Sitting in remote village of Kerala, I dream of glitzy night bars, quaint art galleries, attending symposiums on art, philosophy and literature. But none of these things materialize in my real life. My wife who is a staunch Pentecostal told me let’s visit a house, a Pastor’s house. Yes I said, I have nothing to lose. We had to ask a few people, the direction and finally we reached the house. I encountered the most profound life experience there. The pastor’s son was blind and autistic. He came near me, sat on my lap and I whispered to him lovingly: “Moses”. I hugged and kissed him. He cooed in joy. We sat there for a long time. When my wife started praying in tongues for him, he jumped from his father’s lap, and sat in her lap. She sang to him softly: “Jesus loves me”. I understand life is more meaningful than art galleries, philosophy and literature. I wonder, is there more to the meaning of life than what I treasure. I don’t cry but tears welled up in my life.
I am going through the experience of trying to fill my consciousness and mingle it with Australian Aboriginal Gods, African Shamanism and Satanism. As I am plunging deeper and deeper, I feel no meaning in my encounters. Theism has become a void for me. There is no dark world inhabited by demons and demonesses. My encounter with African Shamanism came from seeing a voodoo doll placed on the table of the UN director for Communications and PR in Jakarta. The doll keeps continually haunting me. Sometimes out of desperation, I seek its blessings. The end results are very discouraging. My tryst with an Australian Aboriginal God came from seeing an idol placed in my uncle’s house as a show piece. He had been in Australia for many years. This idol too nullifies my desires. I have embraced Hellenism and from Nietzsche, I came to understand that the Dionysian is a way of life. I hope my life’s fragments of wishes will catch on to something that is desirable. How can I make Nietzsche’s Will to Power an actualization in my life. I hope I can.
I went to a Charismatic meeting as an unbeliever. The pastor was a foreigner from Kenya. He worked himself to a passionate frenzy, speaking in tongues and bursting with words. When he started the healing session, people went crazy. Few were spinning round and round like tops. Women fell on the ground and were rolling like dogs rolling in the mud. He started laying hands and people were falling down as if like trees uprooted by the wind. I thirsted for a religious experience. But nothing happened to me. A few tears came to my eyes. Those were only of self consolation of having left Christian faith. I went for all the sessions. But nothing supernatural happened to me. After one session, I went to him and spoke to him about how Christianity has ruined African culture. He became very defensive and said: I will speak to you after I pray. He emphasized very much on giving especially sowing your seed. For one session he said, bring your seed (money) with a handkerchief and he will anoint it. All I had was 20$ and I put it in the bucket and he anointed my hanky with oil. Nothing much has happened to my purse except for it being empty. I come to understand that women of India are more sensitive; it could be something all over the world. They open up their bodies to the pastor’s suggestion. A Freudian explanation is that they are more culturally repressed and they releasing their inbuilt angst. One woman who was barren came rushing to my seat knocked me down and fell to the ground. I became taken aback. I do not have the gift of tongues and I am perfectly willing to tolerate people who have it. Why? My own wife speaks in tongues and prays for me to renounce my apostasy. I am remain to this day as an Existential Nihilist and a Hellenic Philistine Hedonist. I am more fascinated with Philosopher Nietzsche’s—Will to Power and the Dionysian aspect of life. Count me out of Christian purity and virtue. I respect Christians but I am not going to be one like them. I want to retain my own individuality.
Though you rest peacefully near the roaring sea…your life’s journey has not ended with me. Yes you visit me nocturnally in my dreams. You tend to talk of the good –old-days…sometimes, you are very silent. It’s a joy to see you in my dreams. Apart from being a teacher, you were teaching life to me. I am filled with gratitude for you for introducing me to Hellenic culture. Without you, I would have been a culture-illiterate, boorish Syrian Christian. I never in my life at that point of time had even the slightest inclination that I wanted to be a writer. Now I realize that writing is my destiny and all along you were laying its roots. When I fell in love in my teens, you were so liberally permissive. You took the trouble of visiting my lover’s family and fixing our marriage, sad to say ended like fragments of broken glass. I did not know the value of your immense collection of books then. But now I realize, how valuable books are and I am adding on to your collection as and when my budget permits me. Ideologically speaking, you appear strange to me. You were a Capitalist, Christian and a Communist with a liberal philosophy. You practiced Capitalism in the institution you run and at the same time you were a member of the Communist party. As a Christian, you were secular and emphasized the secular and cultural values of Christianity. Your students loved and respected you. I had a bag of mixed feelings for you, of love, respect, of fear. After all these years, I realize how much I miss you. We could have had a jovial tête à tête with a good drink. Even when you were you very sick, you predicted the day you would die and it happened as you said on Christmas day. I was thankful that I could satisfy you last wish that you wanted to be buried with your mother. Yes, your mother died when you were only a boy. Your strange wish always puzzled me. And then finally light dawned on me, when a colleague of yours said: ‘my mother gave my body and at death, I want to give it to her’.
