Thinking for yourself

Hi, my name is Kumar Harshvardhan and I’m not an atheist. Yes, I do not believe in a personal God. Yes, I believe that one day, after a landslide or a volcano eruption, man simply said’ “I create you God, for I am fearful and superstitious.” And yet I say I’m not an atheist. I’m an anti-theist. I simply have a problem with people accepting everything in the name of religion. God is only the ignorant answer for a mind too lazy that doesn't even deign to ask or question anything. To be honest, I dislike (an unmistakable sign of maturity is the ability to dislike without hate) it the most when religion starts impacting on legislation. No, not yet. Don’t quit reading and don’t be so quick to judge what my blog-spots are generally about. This post is in no way related to my religious sentiments. Is not about my political views. Or maybe it is. In fact, I’m reminded of a Thomas Edison’s saying: “We don’t know a millionth of one percent of anything.” I have to agree that although not a millionth of one percent, but yes, right now, I’m not too sure about the road I’m going to take. I’m just staring at this blank word document, waiting for drops of blood to form on my forehead and my fingers to interpret them without being influenced by me.

[This week, I have been mostly reviewing my relationship with social networking sites. The recent remodelling of the site and the constant trolls.jpg has enhanced my disenchantment with the whole social networking experience. And so, to make myself feel better, and to be ‘more productive’, I created a to-do list and ergo, this post. I still have one more month to do all the nothingness I want to, and so yes, you can expect a few more posts. Honestly, I’m pretty glad that I never worked or interned during the 3 month college breaks and stuff because sadly, real life doesn’t allow you to jotter random thoughts and also doesn’t let you sleep late. ]

A recent research has shown that 97% people tend to believe anything and everything that is within the quotation marks. And boy, why wouldn’t they! People don’t like to be termed ignorant. Not having read Virginia Woolf or William Faulkner or Fletecher Knebel is being ignorant, is it not in today’s google-friendly world? Why would someone challenge something that is within the quotation marks? Have we ever questioned the tricolour? Yes, our national flag. It distinctly has four colours in it, yet has anyone ever bothered to ask why is it called the tricolour?

We all of have our doubts, don’t we. “I’m not smart.” “I’m not good enough.” “So and so is better than me.” Or our doubts often paralyse us and we start playing the “What if” game. Or we have friends or loved ones who will make a noise and remind us of our shortcomings regardless of whether we ask. They often say, “What makes you think you can do that?” Or “if it’s such a good idea, how come someone else hasn’t done it?” These words of doubt, these noises often get so loud that we fail to act. A horrible feeling builds in our stomach. Sometimes we can’t move. Can’t sleep. So we stay with what is safe and opportunities pass us by. We watch life passing by as we sit immobilised with a cold knot in our body. Our whole life in front of us. But a life filled with, “If Only, I” and “What ifs.” I would like you to remind yourself that one of the hardest things about life is the ability to not go along with the crowd. For in this world, it is the crowd that usually shows up late and is slaughtered.  

And the reason for all this ‘If only, I’ and ‘What if’? The Noise. Because we don’t challenge the noise. Because we don’t challenge authorities. Most people fail even before trying because of the noise. When it comes to taking risks, the world is full with Chicken Littles, a boy who ran around warning the barnyard of impending doom, horsing around yelling, “The sky is falling. The sky is falling.” And Chicken Littles are effective because every one of us is a little chicken. We are scared by the ‘noise’ they make. We all want to get out of this rat-race, but unfortunately, the sky! It often takes great courage to not let rumours and talk of doom and gloom affect your doubts and fears. Pep Guardiola, a mudblood, once said, “Not taking risk is itself A RISK.” Too bad that we are too stupid to take advantage of our own potential!

Boy, we live in a time where acid attacks and rape on women don't outrage us, but public display of nudity does. We live in a time where violence is permissible under the guise of 'national interests' and ‘religious sentiments’ but free speech isn't. We are the same primitive species that crawled out of rocks to build catapults so we could throw the same at each other. We have learnt so little from history. We seem like a race doomed to shoot itself on the foot at every level. And still, all we do not challenge the noise. We simply exist. Simply survive. We do not live. Do not flourish.

A part of me thinks all forms of systems and institutions are bound to fail because we are faulty in our make. Anarchy, in an ideal sense, is the only thing that could offer true freedom to everyone, but then I am faced with a paradox wherein I realize that would lead to chaos -- probably of a grander scale than the one we face. Everything from a money-based economy to positions of power to the education system to general occupations seem distinctly designed (by a species that is too stupid to think beyond immediate solutions) to bring out the very worst of human characteristics and suppress the good ones.

As they say, we are a product of 4 billion years of evolution. Is it not time to act like one? Is it not time to say: “I refuse to be told what to think, or how, let alone what to say or write. But certainly not by people who claim the authority of fabricated works of primeval myth and fiction, and want me to believe that these are divine. That I won't have. That's the original repudiation. The first rebellion against mental slavery comes from saying, this is man-made, and it’s not divine.”

P.S. I've interspersed my own words with freely (and somewhat indiscriminately) used quotes. (from laymen on twitter to greats on wikiquote)

Words are all we have...

This post is dedicated to Tarun...

