Desicritics Category: Culture: Paranormal

Partial Solar Eclipse Today - Do Nothing

Deepti Lamba — Fri, 1 Aug 2008 02:36:38 EDT

Listen up people! If you are pregnant, if you want to go to the awesome sale at Lifestyle, if you want to cut your hair, your nails, or any part of your body for whatever perverse reasons - Don't!! And while you are at if you are about to take up any new venture - Don't - be it meeting a prospective mate or even getting lucky for the first time.

Hold your horses, your ovaries, your sperms, your purse strings - just hold on. If you happen to be a devout believer, it would be for the best if you stayed at home altogether and did nothing.

No karma is to be implemented. Lead a zombie existence. No food to be touched, hair not to be washed, nothing!! There is bad luck and pollution in the air since there is going to be a partial eclipse!!

A partial solar eclipse will be seen in India on Friday while the north-eastern parts of the country will see quite a large fraction of the disc of the Sun, eclipsed by the Moon.

"The partial eclipse will be seen in the north-eastern region, starting from about 4 PM," Director Nehru Planetarium, Rathnasree, said.

The biggest and the last phase of the eclipse will be visible from most parts of the country, except Nagaland and Mizoram, where the eclipse ends after sunset, she said.

The maximum obscuration of the sun will occur at Sibsagar in Assam.

A total eclipse will be visible in Canada extending across northern Greenland, the Arctic, central Russia, Mongolia and China.

In case any of the above activities are performed or there is the moronic viewing of the eclipse people should report to the nearest 'shudhi' center for isolation and decontamination.

Phoonk - If Thoughts Could Kill

Deepti Lamba — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 09:17:20 EDT

I have yet to meet a person who hasn't wished another human being - death at some point of their lives. Obviously none of them decided to actually carry out the act but asked fate to do it for them .

And these are perfectly nice people. People like you and me who open doors for mothers with strollers, give their seats to old people, love animals, make donations and love their families and friends.

But when rage takes over they wish the victim of their rage- death. Maybe its the impotency of being unable to best the person or feeling invigorated by the sheer malicious of wishing someone ill.

To make matters more complicated in cases such as family disputes often one gets to hear of Tantric influencing; that is - when a person actually dies or falls sick, loses large sums of money- accusations of black magic are made quite easily.

Even amongst the educated, many believe that there are those who can harness dark powers/souls to do their dirty deeds.

It never fails to amaze me when people whisper about finding totkas in their homes or driveways. And they then believe that the misfortune was caused by someone else and wasn't an act of fate or sheer bad luck.

That's when they fall victim to pandits, god-men and astrologers. Sometimes its the other way round when the seeker is told that someone had done - 'jadu tona' on them and heavy sums of money is extracted from them to bring 'harmony' back in their lives.

Do I believe in the power of cursing or in black magic- No. Wouldn't half the world be dead if words and rituals alone could kill people?

Wishing someone ill at a heat of moment is one thing but going to a Tantric to ensure the deed is done is like giving supari to a 'spiritual assassin'.

I have a hard time believing that regular people actually go looking for Babas with killing powers. Kind of hard to believe a harried daughter in law saying - Baba kill my witch of a mother in law but its believable that an innocent daughter in law may be accused of doing so.

When the urban educated continue to believe in these arcane superstitions there is very little to be expected from our villagers.

Related Article : PHOONK- Ram Gopal Varma Film

Movie Review: The X-Files: I Want To Believe

Aaman Lamba — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 11:20:43 EDT

The X-Philes might not have been waiting breathlessly for a renewed fix of the once exciting series, wishing to relive the excitement of the first movie feature, yet, they surely had higher expectations from the second - expectations that have been barely met in what might have failed even as a direct to video release.

In The X-Files: I Want To Believe, both Fox Mulder and Dana Scully appear far more jaded and disinterested than they should be, even after all these years in the wilderness. Mulder is still searching for answers and meaning while Scully has decided that Our Lady of Sorrows offers better solace than the unwanted FBI unit she gave much of herself to. They spend much time not quite speaking to each other, and while the same might have been true on the television series, a younger, driven Mulder meant the story was moved along despite, or rather, because of their dysfunctional relationship. Their relationship in the film has moved way beyond the occasional pat on the back to a surreptitious living together, which comes as a real surprise.

Chris Carter prefers to explore the characters' motivations more in this film than the trademark unknowables that we might have expected. It seems at times a cross between a police procedural and a medical thriller than a fast-paced supernatural adventure. The tension is still there, though, and this film might pick up a larger following once it is out on DVD, and with much aficionado-driven analysis.

