Holy Diver

At an age when most rockers had burned out, OD’d, or on permanent residency in rehab, the King of Heavy Metal came in screaming his first solo mega-hit "Holy Diver," well in his mid-40s. After decades of yelling along without a clue, I finally used the internet to figure out what Ronnie James Dio was actually singing about—apparently some transdimensional batman masked messianic figure taking a dive to save an ungrateful humanity.

Sounds familiar - flood relief Bamboo Boats anyone ??

On a personal level, though, Holy Diver lately started meaning something else altogether.

Call her a metaphor of my Jungian Anima, the female archetype lurking in a man’s psyche, or a temptress - a Sky Dakini in the flesh, luring me to take the plunge. For the Lord knows how pathetically susceptible we men are to female cajoling—far more than to nagging. And its certainly more effective a method of allure than by ghosting, in life or in chats.

Well, this Holy Diver—or should I say Sky Diver—is not a fantasy figure, but a person in a series of YouTube Shorts. A striking, brown-haired, but decidedly unglamorous young woman sitting on a chair, in a white top and cargos, listening to someone intently, who turns to the camera, smiles shyly, and flashes a V-sign. Next she’s in a hangar, zipping up a black-and-white skydiving suit (usually the mark of an instructor or someone advanced), offering the faintest smile before gazing into the etheric distance, tying her fiery long hair into a bun, walks towards a North Carolina–registered plane, turns her head flashing another smile, and boards. Next moment—out she goes, slicing through the air, sketching figures against the sky. And that’s where I sigh deeply…

For if her appearance and demeanour weren’t enough to have me smitten, ready to play the fool a dozen times over, she also breaks the final barrier—jumping out of a plane.
For, alas, I am petrified of heights.

Incidentally, I knew at least four women who’ve done the leap. Three went tandem, thrill-seeking, and urged me to try, assuring me they too had been afraid of heights. The fourth, an army reservist, did three jumps, admitted they were basically booted out of the plane, parachutes popping automatically with half the recruits bawling or wetting themselves until a dull thud and ache of landing brought them back to earth. Only on her third jump did she dare open her eyes midair and glimpse a surreal serenity, and felt her own insignificance against the vast earth below. But no, thank you, she won’t be doing that again.

This leaves me in a peculiar jam. With Concorde's retired, the Russians no longer hawking MiG-29 joyrides, the edge of space still locked behind billionaire gates, and aeroplane bathrooms far too cramped to join the "club," my one remaining option to experience the sky in all its glory is… to take a dive. But really?

I just pray I don't meet the brown haired “Holy Skydiver” from North Carolina—I mean not anytime soon...

The Dao Tse from Indu

My father had a deeply irritating habit. Any subject I picked up, he had to follow. But first, he would patronize me - Astrology, Buddhism, tantra, Jung or whatever I was reading. Suddenly my books became his, and soon he the “expert.” The only things he didn’t chase me into were Taoism, motorcycle repair, and boat building.

Our approaches differed. I collected books, skimmed, dropped them when bored, filing fragments away in the chaotic, multithreaded system of a dyslexic ADD brain. He, on the other hand, would first criticize the author, then read cover to cover, make notes, study further, and inevitably write an article—say, on Tibetan Buddhism’s effect on Shankardeva’s Vaishnav tradition. We rarely agreed: his pedantic stance was dogmatic, while I followed Lao Tzu—“the further one goes, the less one knows.”

Still, one explanation of his stayed with me: the difference between a Bodhisattva and an Arhat - both are realized masters in their respective Buddhist traditions. A Bodhisattva, he said, seeing goats led to slaughter, would lecture the herders on the sanctity of life, their sins, and the karma. A Theravadin Arhat, by contrast, may chat with the herders, bless them if asked, perhaps request kindness to the animals while they are alive, then move on, knowing people must eat and survive. Having somewhat known both streams from inside, I think his was the best distinction I’ve ever heard.

