A cursory sketch of someone's personality, idiosyncrasy

Being with him for a few hours speckled over the recent past days, I happened to come to an understanding, a sort of intimation with some of mine, namely a sort of vicarious experience of seeing through his eye, or of holding on to his being—seemingly like with some high idea about himself. And it was on one recent day.

Of stout, squarish medium build and sallow complexion, he wheezed out a disturbed breath. The bulk of his paunch bobbed up and down once. He tended to incline back supported by his stretched hands on the soft lawn, but the atrophied muscles of his arms didn’t let him remain there relaxed thus for long, with his paunch bit flattened. 

“Well, I will go there to meet my aunt in Tokyo, on my own expenses. But I won’t stay at her. I will stay in a hotel, and go to her, if she invites me to dine. I will join, if she takes me around. But I don’t want someone breathing at my heels about his or her favor incurred for me. I am not of such a type who can take such thing,” said he while casting nervous, envious glances at a lit gas balloon soaring high up in the night sky still dimly lit by the set sun, as it was summer solstice here in France, at a faubourg in a corner of Ile-de-France.

We were lounging on a sprawling inclined lawn rimmed with the silhouettes of towering trees minutely outlined against the sky with looming gold-tawny clouds. The lit gas balloon passed through a mass of cloud and lost for a few seconds before falling down as a dark burr like a black felt hat, with its fire extinguished. I was randomly thinking about what I had left reading, not about such silhouettes of trees but of steeples and spires of ancient churches; my haunting to it was related with the writer’s fear, of his not being able to versify and write fiction with poignant, unique way of seeing like Bolch, of his finding himself like before a cul-de-sac when he tried to cull up his intuition to be able to deal with an ‘abstract truth’, and so on. Though, frankly, I hadn’t such an intimation of myself, I liked learning more about such, like of a lost one in Sahara desert, and his means of survival to prove himself the opposite, a real doer. Maybe it could be of my own status as a political refugee in a foreign land, whatever. Yes, we were lounging there, with two young French women in mini-shorts lounging just across demarcated by a trampled strip. As the darkness deepened, I saw one of them lying on her back and the other sitting upright and smoking; the former’s way of lying by adjusting her feet one on the other and vice-versa drew me into another realm like the floating lit gas balloons in the expanse of the space. But there was this barrier of personal idea not that easy to be dismantled, not that easy ‘to take life easily’ with it. Yes, he was still talking beside me.

Though not of an ordained background, he was still single despite being forty-plus. I, however single, was not like him, namely not having had that much intimation with the earthly run of life-making. But I could feel some of his remaining single in me. No, no, not a perfectionist he was, I was unreasonably sure. Then what, if not of this same personal idea about oneself, such a phenomenon that could be found remaining absolutely independent of one’s conscience in general or at a particular time, or of one’s compunction and humane intuition. Trying to see through his eyes, despite being indigent if compared to him, I found something like being a doer in home-making sense but not making a home of himself. And so strangely to me, he, though, wanted a family of his own. I was pretty sure he had some knowledge of what I presumably thought of having traced in him, which could be a sort of epiphenomenon to his idea about himself that mattered the most to him. And could that giant one be limited somehow? Like voluntarily or involuntarily laying himself at the disposal of someone else’s caprice could be possible, but I didn’t wonder so at the time. I found instead, as the priority imposed on himself, like persuading myself to stick on to adding up a lump of designated value on another as the safe buttress of my own idea about myself to lean against, with taking the tender thing or union as sure to come up along my way ahead like the next morning. And I was almost sure he wasn’t the one who could do without such a safe buttress; he was more terrestrially charged. Then how possible about renouncing everything to pursue his own idea about himself, and that without a sound philosophical ground. 

And the clock ticks on, when I involuntarily go back to him asking myself why he lags behind despite being a doer. I find myself being meddlesome to the point of taking myself as inexistent. Why not, as seeing does matter, bumping into whom does matter in teaching you such thing of drawing you into his or her own way of seeing, for everyone isn’t gifted with such a personality that draws you in… Then why not a huge unrecognized gift, if you’re in search of such an encounter to feed your doing of such tedium and labor and value.