Without giving away too much of the story, it does not revolve around aliens, and does not go too mystic. Even so, the concept is not quite ordinary, yet one can see the resolution a long while before it actually arrives. The journey is as interesting as the end, though, and the snowy hills of Virginia cover more secrets than just secret medical experiments and rabid dogs. The power of the film lies in the secret sharers rather than the secrets they share.

Additional subplots seem pointless, like the treatment of 'difficult' patients in the healthcare system by passing them off to another provider, responded to by Dr. Scully with the highly advanced technique known as Googling. The 'new' Mulder/Scully duo switch roles, with Dakota Whitney (Amanda Peet) wanting to believe and Mosley Drummy (Xzibit) offering the jaded counterview. The FBI needs to bring a defrocked pedophile priest in because of his supposed psychic abilities rather than a profiler. The nature of his involvement in the larger plot is part of the mystery, but I can say that his history gives us an excellent scene between ASAC Whitney and Father Joe on the nature of self-loathing and forgiveness.

The movie, in short, is a mixed bag of classic X-Files shenanigans and adult emo drama. It works, but only if you're willing to let go of your expectations and ten years of waiting. If you want to believe, in short.

Playing On Vulnerabilities

Suresh Naig — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 11:32:55 EDT

He was sitting in the waiting hall, already crowded with many hopeful faces, hopeful that the person sitting inside the chamber, had a miracle cure for all their maladies. They were right in expecting a miracle, because they have seen many persons vouching for his efficacious remedy, in the TV programme repeatedly. Though many have realized, that the programme is aired in the bought out time slot, it is the deep seated desire to have a miracle, which had clouded their logical mind.

When compared to all the waiting patients, he was different, since his purpose of visit was also different. He was a journalist doing a small write up in a vernacular magazine on alternative medicine. To make the story lively, he wanted to visit the doctor, nay the “Healer” – that’s what he called himself, and that’s what evinced interest in the young journalist to visit him. The journalist looked very ordinary, like any one of the faces we encounter on the street, or the Railway Station, in his early thirties. Since he had planned his story from the perspective of a patient, he had not divulged his professional identity.

The waiting hall of the clinic, boasted several certificates from several universities both Indian and foreign, both unheard by our young journalist. He had made a mental note of all the certificates, which had all the letters of English alphabet. It appeared to him that the abbreviations of the qualifications were arrived at from random drawing of different alphabets. The young journalist appreciated the marketing brain, of the practitioner, as he called himself as the ‘Healer’ and not as ‘Doctor’. That was his primary USP. Many of the qualified doctors were humble enough to confess that, they only dress the wound and God heals. The self proclaimed physician, with his bought out degrees, had elevated himself as ‘Healer’.

The large waiting room had liberal doses of grinning photographs of the healer, invariably with several famous personalities. In addition, the waiting hall was decorated with the photographs of previous five generations of ‘healers’, secondary USP of the physician. The ‘healer’ was taking elaborately longer time with each of his prospective clients. Some people in the waiting hall were discussing about the tales they have heard about the healer, elevating him to a legend.

In the waiting hall, people of different age groups were engaged in hushed conversation. Our journalist as usual, had to strain his ears, to listen to them. Surprisingly all the waiting patients were only males and some were discussing about the remarkable abilities of the ‘healer’. One was saying that he could find out the malady of a person with just one look and his medicines are very powerful. Our journalist felt, that people say this kind of fable, more to reassuring themselves, than to convince others.

Having enjoyed different conversation, our journalist was ushered in. On entry the ‘healer’, gave a disarming smile at our young friend. The healer was looking like a clown with his bright yellow shirt, tucked inside navy blue trousers, a broad floral neck tie, with abundance of red hue, clumsily knotted, his forehead decorated with sandal paste dotted by vermillion in the centre.

Without warning, two attractive female assistants draped in white saris, helped him out of his slack shirt and trousers. Before he could react and protest, our journalist was lifted on to an examination table. One female was busy pumping the BP meter, the other after silencing him with a thermometer, started to count his pulse. After the preliminaries, it was the healer’s turn to examine him.

His touch was fond and caressing. Our journalist was dazed, but played along. The healer was nodding his head at regular intervals, while doing physical examination of the journalist. After about 20 minutes, he was merciful in allowing our journalist to wear his clothes. While making the journalist sit in front of his huge table, the healer was giving a quick practiced talk, while his hands were busy packing an assortment of powders and tablets in paper envelopes.

