Breaking into e-print

It has been a long and arduous journey from a nebulous idea to a tight narrative of my debut novella Magnificent Loss. The journey began at a frenetic pace and like all journeys that begin with much enthusiasm faltered towards the end. The end kept moving like a mirage and I doggedly persisted to reach it. Unknown to me it awaited the final nudge that would propel me towards the destination. The push came from Indireads, an e-publishing startup that aimed to bring out new voices from South Asia. Now that the required impetus came, I could see the end clearly, driven by the forces of circumstances in the life of the characters that I created and also their nature that inevitably drove them to a satisfactory conclusion. Satisfactory it was, from the point of the writer, my writerly self, and hopefully it would find an echo in the discerning reader. 

It is a story of a young man in search of a life that is untrammeled by his past, who struggles to come to terms with his loss, and despite numerous indications to the contrary strives to make peace with his past and charts a path to the future. It is a love story that delves into the undercurrents of doubt, fear and memory with a surreal background and a strong yearning to live and love. 

Indireads made it available for purchase and download to your favorite ereader with several purchase options and ebook formats to choose from. It is available here - 

http://www.indireads.com/books/magnificent-loss/

The book cover clearly echoes the spirit of the story between its cover pages. 

Nothing is more precious for the author than to receive feedback on his debut effort. It is much appreciated if the reader leaves a comment and rates the book according to its perceived merit. The comment may include not only about the story, but also about the publishers who worked hard with their paraphernalia of publishing services - reading the draft, editing the manuscript, converting to ebook format and finally launching on their website. 

Happy reading!

Rules of Engagement

There are rules laid out by the predecessors governing the manner in which two families interact with one another. The rules set the expectations. The rules are defined at every level, from the time the marriage takes place to the time of death of either one in the family. The rules lay down the conditions to which members of both families adhere. The rules may not be broken, for there is a social prestige associated with their compliance and a social stigma with the lack of it. The rules are an unwritten law and there is no authority to amend them and no forum to review them. There is no one to whom they can be appealed. There is no court to try the offenders, though in villages the village head and elders arbitrate. But in cities, there is no arbitration. The rules are flouted at the cost of dissension in the family, at the cost of unhappiness and resentment by the affected parties. 

Some rules have been superseded by the law of the land, the universal secular law that has overarching jurisdiction across regional and caste distinctions. Many rules have undergone change due to assimilation of new ways of living, new ideas from other cultures, new thinking on account of enlightened understanding. But there are many that simply remain to be followed, for they are neither too autocratic, nor too difficult to follow. But many families get away when they can without adhering to their side of the bargain. These rules are mostly of the nature of give and take. Ignorance of a rule is not condoned. Flouting of a rule is not taken lightly. Brazen opposition of a rule is rarely observed or entertained. There are the other families in the society to condemn the offenders. Even the most isolated of families, even the so-called enlightened ones, expect certain modicum of the rules of engagement. The cost of breaking rules by one family is nothing short of a travesty of trust, of humiliation, of loss of respect for the other family. 

Rules are sacrosanct. They are the protocols. They are manners. They make for a civilized society. They are the signs of a cultured society. They are designed to bring strangers to a commonly held pattern of living. Everybody is expected to know the rules. Everybody is expected to abide by them. Everybody knows on every occasion what rule applies and what needs to be done. There is indeed a rule for every occasion, from birth to death and beyond. Rules of engagement are the tradition of a society, the legacy of posterity, the inheritance of every man, woman and child. As long as a person is part of a family, he or she is expected to know and abide by the rules. A person who is ignorant of a rule is uncouth, coarse, gross, and not properly raised by the parents, not belonging to a good family and so on. There is no institution that teaches these rules. They are handed down from parent to child. They pass from generation to generation, sometimes lose their significance, sometimes their stigma, sometimes their purpose. But the progeny carry them forward in whatever manner they are remembered or told by their peers or elders available for them to know from. There are rules - they have always been and always will be, though not necessarily in their pristine form. 

