Would you care to give me a book?

Give me a book that is soft with age with the corners of its pages frayed

Give me a book that has gone yellow with time and has tears along its spine

Give me a book that was read by people long gone whose essence now lingers on its page

Give me a book that has proudly looked over generations from within an oak cabinet or perhaps one fallen in rank when a family went bankrupt and was peddled for far less its worth

Give me a book that was chanced upon by a little boy in a thrift shop and feverishly devoured by him in a night

Give me a book that was fondly remembered by a man as the book that defined his youth

Give me a book that has slept beside the pillow of a young girl now old who had written with her maiden hand her name on the corner of a page

Give me a book that once belonged to a scholar with notes along its margins

Give me a book that was held with both pride and humility by its author

Give me a book with a history and I will be happy too

The glass window

I just finished reading 'The death of a Moth' by Virgina Woolfe. Those were some elevated thoughts. And while they do everything they were meant to do - arouse pity for the moth, be charmed by the intricacies of her thinking, be awed by the skilled use of the language, they do another  - which was also perhaps intended.  They make you wonder whether you are a statue of stone totally in capable of thought. Would a dying moth rise in me such reflection? Would it in you? If yes, then perhaps you should consider writing as a career.


It would be untrue of me to say that such an aspiration has not kept me awake at night at least for a few weary, restless, agitated hours. But such aspiration alone is not sufficient to make one any special. For I believe at least every other person has such an aspiration, not necessarily for a literary career, but to excel and distinguish oneself in some field of study, provided such an aspiration is not crushed in one's youth by well meaning parents. But surely one half of the population does not establish themselves as exceptional. Of course if that were the case, exceptional would become common place and exceedingly exceptional would become the new exceptional. But history shows us (atleast that history of which we have record) that there are people in the world who have excelled over others by such a vast degree of achievement that we can draw the conclusion that these were just not exceedingly exceptional, they were just exceptional, because the rest were ordinary. This degree of simple exception can now be tremendous and need not have a superlative adjective to enhance its worth.

I think about the moth and the bead of pure energy in it. The same energy which exists in us too. We will beat futilely against our glass windows, hoping to reach a world that exists (it does!), where the sun shines, where the smoke from the chimney rises and where green fields are furrowed. We will aspire with every flap of our flimsy wings, we will fly from corner to corner seeking redemption everywhere, but there is just no getting out of the glass windows. Perhaps hope is not that good a thing after all. Maybe it only draws out the suffering?

Organic Birth

What does one mean when one says, "Organically born?" Might be a reminder that birth can now be artificially achieved. Yet, aren't the ingredients of birth still organic be it in a womb or a petri-dish? It would probably make more sense in another 20 years or so.

Some more rattlings

Trees with water dripping off the leaves. Old stone walls around a park. A white-haired, bearded, slightly bent old man in a long coat. Narrow cobbled streets. Isolated images. Wholesome feelings.

Winter in Luxembourg

"Hush hush," go the leaves, as they fall off branches

"Hush hush," whisper the snowflakes, as they waft to the ground

"Hush hush," says mother nature, as she prepares to sleep

Winter is a season of quietude. Even the resplendent sun assumes an air of indolence in winter and rises late and sets early. The birds, except a lost little one here and there, have all flown away. The squirrels are no more to be found. The butterflies are all asleep in their cozy cocoons. The wind sings a lullaby.

In homes around this little country, radiators are turned on. Rugs, throws and cushions are piled on. Winter jackets are brought out, snow-boots are removed from their felt-lined boxes, mittens are kept ready and new scarves are purchased. The microwave glows golden with a bowl of brown chestnuts. Hot wine is swilled in abundance. Warm waffles and pancakes are stacked high. The land is dark and a mild gleam of light marks the day.

One night, you are roused in the middle of your sleep by something impalpable stirring in the air. There is a faint fragrance of ice, you think. You snuggle back into your warm blanket and dream the most romantic dreams of winter. The next morning you find the city has disappeared. A soft sheet of white has draped over everything. Little children shout with joy because schools are closed. You watch as the snow falls on their pretty red noses.