I have had a question I would like to ask you all. Do you believe that a writer can change lives? Can a novelist alter all the perceptions you had on living? Can a few printed words induce changes deep down inside your soul? Can reading a poem turnout to be the most cherished moment of your life? Can a book transform you into a different entity altogether?

Definitely.
A writer is no ordinary man. When a writer is born, the angels in the sky come alive from their dreams. When a writer is born, a gush of warm water flows through the springs across the ends of the world. When a writer is born, the tree by the river sheds a single leaf which floats in the air for an eternity. When a writer is born, a light bulb kept in an old hut fades slowly to darkness. When a writer is born, a few fleas keep sucking blood from the wound of the dead. When a writer is born the world gets ready for him, for he would soon capture in the magic of his words, the warmth of the water, the journey of the lonely leaf, the silence of the angels, the pain of the man caught in darkness, the passion of love, the glitter of the tear and the smell of the dark and humid drop of blood.

Last night, I read How to Win Friends and Influence People by Dale Carnegie. The Daily Express describes it as the book that gave birth to a self-improvement industry that spans the globe.

Although the name of the book suggests that the book will help you make friends easily and quickly and will increase your popularity in a fortnight, the book in actuality is like a honing tool. It makes you a little better equipped to meet life’s situations. A little better equipped to keep your human contacts smooth and pleasant. It helps you to get out of a mental rut, think new thoughts, acquire new visions, and discover new ambitions. This book, if you read it, is going to help you master the art of human relationship.

Anyway, I just want to share one of the classics of American journalism, “Father Forgets.” This piece was reprinted in Dale's book. Father Forgets is one of those little pieces which – dashed off in a moment of sincere feeling – strikes an echoing chord in so many readers as to become a perennial reprint favorite. Since its first appearance, 'Father Forgets' has been reproduced, writes the author, W. Livingstone Larned, 'in hundreds of magazines and house organs, and in newspapers in the countries over. It has been ‘on the air’ on countless occasions and programmes. Sometimes a little piece seems mysteriously to “click.” This one certainly did.'

Dale and Livingston believe that criticism is futile. Criticism puts a person on the defensive and usually makes him strive to justify himself. Criticism is dangerous, because it wounds a person's precious pride, hurts his sense of importance, and arouses resentment.

As Dr. Johnson said:

   "God himself, sir, does not propose to judge man until the end of his days.

      Why should you and I?"

                                        FATHER FORGETS 
                                                              W. Livingston Larned

Listen, son: I am saying this as you lie asleep, one little paw crumpled under your cheek and the blond curls stickily wet on your damp forehead. I have stolen into your room alone. Just a few minutes ago, as I sat reading my paper in the library, a stifling wave of remorse swept over me. Guiltily I came to your bedside.

There are the things I was thinking, son: I had been cross to you. I scolded you as you were dressing for school because you gave your face merely a dab with a towel. I took you to task for not cleaning your shoes. I called out angrily when you threw some of your things on the floor.

At breakfast I found fault, too. You spilled things. You gulped down your food. You put your elbows on the table. You spread butter too thick on your bread. And as you started off to play and I made for my train, you turned and waved a hand and called, "Goodbye, Daddy!" and I frowned, and said in reply, "Hold your shoulders back!"

Then it began all over again in the late afternoon. As I came up the road I spied you, down on your knees, playing marbles. There were holes in your stockings. I humiliated you before your boyfriends by marching you ahead of me to the house. Stockings were expensive-and if you had to buy them you would be more careful! Imagine that, son, from a father!

Do you remember, later, when I was reading in the library, how you came in timidly, with a sort of hurt look in your eyes? When I glanced up over my paper, impatient at the interruption, you hesitated at the door. "What is it you want?" I snapped.

You said nothing, but ran across in one tempestuous plunge, and threw your arms around my neck and kissed me, and your small arms tightened with an affection that God had set blooming in your heart and which even neglect could not wither. And then you were gone, pattering up the stairs.

Well, son, it was shortly afterwards that my paper slipped from my hands and a terrible sickening fear came over me. What has habit been doing to me? The habit of finding fault, of reprimanding-this was my reward to you for being a boy. It was not that I did not love you; it was that I expected too much of youth. I was measuring you by the yardstick of my own years.

And there was so much that was good and fine and true in your character. The little heart of you was as big as the dawn itself over the wide hills. This was shown by your spontaneous impulse to rush in and kiss me good night. Nothing else matters tonight, son. I have come to your bedside in the darkness, and I have knelt there, ashamed!

It is feeble atonement; I know you would not understand these things if I told them to you during your waking hours. But tomorrow I will be a real daddy! I will chum with you, and suffer when you suffer, and laugh when you laugh. I will bite my tongue when impatient words come. I will keep saying as if it were a ritual: "He is nothing but a boy-a little boy!"

I am afraid I have visualized you as a man. Yet as I see you now, son, crumpled and weary in your cot, I see that you are still a baby. Yesterday you were in your mother's arms, your head on her shoulder. I have asked too much, too much, yet given too little of myself. Promise me, as I teach you to have the manners of a man, that you will remind me how to have the loving spirit of a child. 

Contributors:

- Dale Carnegie's How to Win Friends and Influence People
- Vignesh Sharma's Amazwi
- Livingston Larned's Father Forgets