Rules are a tacit contract between two families who agreed to build a relationship through marriage. They are a contractual agreement, no less important or significant than a business contract. Broken marriages are the result mainly of broken contracts. When a daughter breaks a rule, the mother is first and foremost afraid of a backlash. She is scared that her daughter may be subject to punishment, which is usually meted out as ill-treatment by her in-laws. When that happens, it is more than likely to snowball into a discord between the families where the child's parents and other elders will be treated with disrespect at the least and contempt at the worst. Sometimes the disagreement surfaces and leads to quarrels, but in most educated families in the towns and cities, it simmers and disrupts smooth interaction. A cold war ensues. Among the most hit will be the married couple, then their parents, and lastly by all and sundry who are associated with them. The war has a cascading effect and sometimes continues for generations in one form or the other. Peace and affection take on wings and fly away. A tremulous truce in an unending war remains as the only bond between the married couple. Sometimes there is an ever present danger of a break in the union. After all, things put together are always in danger of breaking apart. The rules are the glue to keep things together. When the glue dries up, the things return to their original state, albeit in a more bruised and wretched state. 

Some rules may be waived on mutual agreement, on compassionate grounds, for all families are not made equal. Rules mostly favor the family with the male child. Therefore, the family with the male child has the last word on the matter. Rules may be bent to favor one family, but then the other family expects a favor on some other count. Rules are not exactly the same for all families, even for the families that belong to the same caste and sub-caste and sub-order within the sub-caste. Rules are bound to differ, for families belong to different regions and are raised according to their perception of a rule. The same rule is applied differently by different families of the same order. Rules are notoriously unclear. Where there is ambiguity, the family with the male child dictates. But in most cases, barring minor infractions and variations, the rules are well known to all. Ignorance of a widely held rule is not tolerated, conformance to a minor rule is demanded, waiving of a rare and little known rule is ignored in the best interests of both the parties. But the male party has the last say in the matter, for it is the female child that leaves home and must adjust in its new and adopted family. 

It goes without saying that the wife must conform to the rules of the family that she steps into. It is the wife who leaves her family home to build a new family. She gives up her family name and adopts her husband's family name. Her children automatically receive the husband's family name, follow the husband's family rules, inherit the family fortune, if any. It is she who must now 'belong' in her adopted house. It is incumbent on her to remove the wrinkles - the family differences - between the two families, to bridge a relationship of trust and affection between the two families, to ensure that she balances her affection towards her parental family and the duties in her adopted family. And she begins this exercise by following the rules. A great burden indeed on a girl who is just out of teens and she couldn't do it without the support from her own family in the discharge of her duties towards her adopted family. The duties are rules, the rules that govern her married life. All this goes without saying because it is the way the rules have come into being. Living in a family is abiding by these rules at every turn in the girl's life. If there is a discord between her husband and his family members, she shall not interfere, for her sole objective is to follow the rules set for her. If the husband breaks from his family, the wife shall continue to maintain cordial relations as much as possible. For it is a delicate apple cart she is towing, any bump will upset it at any time in her life. Like a razor's edge. Like walking a tightrope. There is more to lose for her than for any member of the family, this side or the other side. 

This is what a good mother wishes to teach her daughter. This is what brings harmony in the house that the daughter has adopted. This is what a mother has gone through. This is what she has experienced. This is what she wants her daughter to learn, to be aware of the dangers, to keep clear of conflict, to try and not break rules so that she is accepted as part of the adopted family, so that she 'belongs' there, lives like one of them, even at the cost of losing touch with her own family. For nothing gives more comfort and happiness to a mother than seeing her daughter well adjusted in her adopted home. This is the pinnacle of her achievement. She can then proudly speak about her daughter in the family circles, in the society. She can walk with her head held high even among her daughter's in-laws. For she has passed on the rules to her daughter. She has raised her in a manner that is socially acceptable. The mother has taught her daughter the rules of engagement. 

