Saturday, July 18, 2026

WHY CAMUS COULDN'T TRAVEL TO INDIA

                                     



The Journey Not Taken: Why Albert Camus Never Travelled to India


Albert Camus died on 4 January 1960, aged 46, in a car crash on the road between Provence and Paris. With him died a series of plans that were only just becoming visible: to step back from journalism and politics, to write differently, and to travel far. Among the places he spoke of was India.  He never went. He did not reject India. He simply ran out of time. 

The reasons are straightforward, though often overlooked: he was overburdened, he was politically trapped, he was in poor health, and he died before the window opened. But the desire was there. It appears in letters, in conversations, and in the tone of his last notebooks. Had he lived, it is almost certain he would have gone.

A Life Without Margin: 1945–1960

To understand why Camus did not travel, one must first understand what filled his years.

Éditions Gallimard. From 1945 Camus worked as lecteur and later responsable de collection at Gallimard. This was not an honorary title. He read three to four manuscripts a week, wrote detailed reports, and managed authors. The post anchored him to Paris. A journey to India in the 1950s required a minimum of two to three months. The publishing house could not spare him for that long, and he could not absent himself without damaging the work he valued.

Algeria

 Camus was born in Mondovi, Algeria, in 1913. The War of Independence, 1954–1962, consumed his public life. He was attacked from both sides: by the French right for his calls for a “civil truce”, and by the left for not condemning France outright. Between 1955 and 1958 he wrote appeals, articles, and gave press conferences. He felt personally responsible. To leave for India during this period would have been read as desertion. He wrote in 1957: “I have people on both sides whom I love.” That is not a position from which one departs for several months.

Theatre and journalism.

From 1944 to 1947 he edited  Combat. From 1946 to 1953 he directed and adapted plays: Caligula, The Misunderstanding, The State of Siege. Even after leaving daily journalism, he wrote prefaces, gave lectures in Europe and the United States, and engaged in public debate. There was no sustained period of freedom. Travel to India was not a two-week holiday. It was an expedition. Camus did not have the months to give.

He Died Too Young

The most decisive reason is chronological. Camus died at 46. Compare this with his contemporaries. Romain Rolland travelled to India in his sixties. André Malraux made extensive trips in his fifties. Simone de Beauvoir and Sartre went in 1966 and 1967, also in their sixties. 

Camus was only just entering the age when such travel becomes feasible. The Nobel Prize in Literature, awarded in December 1957, gave him financial security for the first time. His Carnets  from 1958–1959 show a clear shift. He writes of “silence”, “retreat”, “another rhythm”. He bought a house in Lourmarin. He told friends he wanted to stop writing for the press and return to fiction and essays.
India appears in this late period as a real possibility, not a vague idea. But he had only thirteen months between Stockholm and the crash. That is not enough time to plan, fund, and undertake a major journey, particularly with his health.

The Evidence of Desire: Letters to René Char

The most direct evidence comes from his correspondence with the poet René Char* They met in 1946 and remained close until Camus’ death. Their letters record Camus’ inner life with unusual candour. In 1958 Camus wrote of needing “to go far from Europe, to places where the sun teaches a different patience”. Char later recalled that Camus spoke specifically of Asia. Not as a tourist, but as a thinker seeking a different quality of light and silence. Char wrote after 1960 that they had discussed travel once the Algerian situation was “settled”. He believed Camus meant India, Greece, and other places “where stone and sea teach the same lesson”. 

This is important. Camus was not drawn to India as exoticism. He was drawn to it as a civilisation that had, for millennia, reflected on suffering, on limits, and on how to live without illusion. These were precisely the questions at the centre of _The Myth of Sisyphus and  The Rebel.

Health and Practical Obstacles

Camus contracted tuberculosis in 1930, aged 17. It recurred throughout his life. By the 1950s it was managed, but long-haul travel remained a risk. 

A flight to India in 1959 took 20–24 hours with several stops. A sea voyage took three to four weeks each way. For someone with fragile lungs, this was not trivial.

There were also institutional barriers. India in the 1950s was newly independent and intellectually vibrant, but Camus had no university post, no lecture tour, no publisher’s commission to go. He would have had to travel as a private individual, and that required the very thing he lacked: uninterrupted time.

