climbs on to the rickshaw not leaving me with many options.

On route I am still not sure why we are being packed off to so far away, there should be something right here, right next door. I suppose I have a notion that in India one should not have to travel very far to find good vegetarian indian food, it should just be available right where you are.

I decide to take more pictures. I am looking forward to exploring Banaras. I have decided to not eat at the hotel any day. I am going to walk around here and find some quaint little place to have my morning chai tomorrow. I am going to strike up conversations with strangers, I am going to enjoy being a tourist. Yes, I am aware of the security issues. No I am not completely devoid of common sense.

The rickshaw keeps taking us farther and farther from the hotel. Now we are both not sure where we are going, and how we could get back to the hotel.

He drops us near a rundown building that claims to be a mall. I clamp up, this is not what we were looking for, we did not ask you to bring us to a mall. He points to a large blue dhabha on the other side of the road. Oh.

But it looks strange, feels even stranger, something is not right here.

This feels like the industrial area of the town. There are used tire shops if there is such a thing, and some kind of auto repair place. Doesn't seem like a place local people would come to eat.

We walk into the very deserted eatery. Instinctively I wonder if it is safe to go further. I tell myself I cannot mind the dirty tables and grease smeared walls. I deliberately try to unsee the water jugs.

The man sitting in the small alcove like reception is surprised to see us, that is not a good sign. There is a dull TV set in the far left corner way inside. The two men at the lone occupied table turn around to look at us in puzzled excitement - not exactly confidence inspiring.

I don't know how to walk out from this, wasn't I the one so gung-ho about eating out on the streets.

Banaras has to be full of tourists, where are they eating, certainly not here. We should go somewhere else - not the hotel- but somewhere else.

I turn to look for M, she is dismayed. She walks away from the man in the alcove, and points to a pile of very filthy dishes, that I must have missed walking in. My safety detection radar takes precedence over my muck detection radar.  I close my eyes.

We look at each other. We are both thinking it. Who is going to say it. M does. 'I cannot eat here'.  Oh thank god, neither can I. We dart out of that place, like birds from a cage.

On the street we try to hail a couple of rickshaws, where to, I still want to find some place local to eat, M thinks not, go back to the hotel is her mantra.

Ridiculous, they want to charge sixty, ninety, hundred rupees to take us back. Are you kidding me.

Why would I pay you more to take me back the same distance that I paid you forty to bring me here for?

Like I said M does not like standing on the road and arguing with rickshaw-wallahs.

We are sitting in an auto who we have agreed to pay eighty rupees to take us back to the hotel.

This math is not making any sense to me. We are now spending a hundred and twenty rupees and the good part of an hour to get back to square one. I don't usually give up in one try. Besides, I am not looking forward to the doorman telling me  हम कहे थे न आपसे ...

about followers

Here's the thing, when I started writing my blog, I was very sure that I was not doing it for anyone else, I was doing it purely for me, I did not want to get conscious of my future audience while I was writing it.

I want to write for its own sake and then if someone reads it, its at their own risk and if they like it or not its a side effect from my point of view.

The audience and their reaction was not what I was working towards.

This action is its own end kind of philosophy. Actually all my life is based on that philosophy, or so I think that it is.

But, today I find myself questioning that. And the reason I am questioning it is because I just realized that I have 8 people following this blog, and that makes me feel, well both good and bad, which means that the above idea of not caring about the audience does not hold true anymore, does it? How did i get here? Let's see...

I guess some time after having written whatever it was i was writing, i started wanting someone to read it. I told couple of good friends and they read my blog (none of them follow it publicly though, which as i am writing it i am wondering why, why would they not want to be publicly be associated with this hmm... no, am not holding it against them, i guess it has to do with the whole privacy issues in todays world) So anyways, once these people started reading things, i wanted to know what they thought, and obviously, they didn't always have the time to tel me what they thought, or may be they did not think about it at all, or if they thought about it they did not think something nice enough to say,and being friends its kinda hard to say bad things so...