The rules, however, are not always followed, especially by the male party. Though there are exceptions that only prove the rule. Differences among the male family members translate into ill-treatment of the daughter-in-law. Differences over the compliance of rules lead to misery for her. In rare cases, the adopted home becomes a nightmare. Sometimes, the daughter flouts rules with impunity and and manages to break the adopted family to suit her own agenda. Many variations occur, but these issues are outside the scope of this essay. 

What are these rules of engagement? 

The Last Rite

The last rite is performed with diligence. The departed must attain peace. Peace ensures a quick return to the mortal world. There is very little peace from birth to death. There is very little one can do to attain it while one is alive. The least we can do to expect peace is by the rite someone performs so that we may abide in peace after death. The least the living can do to the dead is to perform the last rite in order to help attain it. 

For peace is easier attained dead than living. Everyone expects last rites to be performed for them, for they have never had peace in their life. Peace is not a commodity that can be exchanged, nor a thing that can be shared. And therefore we are at a loss to receive or give it. By the last rite through divine invocation we are more likely to attain it than in our daily life. We place a great importance to this one rite for this very reason. In the end we all want peace. In the end. Not in the beginning. Not in the middle. In the end. When it is all over. When the struggle for living is over. When we are no more. When the mortal clash has ended, for there can be no quarrel with the dead. And because the quarrel has ended, the dead are more likely to be at peace than the living. Who, in turn, await their turn to receive 'the peace that passeth understanding'. 

A pact we have with each other. Pax, we say, let's bury our differences. And one of us gets buried by the other so that peace may exist between us. For peace must exist, if not in the living then certainly among the dead. In that region that man knows not, where quarrel cannot continue. It comes to a halt. Abruptly so. And peace has a chance to survive. Even if it is not among the living. It is there among the dead and that gives us hope. Hope that in the end we will find it. So that when we return to the living, we can merrily go on as before, knowing fully well that peace will reign in the end. At the final frontier. 

It is not possible for peace to survive among the living. It is too fragile, too shy, too vulnerable, too weak. It has no spine. It is not bold to assert itself. It is forever hiding behind cliches, behind suave talk, behind hypocrisies. Slinking, lurking, timid, furtive, fearful, tremulous. How can such a thing live in this world? Survival of the fittest and peace is anything but fit. Peace is for the weak minded. For the spineless. For peace-mongers are among the weakest people on earth. Peace is not for the humans. It is for the gods. The last rite is an oblation to peace because the gods love it. The divine grace is bestowed on those who perform this rite. Their largesse extends to the departed as well. And everyone is in peace at last. At long last. In the abode of God there is peace. And that is where we direct the departed to hasten. 

The chants rise in pitch and the urgency with which the entreaty for peace is made is captured in the rising voices of the priests. By their loud chants the gods awaken from their peaceful slumber and invite the dead to their abode. Once the guest is allotted his or her place in the heaven, they can go back to their rest in peace. May the dead rest in peace. May the gods leave them in peace. May peace be bestowed on their soul. May the gods be pleased to send them back as humans so that they can spread the message of peace among the living. The gods are aware that peace cannot survive among the humans, but gods are after all gods. They cannot wage war. They cannot force anyone. They cannot order people or lord it over them. For they are the peaceful lot. But because they have great faith in peace, and in humanity, they think that eventually peace will return to earth. For peace was there on earth before humans sent it packing. Our chants invite it back. The slokas are an ovation to peace. The chanting priests pay homage to it in unison, urging peace to return to the earth. Or, failing which, they must accept the departed in their abode of peace. 

Poor gods! They always fall for this particular human artifice. This trick by the priests never fails to succeed. Time and again, they feel propitiated and do man's bidding. Time and time again man shatters peace and implores the gods to send it back. And the cycle goes on. In the rounds of rebirth this sham takes place. For the god's hope in man is undying and man's hope in god's obduracy is equally undying. And the drama of life and death continues. 