Of course, I had to add dryly that he forgot the Tulkus - reincarnated Lamaist Bodhisattvas who would chant, bang drums and gongs, blow a horn blessing both herders and goats, to protect them from demons and then have one for their meal. “Give me the wandering Daoist any day,” I said. He would stop by, share banter, eat what was offered, drink their booze or his own, laugh and move on, following the Dao.

“In China we call them piànzi -cheats,” said Chen, my hosting company’s liaison, when I shared my fascination with the "Dao Tses," Taoist sages. Making me realize that our people weren’t so different after all - at least in their views about travelling mendicants.

That evening, in a bar, Chen pressed me about why an Indian is interested in Daoist thought, when it's been long ignored in China except for perfunctory temple rituals. What followed was hours of my drunken stream of consciousness - Daoist parables, Iching cosmology, Chuang Tzu quotes, reflections on “the Way.” A fascinated audience gathered, some catching my English, others listening to Chen’s translations. 

In true Daoist style, the language barrier and the booze only thickened the mystic veil.
Years later, I visited the city again. Chen had left the company, and his replacement took me around. On seeing my interest in a wayside Taoist shrine, his face lit up in recognition: 

“Ooo...so you are the Dao Tse from Indu!
I heard much about you!”
As a follower of the Way, I didn’t ask what.

An Unplanned Sabbatical, a Volcano, and the Toilet of Doom

I’ve found myself on an unplanned sabbatical due to factors completely beyond my control. Sudden caregiving responsibilities, and the absolute apathy toward my work from all quarters in my region (international interest and multiple media coverage be damned), have forced me to step back. Not to think or replan or reevaluate, but simply to flatline the monitor.

Time now drifts by in household chores, repairs, and errands. Fixing a 50-year-old bungalow, a 20-year-old car, and then there’s the “Toilet of Doom.” 

I’ll come to that later.

First, a revelation made by myself to myself, in a dream last night. I was seated in  a large glassed office or a conference room when a smart, pretty young lady, purportedly a CA, who asked me, “What do you think is wrong with the startup sector?”

I took out my notepad and drew a cross-section of a volcano.

“Everyone,” I said, “wants a startup to grow into a massive volcano, impressive and loud, great for the optics and valuation. But no one wants to provide the magma that turns into lava, or accept the eruptions that make it grow. So you end up digging for the magma and in no time are surrounded by hordes of volcanologists and other experts (the mentors, incubators and accelerators), all curating your growth, offering advice, or acting as touts for tourists, which is to say, the potential investors.

Founders are expected to stack stones uphill, show slides of Mt. Fuji, and promise they can do the same or better. Some even put up a fake facade with an impressive volcano image -that’s the whole ‘fake it till you make it’ mantra.

In the end, no one really cares what your volcano actually does, whether it forms islands, raises mountains, or fertilizes the land. And yes, volcanoes sometimes explode, taking everyone around them with them. Eventually they go dormant and die”

Now, about the Indian Johns - or the Toilet of Doom.

There was an old Indian-style lavatory in the house, leaking and blocked for decades, but it stayed that way because my late father insisted on using it -  his meditative power spot. I finally decided to convert it into a western WC. Got all the fittings, but plumbers either weren’t interested, disappeared after a look, or quoted enough to build a new one.

Never one to be blackmailed by the working class, my left leanings notwithstanding, I took on the project myself.

 It took two days just to get the old pan out. Turns out the contractor who built the house had cast the floor with a 4-inch concrete slab.  Subsequent plumbers poured even more concrete below, trying to fix the discharge pipe leaks.

The result, me lying on the floor for hours, head in the hole where the pan used to be, inhaling fifty years of sewage fumes, drilling out bits of concrete, and holding a digging bar while my Friday swung a giant hammer right above my head to hit it again and again.

By now, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, though a little still remains.  One thing’s certain, Stephen King wouldn’t have seen any redemption in this one. 

Frankly, neither do I.

It’s definitely not something you’d put on a résumé, I may as well as write about it here. After all, it’s not about skills or tight purse strings, but attitude. Besides, dubbing it “the Toilet of Doom” not only makes my unenviable effort sound cooler, it also feels oddly appropriate.