But from my side the trouble was that once I knew someone could read it - its online, its open, anyone with spare time can find it, i started expecting that someone should read it.

That, to me, is a problem. 

So different from the other.... A Short Story (well, it is short and it tells a story)

This boredom of life. This emptiness. How does one fill it. Speak to other people, cook, clean your house, find a job, read a book, exercise, meditate. It doesn’t matter what your drug of choice is, it is a poor filler, there are always gaps that no meditation, books, or friends can ever fill. There are still the moments when you are all alone, by yourself.

She feels like calling a friend, but stops short. Every name on her phone list seems inadequate, every conversation is a repetition of the same old stories, the same old grudges, the same concerns and the same solutions. Dull, uninspiring, full of platitudes. What is worse she gets sucked in to them. She mimics the person she is with, she agrees, she laughs, she expresses sympathy, and for the moment there is the illusion of intimacy that seems to satisfy them both. But almost always, when the person leaves, when there is nothing to occupy her mind in the moment, when the mind is all by itself, the emptiness returns, made even more hollow by the previous human encounter. She is deflated, not so much from what was said by the other, but what she herself had said, agreed with, or laughed at. She chides herself for being so shallow, for having gossiped, for saying things that people often say to each other when they are trying to find a common bond. And it seems strange to her that two people bond more easily over condemning a third person, than they do over praising an absent party. What seems even more meaningless to her is the implicit competition in every conversation. It seems both speakers must consistently prove how they were each better or worse off than the other. There seem to be no rules about the direction the rivalry is to be hashed out, but she has figured out that there is always a point that is being proven. If she is to be any good at these conversations she must quickly discern the objective and fall in line. The goal changes from day to day and person to person, sometimes she must exhibit her frugality, you bought a coat for eighty dollars I bought cheaper, at others she must flaunt her brands, not in a crude vulgar fashion but with a sophisticated I-really-don’t-care-about-brand-names sort of nonchalance. Some days the game is to berate your mother-in-law, on other days it is to praise her, but on all days she must listen to the other with feigned or real attention, agree, and then put forth the case of how the same thing was done to or by her in a similar situation.

Unfortunately the exchange is complicated for no one is ever in a similar situation or so they insist. Somehow the nuances, the shades of what she is going through are never the same as what the other is going through. The pains, the joys, the heartaches are ever so not the same. She is dumbfounded with this belief in the uniqueness of the human experience that they must each uphold, showcase, and yet deny all at once – in a convoluted dance of words. I know how you feel, but you cannot imagine what I went through when my mother-in-law said to me…. The contradiction in the offering of sympathy while in the same breath negating the very existence of that pain, confuses her. But he is in a better place now, if he is, then I am not sad, if I am not sad, why do I need your condolence. Besides on what authority do you claim that he is in a better place now? But no, such questions must not be asked. Such questions break the very fabric of polite society.  Such questions are a one-way ticket to outcast-land. She knows, she has been there.

On most days the listening is optional. She must just politely wait for the other to stop talking, on some days even that seems optional, they may both speak. Moved by some primeval desire to create sound, to produce noise on the outside which in some strange way is supposed to be a reflection of the commotion on the inside, but which never seems to do justice, never seems to convey the thought, the emotion, the profundity of the experience which the speaker herself seems to have a very special knowledge of. You have no idea what my pain is about… of course not, how could she, she was so different from the other.

kahin shyer-o-naghma banke
kahin aansoon me dhalke
vo mujhe mile to lekin
kayi soorten badal ke

I had not heard this till now. This was a dialogue Manoj kumar says in 'Do Badan' and i loved the lines. So much so that I almost could not concentrate on Mohammed rafi singing naseeb me jiske jo likha tha vo teri mehfil me kaam aaya ...