Let peace be to the gods. For we have no use for it here on this planet earth. And those who seek it, let them fall in line with the rest or await their turn for the last rite. 

Muse

Handwriting & Font

    Good handwriting comes from good writing materials. Years ago when I used to write on pages and notebooks my handwriting varied with the kind of pen I was writing with and the kind of paper I was writing on. I observed this a number of times. The ink from the pen should flow easily, smoothly, without interruptions. The paper must be good, ruled or not, it must allow the pen to run over it smoothly. The ink must dry quickly. There cannot be any smudges, wrinkles or breaks in a line or curve. 

    The quality of writing depends on the quality of the materials I get to write. What do we call it? Is it a superstition? No. Is it a notion? No. Is it a belief? No. I think it has something to do with the flow, with the ability to let the words flow from the pen to the paper, the ease with which the writing is accomplished. It is a satisfying experience, a feelgood experience, when I have that perfect combination of pen and paper. 

    Now, I hardly write on paper. I do almost all my writing on a computing device, like a mobile phone or a tablet. The writing materials have changed. I don’t use a pen at all, nor is there a paper that is tangible. Nothing to hold. Nothing to spill or smudge. Nothing to tear or prevent from flying away. The entire phenomenon of writing has changed: it is a paradigm shift. I don't think in terms of writing materials at all. I think instead in terms of what app I am going to use. The app provides the page and the keyboard, physical or virtual, is the writing tool. 

     Here too the mood dominates, if one could call it that. The mood for writing changes with the app I am using to do my writing. There is of course no handwriting here, although there are apps that allow me to do that too. I don't like to use those handwriting apps. Handwriting is a lost art, something that served its purpose well in the centuries that we have used it. From a personal form called beautiful handwriting, to a professional form called calligraphy, it evolved through time and served our need. Now we are in the electronic era. We don't write anymore, except to sign documents and cheques. We type. In this age we crossed several milestones, the first being the rise and then the demise of the typewriter, even the electronic one. Another important milestone that we crossed is that of the keyboard of the PC (a dying species itself): it does not make noise at all, a good one really. Now, in this age of the tablets, we type on a virtual keyboard, the one I am using to write, or should I say type, now. These changes took decades to happen, and the quality of writing has morphed from the handwriting to the font of the text. And the mood now depends on the font and other accessories of writing, such as the background color of the page, the distraction-free environment and the additional punctuation keys provided by the app. 

    The quality of writing today has more to do with the app than with the hand. Even though the writing materials have changed, there is still something that dictates its quality. But of course, it is not just the quality of writing here that I am concerned with. For writing between two people is not identifiable as in handwriting, because the print like font has erased the personal identity in writing. There is now a uniformity that is dictated by the app and not by the hand. One can no longer decipher personality traits by analyzing one's handwriting. We now hide our nature behind a font. We can no longer talk in terms of the quality of writing in this sense. 

    The quality of writing in the true sense of that expression is not in the writing but in what is written. That I think is where we are headed. Calligraphy may hide atrocious or even execrable written content. But both good and bad writing appear the same no matter which font you use, which app you use, which background color for the paper you choose. I am however on a different track here. More than the quality of writing, I am here concerned with the quantity of writing. I am able to produce more writing if I use an app that supports my thinking, that encourages me to write, that provides a distraction free environment, that corrects my typos as I write (sometimes this autocorrection feature is a bane, it produces mistakes insidiously). 

    The muse in this sense helps me write more, express my thoughts and feelings more, makes me sit and write without distraction, without losing sight of what I am writing. So I am carrying over to the virtual world, what I was depending on the material world to write. Muse is muse at its best, when there is a writing app that helps most.