He Travelled Through Reading

Because he could not go physically, Camus went textually.  He read widely in Eastern philosophy and history. In his notebooks from the early 1950s he notes passages on non-violence, on detachment, and on the ethics of action without hope of victory. These themes echo throughout ;The Rebel,  and The Plague. 

For Camus, reading was a legitimate form of travel. In Carnets_he writes: “To read is to go elsewhere without leaving.” India was present in his work as an intellectual horizon. The physical journey would have been the next step.

The Intellectual Climate of the Late 1950s

The late 1950s was a turning point for French thought. After Stalinism and during the Algerian War, Europe no longer appeared as the sole source of answers. Many writers and philosophers began to look eastward.

Camus’ turn was not towards mysticism. He was looking for an ethics that did not depend on God or on History. He was looking for a way to affirm limits, to act without illusion, and to maintain solidarity in a world without guarantees. 

India, in the public imagination of the time, represented precisely that: a long tradition of reflection on suffering and on how to act decently within it. It is not surprising that Camus, in his late notes, should have turned his attention there.

Had he gone in 1961, he would likely not have gone to ashrams. He would have gone to universities, to libraries, to speak with scholars. He had gone to Greece in 1955 for the same reason: to stand in the landscape that had produced a certain kind of thought.

He Would Have Gone Had He Lived

This is not speculation for its own sake. It is what those close to him stated. Francine  Camus, his wife, said after 1960 that he was planning “a long trip, perhaps to Asia”.  Michel Gallimard, who died with him in the car, was a publisher who organised author travel. They were discussing future projects on the day of the accident.  René Char wrote in 1962: “Albert would have gone. He needed the distance.”

The Nobel Prize gave him the means. The end of his editorial duties gave him the time. The conclusion of his most intense political engagement gave him the freedom. The only thing missing was time itself.
Had he lived to sixty, as Sartre and de Beauvoir did, it is very probable he would have made the journey.

What Was Lost: A Speculative Note

We cannot know what Camus would have written after India. But we can extrapolate from the direction of his last years. A Camus in India in 1961–62 would have encountered three things that spoke directly to his work. A practice of restraint and attention. Camus’ “lucidity” has affinities with disciplines of mindfulness and self-observation. He would have recognised a method. Gandhian non-violence  would have complicated his thinking in The Rebel_ about revolt and its limits. Camus was searching for a “no” that did not become a new tyranny. He would have found a living example. Indian philosophy’s long reflection on action and consequence would have spoken to Camus’ central problem: how to act in a world without final meaning.

He would not have become a convert. He was too committed to the body, to the Mediterranean, to the absurd. But he might have written a third major essay, something between 'The Myth of Sisyphus' and a travel journal, on what he called “solar thought”. That book does not exist because the journey did not happen.

Conclusion

Camus did not travel to India for four interlocking reasons: he was overworked, he was politically entangled, he was in poor health, and he died before the window opened.But the desire was real. It is in the letters to René Char. It is in the tone of his last notebooks. It is in the fact that, after the Nobel, he began to speak of withdrawal and distance.
To state that he did not go is factual. To state that he would have gone is to respect the trajectory of his last years.
 Camus’ work is ultimately about how to live with lucidity in a world that offers no final justification. India, for him in the late 1950s, represented a place where that question had been asked for a very long time.
His unwritten Indian journey is, in the end, very Camusian: a plan made in full awareness that time is short and that the world offers no guarantees. One must imagine Camus with his plans still in his hands. And one may reasonably conclude: he would have gone.

( Avtar Mota )

PS


Though Camus spoke to René Char of a future journey to India , a place of “light and silence” to which he hoped to withdraw once the Algerian crisis was over , Char himself never made that trip. The poet’s life remained rooted in Provence, Paris, and the landscapes of wartime France. Char absorbed the East through reading and correspondence, not through travel. The India that appears in their conversations was therefore a shared horizon rather than a shared itinerary: a desire voiced by Camus, remembered by Char, and left unfinished by both.


In posthumous interviews and memoirs, Char recalled that Camus had spoken of going to Asia “when the time came,” but Char’s own journeys remained within France and Europe. ( Source  René Char, La Parole en archipel (Paris: Gallimard, 1962); and Laurence Campa, René Char: Le poète et la guerre(Paris: Gallimard, 2005), 312–314.