Five days of thankfulness challenge

A Friend asked me to do a five days of thankfulness challenge, which meant I was to write three things I was thankful for each day for five consecutive days. I did. I loved doing it. I realized I do enjoy writing I should do this more often. Some friends liked it so I figured I will put it on my blog so it is easier to find it later on.

Here goes.

Day 1 of thankfulness:

1. I'm Thankful for my mom, I may not always say it like this but I am very glad to have you around, you give me strength, your opinion matters more than everyone else's put together.

2. I'm Thankful for the immense love and kindness that is shown to me by my family everyday. The three of you are the gentlest, calmest people I know. I hope I can be more like you everyday.

3. I'm Thankful that my brain is still in 'reasonable' working condition, that as unfruitful as this endeavour has been so far, I am still trying to make sense of the world I live in. As much as the mystics would love for me to give up, I am glad that I can't, not yet.

Day 2 of Thankfulness:

1. I am thankful for Wikipedia, google, youtube and internet in general. I have learned so many things from so many people over the internet who are large hearted enough to have put their knowledge, for my asking, out in the open, without any demand for monetary compensation or thanks. Compare that to the miserliness of people who will not divulge their secret recipe even to friends. My heart fills with gratitude for all those who share their knowledge quite so simply. My thousand parnams to you. Thank you.

2. I am thankful to all the men and women who devote their lives putting together maps. There is no other feeling like the dread of being lost in an unknown shady side street of a big city. Even if you were lucky enough to find a human being who you figured was safe enough to ask for directions, you couldn't always be sure this person knew what he or she was talking about. It was a big risk in every direction. So I am thankful for wonderfully put-together map books, gps software, and online directions. I have no idea of the kind of drudgery such a job would be, but I grateful someone does it. Thank you.

3. I am thankful for pain killers. Thank you.

Day 3 of Thankfulness:

1. I am thankful for books. Their words have reached across time and space and allowed me to live lifetimes in hours. I have made friends with people I would have had no access to otherwise. Okay they are imaginary friends, but think of it, even if I actually lived in Dostoevsky's time and by some remote chance was one of his social circle, how likely was he to pour out his heart and soul to me in person? How often do people do that to the real people they know? Books are the distilled, organized, best version of a person's thoughts and I am glad to have access to minds like Ghalib's, Feynmann's and Plato's. What an embarrassment of riches. Thank you for this bounty.

2. I am thankful for Mohammad Rafi's voice. He has sung at least one thousand songs such that each one of them can make you want to live and love again. ....kadmon ke nishaan khud hi manzil ka pata honge. It is the kind of stuff hope is made of, it is the kind of hope you can hang your life on. That I have this voice at my disposal is - a blessing. Thank you.

3. I am thankful for my ability to forget. I am glad to have forgotten all the many bad things that have been said or done to, for, or about me. Good riddance to all that, thank you very much.

Day 4 of thankfulness: 

1. I am thankful for the technology that makes my everyday existence more comfortable than a queen's from two hundred years ago. My electrical mechanical helpers are much more reliable and predictable than hers ever could have been. A big thank you to all my machines, their inventors, and manufacturers.

2. I am thankful for poetry. Now that my Nanaji has forgotten his own grandkids' names, he still remembers Jan Nisar Akhtar's 'ye zakhm hi apna hissa hain, in zhakhmo par sharmaayen kya...' That gives me hope, if I do get to live as long as he has, then, when every other bit of my painfully acquired learning deserts me, there will still be some very beautiful things left over. ... baad marne ke mere, ghar se ye samaan nikla. I'll take that. Thank you.

3. I am thankful for nail polish. It is probably the only time when I think men got the shorter end of the stick. So many colours and no moral imperative to make up your mind. Get a new one everyday. I do. Thank you.

Day 5 of thankfulness:

1. I am thankful for this uniquely human concept of do-overs, blank slates, and second chances. There is no such provision in the natural order of things. The towering waves of a Tsunami, the rising winds of a hurricane, and the poison of a cyanide have no such option available to them. As far as I know we are the only force in the cosmos that is able to pause a raised hand, suspend judgement, and offer someone a second chance. So I am thankful for all the second chances I have been able to give and receive.

