Clock – The Daily Post prompt The boisterous soul rattled its crumbled house. It was the time for a respite. The feeble body let a despondent sigh. It had to set the eternal bird free for a new flight. Eyes rolled wild, the moment had come to break a life-long alliance. The breathings froze, Clock […]
Teachers always have the best debates because they are never conclusive and go on forever in a reel of counter opinions. The crafty trickery of knowledge is however not the same with the might of power. The most contrasting thing about them both is the compromising capability of the former and the complete lack of it in the latter, it is a glaring distinction.
It is obvious that when the brute force of power establishes itself by being more cautious than curious, it thrives. The complete opposite is the case with academic pursuits, in its objective of knowledge acquisition. Where knowledge will heed and be satisfied with an informed consent not concurring with its initial opinion, power will still need loud hypocrisy and the constant visible approval it gets. The friends of power stick to it because of what it gives them subsequently. They are the most unreliable sort to have around because power corrupts all and sundry, as such they will always bite the hand that feeds them eventually. It is always a matter of time.
Even death is a disciple of power by its sheer arbitrary blatant exhibition of it, with its endless spate of unannounced uncompassionate comings and goings, thievery and mystery. There is never defeating death but there is always that moment of victory in what is achieved by living and it is that victory death always seeks to negate by its very sudden brief presence. The history of every man hangs on the very thin thread of truth and this fact lingers on to suffice the near late power of death, even after it has done its worse.
While creative fiction might appear to be pleasantly rewarding, history is the truth that lingers on into oblivion. The artistic lessons of calamities in fiction do not reveal or renew like history does. There is always that tangible realistic presence in the mutual edification of history, in its descendants, that fiction can never really fully copy with its detailed ingenuity.
History is always seen to have transcended all rational understanding with its mystery, which when logically considered objectively are momentarily sincere to every factual detail. A lot is told about a people by the way they chose to reveal, tell, teach and handle their history. The manner in which they handle the extreme stress of its gory revelations alongside its proud fray, and response to allegations leveled against it, reflects on their future in more ways than they could imagine.
A MUST READ
‘If you want to change people’s minds, you need more than evidence. You need persistence. And empathy. And mostly, you need the resources to keep showing up…’ Read the rest here. Do – it’s excellent.
Many years ago I wrote “THE MASTER’S BILL”; I concluded my mutterings about the lonesomeness of human existence with wondering on how patient and tolerant the good lord is & reasoned that it is a price He must pay.
How alone can one be?
Looking around, one can only see.
Life is one big school,
Lectures are missed by the fool.
Indeed the friend is in need,
Wisdom in the foe only bid.
The whole world could be wrong
And not hear a word in your song.
For fear hasn’t a say
Where bare hands cut hay.
The master’s wishes are His will
And only He writes down the Bill.
Religious conflict has a perception of sincere truth and righteousness that doesn’t circumvent its warring parties’ hypocritical egocentric desire to be perceived as simply being neighbourly. It instead forcibly and bluntly thrust the reality of the parties’ lustful differences on their pretentious faces, enforcing it on their neighbours in a manner that shows off what each faith wants as against what they claim to profess. It should be obvious that a religion that advocates peace needs to suffer for its submissive principle. It must pay a humiliating price it can’t even humbly mention. When a religion’s ideals and principles aren’t as principally evident as it advocates, it is actually only openly good natured for the sake of achieving its quest to be dominant.
Then it would have to result to violence to stress its misgivings or show off its disliked for other opposing religions that seek to be themselves and exist alongside it. Religions must co-exist because no religion ever exists alone, on its own. A religion that hides under the guise of peaceful co-existence to impose itself is thus quite superficial and only yearning for communal peace ahead of lasting personal inner peace that would ordinarily precede first.
Such a religion has not yet made a wraith of human trans-religious harmony feasible. It has instead rendered the most sacred personality of its loud attitudinal faiths nebulous. It turns each and every one of them to be more of wholesome fact-less histories, that can never be elucidated than the proven faiths that they each aspire to be accepted as. The fact that there is only one shared common principle the two main contesting religions of Islam and Christianity sensibly have in common, makes them ever more incompatible than compatible, and pushes rather than pulls them apart. Their common principle is expressed as a common faith in the existence of a single supreme deity.
Supremacy makes it a contestable divide and not an undeniable bond. The people argue and fight over their diverse beliefs in the archaic fate of a quite varied interpretation of the same original scriptural text and thereby murder the very essence of their religions’ being in doing so. They both miss the very point of having the single attribute they each ironically lay the most loudly admitted claim to.