The female assistants were withdrawn to an ante room, as if strictly rehearsed. The healer was reassuring the journalist, ‘Don’t worry, you have come to the right place. I shall give you the right medicine, and within a month you will feel like a man.’

The journalist was confused, he said, ‘I already feel like a man’. The healer said, ‘I know what your problem is. Now that the females have gone, you can confide.’ He reduced his voice to a whisper, ‘you know many top doctors of the city come to me for medicine. My medicines are very effective, especially for your problem and I have some really effective medicine for diabetes.’ Our journalist asked, ‘Do you know what my problem is?’

The healer gave a condescending smile. ‘I know, you are looking for a “raise”, which is not happening’. Our Journalist was impressed for the first time. ‘How did you know that?’. The healer replied, ‘That’s the problem with many of the “self starters”, now the journalist was confused for a moment, but quickly recovered. He wanted to play along to extract more information, and the healer to extract more money. The healer asked him ‘What kind of medicine do you want? Gold, Silver, Super Special, or Special.’

He settled for Silver, and solicited more information on his medicine for Diabetes, so that he can bring his father for consultation. The healer said, ‘My medicine for diabetes is very effective, which is our family secret for over five generations. Had my Grandfather or father wanted, they could have sold this formula to a foreign company and made huge money. Our intention is to only serve humanity.’ He was quick to add, ‘this money we are taking from the patients, is only to collect valuable herbs from the Himalayas, which is very expensive.’

He reduced his voice to a whisper and declared, ‘You know many famous doctors in the city come to me, for blood pressure, diabetes, and I have medicine even for renal failure. If a person takes my medicine continuously for three months, they get cured of diabetes and there is no need of taking insulin at all.’

Our journalist was richer by a few juicy bytes for his article and poorer by five thousand rupees, which the healer snatched away from him for consultation and medicines. The journalist was the last patient for the day and after the patients have left, the ‘healer’, who was in his fifties, pulled a large pen like device from inside a table draw, opened the cap, calibrated the dosage and took a quick prick of ‘insulin’, his regular before dinner for the past ten years.

Book Review: Stardust by Neil Gaiman

Shantanu Dutta — Thu, 29 May 2008 08:56:10 EDT

Till I read Neil Gaiman’s Stardust, I was of the firm conviction that Fairy Tales were for children. Adults could read and enjoy them an often did but the main audience for me was always children. But in Stardust, the author has come with a work that us a fable, a parable really that portrays life and living, good and evil, joy and sorrow in adult terms, vocabulary and theme.

The story in Stardust is about Tristran Thorn, a young man whose father is a human and mother a fairie and who in a rash decision, decides to go into Faerie Land to bring a fallen star back for the girl he loves. Once in there, he gets caught up in all sorts of adventures. The twists and turns of his journey which is contained in most of the book are filled with parable endowed truths of some sublimity. The backdrop of the book is the village of Wall, a quaint Victorian village on the edge of a dark land of witches, goblins, elves and all manner of strange creatures of whom some are good and some are evil.

There is a unicorn involved among the characters, flying boats that fish for lightning, a trio of evil witches and seven murderous brothers. The border with the land of Faerie always guarded day and night except for a day once in nine years could well represent our own attempt to keep at a distance and often unsuccessfully – the evil outside. Often enough, the unknown and the stranger is always understood or rather misunderstood as some one who is evil, who is out there to harm us, destroy us.

And yet as Tristan discovers, outside the borders, in the land of Faerie, no land and no people can be type caste and good people and bad people exist every where. Some of the witches that he and Yvaine the star who fell to the earth from the skies and who becomes his eventual companion encounter are terribly mean. And yet as they reminiscence later about the witch they wonder if “she transforms people into animals or whether she finds the beast inside us and frees it”

Neil Gaiman captures well the many intangibles that are part of being human and those intangible bonds which outlast the ones that can be seen. As Yvaine the star would one day explain of Tristan himself “He once caught me with a chain…. Then he freed me, and I ran from him. But he found me and bound me with an obligation, which binds more securely than any chain ever could”

At its most basic, Stardust is a good read; a beautiful book, and most of all, perfect for all ages. Gaiman gives his characters real depth & humanity, even the non human ones and by the end of the book, the reader engrossed in all their destinies, especially that of the star Yvaine, who is immortal but can never ever go back to her mother the moon. On dark moon lit nights, long after eventual husband Tristan is dead, the lonely but immortal star climbs up to the highest point of her palace and looks achingly up at the moon lit sky which was once her home and where she will never ever be able to go back. Perhaps the author wants to remind humans reading his book that immortality is not the unmitigated bliss that we some times imagine it might be.