The mid-day bells chime in the church and that alone indicates noon, because the day is still dark. Snowflakes continue falling as if the clouds are disintegrating onto the earth. You hold out your hand and a snow flake rests on it. Alas, it melts before you can even see it!

One of the perks of winter in Luxembourg or anywhere else in Europe is the Christmas market. This one of a kind market begins about a month before Yuletide. Scores of tiny stalls selling savories open up. This is also a great place to buy scarves and hats for the winter. Little fireplaces are set up in every other corner. As they walk around the market, people cozy up for a while next to these fireplaces. Live bands sing Christmas carols. It is great fun to watch a group of jolly, old, slightly inebriated, round men dressed in pinstripes singing Silent Night. 

I love that Luxembourg is still sort of medieval in its appearance and its character. The flashiness and artificiality of modern life has not yet seeped in here. We still have castles and forts. Tiny two-storied buildings are the counterparts of the sky-rises in other countries. Shops close here on weekends and shopping is not a national pass-time. People here are private folks, who love their quiet and enjoy spending time with their families. Children are not spoilt with gadgets. I could go on, but I digress from my topic.

However as I conclude, I must not leave you with only a rosy description of the winter here. Let's take a look at the other side. When the snow subsides and you step out, you find the ice-covered ground slippery. Perhaps you fall because you are not accustomed to walking on ice. A cold wind cuts through your scarf, sneaking in through a tiny gap and hits you in the throat. You wait in the cold bus-stop. The bus is late. The mittens on your hand interfere with the touch-screen phone and you drop it. Perhaps, the screen breaks. That is when you realize that it is better to be indoors typing into a laptop. And hence this article.

Season's Greetings, folks!

Reading Swann's way makes me feel that I am gliding on the bow of a violin.

Some logic to prove the Existence of God (or a powerful force)

How do we know if God exists ?

Consider a person who is paralyzed and blind since birth, whose only functioning sense is his hearing.

Say, we take such a man to a cave or some sort of a place, where an echo can be heard.

We scream. The man hears an  echo. He wonders, "Hmm, what is this that I am hearing?"

Then we take him outside the cave and scream and this time he does not hear an echo.

The man of course has no idea that he has been in a cave and out. All he is aware of is a difference in the sound that reaches him.

Now if the man is sufficiently smart and makes good use of his only sense, He will sense that there is some difference in the place that provides the echo and the place that doesn't.

But he will attribute the echo to some source that is present in the place where the echo is heard and absent in the place where the echo is not heard.

His limited perception will lead him to this conclusion.

***

Similarly, we humans may have only limited perception and the senses that we require to realize God in his entirety, may not be gifted to us.

But who can deny that they haven't felt the presence of an external power sometime in their life.

What that God is or what his form is we do not know. Just as the man in our example has no idea of a cave or whether it is just another person repeating those same words from afar. But he does believe that there is something out there.

So, do these experiences in our life, corroborate the fact that there is something out there. Something powerful.

We do not know its form and would be quite useless to try to decipher it, with our limited senses. But what we can do is to attune our existing senses more closely to it.

Why do we feel closer to this Godly presence when we pray? Maybe because prayer or meditation does open one of our closed senses, offering us a better impression of this God.

Emily Dickinson: A Life in Letters

I chanced upon the works of Emily Dickinson, while reading a random paragraph on some website. 

Being partial to 18th and 19th century women writers (Bronte sisters, Jane Austen, Mary Wollstonecraft and Mary Evans), I had an instinctive need to read her work. After a few searches and few dollars spent on my kindle, I had complete access to over 1800 poems and hundreds of letters written over the course of her life. 

I held the kindle reverently in my hand, the new downloaded content somehow making it feel much heavier, perhaps a 'transferred epithet' of the added burden on my conscience.

My conscience pricks me when I read such letters, letters that never were meant to be read by eyes other than those of their intended recipient. Though long gone now, if ever the reclusive Emily were to somehow learn that her closest thoughts expressed in confidence to her dearest friends are being circulated publicly, how aghast would she be! In today's terms, it would be akin to someone selling your Gmail password on Amazon and anyone with a couple of dollars to spare could browse through all your emails and chats, learning in the process, every fear you hid and every hope you harbored. How deeper would be your embarrassment, if you were so shy and reserved a person by nature, that you had lived 26 years of your life in absolute seclusion from the outside world?

