I was ensconced in my house for the last twenty days and had not been out at all. I stayed in and read and watched movies and did not feel the need to go out. Think of it as my shot at eremitism at which I find I am surprisingly good. Maybe now I should look at a career as a Trapppist monk.

That puts me in mind of Victor Hugo's rant against eremitism in Les Miserables ( I think). I read the book when I was 16 and at that time I was seriously considering joining the Jesuits. And then Hugo came and shat all over my ideology, I was justifiably incensed. You would think that with age as the romantic sheen I had cast over the Jesuit order faded I would begin to see the justice of Hugo's critique but I never did. If I remember aright his objections were mainly sociological and impressive, not because of their logic but, because of his undoubted literary prowess. He pours forth his considerable literary powers to convince the reader that anyone who desires to take on a life of contemplation in a religious order and willingly hems himself in by the myriad rules and regulations that attend on such a decision is ipso facto a social misfit and a masochist. Maybe a profound distrust of the religious life became a characteristic of post-revolution France which colours Hugo’s thought as well.

I remember feeling a deep unease at that time at what Hugo was saying and how he was saying it. I was uneasy because I felt that he was trying to whip up a frenzy which would perforce lead to an uncritical agreement with his point of view. Hugo was a great artist, a master craftsman of prose and he is very well equipped to do what I felt he was doing. I was, almost carried away by the stream of impassioned prose that bordered on poetry and my admiration may have led me to uncritically agree with and unconsciously accept what he had to say. But there was that hint of suspicion in the back of my mind which could not be put to rest. It was like listening to Saruman. I was overpowered by the sweetness of the voice and I felt a consuming need to agree with what it said and thus appear wise myself, but there was that feeling of being under a spell, of not being in my right mind, that vague feeling as if something was not right, as if the perspective was skewed. That unease, that feeling of being possessed by someone or something else was like a thorn in my side, constantly calling for attention inspite of the art that was being put forth to numb the pain. That was my first encounter with this specific kind of argument, a kind that I have heard a number of times and maybe even used sometimes. It is the impassioned argument, the mad, frenzy inducing argument. It does not call attention to facts but seeks to blind you with emotion. Rarely is it done with the finesse of Hugo. His prose is sublime art even if I do not agree with his ideas. I cannot say the same thing about the arguments of the Hindu fundamentalists in my country. The BJP, VHP and their ilk use nothing but this kind of argument to hold on to power and relevance. Their appeal is emotional and not logical. And the saddest thing is, it is neither good prose, nor good oratory.

Anyways, today I went out into the city after a long time. The rains were here meanwhile and the city is washed clean. The river in front of my home, which was choked with green weeds has swelled up and swept away its green skin and flows with a swirl of brown muddy waters with a carefree and impetuous lilt. I have a curious ritual with the river. I cross it everyday on my way to work and I check everyday for the extent of the river surface encroached upon by the weeds. If it is all choked up with the vile growth the day will be all choked up with work and if the river shakes it self free and washes away the weeds then I will be free all day to do what I desire. The curious thing about this little superstition is that I never actually look back and see if it actually, truly did forecast the nature of my day, but I still look at the river everyday and look for a happy sign of the day to come. And since now there is not a trace of those weeds anymore, maybe I shall be free for as long as the rains last. Or maybe, I will be fired from my job, and believe you me, it is a possibility. Maybe, getting fired will not be that bad.

Poona is beautiful in the rains. Those barren hills I told you about, have turned green. its mostly small shrubs and bushes but still from down here it looks verdant and refreshing. And from my room I can hear the cuckoo. Its weird, my genes are probably hardwired to read all that into a cuckoo-call that Indian poetry is supposed to read into it- love and longing, specifically a lovelorn cry for someone special who has gone far away. Is this a cultural construct that I am submitting to, or is it universal, something all human beings feel on hearing this sound? The cuckoo here is a harbinger of spring. Spring is weird in India. There is infact no spring... winter seamlessly merges into an Indian summer. Maybe a week or two at most can be called spring. Spring is long over now and it is the rains but the cuckoo puts me in mind of an old spring custom. Kalidasa says in the Shakuntala that when one hears the first cuckoo one knows its the spring, and then must one go looking for fresh mango blossoms and with these mango blossoms one must make an oblation to Madana, the God of love. Well, I guess I must be off now to look for mango blossoms. I hope you come back for another slice of my ravings soon.