It is so ludicrous and incongruous that the same dog barking aggressively is actually only chasing after its own tail in circles and not really going anywhere but racing against it own self.
Gone were the days when natives of the African continent were caricatured as red fat-lipped human flesh cooking and eating cannibals. They have only recently started to actualize that picture. They have made the initial label appear like a futuristic fictional work and not the old missionary tale it was. Native Africans have graduated into mean heartless people who chop off their fellow natives limbs, lynch, massacre and burn up the neighbour’s corpses with impunity. They are marauders that kill and roast the corpses of neighbours, in their homes like hunters.
Each fabrication of the truth places one more stitch into the eyes of the hibernating masses. Confrontation needs to be substituted for acceptance and avoidance. The exploration of consciousness, both collective and singular, requires the engagement of an open mind. Only through cognitive exercise can the healing begin, therefore opening the eyes to the truth […]
(Excerpts from ‘Sporting Chance’ in ‘Everyone hates the English’)
Indians will always prefer cricket to football.
Vijay understands the Indian’s passion for cricket, he really couldn’t imagine a more fitting sport for the mainly frail creamy intelligent tigers. But the English’s craze for that weaklings’ sport alongside a maddened hunger for football and rugby is to say the least, quite baffling.
The artistry in the dexterous requirements in the football craft are very English, just as their heavy beer drinking and brawling nature is captured in rugby, which is tastefully quite English.
Vijay struggles to place the lazy pretentious athletic guise of cricket in the rugged Isles of the Brits. With their woodlands for Archery, their vast greenery across the broad island screams for racing horses, their neatly cut lawns fitting for tennis and golf, their long coast line and rivers demand to be rowed and raced in. But it baffles Vijay where the idle desire to spend an entire afternoon watching able bodied men, fully dressed in surgical whites and safari hats, just to repetitively throw, whack and catch a wooden fist size ball, over and over again, comes from. It beats the imagination and is simply juvenile to have grown ups endlessly count the number of times a ball is thrown, hit or caught repeatedly. It feels like teaching erring adolescences to count while punishing them for doing their sums badly.
Vijay’s conclusive theory is the English lords had simply wanted a ball game of their own that can rival football. The rich lords of old England hated the advent of original football and the trampling of their vast green lands by their peasant tenants it encouraged. The lords hated that it curbed their fox hunting and pony jumping. It also disturbed their arrow shooting. They also hated the fact that football evolved into quite a popular pastime amongst their rebellious subjects who chose to still revere their lordships, even as they pretend not to by openly governing themselves democratically. So the English lords sought for a way to be seen as taking to the field on their feet, running and throwing, hitting and catching too, like in football.
It had to be on their terms, completely non-contact sport, one befitting royalty and allowing them to be well dressed, with sitting ladies watching out of harms way, like in polo. The thought of it being otherwise is appalling, to say the least. Cricket is paced leisurely, in usual unrushed aristocratic manner and its lingo also comes from established elitist pastimes. Visiting teams are tourists and half-time is tea time etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.
Enter Cricket for English royals and landlords.
EVERYONE HATES THE ENGLISH
The flowers are drinking The sky is leaking like a sieve Don’t kick the caps off mushrooms For that’s where the fairies live
Written by Jacob Ibrag Wrapped in confusion, or am I married to delusion that everything will gravitate towards its right place. Refraining from movement, its this belief that has me stagnant. Self paralysis. It’ll get better, no point of lifting a finger. After a while, the water starts coming in faster, reaching my neck. Yet I’m not in a panic, this was all meant to happen. Motionless, steady as an old man at an elderly home. Then it starts creeping into my mouth, and then […]
In all of Africa, corruption is that quiet old pre-independence illegal small structure, built with dry wooden walls of sticks with a thatched grass roof. The earliest native semblance of civilized governments had met the frail hut and turned it into the big personal brick mansions in the outskirts of their villages. The post independence created democracies copied badly because they didn’t naturally evolve and the military dictatorships bullied their way in and institutionalized corruption. They renovated it completely into a massive block of high skyscrapers, with reinforced concrete walls with solid steel fittings and aluminum and glass trimmings, and site it in the middle of the big new cities.
Corruption has taken on a permanent imagery in Africa, much like natural mountains that had been there all along, like immortal living emperors of old reigning over frightened domains, showing love for their land by keeping their subjects alive only to work for them.