That was Emily and this unfortunately is the plague of those who are no longer here in this world and someday it will very well be ours, if we are fortunate enough to be remembered by any. Irony?

With utmost respect to her, I must write a few words, only to exalt her life in the highest way that I am capable of, for I find nothing in her communication or dedication to art that is not worthy of my greatest admiration.

Though largely remembered by her poems, Emily Dickinson was a fascinating writer. Every letter of hers is melodic, suffused with the warmest regard and love for its recipients  - her siblings, her relatives and her friends.

In the early letters there is no sign of a future recluse. Emily comes across as a cheerful young girl happily anticipating all the innocent joys of womanhood. The first dark shades appear in her letters when her mother is bedridden and Emily is charged with the running of the household. As a young girl, she is acutely sensitive about this sudden change in her situation. The letters written during this period hint at the personality traits that will deepen with the years.

As she becomes older, Emily is deeply affected by the the mortality of human life. A being who found even physical separation from her friends so intense, must have found the idea death terrible. However, she matures to treat death with a solemnity, finding solace that it is but a journey to Heaven, where her Father will receive all his beloved children.

Emily's letters contain beautiful descriptions of nature. In fact, I can boldly assert that never have I found nature so well rendered on paper. Also one finds the tenderest expressions of sisterly love, biblical solace - all embedded in a skein of verse.

Any student of rhyme or prose will find much delight in her works.

Confessions: Saint Augustine

Confessions: (Latin: Confessiones) is the name of an autobiographical work, consisting of 13 books, by St. Augustine of Hippo, written in Latin between 397 and 400 AD. The work outlines Augustine's sinful youth and his conversion to Christianity. (Wikipedia)

Book 1: Early Years

In the first chapter, Saint Augustine writes about the period from his infancy to his boyhood.

He questions his existence prior to birth and wonders if he existed in some form before he was in his mother's womb. Was he a part of the infinity of God?

Then he proceeds to examine his earliest years and since he has no memory of them, he relies on the information passed to him by his seniors and likens his behavior to that of other infants he has seen (a thought echoed much later at the start of Charles Dickens: David Copperfield ). From this he observes that even an infant of a day old can be considered a sinner, because it greedily sucks milk, showing much jealousy if it has a sibling to compete with for the milk.

This leads Saint Augustine to echo the idea of original sin, and he says that as humans, we are born sinners, and rightly behave so from infancy (greedy baby example). In fact as we grow older, this behavior is reinforced in us, ironically by those who are responsible for our moral uprightness - our parents and our preceptors - by teaching children to desire fame, to pursue wealth and to act for gaining the honor of men. Thus we continue to grow in sin.

He then sums up the sins of his early years as jealously, prevarication and deception. He says he sought pleasure, sublimity, and truth not in God but in his creatures - both in himself and in other created beings. Only study and meditation later showed him that such pursuits were useless and only served to alienate him from God.

Throughout the chapter, we find Augustine eternally grateful for the gifts bestowed on him as an infant and a child: his mother's milk, his nurses care, his memory, his intelligence and his oratory skill. He considers them as God's gifts and desires to develop them.

He concludes this section by acknowledging the presence of a driving force within him, an inner instinct (which again was a gift of God) that guided him in the right direction and eventually helped him become who he was.

Experiencing Europe: Belgium

It had been sometime since we had gone on a holiday. The weekends were getting monotonous with movies and little trips around town. Besides we had pretty much covered most of the well known spots in Luxembourg. So we decided to spend a few days exploring the neighbouring country of Belgium.

Having four days at hand, the question was whether to spend each day in a new city or take a more relaxed approach to vacationing and spend two days per city, thus covering lesser cities but in a more thorough fashion.

We preferred the latter. Both hubby and I like to savour the beauty of a new place, amble along its streets and look for local delights rather than rush through carrying bags in a frenzy.

Day 1 and 2: Brussels

Accordingly, the first city that we visited in Belgium was Brussels. Our arrival at Brussels coincided with a beer fiesta on the streets of the city. Beer and (unfortunately) piss flowed freely along the streets, and so did inebriated early twenty-somethings who were only too happy to share a drink with the bemused tourists.