2. I am thankful for friendship. It is the only relationship in life where we come close to a 50-50 balance. Most other relationships work, parents, kids are intrinsically power - imbalanced. A good friendship is not. It is a beautiful thing, not only in the moment that it exists but also when it ceases to be. I have never regretted being friends with someone, no matter how harsh or sudden the 'growing apart'. I may sulk for days, sometimes years, but in this case, for me at least, the present never touches the past. For that moment in time, for that part of our journeys, we were friends, and nothing that happens after can change that, that friendship stays, and I am thankful for that.

3. I am thankful for some good hair genes that I have inherited. When I was younger I have made some pretty awful comments about my own hair, about its texture, unruliness, and just the sheer volume of it. But this being my last day of thankfulness and all, I want to send a recantation out to the universe. I was young and foolish, I did not realize how good I had it, thank you for giving this to me.

En route to E : In the flight

I am not able to sleep. I am not able to read. I am not happy with the leg room. I am quite miserable right at this moment.

Which is crazy really because I had been looking forward to the flight. Travelling without kids has seemed fun for the last 7 years.  I still think it is so much easier being on this plane without the kids, don’t get me wrong, I am pitying both the moms and the poor wailing, screaming, take me to the tiny potty  lil ones on this plane right now with me, I really am, but I am not thinking of this as too much fun.

This flight to E is only three hours and forty seven minutes long, and I cannot wait for it to be over. I am only glad I am not flying to I. That is one long flight and I am always sort of scared of it. I am so proud of my mom that she does it so well. She never complains, and she still makes the effort to visit us when we cannot.

I am grateful for this mac. Thanks husband. I did not want to get a mac. Last night as I unsuccessfully tried to download the pictures from my camera to the mac I was not so happy with it. But right about now - I am.  It is tiny. It fits into my HUGE tote so easily – which has its own ups and downs and I haven’t made up my mind if I like it so much yet. $44 down the drain, or not, will know in a few days. But I digress, back to the mac. I am grateful for its battery life, my old lappie could not survive a two second detachment from the power supply, that is how old it was. Writing is keeping me sane right now.

Wish I could sleep - really want to. I even tried my looks-like-a-padded-push-up-bra eye cover but the crying babies on the plane will not let me relax enough. No there’s not that many, but when you are away from your own, you some how tune in to all the sounds the other kids make. I am not sure who I was feeling worse for the moms or the babies during takeoff. I never know who is in the worse situation.

I am reading Dan Brown’s inferno, and … well, I was hoping it would be interesting, gripping, and hold me in its jaws like the davinci code did. It is not. I can pretty much skip entire pages, read a couple of lines here there and still get the main point of the book. No, I am not doing that. Not yet. I did not keep the other book in my carryon. So this is all I have. What’s the point of finishing it in an hour.  I have miles to go. That would be self-defeating. I am too old to be doing that.

I am not even sure what is wrong with the book. I mean what is the guy going to do, get up and dance for you? He starts with this first person narrative of some guy trying to go from hell into heaven, or not trying to leave entirely, and yet leaving . Something.

I am not entirely sure what that bit was. But here’s the thing, Dan Brown has written at least one good and a few successful books so far. So if the man wants to go on rambling about for three or four pages about something that probably makes a lot of sense to him, and in his mind is vital to how the story needs to be told, then I think he very much has the right to do so.

So what if it makes no sense to me as an average- above average, sometimes dimwitted, mostly critical reader. So what.

The book is his too. So I let him have that. He did not hold me. But I did not leave him. It will hopefully make sense to me by the end of the book. Principle of charity – see I am learning something from the philosophers.

Speaking of philosophers he mentions Kripke. Kripke!!! I have mixed feelings about the man. I thought of what he says about necessary truths before I knew of him or his ideas, so I had a very hard time believing he was famous for that particular thought.

