Photos: Fishermens Settlement, Colaba
New lizard species: A new lizard species has been found in Satara. The
lizard, Hemidactylus Sataraensis, can’t climb walls or stick to
ceilings.
New Human Species: A new human specimen has been found in mumbai. The Human, Procrastinatus Permanentsis, can't do hard work or concentrate for long periods of time. Dies in extremely competitive environments.
Kazuo Ishiguro has been one of the most thought provoking authors to me. Today, I finished reading ‘An artist of the floating world’, my 4th novel by the writer. This work, as most of his other works, portrays and enunciates the thoughts and world view of the protagonist. The work moves forward in a given period of time, while progressively looking backwards, in no specific chronological order at various people the character came across and how they subconsciously participated in his evolution as a disturbed individual, which he denies till the end.
Ishiguro always shows the transience of human nature, how it moulds itself according to the person’s assimilation of himself and events around him. The central proponent might be dealing selective areas of occupation, be it a pianist, a butler, a detective or an artist. That doesn’t stop them from justifying their actions and the impact they have had on society, their importance in the hoi polloi. On the first read, it would appear as if the agonist is entirely composed of the best ideas and notions about existence and rightful living. As the novel meanders into the deepest recesses of thought process, we come to realize that the initial righteous image of the person through his own dictation is flawed. Every human is perennially in doubt of their choice of path and purpose of existence, and would go to any lengths to vindicate the same, at whatever cost.
The prose, which initially makes us allies of the hero, thus complicit with his actions brings out our own tendency to side with what we think is right. Later on, as we are brought face to face with his cracks in personality and the inherent weakness of will to come to terms with failure as a human being we see the reflection of our own insecurities. It makes us uncomfortable, afraid to realize that Pianist Ryder, Butler Stevens, Artist Ono and Detective Banks are all around us, in us.
That, is the genius of Kazuo Ishiguro.
Every now and then I realize that I am a very difficult person. A person who no longer talks to me (there are many such) had said that I am not everyone’s cup of tea. It came as a surprise to me the moment she said so. I had assumed that I am one of the most amicable people I know, someone who tries to give space, is sensitive to difference of behavior, understanding, attitude and choices. How the hell am I difficult then? What she said affected me and that instant, resentment spawned. Without telling her that I didn’t give two shits about what she thinks I started rationalizing for the good of me and rendering her daft; for my own good too. And there I recognized my very own defense mechanism. Superb I must say.
A defense mechanism works in a dilemmatic direction for me. One, whatever you find untoward about me reflects your own personality flaw in an equal measure as it does mine. So maybe instead of telling me that I am so and so you can try your hand at the charity-begins-at-home routine and root out the flaws which you think are mine, but are actually yours. I have also observed that voicing these thoughts is not helpful in taking the conversation or the relationship forward in a positive manner.
I know what’s wrong with you, I can tell you that. God help you if you think the same.
Two, my doing something like this is exactly the reason why I am not anyone’s cup of tea. Not that I have not tried not doing this, but I can’t stand anyone farting in my face and expecting me to open my nostrils wide.
You know what the right thing to do is. You know how to do that. You also have a faint idea how important it is to do it correctly, what you might lose, how you might get changed, forever. Yet you push. You don’t shove; you push gently, inch by inch, feeling by feeling. A strange madness overcomes reason. The reasons to push keep refreshing, intermingling, becoming one dark mass of masochistically sadistic feeling of pain. Now it is imperative that you ignore cries for help, especially from within yourself.
And then you have reached the edge. You have the least idea what made you push it this far. But the edge is near, and to finish successfully you need to do the last bit. Your hands quiver and your legs ache. You are no longer sure if it’s your brain which drives you, or your heart. Which is the evil one? Why evil, you might ask yourself. Of course its evil, otherwise it wouldn’t feel this fucking good.
Pause. It’s the last inch. This part will take more than will power. It wants the last shred of goodness, of kindness and compassion to consume and gain strength. It is almost like a form of meditation, concentrating on one point.
A slight tap and it has happened. Down you fall, confused and panicked. Weren’t you the one pushing? You look up, the last effort, and there stands something black with its arms outstretched, laughing like a madman. You feel cheated, you look again, and realize. It’s your own ego.