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Friday, July 17, 2026

RAVI TIKOO : THE SHIPPING MAGNATE FROM KASHMIR

                                    

                                ( Ravi Tikoo)


Ravi Tikoo: The Man Who Would Build Giant Ships 



There is a certain breed of entrepreneur drawn not to steady fleets, but to grand gestures at sea. The great shipping tycoons of the 20th century built their fortunes by reading cycles before anyone else did ;  buying cheap, chartering long, and betting on size when the world was still cautious. Names like Aristotle Onassis and Stavros Niarchos of Greece turned tankers into empires. J. Paul Getty and Daniel K. Ludwig in America did the same with oil and sheer scale. In Hong Kong, C.Y. Tung and Pao Yue-kong came to dominate dry bulk and tankers in the 1960s and 70s. 

And we could add one from Kashmir, India ;  Ravi Tikoo. A former naval officer turned London broker, he stepped out of the shadows in 1971 and ordered the largest tankers in the world at the time. For a few years, the name "Globtik" stood alongside the giants of shipping, proof that ambition in this industry has never been limited by geography.

Ravi Tikoo was born in 1927, the son of the finance minister of the princely state of Mandi. Ravi Tikoo's father served Raja Joginder Sen , a progressive  ruler who ruled the princely state of Mandi  from 1913 to 1947. Ravi Tikoo grew up in Kashmir, studied mathematics at Punjab University, and joined the Indian Navy. In 1961 he left India for Europe, first settling in Hamburg before moving to London in 1964.

Capt. S K Tikoo informs me this:-

" I  have had a brief meeting with him 1963/64 in Jalandhar. His father with my initials was working there as GM of Masand  Motors. Ravi was still serving in the Indian Navy. When I boasted that I Am  Tikoo with 2 Os.hè just cut me off , saying , I am Tikkoo  with 2Ks and two Os." 

Entering Tanker Finance And Chartering Field 

 London was then the centre of tanker finance and chartering. Tikoo began not as a shipowner but as a middleman, arranging deals between banks, shipyards and oil companies. *Tanker finance and chartering* is the system by which ships are paid for and employed. In chartering, a shipowner does not sell the oil but rents out the vessel to an oil company, trader or refiner. The most common forms are voyage charters for a single trip, and time charters where the charterer hires the ship for months or years at a fixed daily rate. Banks will only lend to build a tanker if such a charter is in place, because the charter income acts as security for the loan. The owner typically puts in 20-30% equity and borrows the rest against a mortgage on the ship, with repayment coming from the charter hire. This is the model Ravi Tikoo mastered in London in the 1960s: he used his skills as a broker to secure long-term charters first, then took those contracts to banks to finance the building of his giant tankers in Japan. In 1967 he founded *Globtik Tankers Ltd* and bought his first tanker in 1968.

The Empire: Globtik and the Megaships

Tikoo rose during a rare period in shipping. The Suez Canal had been closed since 1967 and would not reopen until 1975. With ships forced to sail round Africa, size limits disappeared. Standard tankers grew to 250,000 tonnes and talk began of 500,000 and even 1,000,000-tonne vessels. No established owner would commit. Tikoo did.

In November 1971, at a press conference in London, he announced plans to build two giant tankers in Japan. He had already secured long-term charters. On delivery they would be the largest ships in the world.

The Ships 

1. Globtik Tokyo – 483,684 dwt. Built by IHI, Kure. Delivered February 1973. Cost: about £21 million. 
 
2. Globtik London– 483,960 dwt. Built by IHI, Kure. Delivered October 1973.  

For three years they were the world’s largest tankers, until Shell’s Batillusand Bellamya surpassed them in 1976. A third sister, Nissei Maru_ was built for a Japanese owner in 1975.

Moving to the US 

Tikoo’s wealth grew. He invested in racehorses . 
In March 1977 Tikoo made headlines when his 55,000-tonne Globtik Venus_was held by strikers in Le Havre. He hired fishermen to retake the ship. Citing disillusionment with the British Government, he soon moved to the United States. after moving to the USA, bought Dunnellen Hall in Greenwich, Connecticut for US$3 million. He sold it in 1983 for $11 million. For a brief period, an individual rather than a corporation owned the biggest ships afloat.
He continued to propose large projects: three 600,000-tonne nuclear tankers in 1977, 24 ice-breaking tankers for Alaska in 1979, and a bid to buy Harland & Wolff in 1988 to build the world’s largest cruise ship. None materialised. In the following decades he withdrew from shipping and pursued other private investments.