I could not believe no one had thought this before. I am not that smart. Or may be I am. It is just hard to believe that, given all the many completely idiotic things I do.

There is also the issue I have with how credit is given in western academia. I cannot believe that any one person is ever completely responsible for having a brand new thought. In fact, my belief in this is so strong, that I never trust myself for having come up with a brand new thought either.

This thing about truths, if true, being necessarily true – I know I thought of it, I struggled to put it in words, especially eloquent, persuasive words - that happens to me a lot. May be I get lazy, once a thought makes sense to me, I stop trying to make it make sense to others or something, but I know I thought of it, it was a complete thought, it made complete sense to me, and yet when I look back, I always doubt if I thought of it entirely on my own or was it inspired. Had I heard of Kripke’s idea somewhere, years ago, just not his name, then forgotten it.

And when Prof. R talked about how water being H2O was not a necessary truth, as in scientists could one day find that we have been wrong all along, my mind rebelled.

 If it were true that we had been wrong all along, then water being H2O was not a truth to begin with, leave alone its being necessarily true. We were just making a false statement we believed to be true.

 See what I mean, about not being eloquent enough. I am probably not making any sense. Prof. R did not take me that seriously either. He must have seen a half baked idea. So I suffered for two or more weeks, never accepting that a water=H2O identity was not true in every possible world.

So now imagine my relief when in comes Kripke - dashing, flamboyant, the knight who saves the day, with brand new vocabulary, perfectly balanced equations and says so beautifully what I had been mumbling in my head all along.

How could I not have immediately fallen in love with that. Yes, yes, what he said. I am saying that.

SO for a week and a half Kripke was my most favourite person on this planet.

And then the TA had to burst the bubble. He started talking about Kripke’s ideas about names referring to a particular object and well… I am just leaning more towards Russell on this. Now a criterion of being IN LOVE is that it is an all or nothing state of being, so I was no longer IN love with Kripke.

However I do give him the benefit of doubt, I haven’t read Russell so well yet, and hence have not had a chance to disagree with him so far. Who knows, I might still comeback to the Kripkean way of naming. But that’s the origin of mixed feelings about Kripke. Long story. I know.  Oh and I completely disagree with him on his zombie thing too. But another long story. Leave it for another time.

When I go on rambling like this moving from subject to subject, never having enough time or patience to say all the things I wish to say about a particular subject, I can almost feel sympathy for Nietzsche. My Indian upbringing makes me quite certain he was way smarter than I am, so it must be way harder for him than for me.

Just went to the washroom, looked at myself in the mirror. Why do I always look worse than I think I do? That makes me question what if I am actually less smart than I think I am? Can one ever trust one’s own evaluation of oneself? Whose evaluation to we trust then? Who else could have as much data as you do on yourself. Should you ever bother trusting an evaluation based on less than complete facts.  I love myself. I think I am all kinds of amazing. I also think I am all kinds of an idiot. And given my two contradictory conclusions I conclude I am not in a position to judge myself.

Oh and now I have digressed so far even I have forgotten what I was writing about. Yes, inferno.  So the point I was trying to make was this. Dan Brown cites Saul Kripke as an example of child geniuses. One of the main characters in the book has an IQ of 208, whatever that means. So my beef with that is, how come writers need to exaggerate the abilities of their characters so much. Why do they have to have eidetic memories, be the youngest professors at Harvard, and generally be so much more accomplished than normal people like you and me.

I guess writers of fast paced, save the world kind of thrillers do need extraordinary characters for their stories. May be.

I do not plan on writing those kinds of stories. I want to write ordinary stories of ordinary people. I somehow find them to be the most extraordinary. People like my grandmothers. They were so completely different from each other in a million different ways. But they were the same too. They were wise. They had patience. They lived through bad times and had come out stronger. When they were around you somehow felt like you were protected. They had these auras, of hope, of safety, of truth. I want to write about them. Hmm…