Sushant Singh Rajput’s Suicide Case: internet trolls sensitivity among Tibetan professional netizens

The viral pandemic COVID-19, originated in Wuhan, also known as ‘Chinese Virus’ as coined by the US president Donald Trump, through the confinement period in every respective country, has spared such leisure in the hectic life of the 21^st century, for a family, for a couple, for every individual, for a loner. Though it’s our own life, our own time, it has been rather long since we’ve taken it as something of separate entity to chase after but always sort of tumbled short of something as a gist despite running that much after. Though it has come as a miracle to connect to ourselves and spend time with our beloved ones, we find ourselves not being able to go on without a means of distracting ourselves. We find sort of stranded; said as the possibility of ‘domestic violence’, if the confinement has to be enforced further on.

Amid the rise and ebb of hope of concocting and bringing out a vaccine by this and that leading nation, amid a series of floundering gestures on YouTube as inspirational clips to brave through the limbo and fight back the torpor, in our Tibetan communities diaspora like everywhere else, amid the metallic forte of the Tibet’s right groups’ rapping about not letting go of the ‘golden’ opportunity to make China responsible for her irresponsibility and suffer, the beloved boon called internet is there to save everyone to find a niche to fill, to find a stage to showcase one’s talent, to express as one wishes with this given carte blanche. It’s really sad sometimes to find an elderly one toying with his or her smart phone on a train or metro; he or she is busy with something like bubbly Candy Crush. But it’s already a major part of our inveterate needs. And, amid our own small circles, the ongoing period has witnessed more than ever webinars like Talk Show, Live Show, Daily Vlog, and some featuring ones as well, but the latter ones are drowned in the former ones in such towering ratio.

But here and there a certain leading figure by the name of King, Queen, Minister has begun to present as at his or her wit’s end, no more space of toleration for ‘haters’, ‘trolls’, ‘negative comments’, bursting out of the cozy fame forged during the period and putting himself or herself out of his or her countenance by wearing such coloration of a visage. Some say it’s serious; we have to think before we type out a word. But the enterprise is itself vulnerable in the first place, given our trait of willing to reveal more about ourselves, to draw on more audience despite the quality of the content rather naïf as not backed by a sound means of expression. But who can be reasoned so nowadays? Everyone thinks he or she is smart; the variability of his or her own mother-tongue isn’t seen but palliated by speaking some of a foreign language rather levied on for this livelihood in an alien land where one can see cherry blossom and its ephemerality.

The recent suicide case of Sushant Singh Rajput, said as the young actor of some blockbuster, a victim of ‘nepotism’ in the Indian film industry Bollywood, said also as of haters’ trolls, is brought out by King, Queen, Minister in vindicating the seriousness of demoralizing, negative writings that can inveigle one into perdition like abetting to commit suicide. And, at the same time, sobriquets like ‘psycho’, ‘broken Tibetan’, ‘defamer of Tibetan ideals’ are seemingly taken so seriously.   

Our Arduous Odyssey: Our Fate

The most sublime culture of 'letting go' of one's own interests for the benefits of others and at last for some peaceful co-existence on this life-supporting little blue planet—and thereby the most humane means of ahimsa, peaceful dialogue, non-violent protest, grant of huge sacrificial concession, caving in to instilling in oneself with this mindful sang-froid and stint and self-content (seen as self-denial by those having some passing glimpses through the prism of market-oriented glitter and glamour and lifestyle taken as life itself)—has ever been the signatory personality, the most civilized, of the land of Aryas, Baharat, the one and only nation-state who is proud of itself stark otherwise, having never ever encroached on the sovereign right of a neighboring country. Though human being can’t live without some self-created little problems to be solved on a daily basis, as the major parts of the habituated treadmill or cognitive inertia, all those ‘big’ problems the world is facing now have more or less stemmed from the lack of the same ‘letting go’ quality, historical blunders of encroaching on others’ basic rights, the last palliative means of globalized economy as the existential threat to our fragile ecosystem, the nerves of its mechanism rooted in some huge irresponsible gluttony strained. How different our world can be, if we have lived by those aforementioned qualities? But no, we are some insane, crude-nerved dastards who can overlook millions starving for being that ambitious with reifying what is called ‘artificial intelligence’, by belittling those feeling ones, but for inventive craze, or any supra-natural insanity, arching against the same musty floor of market economy.