About Ravi Tikoo, Richard Mineards writes this in February 22, 2022 issue of  the Montecito Journal (Quarterly Magazine)

" I know the Greenwich (Connecticut ) community well and vividly remember attending a caviar and champagne-driven party thrown by Indian-born tycoon Ravi Tikoo, who owned the world’s largest oil tanker, the 477,000-ton Globtik Tokyo, at the time, when he owned 14-bedroom Dunnellen Hall on Round Hill Road, the highest point in Fairfield County. The bash was thrown to celebrate the birthday of his teenage son Vikram, with one of the presents including a gift-wrapped Lamborghini, complete with bow. An avowed Anglophile, Tikoo – he also owned a London home in achingly trendy Bishops Avenue, Hampstead, which he sold to King Khaled of Saudi Arabia in 1976 – wanted to play cricket after tea. A call was placed to Lillywhites in London, then purveyors of sports equipment to the Royal Family, and the gear was put on the Concorde from Heathrow to Kennedy – given he was a regular passenger on the supersonic plane – and his chauffeured Rolls-Royce picked it up enabling us to participate in a match just hours later.


Tikoo later sold the 23,000 square-foot 28-room Jacobean-style home, complete with two Olympic-sized swimming pools, to real estate tycoon Harry Helmsley and his notorious wife, Leona, for $11 million in 1983. He had bought it in 1974 for $3 million, then the highest priced property in the area. Vikram went on to marry a relative of Jawaharlal Nehru, the first Prime Minister of the Republic of India."


Family

Ravi Tikoo kept a low public profile and did not build a multi-generational shipping house.  He had two children. His son, Vikram Tikoo, born August 1964, married the daughter of Indian politician Arun Nehru.   The marriage was unhappy and ended in divorce. Vikram  resided in Plantation, Florida, USA. Vikram had some involvement in a later venture linked to his father’s Globtik name, but he did not continue a large shipping business.

Vikram has built a highly successful, global career in financial technology and digital banking innovation rather than maritime commerce.Presently, he serves as the Chief Technology Officer (CTO) and Deputy CEO of Salt Bank, Romania's first fully digital, cloud-native banking platform. His appointment focuses on scaling up the bank's digital and next-generation tech architecture. Prior to this, he accumulated over two decades of global tech experience, including serving as Vice President and Chief Information Officer (CIO) at the fintech giant Fiserv. In 2023, he was recognized by Technology Magazine as one of the Top 10 CIOs in the UK and Ireland. He holds a degree in Mechanical Engineering from the Maharashtra Institute of Technology and an advanced degree from the London School of Economics and Political Science (LSE).


What Happened to the Business

The Globtik giants were commercially unviable. They were too large for most ports and too expensive to operate. Globtik London_was scrapped in 1985, Globtik Tokyo in 1986. Nissei Maru lasted until 2003, but the era of mega ships ended. The market also turned against Tikoo. Suez reopened in 1975 and the 1973 oil crisis cut demand and freight rates.

Legacy

Ravi Tikoo was not a long-term success, but he was a pioneer. He was one of the first Indians to operate at the centre of global shipping ; raising finance in London, ordering ships in Japan, and chartering them to Western oil majors. His career illustrates both the ambition and the risk of shipping. It is a cyclical, capital-intensive business where backing the wrong size at the wrong time can erase years of profit.

For a few years in the early 1970s, the largest ships in the world carried the name "Globtik". Behind them stood a man from Kashmir who believed he could build giants. Though the ships did not last, the ambition marked him out in the history of Indian enterprise.


( Avtar Mota )

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Wednesday, July 15, 2026

FIRAQ GORAKHPURI AND ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER

                                           


FIRAQ GORAKHPURI AND ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER

"Aadmi ka aadmi hona hi mushkil hai Firaq
Ilm o fun, ikhlaaq o mazhab jis ko chaahe poochh lo"......Firaq Gorakhpuri


"For a man to be a human being 
has itself become impossible, Firaq,
Ask whomsoever you will
 about matters of knowledge, 
art, morality, or religion."

The couplet asserts that the ethical and spiritual ideal of Humanity has collapsed. In every public domain , the intellect, the aesthetic, the sacred, and the civic  conduct is no longer guided by fairness or humanity.