Book Review: Song of Kali by Dan Simmons

Shantanu Dutta — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 08:30:24 EDT

Song of Kali is Dan Simmons’ first novel and was published in 1985. It is set in Kolkata in 1977 with the Emergency as a backdrop. It has been categorized as a horror novel or a work of fantasy in most American reviews and has even been awarded the World Fantasy Award. However, the Indian reader will recognize the work for was it truly is - a work of crime fiction with the Tantric sect of Kapalikas as the centrepiece and the accompanying Tantric rites contributing to the eerie atmosphere and a supernatural element that contributes to the “horror”.

For those who like this genre of work, this is a good read. Simmons is able to capture the atmosphere of Calcutta of the 70s. Those familiar with the city in those times will recollect well the author’s description of the endless power cuts, dead telephone lines, communist posters all over the city and the general sense of decay that made Rajiv Gandhi call it a “dying city”. Considering that Dan Simmons is said to have spent just two days in Calcutta when he wrote the book, I must say that he conveys the essence of the city as it was in the 70s very well.

The chief character of the book is an American Poet and journalist Robert Luczac who is married to Amrita, an Indian born mathematician. He travels to Calcutta with her and their infant daughter to collect a work by a noted Indian and Calcutta based poet, M. Das for publication in Harper’s Magazine as well as a small literary publication called “Voices” edited by his mentor Abraham Bronstein. Das has been missing for some years and is presumed dead but recently rumors have begun circulating of a new and epic work by the poet which Harper’s would like to use. But Bronstein who has been a journalist before and has been to Calcutta briefly decades before warns Luczac not to go without citing any specific reasons – sitting the foreboding air of suspense that some thing will happen if he does go.

Things start going wrong from the time Luczac and his wife land in Calcutta. The man who was supposed to meet them is not there, but there is some one else and he presents convincing credentials and so they allow him to guide him to their hotel – The Oberoi Grand. From there the story proceeds at a very rapid pace till Luczac finds himself sucked into the shadowy world of the Kali worshipping Kapalika community and their shadowy rituals which include their initiation ceremonies which include human sacrifices. Dan Simmons recreates the ambiance by inserting recitations from the Sathpatha Brahmana, an almanac on sacrificial rituals, the Gayatri Mantra as well as tantric verses like:

"O terrible wife of Siva / Your tongue is drinking the blood, / O dark Mother! O unclad Mother......"

in creating a mystical atmosphere in which the super natural occurrences in the book occur.

In the last chapter, Simmons departs from the usual style of horror novels as he gets Luzac to attempts some kind of an explanation for what he has seen and experienced. Luzac’s summary is “I think that there are black holes in reality. Black Holes in the human spirit. And actual places where, because of density or misery or sheer human perversity, the fabric of things just comes apart and that black core in us swallows all the rest”. Maybe Luzac is right. But meanwhile, the book is worth a read not so much for its horror element but for the very vivid way in which Calcutta of the late Seventies when the Left Front government had just come to power.

The manner in which the city is described is vividly accurate and though the fact that the description comes from an American author makes it that much difficult to swallow, few who are familiar with Calcutta of those days will debate its accuracy.

Sleep-talking: An Ode to Neil Gaiman's Sandman

IdeaSmith — Sat, 1 Mar 2008 08:28:45 EST

I asked the Dreamcatcher if she had met Dream and she laughed and told me,

you shall be addicted
you shall not want to go out and meet people
you shall only want to sit and read sandman
my god if i could afford them, i would dance the dance of joy!

So if my words sound a little odd, don't think them so. I am just talking in my sleep.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
Orpheus, son of Morpheus loved like few others
The Wounded Healer, he touched hearts when he strummed his lyre
And yet his song brought him no solace or peace
For words, when they are one's own are just expression
But from another, they are the revelation of I AM NOT ALONE!
The comfort of SOMEBODY UNDERSTANDS ME...
And the warmth of I AM LOVED.

