Treading on hallowed ground

I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows recently, the seventh and purportedly, the last of the stupendously imaginative Harry Potter series. It was quite a page-turner, with very few dull moments. Potter Inc.’s antics had me at the edge of my seat. However, the grand finale of the seven book long struggle of our bespectacled hero with his arch-nemesis Lord Voldemort was a little too predictable.

No Potter fan worth his or her salt would want Harry to die. There would have been an inevitable public outcry were the teenage wizard to be killed in a fight with the Dark Lord. Throughout the series there were tantalizing hints as to the outcome. Neither can live while the other survives, was the constant refrain. One character in the book augured Harry’s untimely demise. Every act, every word indicated that Harry was a Horcrux (non-Potter aficionados go read the book). And so it was revealed towards the end of the seventh book. But killing off Harry, would go against vox populi. And not doing so would falsify the entire mythology of The Boy Who Lived. So J.K. Rowling took the middle ground. Harry did die, but chose to come back to life to finish off Voldemort, restoring our faith in the age old maxim, “good over evil”. Besides, it would not do for Harry’s courage, perseverance and righteousness to go unrewarded. We have always been taught that these virtues are highly desirable. The boy had already lost his parents at a tender age. It wouldn’t do to kill him off at age seventeen. He had pity on his side. Hence, he lived to sire cheesily christened Potterlets.

Nevertheless, J.K Rowling’s genius in crafting this masterpiece cannot be gainsaid. The invention of a whole new sport (Quidditch) is just one example of her wonderful imagination. She was successful in sustaining the interest of children and adults alike. She captured the imagination of millions all over the world and spawned what journos have termed, Pottermania. But it is her marketing acumen that is the most commendable. There was always this will-she-won’t-she, cliffhanger like quality to the book. The hints in the book generated immense curiosity and left people wanting more. Die-hard Potter fans were glued to the book trying to second guess and speculate about what lay in store for Harry, whether Snape was indeed evil and so on. The book had the quality of a cleverly designed peep-show, revealing just enough to pique people’s senses and building up to an extravagant climax in which all the loose ends were tied up. People bought the books to find out if their theories were right. All this guaranteed readership and also a position in the list of best-selling authors. Futhermore, by introducing a new generation of Potters, Weasleys and Malfoys, Rowling has left open the option of continuing the Potter series; the new generation of wizards and witches could be passed on the mantle.

And those who dismiss the series as children’s books are in for a surprise. True, the young protagonists, the world of magic and the surreal, mind-boggling adventures appeal in a large part to children. But, the emphasis on sublime virtues of loyalty, courage, honor and determination and the importance of love, friendship, family, lend the books an admirably universal quality. There are clever references to mythology. For instance, Hagrid says that he got the three-headed dog, Fluffy from a “Greek chappie”, in an obvious reference to Cerberus, the creature which guards the gates of the underworld. Remus Lupin, a character which turns into a werewolf every full moon, is named after brothers Remus and Romulus, who built Rome and were raised by wolves. Interestingly, Lupin is derived from Lupa, meaning wolf in Latin. The name of another werewolf in the book( Fenrir Greyback) is derived from Norse mythology. In Norse mythology, Fenrir or Fenrisulfr is a wolf. Also, the Philosopher’s Stone, known to bestow immortality upon anyone who owns it, is said to have been the property of a Nicolas Flamel, who lived a hundred years. Nicolas Flamel was, in fact , an alchemist.

Moreover, there are other complex concepts and subtle undertones in the book which are altogether too advanced for children to grasp. The persecution of and hatred towards “Mudbloods”, mirror real life. “Mudblood” is a derogatory term used for those witches and wizards whose parents are non-magical or “Muggles”. They are thus discriminated against. Some pure-blooded wizards in the series advocate a complete annihilation of these “Mudbloods”. This intolerance is quite analogous to the anti-Semitism of Nazi Germany, the rampant racism in certain nations, the Varna system in India and the ethnic cleansing in Bosnia. Some of the horrors wrought on the victims of such bigotry is paralleled in the book. For instance, all “Mudbloods” are ordered to register their names with the Ministry, an act reminiscent of the Nazi orders to Jews to register with the SS and to wear the Star of David as a distinguishing mark.

Still think it is child’s play?

Musings of a weird chick.

The balcony of my house quite lends itself to philosophical musings and is quite inviting to budding Platos. You see verdant wilderness, broken here and there by the ubiquitous concrete buildings, everywhere you look. The recent rains have rendered the barren hills dark green. Wispy clouds waft over the said hills; I am pensive. Rainy days and Mondays always make me blue. Yet again, I have given up cold comfort for change. Yet again, my life careens towards some undefined, uncertain, nebulous goal. Yet again, I have left things to chance. Yet again, I have gambled.