Hadn't we been unsuccessful in convincing a reluctant cab driver to drop us to our hotel through the cacophony or hadn't we ended up lugging our wobbly suitcases over long cobbled streets, we would have probably enjoyed the party as much as our inebriated hosts.

On following Google maps, we found our hotel located in a part of Brussels called Midi, which is about a twenty minute walk from the Central Station. 

For one thing, I would advise all fellow travellers to avoid this locality, not because of the shady looking people around or the dilapidated buildings, rather because this locality does not match the splendour of the Brussels centre. And having just a little more than a day to spend in Brussels, it is important that you spend it as close to the centre as you can afford.  

                              The (somewhat run down) building that hosted our Hotel

After a refreshing dinner and sleep, the next day we followed Google maps to the city centre and lo and behold what a transformation it was! The streets cleared out and the walk became pleasant. The architecture at the Central Place, dating to around six centuries back, is spell-binding. 

Architecture at Central Place, Brussels

A good suggestion would be to spend some time at one of the several open-air cafes in the Centre Place and bask in the architecture as the aroma of the creamiest coffee, the pleasant warmth of the winter sun and the visual delights of the medieval buildings together titillate your senses.

The best cup of Cappuccino I've ever had. Observe the generous dollop of cream on top. 

From there, we walked towards the Mannekin Pis, pausing awhile to admire some fine horses drawn carriages along the way.

There I am, gingerly petting a horse

After the rendezvous with the horses, in about ten minutes we reached the Mannekin Pis. I was initially struck by how small the statue was. I tried to understand what attracted thousands of tourists to look at this little boy pissing away freely. After a failed attempt to understand it's significance, I succumbed to social protocol and clicked snaps to keep as a souvenir of my visit.

The rest of the day we spent in exploring churches, shopping and eating. Overall I would say my experience of Brussels was only about satisfying. It does have some excellent architecture, but this effect is marred by places like Midi. The shopping is excellent and there were some major discounts in the shops, and I got a pair of boots much cheaper than I would have at Luxembourg.

Then the day waned and grew dark by about five, owing to the winter. Soon we were in a very crowded train to Bruges.

It was around 8 at night that we arrived in Bruges. We didn't get a chance to explore the city that day. Exhaustion got the better of us. After a wonderful meal of pan-fried sole fish followed by tiramisu for dessert, we slept well.

Day 3 and 4: Bruges

'To see Bruges is why we were born for' was the thought that occurred to me as the first rays of the early sun illuminated the beautiful land. It should be a Mecca, a shrine to the travellers of life. To stop here a while, on our way through life and bask in everything beautiful and pure that the world has to offer.

Undoubtedly, when you step into Bruges you would have stepped back a few centuries in time. It is replete with the most beautiful medieval buildings and dotted with trees of all colours. Charming canals wind their way along the city and no motor vehicle is permitted within the centre. Instead there abound horse carts that could transport you to the delightful places you would want to visit,

We then visited the 'Historium', a little place that gives you a taste of the life in medieval Bruges. Here are some snaps.

How much ever I praise Bruges, it would be insufficient, for how do I put into words the peace of travelling on a little boat along the canal, being transported back into worlds before our own, watching the multitude of swans that came to greet us. 

There are lovely arched stone bridges, old convents and monasteries, sloping little ivy covered houses, horse carriages that travel with the frequency of cars in our modernised world and a pleasant chill in the air. On top of it all, we visited the Church of our Lady of Bruges and there saw the magnificent sculpture of the 'Madonna and the Child', sculpted by none other than the master - Michelangelo. I would have loved to get a closer look, however for security reasons tourists are not permitted within fifteen feet of it.

The boat trip along the canals of Bruges. 

Reverence at the Master's work

We spent the rest of the day, walking around the colorful Christmas market in the city centre, tasting the famous Belgian chocolates. At one little shop, we indulged in a lovely drink called 'vin chaud' or hot wine, which was a delightful gustatory experience in the cold weather. 

