Venugopal Gupta's Blog

As a child, I would pray for good marks. Growing up I would pray for good college, good job and of course, good girlfriend. I never cared to understand the full meaning of prayers, much less of what I asked so confidently in those prayers. God, to me was an elderly, long bearded guy, dressed in a long white robe, sitting with his goddess wife (somehow still very youthful) in the clouds with a magic wand that could make wishes true.
I never bothered to know why my wishes came true and that of others didn’t. I never bothered to know why sometimes my wishes didn’t come true. God was up there, I was down here and I had a good satisfaction level with god. Of course, there was room for improvement and I was happy to allow the time and space for it.
As I entered the real life that exists outside the school and college, my belief in god was shaken. I saw people who didn’t believe in god, who didn’t pray every morning, doing better than me. They had more money than me, they had bigger cars, bigger houses. All in all, there lives seemed so much better than mine. Even if I adjusted for what people called ‘all that glitters is not gold’, they still came out tops.
This apathy continued even when I was ‘winning’. The trust had been broken. When something works, it works all the time. Otherwise, it’s just pure chance, a gamble, unreliable.
As a result my prayers became customary, like those inane weather (or politics) conversations between two strangers waiting in the same room and feeling compelled to talk. Then, the prayers stopped completely. I half expected god to strike down on me. He didn’t. That was it. If god didn’t grant favors on prayers, if god didn’t punish the people who didn’t pray, what is the point of it all?
What is the point of prayer? At least, what is the point of prayers as we know them?
I don’t know whether god exists or not, but there is someone very real who is definitely listening to your prayers: you. In those silent moments, when you sit down and fold your hands (or not) and talk honestly to god, a deeper you listens and, because it cannot recognize true from false, it accepts your message.
When you pray to win, you tell yourself that you are losing. When you pray to get something, you tell yourself that you are lacking in something, that you are deficient. When you pray to become something, you are, in fact, telling yourself that you are incomplete. In that sense, through unintentional auto-suggestions, prayers could be leaving you feeling deprived and needy all the time.
On the other hand, a prayer of gratitude leaves you feeling complete and happy. A prayer in which you count your blessings, leaves you feeling abundant. A prayer in which you count how, through you, many people have been helped, leaves you feeling empowered. These are positive prayers which reaffirm you, leave you feeling abundant, complete and as a result, liberated.
As I discovered, a prayer of gratitude isn’t easy. It’s quite awkward in the start. You might start with broken fragments of sentences, of conversations. The skepticism could be so deep that you might not be able to come up with a single sentence of gratitude. If you keep at it, however, words will flow, sentences will come out naturally until prayers will become songs that are sung through you, not by you. You will be like the flute, unaware, that it is she who creates the beautiful song out of the air it breathes.
As the song becomes spontaneous, as your prayers run deep, deeper than your mind, you will experience something exceptional. You can call it meditation, but it is really indescribable. It can only happen when your mind has been by-passed. Away from wrong-right, less-more, good-bad and other mental markers, there is a place you will visit.
In this place, you will experience joy, not the temporary excitement that we confuse with happiness. In this place, you will experience the warmth of an embrace long due. In this place you will experience succor like the first taste of spring water after a long desert trek. In this place, you will experience a gentle, idyllic glow, glimpses of which you must have seen on some lazy winter afternoon as sunlight tiptoed around you.
It is the place where you were born before you were born. Here, you will feel simultaneously, part and whole, gross and sublime, drop and ocean. It is a place from which every thought arises like a ripple and through its ebb and flow carries you to your truest desires. It is also the place to which you will ultimately return, as you came. As a drop dissolves in the ocean.

I grew up in an India which had two kinds of cars and one kind of breakfast cereal. I remember being quite happy. Of course, it could be childhood. 

Anyways, I am not against choice.

However, imagine this: in less than twenty years we have twenty five different breakfast cereals, thirty five car makers, each making five models, with five variants. Does this level of explosive choice impart greater freedom? 
It sure doesn't feel that way. It does feel like we are being carpet bombed with choice. Strangely, though it must empower us, it is not. We are losing our voice. 

Ten thousand things vie for our attention from the moment we open our eyes in the morning till they close at night. Billions of bytes of information are pushed down our unsuspecting throats every day. There is no way we can process this information and come to a deduced conclusion. So, we look for a hypothesis that works.
Products are hardly sold on their features alone. It is just not enough to differentiate them from competition. The solution: sell products on lifestyle choices. It works like this, if you choose a particular car then you are an adventure-lover, if you choose another, you are a family guy. 