It is quite uncharacteristic of me, this risk taking. I have always lived within the boundaries that people draw for themselves, crippled by self-doubt; one bird in hand is worth than two in the bush. I would say it is better than the two in the bush. I wonder what happened to playing it safe. How lightly we regard that which we obtain easily!

Am I just so blinded by the obsession to attain these impossibly high standards? Is there a larger picture that I’m missing? I wish one had all the answers to uncomfortable questions. I wish taking a chance had some sort of collateral, some insurance. But I do know that I would kick myself years from now if I chose not to explore this chance given to me, that the point of life is to test your limits. You rage against the unfair hand that Fate deals you and you make your own destiny. You don’t go with the flow. You are not satisfied with what you achieve and you strive for more. Do you not cease to exist when smug complacency sets it?

But where does it stop? Is there a logical conclusion to this endless war that you wage? Are you ever content with what you have? I know these answers will evade me. Or life wouldn’t be as interesting. Neither would you hold on to life so dearly, if you understood its meaning or essence. Life would be simple. You would take it for granted, as you take those closest to you. If you knew all of life’s secrets and mysteries, life’s outcome would be predictable. But where’s the fun in predictability? We are drawn to that which we don’t understand; it’s almost a challenge to decipher the inscrutable. It is triumph we feel once we have solved the mystery. That’s what I am aiming for, anyway.

Stormy days lie ahead, full of both possibilities and disappointment. I hope I marshal the strength to get through each day.

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, Martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!"

Of Guilt….

You are generous, like your obscure namesake
from a lost era.
Pure of soul, heart of gold.
Courageous, like a tragic hero.
My brave knight, my best friend.
My solace in times of gloom.
The morning light, that broke
after an interminably long,
dark and murky night of desolation.
My hope in times of despair.
The bearer of joy and mirth.
The kiss of life, on my moribund lips.

How I take from you!
And, how you rejoice in it!
How I pillage your life,
and how you forgive.
Your unconditional love knows no bounds.
You pour it into a flawed ,fickle soul.
There it festers and guilt brims to the surface.
Why the wanton lavishing of your love’s largesse, angel?
Why the forgiveness for the pain I cause?
Such a recipient is, surely, unworthy of your sublime devotion?

The lost hope rears its ugly head yet again.
O! Its treachery.
Like a virulence that strikes ever so often.
Stealthy, insidious…
It has me in its thrall.
It releases me, (only to come claim me at a later date.)
But not before it drains me hollow.
Such power it wields, so potent its lure.

And the wicked heart, the wicked heart
has its weaknesses.
It craves for another.
Another, quite out of reach.
Shunning you , disparaging your love.
Why then does that love not cease?
Why does it go from strength to strength?
The good come to good, they say.
And the evil, to evil.
What good has your goodness come to?
Tragedy has struck again.
You are a tragic hero once more.
History repeats itself.
Can God be so cruel to a darling child?
A child so innocent?
So star-crossed and forsaken, as to
battle the ravages alone?

What is kind cruelty?
How do I make it painless?
How do I make you numb?
Has a kind knife been forged?
Does time heal the scars?
And the memory of the pain?
Will the phoenix rise from its devastation?

I cannot, in good faith, stay.
I will not ,while my thoughts lie elsewhere.
Goodbye, my angel.
My dear one,
It wasn’t meant to be.


P.S. Self-indulgent poetic extravagance or emotional catharsis? You decide.

The Poetry of Grief…..

Sometimes, I think my Grief has nine lives.
Each time I bury it, it is resurrected.
Its strength compounds with every life,
as it draws from mine.

Hope is a flighty mistress.
She could survive on mere assumption.
She thrives in speculation.
But reality bores her.
And boredom kills, so she dies.
Hope never floats.
Hope sinks without a trace.

“Pshaw!” says petulant Reason,
tapping her foot impatiently.
“Hope was but your creation”
I see her pallid and waifish.
It’s en-vogue, I’m told.
She bursts with health, come Joy.
But Grief is a different story.

My Grief purrs contentedly.
Its licks its paws and
smiles its Cheshire smile.
Stripped of Hope,
with an ailing Reason,
I am but sitting duck.

But Grief has its merits.
No one wishes ill of one grieving.
The world reserves its ill-will
for the joyous.

Sometimes, I think my Grief will
make a poet of me.
Aye, I think it has.

Limbo

Not for me the grim certainty of Hell,
Nor the sure bliss of Heaven.
I may have been here a day,
Or a lifetime, who knows?
There’s no telling.

Halfway between Heaven and Hell,
Time stagnates in Limbo.
One instant could mirror the next,
Or the one before.
Or the thousands before or after it.
Who knows?
There’s no telling.

Minutes turn to hours, hours to days.
One moment spills over to the next quite seamlessly.
Night and Day fuse together.
Summers are no different from winters.
It knows no sorrow or pain.
It’s ageless, timeless and aimless.
A state of prolonged uncertainty, they call it.

