Notes on Human Condition

The beauty of man is in his being; in his mysterious ability to implicitly identify the totemic value before the need to appropriate it takes over. The need to be awed always precedes the need to analyze and improve. Thus, man first recognises the art before proceeding to the science of any evaluation.

It is only a departure from this state of being that leads to the discontent among individual and societies. A degree of dissatisfaction, however, is what motivates an enquiry; so in a sense the condition of human life is an acknowledgement of this incompleteness that furthers an attempt to fulfill it. But however, the identity of man by its definition is a bias - a limitation which cannot comprehend its objective destiny during this journey. This would mean that by the process of life and consciousness man tries to sublimate the search and return to this very desired yet unknown state in as many means as his imagination permits.

Two such powerful avenues would be, thought and emotion- symbolized from without, by Science and Art respectively. But they are concerted identities exclusive of humanity, a bridge to cover the distance, on which a few, if at all, are allowed to pass through. For others, life is not conscious and creative but a mean of passive sublimation of the search.

Speech is sublimation, Sense is sublimation, Sex is sublimation, the whole society is an elaborate sublimation of this search. To what end? The question props instantly.

For man though, the destiny, notwithstanding the success and failure of its value, can only be momentary while the strife remains eternal. At any given time any man can only be part of a certain journey and only a part of a certain destiny, he cannot claim witness or ownership of the entire journey and the goal. Human Life, for any one who has known it, by living it would tell you is all about half-measures and over-shoots. All that sublimates and returns to itself. Resources may vary and desires may take different form and shape; but the process is sustained regardless of nature, value and the conscience of the participants.

In comprehending this -- That in the transciency of his participation lies the glory and the terror of being a man. That he is not allowed to forget to balance all the loves, the passions and the values so dear and true to him, with his insignificance in the grande scheme of the universe to which he is only an evolutionary minutiae.

Painting: La Conditione Humaine, Rene Magritte, National Gallery Of Art, Washington

Post Traumatic Post Modernism...

Oulipians are Rats who build the labyrinth from which they will try to escape.
~Raymond Queneau


The message was handwritten. Cursive feminine letters. As known - It was a healthy girl. The mother was fine, a bit exhausted. His secretary earnestly congratulated. And there were many handshakes . He cut short the meeting and cancelled the day’s schedule.

He has seen this many times. Yet he cannot remember . Or forget. It is neither prose nor poetry, it is like a critique. A complete stranger reserving the power to hurt you. Again and again.

The dark torsos of trees were trailing rapidly beside the road. The leaves rustled in the wind. Autumn is a wretched season. Full of remembering , forgetting and longing he thought as he drove on.

They all had agreed to call her Susan after her late aunt. All the requisite shopping had been completed a week before the expected day. Grandma had even knitted a pair of tiny woollen socks. Pink coloured.


He continues in this state. Of speculations. Ifs and If nots. And If onlys. A world opens inside his head, drawing him away from everything , mostly himself. It doesn’t hurt after a while. He just gasps when he wakes.

On the way he thought of buying a champagne and a box of Thornton’s . He decided to take a right at the next intersection. It felt so ethereal for a minute. Almost. To be a dad.

When he wakes up at night, he finds himself shivering and drenched in sweat. He silently watches the arcs of light from the passing traffic climb onto the room walls. He tries to remember. But nothing comes to his mind. His despair is married to the fact. That he has to live with it. He weeps.

The autumn sun sunk slowly in the greying sky, casting long sombre shadows. The traffic was light. He hummed along with Cohen on the radio as he turned right. He wasn’t driving too fast. But as it often happens, he just couldn’t stop when he wanted. It was too late.

The girl wore a pink skirt. She had turned seven a week before.
It was later in the hospital mortuary he learnt she was called Susan.



PS- I have exercised my chosen constraints. The consciousness has been cut into four slices each. Present and Past alternates in successive paragraphs. Admixed tenses are symbolic of this. The last two lines is a specific attempt aimed towards a reader who requests an easier understanding.


The motif is Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, dealt in present, while the event is a memory of the past. The write-up is a depiction of a nightmare in the ailment.