Anger

There is anger, a lot of it. Will become aware of it only after it surfaces. Anything can trigger it. A word, a gesture, a thought, a situation. As though It is just below the surface, not too deep, for it shoots out, almost instantaneously. Even the rising of it is not noticed. It is swift, it is loaded, it is automatic. It possesses the whole being. Every aspect of my being is engaged in it. The face, the tone, the words and gestures, thoughts and emotions - all these are symptoms of it. The cause of it is not known, not completely known, not clear. When it subsides, it goes back to wherever it came from; it leaves me spent, troubled, sometimes remorseful and agitated. 

It is energy that emerges with a force that overcomes, that overpowers, that overtakes. It seems to have a will of its own, a self of its own, an agenda of its own, an entity by itself, an identity that is the defining part of me, that is who I am, a part of me that characterizes me. Lies dormant, biding its time, springs suddenly, unbeknown to me, it becomes me. I don't even know that I am angry until it has come and gone. I remember my reaction and then I recognize it and recall the label attached to it. That is when I realize that I had been angry. Anger is the label that I associate with the feeling that I express. Much like a google search bar, there is lookup mechanism that returns the name, given the feeling. A reverse lookup. 

How much of it is buried down there and I do not know. I don't even know if it can be quantified, measured. No matter how much of it comes out, there is more of it down there. Down where? Is it in the body somewhere? Is it in the memory? Is it in the brain cells? Or every cell? Is it part of the mind? Is it in the consciousness? Maybe that part of my consciousness that is not known to me? Hidden from me? An area of darkness in the mind where a thing like anger resides, draws strength from godknowswhere, sustains somehow, feeds on what? Everyone seems to have it, though it expresses itself differently. 

It is there in my consciousness, yet I am not conscious of it. I become aware of it only after it has emerged from its cocoon, from its hiding place. Is it a place really? Where in consciousness is it? Is consciousness a place to hold things? What are the many things that it holds? With what other things does anger share the consciousness? Is consciousness other than me? Is it something that is inside me? Or, is consciousness the same as me? I, me and such terms refer only to the consciousness that is part of this being, this body, this brain, this mind? 

Consciousness is the content, says JK. Then anger is part of that content. But content implies a container, says his scientist friend. But he denies there is a container. Every cell holds memories, says the scientist of today. Then consciousness is part of every cell. Since the genes are what make up the cell, then the content is genetic material. Cell is the container of this matter. 

Nothing short of a genetic mutation can alter the content held by the cells. JK often spoke of mutation in the brain cells. He was probably referring to this revolutionary change in the very cellular structure of the body. And he says it is possible through awareness. There is no need for medical intervention, chemical inducement or psychedelic alteration. Since to be aware means to be conscious of, it comes back to the question of becoming aware of all areas of consciousness. Leave no part uncharted, unexplored, no dark areas, no grottos and caverns, no places hidden. This I think JK says is meditation. To unravel oneself in a way that leaves no stone in our consciousness unturned. 

Why does awareness change what it is aware of? JK says like the dual nature of electron as expounded by Heisenberg's principle, the observed undergoes change whenever there is an observation of it. The observation he maintains must be devoid of the observer, since the observer is observing himself - attention directed towards itself. There is observation only when there is neither the observer nor the observed. 

Culture clash

Culture is a strange thing. It is used in different ways by people. In the west according to their culture sons and daughters don't stay in their father's house. In India, they do. And for someone from the west, this part of the Indian culture, like most other parts, seems absurd. And the Indians who emigrated to the west, also find it absurd, because they now live in the west, among the forward-thinking, upwardly mobile, advanced civilization in the world. At least that is what we in the east secretly believe, when we have temporarily forgotten our great and glorious past, which we pit against that of the west when we feel at a disadvantage.

In the west we live among them, we live like them, we think like them, we talk like them, we keep their streets clean, follow their traffic rules to the hilt, build houses like theirs, adorn the walls with their art, celebrate their festivals, enjoy their sport, oh so many things and yet behind this facade we have an undying faith in our own greatness, in our own glorious past, in our scriptures and gods, in our family and social values. And at the same time we harbor deep within ourselves - it comes out only when we are back in India - a dislike of their tendency to waste, their lack of respect toward others, especially elders, their arrogance of the notion of a superior race, their ill-concealed contempt for the colored people, their laws, their extraordinary respect for the word of the law, their utter disregard for family values - we secretly believe they have none.