The consequence: when people buy products, they buy a lifestyle hypothesis. They must conform to that hypothesis, the 'a-la-carte' chosen image of ourselves, with which we must be identified. 
Often, this makes us move away from our innate personality and towards that image. We become less centered, 'less us'. We start to ask ‘what is expected of me?’, rather than ‘what do I want?’ 

This is not freedom to me. Neither to Oxford Dictionary: 'The power or right to act, speak or think as one wants'

It is just an illusion of freedom. We are, perhaps, as free as a railway carriage.

The world glorifies the, supposedly, ‘new-age’ virtues like ‘ruthlessness’, ‘jungle spirit’, and sets the ground for many to aspire to adopt them. 

We need to think: are these words worthy principles to aspire to? Or are they just reckless taglines that are at best, melodramatic. When we internalize these tag lines, don’t we objectify ourselves?


It is not about goals. In fact, we need goals. We must each have a goal. The question is: must we let the goal have us?
We often confuse determination with its evil twin: fixation. While determination is our ability to stand our ground while pursuing our goals. Fixation, on the other hand, is an unhealthy attachment to an ideal. Determination is to fixation what, perhaps, habit is to addiction. One is human and natural. The other, inflexible, and extracts ever-increasing costs. Costs we sometimes extinguish ourselves bearing. Determination is balanced and inclusive, while fixation is unbalanced and isolating.   
Again, the question: are you an object? It depends, do you have a goal or does the goal have you?

Each day we have a choice: to expand or to shrink. To soar or to fall. To forge ahead or to cower down. To embrace or to escape. To love or to fear. What we choose is how we look at life. Life is uncertain. There is no doubt. That same uncertainty can be feared, loathed or found enchanting and mystical. Our choice. It can be found threatening the status quo or promising new beginnings. Depressing or inspiring. Debilitating or strengthening. It’s us. How we look at things. A river just flows. There is no reason for it to turn and twist. It is so meaningless, illogical. It can flow straight from the mountains and empty into the ocean. Yet, it does. Wanders aimlessly, meaninglessly. Yet, doesn’t it create meaning for the millions in this meaningless wander? There is always another side. We just don’t look at it. Look at the side that makes you expand. That helps you soar. That helps you forge ahead. Helps you embrace. Helps you love. There is no truth beyond perception. How you look at things is the truth for you. 

They had always wanted to go to India. This summer they finally took the plunge. A large part of their life savings were to be sacrificed for this enduring wish. The flight was a little more than ten hours and they were helping themselves to delicious Indian kebabs washed down with generous gulps of a brilliant red wine that the airline reserved for its first class passengers. They could not wait to land. Unable to control the excitement of landing into the mystical land of Taj Mahal, old forts, Rajah’s and Maharajah’s, they kept looking out of the window and smiling to each other. It was raining heavily and while the aircraft tried to land its mammoth body onto a brightly lit runway below, a few violent splashes on the window revealed the tenacity of the rain. Still, inside the cabin of the aircraft, this felt quite dreamy and adventurous. Until…
‘You may please wear your life vests!’, the captain announced in a casual voice. The passengers were confused. The plane was about to land on the runway and yet the captain was preparing the visitors for a landing on water. ‘I know some of you have questions. We will take these questions later. Right now, I just want you to wear your life vests in an orderly fashion. The stewardesses will help you inflate them and ensure that they fit properly’, the captains voice resounded in the cabin.
People started to wear their vests hurriedly. Some were confused; some thought this was all a prank. They smiled knowingly and felt sorry for the others. The plane landed on the runway and out looked three hundred passengers wearing their fully inflated life vests, looking like orange candy. The plane came to a stop and the aerobridge turned towards the plane, ready to gobble up the consignment of orange candy. They trudged through the aerobridge, carting their luggage with some difficulty. Once they came to the end of the corridor, there stood a water slide. Each one of them was gently helped into the water slide and given a little push. In a minute they would land in a pool of water from where they would have to swim gently towards the floating immigration counter. The immigration officer himself wore a vest. He had an anchor tied to his waist that kept him almost stationary. The coast guard had been kind enough to provide a few anchors at a short notice.
Of course, the immigration officer had to wade a little bit every now and then. As soon as a passenger would float up to him, he would flash a big broad smile and say ‘Welcome to India, how may I help you!’. Then, he would slowly remove the passport from the chattering teeth of the passengers (the receiving officer at the end of the water slide had placed the passport and some currency there so that their hands were free to wade in the water). After completing the formalities, and if the papers were correct, the immigration officer would tuck the passport back in and give a gentle push to keep the passengers swimming forward. If the papers were not in order, he would summon a few “guys” and deflate the life vest.
As passengers made their way from the immigration counter, they would cross the shopping arcade. Shopping arcade generated a lot of revenue for the airport. They didn’t want to lose out on sales. So, today, boats stood in front of the entrance with goods stacked neatly and guarded by a boatman-cum-shopkeeper. A floating passenger, mouth holding the passport and currency and hands busy wading in the water, could indicate interest through a vigorous nodding of the head. When a floating passenger indicated interest, a fishing rod would be forwarded to him and he would be helped near the boat. The shopkeeper would sell the item and remove a few notes from the clenched teeth of the passengers. After the purchase the shopkeeper would gently push the visitor towards the exit gate. Sometimes these shopkeepers would get bored and they would play with these passengers. They would keep pushing them from one boat to the other. Of course, every now and then a speed boat with a red beacon light would slice through the water directly to the exit gate with passengers dressed in white, looking refreshingly dry.