Firaq Gorakhpuri’s couplet reads as a precise Indian articulation of Schopenhauer’s pessimism. For Schopenhauer, human beings are driven by a blind Will, and reason is seldom used to transcend it, but rather to rationalise ego, appetite, and domination. Firaq observes the same failure across the four pillars of civilisation. When he says "ask whomsoever you will about ilm, fun, ikhlaaq, mazhab",  he is stating that no institution remains uncontaminated. Knowledge has become sophistry, art has become display, morality has become convenience, and religion has become faction. Thus "to be a human being"to act with compassion, truthfulness, and self-restraint  has become the most arduous vocation. In Schopenhauerian terms, this is the tragedy of a species endowed with intellect yet enslaved by Will, wherein culture exists without cultivation.

Firaq’s poetry carries every element requisite for classification as literature of humanity. He is tall in vision, indic in sensibility, full of clarity and profound in moral judgement. His idiom is Hindustani, but his concern is universal: the dignity of the human person. He does not lament from cynicism, but from a classical humanist standard against which he measures the age and finds it wanting. Like Schopenhauer, he diagnoses the disease of the age; unlike the German philosopher, he retains the lyric faith that poetry itself may be one of the few remaining spaces where "aadmi ka aadmi hona" is still possible. It is this fusion of ethical severity with aesthetic grace that places Firaq within the lineage of world literature concerned not with nations or sects, but with man as such.

( Avtar Mota)


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THE DIAGNOSIS AND THE PRESCRIPTION

                                              
                                           


THE DIAGNOSIS AND THE PRESCRIPTION 

"Zindagi kya hai aaj isse aey dost  

Soch lein aur udaas ho jaayein"— Firaq Gorakhpuri  



" What is life, my friend, 

If we pause today to think on it,  

We will only end up heavy with sadness."


Firaq begins with the wound, and Camus gives us the way to live inside it. The image is for  this thesis: two silhouettes on sand, the sea before them, the sky bruised into a dark red around the sinking sun. They sit close, with the weight of the dune at their backs, and they look forward, together, toward the horizon where tomorrow will rise. In that posture , silence is no longer privation. It is method. It is ethics. Language, when pressed against the futility ,tries to close the distance between man and world with explanations, with promises, with theology. It fails, and in failing it makes noise. Silence refuses that failure. It does not explain the sea. It does not argue with the sunset. It lets the world be indifferent, and in that permission something rare occurs: lucidity without bitterness. To be silent here is to acknowledge that no other person can carry the burden of meaning for me, and that I cannot carry it for them.  The gap is real. And yet the choice to remain, to sit, to face the same direction, converts isolation into a shared condition. This is not communion as fusion. It is communion as parallel endurance. The sand behind them is the past that cannot be changed. The blue before them is the future that cannot be known. The red glow is the present that is dying, and must be watched without flinching. Silence allows that watching. It trains the eye to see what is, not what we wish were. So here , silence functions as phenomenological reduction: it brackets interpretation so that the thing itself ;  light on water, wind on skin, time passing  can appear. Praise, then, belongs to silence not because it is empty, but because it is full in the right way. It is full of attention. It is full of the courage to not fill the void with chatter. 


And so the solution to the existential question is not found in dialogue about the problem, but in the orientation toward what comes after the problem. To look at each other would be to seek absolution in a mirror. To look in the same direction is to enter a pact of defiance without hatred, solidarity without illusion. Name it a revolt: to live, and to live knowingly. Firaq names the cost: to think, and to grow sad. Both are true. The sadness is not to be cured. It is to be carried. The couplet tells us that thought leads to heaviness. The image tells us what to do with that heaviness ;  place it on the sand, and keep your eyes on the sea. Tomorrow’s rising sun asks nothing of doctrine. It asks only presence. That is why silence is praised here, in the highest register. It is the space where each bears his own meaningless , and by bearing it beside another, without turning, without pleading, we discover a fragile joy. Not happiness as escape, but joy as fidelity to the real. The world will not answer. The sun will set, and it will rise. Our task is to be there for both, with sand at our backs and no words between us, because the words would only lie. In that wordless facing, life ceases to be a question that must be solved and becomes a scene that must be met. And to meet it, again and again, is the only honest answer Firaq’s sadness and Camus’s defiance can share.

 Firaq gives the diagnosis: thinking makes us sad. Camus gives the prescription: face the same horizon in silence for  "parallel endurance" .