So his words, they flow from his bleeding heart
To soothe the pain of a hundred others
But his own will stay aching and sore
Till his lyre plays no more.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
So God doesn't sentence us to Hell then?
We do. We buy our own passports to the land of Eternal Unforgiveness
And we gift one-way tickets those that we love the most
As a fitting token for branding their selves
On our most precious possession of all - our souls
And alas, we forget that they carry it back with them when they make that fateless journey into the darkness.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
Desire, treat me not as one of your own
I am a mere mortal but one with dignity; the pride of a few decades of consciousness
I am not a puppet of your whim, driven by your chemical frenzy
Nor an addict perishing when you leave me starved of your company
And perhaps, in anger at my impertinence in questioning you,
You move out of my heart in a huff
Only to secretly tiptoe back into my soul
And mingle your seductive whispers in my intuition
And now I'm not just a puppet
But a ventriloquist's dummy that speaks the language of Desire.
Ah, cruel woman-man!

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
Lucifer Morningstar, I always loved you
Even if He never did
But at least He put me in the universe
For you
Appreciation
Acceptance
Audience
...and the vessel for your talents.

Darling, I may be your canvas
But don't you know that you, the artist, may define what's on the canvas
But the canvas defines the artist - you as You.

So long as you don't get that
You will stay Lucifier
Fallen Angel, Lord of the dark place below
And my own.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Isn't it odd then, that of all the seven Endless siblings:

Delight/Delirium
Despair
Desire
Destruction
Dream
Destiny
Death

that the most compassionate one of them all
is the one that we meet at the very end?

And odder still,
is that we would rather
run into the realms of the others
than face her beautiful Ladyship.

Short Story: Irony

DeepakMaini — Fri, 4 Jan 2008 00:26:05 EST

It was the night of the twenty-sixth of September. I was returning from Johnnie's Pub, the usual drinking-place for me. It wasn't late but with the arrival of winter, it appeared gloomy even at that hour. It was around six, an early evening for me which was slightly unusual. Equally unusual was the road I had taken to go home: Saint Symonds Cemetery.

The cemetery was silent and truly speaking I hadn't expected it to be otherwise. But there was something more about the place--something more profound--that troubled me. The vampire bats and spotted-owl were there, looking straight into my eyes as if I were some giant insect or rodent, destined to be eaten by them. Also present were the rodents, the fireflies, the wind, the gray, lightless night, though there was a welter of stars peeking from behind the mist. And with them was this man, sitting on a grave.

"I'm not scared. I'm just lonely," I said, getting up, as I had fallen down upon spotting the man.

"Why are you sitting here?" I said.

"I have been waiting for you" he said.

"Why?"

He looked at me; a slight smirk ran through his face. Then he cocked his head and said, "You will know."

I spotted a crow perching on a tree. Then, I spotted a pitch black cat walking right in front of me. And just a few seconds later, I saw a nightingale alighting on his arm. Crow. Cat. Nightingale. The grave-man. Stephanie's death. My wife's death. I. My bad luck. Crow. Cat. Nightingale. The grave-man. I was scared. The world started spinning in a mad war between angular momentums. I whirled around this way and then the other way. The ground rose up in front of me. I stuck to it at a right angle. 'Oh, ooo, ohh, aaaa, oohh," I said and came swooning down on the ground.

"Which way is my home?" I said after opening my eyes.

"This way," he said, pointing toward the grave he was sitting on.

"I don't like you," I said and got up, ready to leave.

"You don't like anyone, do you?" he replied.

I didn't like this man. He was rude, and I never liked rude people. Bryson who crashed into Stephanie's car was rude too, and I didn't like him either. I even told him that I didn't like him when I saw him walk through this cemetery. It was the last time I saw him; he just disappeared after that.

"I liked my daughter St-St-St-Stephanie," I said and dilated my eyes, trying to scare him.

"Sure," he said and snapped his fingers.

I felt a burning sensation in my eyebrows.

"You don't know anything. And I don't like you. Why should I listen to you?" I said and turned my back to him.

It started raining then. The sky was let loose. I liked rain. The big water droplets thundering down showered all around me but not on me. I moved around and the dry patch moved about with me. I ran and the area of no-rain ran with me. It was annoying for the rain to fall down but not wet me.

He squawked, looking at my desperate effort to catch the rain.

"When I was a kid, I played soccer in the rain. I'd revel in the muddy soccer-field and run, slide, tackle, kick, and dance in the rain. I would trip the opponents and kick them in their guts. What do you know about rain? You fool," I said.

"That rain is for happy people," he said and smiled.

"I don't like you. And you're lying," I said.

"You think the rain is not touching you. Take that paper out of your pocket," he said.

I took Stephanie's death-certificate out of my pocket. Wet, crumpled, the fibers of the paper were entwined in a watery embrace. I transferred the paper from the left to the right hand; doing so, I tore the paper into two.

"Amazed?" he said and pouted his lips in some kind of divine interference.

"I don't like you," I said.