But when we come to India, alas, we see the filth on the streets, the dust in the house, the numerous slithering and crawling creatures on the walls, on the floor, on the tables - everywhere - in the corners, in the dark interiors, in claustrophobic places, and the utter disregard for rules, the chalta-hai attitude, the poverty - it is everywhere, not just in the shanties. Even the educated son is jobless, penniless, living in father's house, living off the largesse of his mother, living without rent, oh so many things, we see these things, like a daughter using her mother to look after the children, not caring for the health of the mother, using her as one would use a maid, and so on and so on. We see all this when we come to India and at once our mind rebels - there is a clash of cultures. The culture we have grown up with, but too hard to live down, too hard to live by, too hard to explain away, too hard to ignore, and the culture we are adopting now, living in now, living beautifully, organized, clean, salubrious, with dignity, with a fat bank balance, with opportunities to grow and bloom...something that is impossible in the homeland where children run amuck like monkeys, adults with their morals and principles long discarded by the west as foolish, silly and stupid, their respect for others and elders so much at odds with the canons of free spirit of the west. There is a clash. A clash that happens every time we visit India, every time, we walk or drive in the streets - the noise, the pollution, the filth, the chaotic traffic, the mind boggling numbers and variety of vehicles and pedestrians...a clash that is hard to reconcile, hard to live with, hard to bear, hard to ignore.

It is not the clash of two civilizations. It is not on a global scale. It is not news on BBC World Service. It is hardly noticed by the majority of the people in the world. They are not even aware of it. It is felt only by the emigrants, by those who are trying to fit into new clothes, into new streets, into new habitations. Those who are adjusting to their new surroundings, new faces, new society. It is a wholly different way of life. Mostly automated, works like a machine, with clockwork precision. This clash is felt by those who went over to the west. Leaving behind their fledgling homes in the backwoods, they went through the portals of opportunity into the high life, into the best places in the world, into the most sought after advanced human ecosystem.

It is felt in individuals, not in groups. It is felt by every man, woman and child. It is felt acutely when they return. It is felt every time we have to contend with the people we left behind...'left behind' is a phrase that is the motif of emigration. Those who emigrated to the west have progressed, went further in life, went ahead, metaphorically speaking. We have 'left behind' our unfortunate brothers and sisters, parents and relatives. And now when we return we feel the difference acutely, like we are entering into shanty town, into a hovel that was once our home, where we grew up, in ignorance, with silly aspirations and stupid notions. And now when we return we return not just to our homeland, not just to what was once our home, we return to our past, our shame, to live once again with misery, with uncleanness, with notions and superstitions, with brothers and sisters who have not 'grown' in the real sense, in the sense of growing, blooming, flowering. They are still in the dusty and ignorant past, the past we left behind, the past of murky and musty corridors, the past we left behind to the bright future of tomorrow. It is this we have to contend with. The clash of the past and the future, the clash that happens in the present, it happens now, it happens every time we meet them, we see them, we walk and talk with them. We become impatient with their old world notions, with their illogical explanations and irrational thoughts. We pity them, commiserate with their misfortune, live with their foolish notions and silly aspirations, put up with their inane talk, watch helplessly their useless struggles.

We suffer because we have experienced the clash, on account of them, because we bear the cross of their misfortune. We try to alleviate their misery with ideas and gifts so that they could organize their lives, improve their living conditions, live with more dignity, live in the modern world. But we see with exasperation that some of them are beyond rescue. Their ideas are too deeply entrenched in the past, their future is hopeless, meaningless, and entirely without significance. It is this clash that we have to bear, to suffer.

