Rebel Symphony No. 26 in E Major

“Born in Argentina, fought in Cuba, became a revolutionary in Guatemala, died fighting for the oppressed in Bolivia…” The very thought paints a picture of perfect liberation and emancipation of the conscious mind, intoxicated by a quixotic notion like that of a free-fall from a cliff while still being attached to a cause deep-rooted in your heart. The whole idea of gathering dry foliage; starting a fire with the deepest and most selfless of intents; nurturing it till it engulfs the whole forest; and eventually marching on to new grounds while passing the torch to the worthy fascinates and drives me each day.

Ernesto Guevara and the likes are metaphors for a deeper concept that continues to sweep away young, rebellious, non-conformist minds across the globe. Call it the lack of an established nomenclature for this phenomenon, or my ignorance of it; I am forced to coin a terminology for this. I would call it- being a Contract Revolutionary. I am discounting the likes of other great revolutionaries such as Simon Bolivar, or even Nelson Mandela who fought for a wide variety of causes and a wider class of people and nations, but stayed back in power for a long term development and unification of people. Here I only refer to the ones whose origins are very apolitical and more to do with matters close to their hearts. They are all around us, within us, amongst us, challenging the conventional, picking their heart over head, and moving on.

A compassionate mind is promptly drawn to any act that irradiates injustice, loss of human dignity or attempts of dehumanizing fellow souls in its very essence. Be it the oppressive regime of a dictatorship, the plight of farmers and the landless, denial of basic health and hygiene for the dignified living of a commoner, or even prejudices at work environment –all of these act as tiny pollens that germinate into rebels who choose either to strategically solve the issue and plan long term or into the ones who play the spontaneous, impulsive contractors. While the former may eventually turn into a conservative or a revisionary or even a reactionary; the latter remains an uncompromising revolutionary till the very end.

The likes of contract revolutionaries are driven by the very cause and the stir it causes in their souls. Never is power sought after or pursued, since it never was about attaining power or supremacy or proving a point. It always is a purely emotional decision taken by an unshackled heart that envisions the world to be a place of unchained existence, liberated thoughts and basic human rights. There’s a cause that hits your conscience and makes your heart bleed (the origin of which might be several thousand miles away). You put all your conviction and your very existence on the line, face your deepest fears head on, overcome the issue, move on and find the next cause. You don’t wait to rest under the shadow of the tree you would have planted. You walk on.  

Communism and socialism were mere tools that certain revolutionaries (only the apolitical, non-power hungry ones here) would have used at different points of history to fight for a cause. Countless stories of revolutionaries joining popular uprisings in a foreign country to bring down an unjust system, or start relief work for a country hit by a natural disaster, or set up health posts in poverty and epidemic stricken nations, leaving the comforts of a stable life behind is commonplace. In a more routine context, I see the likes of contract revolutionaries using tools such as music, social media, poetry, or even their freedom of speech in a closed meeting room to express the voice of liberated minds.

The phrase “move on” gives a rather escapist, adventurous and impractical tone to this whole notion. But when your entire belief system cries out loud, you would rather act and move on, than act deaf…

The Quilt Story

I had almost forgotten the soft, creaking noise of a bamboo hand fan. Back in the north-east characterized by frequent power cuts, it used to be the only source of liberation and respite in the pitiless summer several years ago. This afternoon, the hand-fan turns out to be the only entity breaking an eerie silence. It’s ironical that I find something as modest as my childhood in the most cosmopolitan cities ever!

Singapore it is and I am in a claustrophobic, 8-bed, windowless, back-packers lodge. Suffocation is imminent, even as my scruffily dressed roommates are barred from smoking inside the room. Every few minutes someone returns from the shower with a gush of cologne and soap that adds to the asphyxia in the dark room. For company, I have mosquito nets, matchbox-size lockers, John Grisham, soon-to-explode godzilla sized backpacks and 6 foreigners mostly from central Europe. Discussions are intermittent, most starting with a spark and fading off with cultural or perhaps circadian disconnects. The feeling is of effortless ease seeing species of my own kind disconnected in many ways, yet linked through the several lonely miles traversed by each. From the congested Favelas in Brazil to the dusty roads in Indonesia, I see these species at every corner of human inhabitation. You are not alone – is a comforting feeling.

“Fold the bed-sheet and keep at reception…” –the owner of the lodge barges into the room. A Chinese by birth, he was plump with his large belly bulging out of his vest drenched in sweat. To me, he resembled the Laughing Buddha (sans the “laughing” part of course). It was well past noon as the alarm clock indicated the guests, their time to vacate. There was an empty yet calm look in the eyes of the one moving out of the dorm. He perhaps envisioned the route to the next destination, the several sleepy villages on the way, the hardships of nature, the countless smiling faces, the sign-language discussions with natives substituting GPRS, or perhaps the lonely stretch ahead.

All good-byes with strangers are flamboyant to the eyes and are ritually finished off real quick. Backpacker Rob waves at all his companions of the dorm and is now on his way out with the only belongings he needs to give back to the world – a white bed-sheet and a quarter of an inch thick, striped quilt. One night back at the 11^th floor, as I lazed on my thick foam mattress, with the large French window opening into the city’s magnificent skyline, the luxuries of an urban life were just a phone call away. From the business hotel to a backpacker’s lodge – the transition was overnight. The exercise was to see the mirage of life up close. Wake up one morning to find you have lost it all. The code of life seems to be binary – either hold on to the amusements it has to offer or tread the green mile as a habitual nomad.

The humid afternoon was taking its toll. I walked out of the room for some fresh air crossing the reception. The quilt and the bed-sheet lying right next to the owner’s throne. As I stepped out of the lodge into the street full of Chinese food stalls, I looked back through the corner of my eyes. Buddha had laughed…

When it rained...

How blissful is solitude depends on the circadian rhythm of the universe. Whether it rained today, whether the dark night was star-studded, if there was mist in the air when you walked out this morning – all of it matters. The black coffee as usual lived up to its Coffee Day norms. I was a seasoned customer now (literally) – been used to the curious stares of young couples wondering why I sat all alone flipping the pages of a book in a prime dating location. And the subtle cold stares of the staff pondering when I’d clear the table.

“Everyone has a Tibet of the mind, a notion of a pure, distant land, a place of personal escape, the heart of lightness. For some, it may be glimpsed through music, or fasting, or drugs, or prayer, or excessive exercise, or perfect love….” read the book. The timing of the book in my life was perfect. I had just embraced Buddhism – a late manifestation of my true self. My unremitting practice of detachment for several years now was well documented in bits and pieces. A great many mortals would have been on the receiving end of this drill.

Your choices in life make what you are. Whether you while away your time staring deep into someone’s eyes while it rains…or you keep to yourself reading non-fiction; contriving an imaginary world around you is your choice. Either of the choices are strictly a work of fiction mind you. My fiction was jolted by the coffee bill suddenly placed on my table - a polite way of the staff asking me to fish off.

The rattling noise of the second-hand car engine was customary. As I took a U-turn through the fresh puddles of rain-water, I could see little kids with those intoxicated smile on their bright faces. My car with an Andhra registration wasn’t supposed to be driven in Bangalore without paying a hefty road tax. Returning home was a sane “choice”. The kids waved at me with exuberant expressions. Divided by borders, united by Hope…aren’t we.