"When did your wife die?" he asked.

"F-fa-fa-five years back. Sh-sh-she died in her sleep. She had said, 'John...... I love you. You know I'm going to die of this cancer. But before I die.......... I want...... you........to promise me that you will forget about............Stephanie and stop...........drinking. Death is part of life. Let it go.' She said that and died the same night," I said.

"What do you have in your hand?" he asked raising his eyebrows.

"These, oh, these are my wi-wi-wi-wife's earrings. She liked them so much. I bought these on our first anniversary. Sh-sh-she wanted Topaz. I got her the best topaz Jared jewelers had; the light blue Topaz earrings. Have you ever seen more beautiful earrings than these?" I said and wiped my tears.

"You mean these," he said, pointing to his palm; he squinted, smiling gently.

"Give them back to me. When did you steal them?" I said.

"Right when you batted your eyes. I even stole the bottle of bourbon you had in your other pocket. I know you have been drinking all night," he said.

"Give them back to me," I shouted, as I dashed to catch him. The turmoil that followed saw me scrabbling on the ground just as if I were trying to catch my own shadow.

"Where did you go?" I looked around. My mouth formed an inverted 'C,' my eyes moistened a little, and I sobbed, "Where did you go? I want my wife's earrings back. I want them back. Please, come back. Please--I want them." I covered my face with my cupped hands and cried.

"Hey, there!" he tapped my shoulder from behind and nudged me to sit down on the grave with him.

"I will return your wife's earrings, but before that I want you to see this," he said as a ram sheep and a Bengal tiger made their way to the scene.

Within seconds, the ram sheep ripped the tiger to pieces. The laws of life as well as physics ceased to exist. The sheep soared in the sky and came crashing back to kill the tiger with a cosmic punch. The oxygen I had been breathing ceased to exist. I exhaled a pink-colored smoke, which smelt like blood. The blood-washed muzzle, the white fur, glowing ambers of the eyes, and the torn pieces of the tiger, all stared at me with equal desperation. A sheep had just killed a tiger. How did I live to see this, I asked myself? The three-dimensional world had slowly slipped into a mystical multi-dimensional world where Newtonian Mechanics was just another dream. The mysterious Quantum Mechanics took the front seat and started to whirr the engine of life with a Hamiltonian operator. I had more than two arms and my eyes burned like red-hot iron, giving out monochromatic light. Goose-bumps surfaced on my skin, as I buried my head into my knees.

"Open your eyes," he said.

"Please, stop," I pleaded.

Slowly I opened my eyes and saw the sheep eating the tiger in a fast-forward mode. One, two, three, he counted; first the meat, all eaten up, and then the sheep, disappeared.

"You want to see something else?" he said.

"Please, stop. I want to go home," I said.

"Look there," he pointed to the left of me.

I saw Stephanie crying in a gray mist. I saw her being tied down. Her lips were pressed together, turning into an inverted 'C.' She didn't recognize me. As the cloud of Stephanie's image faded away, another cloud set in, and this time it was Deitra, my wife. She was sleeping when she first arrived, but soon after she opened her eyes and looked at me the same way she had looked on the night she died.

"How?" I asked, still weeping.

"You just think," he said, and then squeaked and winked.

"Who are you? Please, please, please tell me, who are you?, " I got down on my knees and crimped my hands.

"I," he smiled, and turned his head to face mine, "I'm...you know who I am. I'm God," he said.

"Am I dead?" I asked.

"You wish you were dead. Life is a mystery, isn't it? You are here to suffer. I want you to suffer. Bear this pain; I enjoy teasing people like you. And rest assured, you're going to live a long life. I pity your life," he said.

Then he made an 'L' with his right index finger and the right thumb. He rocked the imaginary gun and pointed it at me. With a bang, the wind picked up intensity and gashed my face. Inside ten seconds, the wind settled down and there was nothing more than a wisp of cloud where he had stood.

When Are Dead Bodies Sacrosanct?

Dr Bhaskar Dasgupta — Tue, 13 Nov 2007 06:22:59 EST

My sister sent me this article about the unveiling of the corpse of Tutankhamen. The article asks where is the dignity in the display of this corpse? The mummy does look strange and rather sad. I have to admit, the presence of the puffed up popinjay, Indiana Jones-wannabe Dr. Zahi Hawass, Secretary General of the Supreme Council of Antiquities and Director of the Giza Pyramids Excavation, really detracted from the whole thing. But I digress!

Warning: Explicit images (to some) ahead.