As the night dawned, and the moon rose and little golden lights lit up the old city, we sat at the edge of a stone bridge near a canal and let ourselves be transported by a musician who played his violin with much melancholy passion.

The only thing, if I must indeed be querulous, that I found a little disappointing in Bruges was the sheer amount of tourists. Although, here I am compelled to  say that many of them were excellent companions. A lady for instance went out of her way to guide us to a little restaurant where she had had dinner the previous night and wanted to share the experience. Another lady, was far too happy to let us pet her little poodle.

I undoubtedly want to visit Bruges again, but I might even consider visiting Brussels again as well. For though one was a fairytale come true, the other deserves another chance to improve its reputation on me.

Does a Tree glorify God by being a Tree?

Today, I came across this phrase written by Thomas Merton.

'A Tree glorifies God by being a Tree'

I found it extremely funny. I will tell you why. But, this does not mean any disrespect for the person who conceived this little sentence, nor am I aware of the arguments by which he reached this conclusion. It may seem imprudent of me to attack a defenceless sentence, that I come across, without seeing it in the light of the (probably) pages of theory that brought about its existence.

But let it be so and let us for the moment imagine that this sentence exists in isolation and is quite a lonely sentence loitering about hesitantly, seeking acceptance in our world.

Let us begin with considering what other options this tree has (other than being a tree)?

1) What else could it be? Could it be a mountain instead? Or a spring? Or a stone?

Argument: No. It could only be a tree. It was grown from a seed and was destined to be a tree.

2) Some people may now argue saying that it is glorifying God by being a 'good' tree, that gives fruit and shade to humans and animals and honey for the bees and serves to make the land beautiful.

Argument: The tree didn't have a choice. Given the right soil, the right water and right sunlight, the tree was bound to be everything it turned out to be.

It couldn't halfway through its growth say,    
       
Hey! I don't want to grow leaves anymore."
 
It had to grow leaves, it is hard-wired into its DNA. Or it cannot say,

"I don't want to share my fruits with humans. They are very nasty beings."
     
It can't do that. It has no freedom of decision.

Of course, if it didn't have recourse to water or sun or air, it would not grow. But having everything in the right proportion, didn't leave the tree with any choice, other than to grow.

So the tree does not glorify God by being a tree, it is only doing what it can't help.

3) Now if you argue that the tree is thankful for getting the right life conditions to be fruitful, and glorifies its creator by being all it can be, all I can say is that it is forced into doing that. If you conceive it as praising, it is because praise is extracted out of it and it is not in its power to refuse.

If a slave is forced to praise its master, would you regard it as genuine?

Now on the other hand, we humans, have the gift of choice. We can make decisions. So I can say, as a human - I glorify God, (if I think it right), by doing so and so.
 
In conclusion, a tree does not glorify God by being a tree.

Quite a dorky argument in the middle of a bright day!

Photographs of a rainy day from a window

Women are generally classified as temperamental. Well, maybe we are. But, do you know what is just as temperamental as women?

Nature!

Yes.

Nature has got its wild mood swings. Not just a mood for each day, but on certain whimsical days, it has a different one for every hour!

Just today, it was sort of sunny in the morning. Then it turned cold and started raining. After a few hours, it grew very, very windy and through the little open vents in my window, blew in sleek gusts of very cold air!

While I could battle the winds by securing my windows, the trees outside had a very tough time of it. The poor things were quite shaken and the wind carried away most of their summer leaves and left them quite bare.

The parting of leaves from the trees is a very sorry sight. One is reminded of the the days when they were once green and tree was vibrant and the world was sunny.

Winter is fierce and quite ruthless and it commands the earth and sky alike. For even the clouds grow glum and dark and the air is filled with a longing for warmth.

And what do I do on such days ? Well I drink tea and read a book and when I am bored with that, I take photographs.

The above pictures are taken from my window of a school that stands in front of my flat. It is only afternoon and the school is empty. The children were left early owing to the rainy day. 

These photographs are of the front balcony that is wet with the rains. The trees outside shiver in the wind.

But the plants inside the house are safe and warm.

The rain-stained window and a flowering plant at the sill.

It's too wet and cold to venture out today. Here is my desk with a book and a cup of tea.