Am I alive?
I breathe, I bleed.
I hurt, I laugh.
I muse, I sigh.
But, which of these is the touchstone for Life?
Who knows?
There’s no telling.

Care, worry, of what use are they?
When what Time may come,
Will never be distinguished from the Time Past
Or the Time Future?
There is no doorway to salvation.
But is this so unbearable?

Life, sans souci.
But, is this a life at all?
Who knows?
There’s no telling.


P.S. : Morbid, aren't I? But, I swear I was raised right!

Of Human Bondage and other horrors.

I doubt that W Somerset Maugham had quite the same connotation in mind when he wrote his masterpiece Of human bondage, but this is what I think of service agreements, bonds et al. What are you walling in or walling out? You wall in your employees’ resentment and wall out growth. Why do you penalize them when they leave for greener pastures? Is it a crime to seek better opportunities? Change is constant. So, why leave a bitter aftertaste in your former employees’ mouths by your draconian policies? You reason that you have the right to recover the large amounts you invest in your employees. I agree. But what of the sacrifices they make of their personal lives and health to provide dedicated service? They more than compensate for that investment by enduring Carpal tunnel syndrome, insomnia and lumbago. Service agreements are effective in stemming attrition. But are they really? You make fugitives, “absconders”, to use your own term, of innocent, law-abiding citizens. Why not invest in retaining your employees through a good work culture, better management and care about their growth prospects? If they are provided a work-environment to their satisfaction, why would they consider other options? Everyone wishes to take away beautiful memories of the organization for which he or she has worked. Why ruin this for them? OK. This is enough ranting. But it’s tough to resist when injustice hits too close to home.

As a software developer, you are at the bottom of the food chain; the lowest rung of the ladder, as it were. Ours is not to reason why; ours is but to toil and die. There is no respect for your time, services or resources. You are a drone; one which keeps its head down and nose deep in work. You schmooze with the bosses and hope they’ll remember you during that crucial “performance rating” which decides your worth to the company. You slog and slog and slog some more, with nary a whisper of protest. God forbid should you so much as dream of insubordination. You form cliques, cartels even, with your managers; each cell takes care of its own members. Heaven keep you if you are perceived an outsider by the countless little “office-gangs”. They look out for their own; you are small fry. You play along, or perish.

I resigned recently. Weathered resignation veterans chimed, “HR wale sab kuch kar sakte hain. Bond waiver bhi”. OK. So the HR officers (HROs) in my branch are genuinely nice people. So much so that you would actually want to be friends with them outside the office, socialize with them even if you gained nothing from the “affiliation”. But, as the world works on the principle of ying and yang, all this sweetness and light is mitigated by, er, the opposite of s. and l. No prizes for guessing which HRO I got for processing my resignation. So far, so ghastly.

To say that she has the disposition of a snapping turtle, would be a gross understatement of which I’d rather not be guilty. So scratch that analogy. Attila the Hun, for all his ferocity, seems like a petulant toddler of indulgent parents; Hercules had it easy with the Hydra. But not I. Give me an alligator pit filled with hungry alligators any day of the week and twice on a weekend.

It transpired that I would end up paying a whopping fifty grand and this, when there was less than a month to go for the bond period’s expiry. Others who left before me paid a pittance to be released from this bondage. I would have to pay-up if I wanted the much-coveted “work-experience certificate”; unless the project management “recommended” me for “bond waiver”. Pshaw, said the veterans, the HRO has all the powers, she can do everything. So, I tried every trick in the book to have my bond waived. First, there was the docile, look-at-me-I’m-so-helpless act. When the Bambi routine fell through, I turned on the old charm. Kabhi-kabhi, gadhe ko bhi baap banana padta hai, nodded the veterans wisely. She shrugged off the politeness and spurned the smile. In the same breath, she cooed like a brooding pigeon when she spoke with a male colleague and answered all his queries with the patience of a monk. Oh, well.

I wish “Love thy boss” was a diktat I had followed. Yours truly had burnt all the bridges with the project management and drilled holes in the boats. Besides, being hydrophobic didn’t help either. I will someday write a treatise on Good bosses: An endangered species. But let’s dedicate that to some other entry. Coming back to my original whine, my tryst with the HRO was an exercise in patience; this particular one is in dire need of a beginners’ course in common courtesy. Given her rudimentary grasp on civility, you can well imagine my travails. So there I was, prepared to be set back by an astronomical amount. But, someone from the top management (God bless him!) saved the day and my recommendation came through.
Wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles,
God took a Daniel once again.
Stood by his side and miracle of miracles,
Walked him through the lion’s den.


As of July 16th , 2007 , 6:00 pm Indian time, I am officially unemployed.
Free at last, free at last. Thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.