( Avtar Mota )


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Tuesday, July 14, 2026

KNIFE IN THE KITCHEN: INDIA AND THE WEST

                                          
                                         
                                       






Indian and Western Knives in the Kitchen: One Blade vs Twelve


If you open an Indian kitchen drawer and then a Western one, you see two completely different philosophies laid out in steel.


In India: one or two knives in  the drawer or on the kitchen slab  and a small one in the pocket.  In the West: a wooden block with a minimum of 12 knives, each named, each with one job.  The difference is not about money or skill. It’s about food, history, who makes the tools, who sharpens them, and what the knife means to each culture.


The Indian Kitchen: One Blade for Everything


In most Indian homes the kitchen knife never used to be  from a brand. It was from the Lohar ,  the local blacksmith. For centuries he’s taken scrap steel, old car springs, railway files, heated them in a coal forge and hammered out a knife.  Handle of wood, horn, or welded metal. Because it was  forged to survive, you never needed  more .

The traditional Indian kitchen typically makes do with just two knives, and there is sound reason for it. The first is a large, heavy knife , often called a Boti or cleaver , used for robust tasks such as chopping hard vegetables, splitting coconuts, and cutting meat. The second is a smaller, sharper knife for more delicate work: peeling, finely slicing onions and tomatoes, and preparing fruit. Indian cookery relies far less on an array of specialised blades and far more on grinding, pounding and hand-preparation with a mortar and pestle or mixer-grinder. Because most chopping is straightforward and ingredients are cooked down into curries, dals and stir-fries, one knife for power and one for precision is perfectly adequate. It is a practical, economical approach that keeps the kitchen simple, easy to maintain, and suited to everyday cooking.

And there is a knife  that doesn’t stay in the kitchen.The second part of the Indian system is the pocket knife. A 3-4 inch folding blade. In India, a pocket knife is a handy daily tool. People use it to peel fruits, open packets, cut ropes, and sharpen pencils. Farmers use it for small farm work, vendors for cutting, and travelers for emergencies. Compact and practical, it’s carried more for utility than for show.

So the rule has been: generally one or two knives in the kitchen and a smaller version in the pocket.


Who sharpens it? 


The Indian bicycle knife sharpener is a street institution. Usually a man with a simple setup mounted on the back of an old bicycle: a foot-pedal powered grinding stone, a tray of water, and a few hooks to hang finished knives, scissors, and sickles. He cycles from gali to gali, announcing his arrival with a bell so homemakers, butchers, tailors, and vendors can bring out their dull blades. For a few rupees, he sharpens everything with practiced skill ; holding the blade at just the right angle, splashing water to cool the steel, and testing the edge on his thumb. It’s more than a service; it’s a piece of moving, sustainable micro-industry. No electricity, no shop rent, just skill, sweat, and a bicycle. In an age of electric grinders and packaged disposables, the bicycle sharpener still survives because he’s affordable, accessible, and part of the neighborhood’s daily rhythm. It was one man, one wheel, keeping the one knife that fed the whole family alive.


 The Western Kitchen: The 12-Knife Block


Open a Western kitchen and the first thing you see is the block. Chef’s knife, paring knife, serrated bread knife, carving knife, boning knife, utility knife, santoku, cleaver, 6 steak knives. Add cheese and tomato knives and you’re at 12-15 pieces easily.This didn’t come from home cooking. It came from French professional kitchens.


In the 1800s Auguste Escoffier created the" Brigade system" . One cook for sauces, one for pastry, one for meat. Each had tools made for that one task. A boning knife is thin to go around joints. A bread knife is serrated to saw without crushing. A carving knife is long for clean slices at the table.

In the 20th century, manufacturers sold that system to homes. Cookery schools taught it. Magazines photographed it. “Starter sets” appeared in department stores. The message: serious cooks have the right tool for every job.

Western meals reinforced it. Courses. Bread, then salad, then roast, then cheese. You don’t cut brie with the onion knife. You don’t cut raw chicken and then an apple. Hygiene, etiquette, and presentation demanded separation.The knives also demanded it. Western knives use high-carbon hardened steel to hold a razor edge. That makes them excellent, and expensive.

And sharpening became an industry.


No sparks on the pavement. Instead, branded motor vans drive through suburbs: “Professional Knife Sharpening”. Inside: electric belt grinders, water-cooled wheels, angle jigs, polishing buffers. Or you take your block to a kitchen store. At home there are electric sharpeners, whetstones, honing steels.