But what about publicly displayed dead bodies in general? What is the feeling? Is it bad? Loving? distasteful? ecstatic? horrible? disgusting? undignified? People have very strong reactions when they see dead bodies. And these reactions span the entire spectrum from utter distaste to satisfaction to nostalgia to glee or Schadenfreude to pity or compassion, all the way to actual love as we will see.

See this picture of King Tut which has sparked off this debate.

I can see why he can look scary to some, but that was not what the commentator was complaining about. He was complaining about the fact that dead people should have their dignity and should be buried or cremated and generally kept out of sight post death and have their peace.

But I found it curiously sad and tender. Here is a man who died in his youth, had a very very torrid family history, and lived through turbulent times and his mummy with the fine tapestry of cracks on the chin, the slightly squished nose, the sunken eyes, all raise a feeling of pity and tenderness inside me towards Boy King Tut.

How about this one? The hanging body of Former President Mohammed Najibullah of Afghanistan displayed in Kabul publicly?

What about the bodies of American Contractors in Falluja?

How about the pictures distributed by the Americans of the dead bodies of Qusay and Uday Saddam Hussein?

No? how about this one of IL duce of Italy, Mussolini and his mistress, Clara Petacci?

This photo is coming from the civilised Christian west, which was responsible for the Holocaust and then this very barbaric hanging of the two bodies after Italy was liberated. It was a scene of ferocious joy, of revenge even, celebrating a monster getting what he justly deserves. Same with Najibullah, who was a monster by all accounts in Afghanistan. What about the American Contractors? They are also monsters in the eyes of the Iraqi's, so that is why they hung up those dead bodies and danced around the remains. The fact that they could do that to dead bodies and break the natural taboo of respect to the dead, means that the feeling of hatred and wanting revenge was extra-ordinarily high. And in the case of the Hussein brothers it was mainly cold hard political calculation. Curious, no? The lengths one can go to mistreat- even already dead - bodies?

But to go back to old geezers. The mummy of Ramses II and other mummies in Cairo Museum?

Ramses II is one of my heroes. I look at this shriveled body and think about the man who strode the world like a colossus. The man who fathered hundreds of children, and whose exploits were written down in stone and have come down to us thousands of years later. The man who was celebrated by Percy Bysshe Shelley in his immortal poem, Ozymandias.

I look upon his patrician visage, that hooked nose, that pointed chin and I do not see the wisps of red hennaed hair, nor the blackened skin or the thin neck. I see a Pharaoh. A Pharaoh striding down Thebes, in his white linen skirt, in his majesty, ruling over most of the then known universe. Now that dead body - to me - is simply a reminder for us to think about the greatness of his reign, not the shriveled body left behind.

Or the Iceman?

Or the Inca Mummy?

The above are prehistoric people. They are almost like museum exhibits or almost like they are like art objects, so you can look upon them without flinching. But what about people who become Gods after death? They were scientifically embalmed, with guards around them, modern mausoleums built for them and pilgrimages made to see their bodies after deaths. What about the man called Lenin?

Or Chairman Mao?

But then both were rather 'godless', no? So what about the 'godful'? Here's something/someone that I have seen personally in Prague. The Sedlec Ossuary. It is a church made out of the bones of 40,000 people. A church!!!!!!

And you see the same with Buddhist Monks.

If you think this public display of dead bodies is horrible, how about pets? Here is a selection of dead pets embalmed for life after death:

How cute, you say, no? So you can embalm your pets post death and find it nostalgic or just a bit strange. Its even comedic as evidenced in the Comedy series Scrubs.

If you do not like the display of bodies after death, can you use the bodies after death? for example for organ donation? or anatomy classes? or for use in testing Improvised Explosive Devices? Here's some very interesting advice on what to do if you find a dead body. I liked this part:

3: Do not - Do not set your camera on auto-timer, lie down next to the body and make rabbit-fingers behind the remnants of the victim's bloodied head as you have your picture taken. I'm not sure if this is illegal or not but it's in very poor taste.

But I understand there are certain type / classes of people who love, erm, making love to dead people, a condition called as Necrophilia. Here's Anthony Merino who was caught having sex with a corpse of a 92 year old woman inside a NY Morgue.

I do not really have an issue with the display of dead bodies. After you are dead, you are just some chemical components. You do not / cannot really care about what happens to your body after you are dead. It is not you, but other people who get all squeamish about your dead body or dead bodies in general. The distaste about dead bodies was burnt out of me when I was exposed to the Bhopal Gas Disaster. Here are two very famous images from that tragedy.