So Tibet, the land of snows, being ‘the faithful chela’ of the great civilization, with our own individualistic ways of approaching the most convoluted issues of mind and life, has inherited the same personality in our beings for dealing with even mundane issues regarding national interests and sovereignty, so evident from our having been on the receiving ends in our long history like Baharat herself had been so. And for now, pioneered by His Holiness the 14^th Dalai Lama, our prime approach to solving Tibet Issue, known as Middle Way Approach, is thickly wrapped in the same habiliments, rather unthinkable to many young Tibetan minds educated in the West. Being so sincere on our side, we even now ignore to study the other’s motive, given our tendency so ready to take for granted that human being is compassionate by nature and thereby changeable, why not entitled for ‘a second chance’.

But for the time being, the other, the system of governance so tangentially erratic and her vassals more or less silenced and mechanized into a vending machine, with just one idea about life, make money and enjoy, no place for thinking and racking one’s head, can’t be reasoned at all into giving some mind to our great personality, our placing everything at her disposal without having devised some machination of quid-pro-quo: ‘autonomy’ for independence voluntarily professed rather than as a precautious deal, ‘one China policy’ brooked without a word about India’s policy of any (how possible about India’s policy on Tibet, despite being the only guru-chela related, faithful neighbor), Nehru India’s great concessions including taking ‘Tibet as an unalienable part of China’ even after having been taken by a great shock and disillusionment, for his inimitable moral fiber and devotion to socialist revolution, a series of border scuffles and encroachments retaliated just by the same means of peaceful dialogue, even now.

Black Lives, India-Tibet Border Scuffles, Tibet Issue

If 'black lives' don't matter, then doesn't even the horrendous, sadistic deception of 'the great game' or its deal between the two imperialist states matter, which, as the self-interest of the British imperialism, guaranteed the then budding, undisciplined socialist regime of China led by Mao to carry on her occupation of Tibet that has, by and large, resulted in the recent India-Tibet border scuffles and fisticuffs between Indian and Chinese soldiers, and the death of said as 20 Indian border security forces? I say as 'black lives' all downtrodden, crestfallen lives matter. We should be aware of real culprits in the first place. And, yes, as 'to forgive is unusual', to be aware of our own potential and doing rather than letting ourselves get distracted by a hundred of shallow, cheap 'fast food' things of the market place do matter as well. 

Reading you does matter

Almost like 'climbing a mountain', almost like can be taken as 'to prepare for the battle', reading Marcel Proust renders me sophomoric in my take on my own senses, especially the sixth one. Such labor, grievances he had taken on himself to come out thus, so painstaking, exhaustive, euphonious even in the second language. Maybe related with his upbringing, privilege, being bookworm, seclusion, quest for the truth as well as the means of expression in words adorned with such breathtaking analogies and speaking, vivid delineations; maybe not so--I find him as sensitively sensational as pedantically fecund and sharp. Such hermeneutic trick and approach even for a little thing that mattered to him. Combray is alien to me, but I relate a sort of linkage there through him. Here again, it's sort of coming across some great familiarity when he confidently put forward about the intangible screen of mental constructs or ideas between the observer and the object, the coloration by the intervening phenomena whereby the observer assumes to behold the matter of any, and his arresting the discriminatory constructs between his prime sense of himself and the object. The same tonic trope is endless throughout him. 

P. Stobdan: also think this way

'The former diplomat' P. Stobdan's recent remark on Ajtak TV about His Holiness the Dalai Lama is something like coming from a petrified child in darkness caviling about the always beautiful moon not casting a streak of light on his way, now, for his need, as it is his own need, for dispelling his own fear. Yes, I once viewed the similar on-call panel discussion on a certain TV channel years back (maybe Tenzin Tsondue la was there as a speaker, on Tibet's water damming threat to India, or border scuffle issue or any), in which he happened to put himself out of his countenance by saying His Holiness and Gyalwa Karma Pa's being in India is the cause of Sino-Indian problem. But in the recent one, he pointed to his silence, his not enunciating that 'Ladhak isn't part of Tibet but of India', which, he said, he thought as so facile for him to carry out from Dharamsala. Funnily, he needs him now. If you're interested in quid pro quo, then what you've done for Tibet? For me, you're like a parvenu with an obscure title. Why he can't think thus: even if there isn't a single Tibetan in India, namely couldn't have been able to make this historic escape, Tibet under China, can China be on friendly terms with India, not carrying out her bullying, attrition tactics? I don't think so.