The belt was out of order and so people anchored behind the floating baggage counter told everyone to return when the rain stopped and the airport was not a water park anymore. 

It’s just rape as usualSpeaking at the annual convocation of the Indian Rape Research Institute, the minister for rape of state (sorry, the minister of state for rape) was categorical. He waved his index finger seriously at the crowd “we will not take this lying down..”. One of his secretaries promptly got up and nervously whispered something into the minister’s ear. The minister retracted, somewhat embarrassed “what I meant was that we will not tolerate this”. The minister then went on to enumerate the cases of rape that had happened since the last month, in each state. “This month due to our efforts we have done better. There has been a 0.003% decline in rape incidents since the last month. Last month we had 124.56 rapes and this month the figure has fallen to 124.55 already. Very soon we hope to get to 124.40”, said the minister, his eyes moist at the tantalising prospect. Just a few months ago, he was hand-picked by the high command. The high command wanted someone with first-hand experience and after all the MP’s qualified, she zeroed down on the present incumbent. After all he was the home minister’s wife’s brother’s wife’s elder brother’s youngest son. Also, starting small with a few eve-teasing incidents, he now had a 45% market share of rapes in his constituency. On the first day of assuming office he had called his secretary, 11 additional secretaries, 23 under secretaries and, after they had felt left-out, the 56 joint secretaries. They looked peeved. They were only allowed to bring one personal assistant each and the Samosa’s


A popular Indian snack Suffix “Ji” used to denote respect Hindi for brother

The apathy of the entitled-to-everything law enforcers, the cluelessness of the intelligence agencies and the determination of the terrorists have climaxed once again. Serial blasts have rocked Hyderabad. Fifteen are dead and over fifty are injured. The Andhra Pradesh CM has reached one of the blast sites to do “god-knows-what” while his security detail pushes around already distraught witnesses. The home minister has appeared “personally” (imagine!) on TV and described the blast. The PM (remember, the one we see rarely and hear never) has appealed for calm. Immaculately dressed citizens of a parallel universe called Lutyen’s Delhi have come on TV to denounce, deplore and condemn the blasts in the most erudite language available. Isn’t the pain evident on their innocent faces?  News channels boldly splash their screens with Breaking News. Just three days ago they had the chopper scam and now the blast, they are giddy with pleasure. The game has just begun. There will be appeals for calm, debates and talk shows. There will be a committee, headed by a retired judge, that will prepare a thousand-page report in fifteen years. They could do it in two years but who minds being paid for fifteen years. This time the compensation will be higher on account of inflation (and upcoming elections, Shh!)

Even the hardened doctors at the Safdarjung hospital, who routinely witness the most ghastly injuries, shuddered with horror at the sight of the 23 year old gang-rape victim. They had never seen anything like this before. Just looking at her made their guts ache. For the second day today, she lies helplessly in the intensive care unit. She slips into a coma every now and then. Doctors, try desperately to salvage her. For many of them she is as old as their daughter who also sometimes travels by bus at night. Pulling out all stops, they have operated on her five times already but are still unsure whether she will live. Her vital organs are permanently damaged and a normal life, the dream of which must still be lingering in her mind, looks elusive. 