But the clash there needn't be. The clash is because they wouldn't change. The clash owes its genesis to a couple of individuals in the family who refuse to change, who are incapable of change, who are so utterly lacking in skills, so utterly old fashioned that they resist change and the clash happens. Not to them, they are blithely ignorant of it. They live their beastly little lives and expect us to live with them.

The clash is not just a conflict of the civilization. It is a clash at the very personal level. It centers around the home, the home we lived in, the home we left behind, the home we want to come back to. The home is no longer that home of our remembrances. It has changed so much that hardly is there anything to rekindle the fond memories. It is trodden over, trampled over like hooligans, desecrated, furniture destroyed, walls unpainted, fixtures broken, house distorted, backyard abandoned, litter all over the place. There is no welcome, no homecoming, just a guest staying at a sleazy motel with no amenities, no service, no telephone, no clean bed, the motel that is our home converted, corrupted. This is the clash that is hardest to bear, hardest to live down, hardest to talk about. This is a personal clash and I am sure every man and woman who left the shores of poverty to the opulence of paradise must have felt some time or other this mind deadening clash, this fist clenching clash, this clash that would never go away, never leave us alone, like a leech it hung on. Until we return sad and defeated, to our promised land of plenty, of order, of dignity.

Hyatt's Grace

For a middle class family to enter the portals of a five star hotel is akin to entering a paradise on earth. It is a dream fulfillment. It is an out of the world experience. A slice of life that is at once removed from their humdrum existence. It is where mortals live like kings. It is like the grace of God to be invited to such a place as the Hyatt hotel. To be among the rich and the famous, among the glitter and glamor of affluence, to be regarded as a dignity, as an eminent personage, to be given importance to one's self, to be treated with respect and allowed to be serviced and chaperoned by uniformed officers and workmen, it is the pinnacle of achievement in a lifetime.

"For the first time in my life," said a father, "I felt great to be able to feast at a table that is elaborately decorated and rich with delicious food items. It is enough for me in this life. My son has made my day, nay, my life." The man eulogized his experience with emotion, eminently satisfied. His son had been an apprentice at the hotel after he completed a hotel management course. His son studied and trained to be a chef. And he was allowed to bring his family for a lunch with the families of his colleagues.

Such is the reverence that a typical middle class family accords to opulence, for it has had to struggle lifelong to make ends meet, to send the son to college, to buy jewelry to the wife, to buy expensive drinks to meet the demands of the man's habits. The family was dressed in their best, and had to overcome their nervousness, their fear of not doing the right thing in an august occasion. It was a dream come true.

The dreams of the poor man center round the possessions of the middle class. The dreams of the middle class border on the fantasy of the high class. The high class dreams consist of joining the exclusive club of the business magnates, the corporate bigwigs, the puissant paradise of unchallenged power.

Mammon is the new God of the world. From the most powerful to the downtrodden in the society, cutting across all class lines, the God of wealth is worshipped in different ways - from paying humble tributes through the offering of delicacies, to the secret offering (gupt dan) in gold nuggets or currency notes counted in unimaginably large numbers. It is no longer considered evil, for it is encouraged in every walk of life. The world in fact keeps track and honors the richest men in it. Every prayer is directed to the acquisition of wealth. Every struggle, every endeavor, every plan and scheme is designed to achieve the sole objective of living in the affluent society. Wealth begets respect to its devotee; he is graced by its opulence, singled out to be special, elevated in status, bestowed by power.

The awe one experiences at the display of opulence was not born yesterday. It is as old as the hills, literally. When the Buddha asked a pious man to describe the heaven that he was always praying for, the man described it in terms of the opulence he had seen in the world - the glitter of gold, the regal finery, the commissioned art, the palatial surroundings, the exquisite gardens and so on. The Buddha merely said that man could not know anything other than what he had seen and experienced and therefore his description of heaven must necessarily consist of the things of this world. Heaven could not be described in the language of man. Its grace is not in any way akin to Hyatt's grace.

Without the grace of the mammon most people end up becoming bitter in life. The mammonizing influence of modern life is a recipe for bitterness.