This picture did not make me sick or disgusted but filled me with deep determination to improve the lot of children. The loss of this tiny innocent life should be a reminder to us that actions have consequences and quite often, its the least able who suffer most.

So I don't think that King Tut would mind his body being put on display. Dead bodies are not sacrosanct at all.

Technorati Tags: History

The New Age - Why It Didn't Really Take Off

Uma Ranganathan — Sun, 28 Oct 2007 12:32:42 EDT

My first brush with the New Age was in the late eighties when a friend I was visiting in Cologne happened to take me along to what she called an “esoteric fair”. In numerous tents strewn around a large open ground, were people offering all kinds of services and performing all kinds of stunts.

There was a man demonstrating how you could bend a spoon through the “simple act of love”, there were people selling crystals to enhance personal power, others channeling dead spirits in order that you might be able to communicate with a deceased relative.

I was sold. For a few years I became a New Age fan (or should I say “fanatic”) and bought myself tarot cards, crystals, went in for a consultation with a psychic and took part in shamanistic sessions whose relentless drum beats threw one very quickly into a trance.

Pir Vilayat Khan was one of the much sought after gurus at the time – a roguish looking bearded man with an impressive academic record. His work as a journalist covering the French atrocities in North Africa, resulted in international pressure being imposed on the French government to stop these actions. Here was a guru one could really go for, I thought. Not someone who just sat in his ivory tower spouting arcane nonsense but a downright practical, fun loving guy who said and did what he meant.

Another person who typified the New Age movement in the eighties, an ethereal looking spiritual leader and visionary often swathed in white, was Chris Griscom of the Light Institute in Galisteo, New Mexico. Griscom, the guru of past lives therapy, was followed by Deepak Chopra who by the early nineties had started taking his first steps to world fame.

When and why did my fascination for the New Age begin to fade? Perhaps when I saw that it had become a vehicle for too many cranks and pseudo spiritual leaders out to manipulate the millions of gullible, suffering people in the world. And yet looking back on my infatuation it seems to me the New Age wasn’t all bad. Like the hippie movement of the sixties it was basically founded in idealism, and grew out of a genuine desire for peace and harmony with all life. In its own way it was a rebellion, even if a woolly headed one, against the overwhelming materialism of the world.

“I began with the observation that our social institutions are unable to solve the major problems of our time because they adhere to the concepts of an outdated worldview, the mechanistic worldview of seventeenth-century science,” wrote Fritjof Capra, another of the pillars of the New Age (though I don’t know if he would really approve of being associated with it).

Capra helped me to make sense of my own rebellion against the guiding principles of our times, to attempt to find ways to go beyond the cut and dried approach to life with which we’d been brought up, the overwhelming reliance on measurements as “proof” of just about anything. Maybe this is why I by and large distrust surveys of any kind.

Surveys about sexual attitudes, about tea and coffee, about red meat and whether it is good or bad for you. How does one measure feelings? How does one quantify good and bad, emotional pain, right and wrong? How can you say whether Denmark has the happiest people in the world or India – two countries with entirely different mindsets?

Both the hippie movement in the sixties and the New Age one in the seventies were in a sense a gut reaction to the sterile mindset which grew out of an overdose of rationalism. Unfortunately in spite of their well meaning attempts, neither really succeeded in doing what it had set out to do which was to transform the nature of society. The hippie movement died out and the New Age movement simply fell into disrepute (I don’t know if it was ever considered respectable!)

To find a balance between reason, thought and emotion is not an easy thing. To develop a sense of responsibility towards yourself and others is an uphill task. Tarot cannot do it for you. Neither can wearing crystals or talking with a dead ancestor through a half crazy medium with a bandana round her head and huge earrings flopping around her chin.

Finding your balance in a crazy world has to do with things no one much likes to do and for which you would be labeled a simpleton or a kook, out of touch with reality. It has to do with learning to listen to yourself rather than to be constantly led by others. It has to do with doubting, with questioning. In fact it seems to me that regaining one’s balance begins with questioning oneself, with determining whether one is, in fact living in a state of balance or not. It has to do with questioning the society one lives in and learning to go deeper into those questions rather than to use them to indulge in idiotic mind games.

If the New Age movement had kept to some of these principles and not sold out to easy money and fame, it might well have led to something new. But then like everybody else, the gurus of the New Age were hampered by human failings and their inability to acknowledge this fact and initiate an honest dialog about change eventually turned the movement into a subject for dinner party talk instead of providing society with an opportunity to genuinely regain its sense of balance.