This is not rape. This is not even murder. This is worse. The sadness is huge. The anger, pervasive. But, today, don’t blame the government. Don’t blame the police. She deserves better than some morsels of fake consolation and monetary relief thrown at her by these useless, self-serving custodians of law. She deserves better than that. Instead, let’s just pray for her. Let’s just hope that she gets better soon. Let’s just hope that a faint glimmer of a recovering smile on her face sits prettily in triumph while it watches the absolute horror of the perpetrators as they face their inevitable consequences.

As we grow, life increasingly becomes dependant on externalities that we have no control over. Millions of random, seemingly unconnected, events come together, El-Nino like, to create significant situations that alter our lives, for better or worse. 
Many situations are thrown at our doorstep. Good, bad, squalid, pleasant, morbid, inspiring. In positive situations, we get a warm fuzzy feeling. Positive situations cement our beliefs. We believed in something and it worked. We brim with self-confidence. Henceforth, whenever faced with tumult we hold the remedy in our hands. There is a balm in belief. There is a feverish succour in it. There is the euphoria of conquest in it. Then, life turns a corner and the dark clouds emerge at the horizon. We valiantly fight the darkness armed with the testimony of our belief. Sometimes, the dark clouds are here to stay. As time passes by, doubts surface. Yet we cling desperately to those beliefs. More time passes and we start to question them. Hesitantly at first. Blatantly later. Ultimately, we become unsure of our beliefs. We feel betrayed. We discard them and, disarmed, the dark clouds engulf us as we descend slowly into an abyss of hopelessness.  
Some, like Meerabai, believe in God. Some, like Mother Teresa, believe in “doing good”. Some, like Dalai Lama, believe in love and compassion. A child believes in Santa. Belief alone cannot insulate us against life’s vagaries. It alone cannot guarantee uninterrupted happiness. So what can? Perhaps, the strength of our belief. Maybe, it is not important what we believe in, so long as we vehemently believe in it. Maybe, an unwavering, unquestioned, unflinching, enduring belief can produce the absolute surrender that is the key to happiness.
Maybe we shouldn’t waste time trying to find out if what we believe in is, in fact, true. Whether our belief is right or wrong. Maybe we should just believe. And hold on to that belief like we would hold on to dear life.  If we can do this, if the solid strength of our belief can endure the vagaries of life, the dark clouds may still come, but maybe we will still have a smile in our heart

Right. Wrong. Well-deserved. Ill-deserved. Appropriate. Inappropriate. Justified. Unjustified. Becoming. Un-becoming. Victory. Defeat.  Why me ? Why not ? Mind asks, calculates and analyses. It judges everything. It has been trained that way. It has a hypothesis on us, on life. It demands that everything fit into that hypothesis. Else, questions galore. Difficult to please, this mind. Always wanting more and more. Maximising. Soak yourself in a private Jacuzzi or sink into the velvet seats of your luxury car. Mind can feel the soft touch of velvet on your hands, it can feel the warm jets of water as the gently massage your back. Then, the mind wonders what it would be like to have more of this. It propels you. You obey like a humble servant. Launch yourself into this this quest. You build the best house money can buy, buy the best clothes (isn’t it the mind that knows the brands!), buy electronic gadgets and more. Yet it leaves you feeling deprived, needy and unfulfilled. While the mind basks smugly in this abundance, you are confused. You feel the emptiness. The emptiness of abundance.
Unperturbed, the river of life flows. Uncertainty looms large in each ebb and flow. A straight course for miles. Then, an unexpected waterfall that shakes it to the core before another languid crawl. Delirious. Drunk with randomness and unaware of what the future holds. Life talks to us. It talks less these days but still. The language is strange. And it is in poetic verse. Only the heart understands. It talks to us through the dance of the sunlight in the room on a wintery Sunday morning as we try to wake up. It talks to us as we sit outside in a cool evening draught laden with tiny droplets of rain. It talks to us at the sudden sight of a snow-clad mountain, stunning in its majesty, during an undulating hill drive. It talks to us through that munificent, cherubic smile of a newborn that has just spotted a bird. It smiles at us warmly, mother-like, when we decide to not to buy that expensive shirt but instead feed ten street children the ice cream they think they too deserve but cannot have.  
If you must accumulate, if you must fill your coffers, maybe it is a good idea to accumulate those brief extraordinary moments when life talks to us. Maybe it is a good idea to accumulate life. So that we never run out of it.