Because you own 12 or 24  knives, you need a system to maintain them. Each needs sharpening occasionally. Because they cost so much, you pay to have it done right.


 Technique vs Tools : The real difference is philosophy.


India puts the skill in the hand. The same knife rocks, chops, pounds, scrapes. The cook adjusts force and angle. The food is mixed, so a rough chop is fine. The knife must be a workhorse. 


The West puts the skill in the tool. The right knife makes the job easier and the plates look better. Thin tomato slices. Perfect dice. Clean roast carvings. The knife does part of the work.

Neither is wrong. They’re optimised for different food and different ideas of a meal.


Cost, Care, and Culture


India: Knife from blacksmith: ₹30–₹100 . Pocket knife: less. Sharpening charges : ₹10–₹30. If it breaks, make another. Wash, use, and repeat.


West: Block of 12 or 24 : A wedding gift. Displayed on the counter. A good branded stainless steel set of knives could cost between 600 to 1800 US dollars. After use, wash the knife by hand with regular dish soap, rinse with hot water and dry by hand immediately. Dishwashers are very bad for knives. Even worse for carbon steel knives.


Culturally too: In India the knife is invisible, like a spoon. Sharpening happens in public, with noise and sparks.  In the West the knife block is visible ,  a status symbol of a “well-equipped kitchen”. Sharpening happens in a van or in the pantry with a gadget.


 

The Knife Beyond the Kitchen


Beyond cooking, the knife also took on meaning in literature and everyday language. Across cultures it became a symbol for mistrust, deceit, and the treacherous act. Because a knife works only up close, poets used it for betrayal by those near you. Because it is hidden, it came to mean hidden intent ; a smile with a blade behind it. Because it divides, it came to mean a cut in trust, a broken promise. From “Et tu, Brute?” to “peeth peeche chhura bhonkna” to “muh mein Ram, bagal mein chhuri”, the same object that feeds in the kitchen represents betrayal in stories. Who doesn't remember the iconic song lines from Raj Kapoor 's  film " Mera Naam Joker".



"Aye bhai

Kaisa hai karishmaa

Kaisa khilavaad hai

Jaanavar aadami se

Zyada vafaadaar hai

Khaataa hai kodaa bhi

Rahata hai bhookha bhi

Phir bhi wo maalik par

Karata nahin vaar hai

Aur insaan yeh maal

Jis kaa khaata hai

Pyaar jis se paata hai

Geet jis ke gaata hai

Uss ke hi seene mein

Bhokataa kataar hai

......Aye bhai zara dekh ke chalo" 



(Oh brother  

What a farce it is  

Animals are more loyal  

than human beings  


They eat beatings too,  

they stay hungry too  

Yet they never  

attack their master  


And this human,  

whose salt he eats,  

from whom he gets love,  

whose songs he sings  


He stabs a dagger  

right into that very chest  


......Oh brother, walk carefully)


( Avtar Mota )





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MY SHORT STORY " WITHOUT WHY"

                                          



(Without Why)

The river was in flood. Three days of rain and the river had no banks. It moved wide, brown, and silent. A boat carried villagers to safety. Then it lurched. A child, maybe four, slipped in.  

“ Ayee! The child!” 

Hands rose. Voices broke. On that boat sat two swimmers. They wept and did not move. From the next boat a man stood. Thin. Spectacles. An accountant. Fondly named Master-ji. Ink still on his fingers. He could not swim. He looked once. The water was not cruel. Only not listening. He created a fake thought that he could swim. The mind received it well. And he jumped.

He jumped on a belief he did not have. If he waited to say “I cannot,” the moment would pass. So for one second he acted as if. The current hit him. Arms made for ledgers fought it. He caught the child, lifted him, threw him into the boat. The mother wept to see  her son alive .

Master-ji turned for his own boat. The water had already taken its due. The current was faster than will. He went under. Came up once. Was gone around the bend. The boats went on. Safety was reached.

Later they asked, “Why did he jump?”  
Because the world gives no reason, and he chose to give one.  Because there was no “other,” only a child and a man who was there.  Because to save was to be. And to be lost was also to be found.

There was grief. There was futility. A man who could not swim saved a life and lost his own to the same water. The flood receded. The water stayed indifferent.  And the act remained.

