Jil speaks...

I stumbled upon this article. And i want to say nothing about it except : You've gotta read it!
I also want to say that there are many ways you can respond to this. Please do watch how you do!

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/04/04/AR2007040401721.html

Long ago (it does seem that way!) I cycled 6 km to school everyday. It was exciting at the start. But soon, it got boring. So then I had to look to other things for pleasure.

I started overtaking old men on their TVS-50's. (The best part is when I look back at him teasingly!) I started looking at all kinds of posters on the way! I timed myself and tried to break yesterday's record. I tried riding without my hands on the handle.
But this was the thing that stuck for real long and was real fun:
I started looking into the eyes of people!

We don't do that often. Actually sometimes, it's dangerous. But then everyday, I would look deeply into everyone's eyes.
Starting with dad when he wakes me up with a smile, and then mom when she's hurrying around in the kitchen. Our hardworking milkman who always sports a smile. Perumal uncle. Duthie School Girls. The old bald uncle bathing in the channel. The Padma Stores guy. The hard-working mason smoking beedi to begin his day. My cycle shop anna. My barber. The fisherman on the M-80 hurrying to sell the day's catch. The rich dad in the driver's seat of an A/C car. An old woman hardly able to walk. The madman who sits and speaks to the sun. ... ... ... and on and on.

There is a story in every face.
Sometimes I tend to treat people like products, like machines, like animals, like angels. Like something less than human. But I need to treat every person as a human being.

For me to treat a person as a human being, is to acknowledge the profound mystery in the person. It is to not fit him/her in my boxes.
It is to know that everyone has a story, a set of circumstances that affect him. But it is also to remember that no one is really locked up in his story like in a prison. It is to remember that within a human being, is a mysterious power to somehow transcend everything!

"Man is a mystery; if you spend your entire life trying to puzzle it out, then do not say that you have wasted your time. I occupy myself with this mystery, because I want to be a man." - Fyodor Dostoevsky

Seems like when we fail to realize the human-ness of all of humanity, we lose a little of our own humanity!

The sleepyhead sun, he rises slowly…
No bump. No jerk. No pestering alarm.
For a moment he remains in his dream. Another moment in some sort of a liminal haven, and then a smooth, almost stunningly sweet transition into the day. A smile on his face for everything new. He observes his image in the mirror and muses on the veiled tale.
He can’t wait to go out and announce the change.

The butterfly. The bee.
The earthworm. The turtle.
The lizard. The snake.
They all awaken to this riveting honeyed symphony


Someone has bathed the earth-bride in dew and dressed her up with grass (so green it hurts the eye) and flowers (so graceful it fills the eye). Just for the final touchup, here comes the sun.

The dew twinkles in the sunlight – a perfect setting. The squirrels jump and play.
They can hear the music and they dance!
The trees seem to hear it too. They clap their hands and move their branches.
They can hear the music and they dance!

Paradise is not far. It understands all. Something feels like ‘the music is being played by angels – on duty for the princes on earth’.

The last to awaken is Mr. Lee B. Jones. But it’s ok. Cos’ now the stage is set. The instruments are tuned. The equipment is all ready.
All eyes, eagerly on him. Hearts beating wildly for the grand culmination. Whispers in the air.
“The lead singer will surrender his voice to this music and he’ll dance… And when he dances, we’ll all learn. And it’ll be an all time high. It will be a cosmic dance!”

Deep in his bones. A word. A posture. Just a tiny expression of disgust. But a death-knell to dreams everywhere - “Fuck!” – He said.
An unforgiving ‘full stop’ to the cosmic dance.

A dark night.
A gunshot killed all the silence.
Cutting through air like diamond through glass, the bullet hit her temple, bull’s eye.

Long before the gunshot or the shooter picked the gun, was an artist. And he painted. And he dreamed. His gentle brush-strokes caressed the canvas and made art; the angels fell facedown in worship.

He dreamed and he painted.
And then dreamed and then
… He painted again.
---

Twenty-two religions. My Twenty-two brilliant ideas. Twenty-two governments.
Twenty-two bruises. Twenty-two stab-wounds.
There were twenty-two demonic attempts at ruining his masterpiece.
The genius still remains in the pieces.

A strong bearded man came along this evening and he said, “Let’s put it back.”

And so we pick up the pieces. All day and night. Those pieces which look complete, we crush. And we keep picking the pieces.

He gazed sharply at me; His countenance was like the moon-lit sky.
“Remember”, he said, “You did not make yourself.”