I have been a mind traveler to the Philippines for a very long time. I have been eccentric to the extent of keeping the map of Philippines in my wallet. I have been trying for many years to get a job of a teacher of English in an International School there, but the wheel of fortune remained without moving. Now lady luck has shined for me and I have been asked by an International school to attend the interview and face the test. I have never budgeted my expenses in my life. But this time, I sat down and budgeted all my expenses and the amount came to Rupees 157000 which is approximately 2415 $, not an exorbitant sum and I hope the magic wand of the Fairy God Mother will hand me the money as a gift.
He was living a miserable life after losing all memory. He had grown pathetic to the extent that he used to wallow in his own shit. I used to remember the times when he used to visit our house while on his journey to the heart of the village. The visits were cordial and sparkled with the bonhomie of good-natured-ness. Being a Biology teacher, he had a good knowledge of the botanical names of flowers and plants and trees and he was always wanting to teach and instruct those whom he met with. Tomorrow is his funeral. Yes I am feeling sad that he passed away. There’s a superstition here in Kerala that if you see a dead body it brings good-luck. I carry the guilt of conscience in me thinking over whether I should visit his mortal remains with the intention of good-luck; may be not or may be! May his soul rest in peace.
This facial sculpture of the American President was brought to Indian shores by my uncle who by curious coincidence was called Abraham Lincoln. Honest Abe is a phrase that is none too decadent. This sculpture lives, eats, walks and breathes with me. I am not idealistic or honest or conscientious like Abe but still I adore him as one of the founding fathers of America. True, America is a great nation with an amalgamation of thoughts and cultures, truly global yet flavored with an aura that is distinctly ethnic.
Darling Mig, I feel so wounded and helpless my darling would be wife, my dearest soul, my loving friend. I have disappointed you many times and I feel sick and tired in myself. I long to settle down with you and lead a life with a person who can understand me thick and thin. I don’t know why it is taking so long a time. I have failed you many a time; I have made promises which I have not been able to keep. I feel like kissing your feet and telling you, how sorry I am. My job in Surabaya was lost, as Jenny took me to the mental hospital by crafty subterfuge. At least in Surabaya, I was able to support you in a small way and that too when I was in Gandhi Memorial School. There are moments in my life, when I long for a pat on my back, a handshake, a hug, a caress, a whisper of love. Yes, my love you have done that to me many times, in our short sojourn in KL. I was so happy when you pecked my cheek, while we were descending down on the lift. Such small acts fill me with so much gratitude. Though, I am rational, I am so much of an emotional body. I need to be filled constantly with acts of assurance. I remember that after the tortuous cyber seminar, you took me to the room and kissed, and nibbled my lips. I felt so loved when I fondled your thighs by uplifting your skirt. Yes, my darling Mig, I feel that life and the cosmos have not given us a chance to meet by chance. There’s definitely a fulfilling purpose to it. Though we have been born in middle class families, we have outgrown the symptom of being middle class. I am so happy that you like me, appreciate the higher nuances of art, literature, culture and philosophy. I am so thrilled that you support my ambition of becoming an artist-novelist. I am so overwhelmed that you a have borne my angst and you have provided succor to elevate me out of it. Even when you become angry with me or abuse me, I like it all the more, and I love you all the more. My darling, KL nights last in me as a beautiful music, as an erotic poem. I reminisce how beautifully we have made love; it’s as if, you know by magic, what my body is, the way my body is, the way it feels and you blend yourself to it in rhythmic magic. Yes my darling, I long to see you in KL on Nov 15 2015 and celebrate your birthday, share with you a garden of conversations, make music in the magic of loving erotica.
I hope I can publish it.
Your loving Anand
There’s a grotto of Idol Mary by the side of the road. This night while passing along the road, I became attracted to the hordes of candles lit for her. I stopped my scooter and blew all the candles out. I felt a strange sense of glee of having defied holiness.
My late father Prof. V A Mathen Bose was a macho. I was terrified of his thundering voice, his caning. He was a paradox of being a Christian, a Marxist and a Capitalist. Though he was a Macho, I happened to witness his effeminate nature. On his death bed, he told his children that he wanted to be buried with his mother. The reason for it became clear to me through the words of a colleague. My father, V A Mathen Bose said to him: “My mother has given me my body and now on death, I want to give it back to her.”