( Avtar Mota )


Critique of the story 



Avtar Mota’s “Without Why” presents a single, unadorned incident ; an accountant who cannot swim enters a flooded river to rescue a child and from it derives a compact ontology of ethical action. The narrative economy is deliberate. Stripped of biography, setting, and consolation, the text functions as an exemplum: it does not describe heroism so much as enact the structure of a moral decision.

The story is best read through three philosophical frames that converge on the same problem: action in the absence of guarantee.

1. The Upanishadic frame: Nishkaam Karma

The act embodies nishkaam action,  action without attachment to phala, or fruit. Master-ji “jumped on a belief he did not have”. His arms are “made for ledgers”, not for swimming. Capacity is irrelevant. What matters is Sannidhya, presence. “There was no ‘other’, only a child and a man who was there.” This echoes the Upanishadic and Gitaic insistence that dharma is performed because it is dharma, not because the world will reward it. The moral agent is not defined by outcome but by the alignment of action with duty in the instant.

2. The Camusian frame: Revolt in an Indifferent Universe
 
The river “was not cruel. Only not listening.” Nature is amoral. Camus’ absurd arises here: the human demand for meaning meets a silent world. Master-ji’s response is Camusian revolt. “The world gives no reason, and he chose to give one.” He does not wait for justification. He creates it through the leap. To save is “to be”. The cost ,his own disappearance, does not invalidate the act. Like Sisyphus, meaning is not found but produced in the doing.

3. The Kundera-esque frame: The Weight of Lightness
 
Kundera diagnosed modern life as burdened by lightness: without eternal return, acts feel weightless. Mota inverts this. Precisely because there is no audience, no monument, and no afterlife of recognition  “the act remained” the choice gains weight. The lightness is not triviality but radical responsibility. One second, one decision, and the self is constituted by it.

In sum, “Without Why” archives more than an anecdote. It preserves a cross-cultural argument: that ethics is not predicated on certainty, but on presence. 

(J.Paul) 







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Monday, July 13, 2026

URDU COUPLET SEEN TROUGH THE PRISAM OF ADI SHANKARA 'S ADVAITIC THOUGHT

                                             

Urdu Couplet Seen Through the Prism of Adi Shankara's Advaitic Thought 


"Maine poochha ke zindagi kya hai  

Haath se gir ke jaam toot gaya"



"I asked what life is.  

The glass slipped from my hand 

and shattered."


In Advaita, Adi Shankara's core teaching is: "Brahma satyam, jagat mithya, jivo brahmaiva na aparah": Brahman is real, the world is apparent, the Jiva and Brahman are not different.


The couplet stages the fundamental Advaitic impasse in domestic miniature. The interrogative subject, the Jiva, is animated by Jijnasa, the metaphysical desire to grasp the nature of existence. Yet the response it elicits is not propositional but catastrophic. The Jaam functions as Naama-rupa, the phenomenal world of name and form upon which the ego predicates meaning, continuity, and security. To hold the glass is to enact Kartritva, the assumption of doership and possession. Its fall therefore enacts the central Shankaran insight that all Upadhis, all contingent vessels of identity, are inherently Mithya: empirically functional yet ultimately incapable of sustaining the demand placed upon them. The shattering is not an accident within the world, but the world's disclosure of its own ontological insufficiency. In this moment the empirical project collapses, and the seeker is confronted with the limits of conceptual grasping.


What remains after the vessel breaks is precisely what Advaita seeks to isolate. The water, Chaitanya or consciousness, is not destroyed; it cannot be, for it is without parts and without origin. The glass merely gave the illusion of containment, and its dissolution reveals that consciousness was never circumscribed by form. Thus the couplet performs Neti-neti: life is not the object held, nor the relation of holding, nor the narrative of the one who holds. The hand is left empty, and in that vacuity the question recoils upon itself. Who witnessed the fall? Who abides when every answerable thing is withdrawn? For Adi Shankara this is the decisive turn from Pravritti to Nivritti, from seeking Brahman in phenomena to abiding as the Sakshi, the witnessing awareness which is non-different from Brahman itself. Existence therefore answers metaphysical inquiry not by supplying an object, but by rescinding all objects, leaving only that which was never born and never perishes.


( Avtar Mota )


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CHINAR SHADE by Autarmota is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 India License.
Based on a work at http:\\autarmota.blogspot.com\.