From Kafka to Krishnamurti

Our experiences are meant to transform us. But nothing affects us. We never change. Because our hearts are frozen by our desensitised minds... But that's ok, you know...

May 25, 2016 12:57 pm | Updated 01:14 pm IST

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In a letter to his friend, Franz Kafka, the author of Metamorphosis , writes: “A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us.” It must, he says, affect us, awaken us, and make us grieve.

Source: Wikipedia

Franz Kafka's literature induces a mystical transformation in readers as they engage with the absurd suffering contained in it. Almost like cauterising an emotional wound by singeing it clean.

And how is the hot metal supposed to burn you pure unless you allow it to touch you?

I think Kafka is asking for the impossible. First, reading a book itself is a big task nowadays. The essential patience needed to read a book is lacking — at least in me. Next comes the question of seriousness. Am I capable of reading a serious book? Will I allow it to affect me and change me? I am not at all sure.

Despite my preference to lead a comfortable and undisturbed life, I do, occasionally, in order to break my dull and patterned existence, read serious authors. One such author was V.S. Naipaul and the book that I read was The Masque of Africa .

But my state of mind, prevailing prior to my turning the first page of The Masque of Africa , remained the same even after I finished reading the book.

None of what Kafka had demanded happened to me: the frozen sea, assuming it is there in me, was intact. There was no grief nor was there any awakening. Life for me went on as usual.

I wouldn't say it was Naipaul's fault that nothing in me stirred. No, there were plenty of accounts in the book that can shock the reader and cause sorrow in them. The book is about African beliefs, animistic religions, their love and reverence for their ancestors, the forests and rivers of Africa, about the entry of Islam and Christianity and the subsequent loss of native language and culture.

It is also about African superstitions, the human and animal sacrifices, quirky and ruthless kings and queens. It is in this area I encountered a problem, the problem of my passivity, stoicism and indifference.

In the initial chapter of the book, Naipaul writes about a queen willing to burn her own sons for the sake of enthroning one of their brothers. This she does in order to ward off the challenges from them. There are also accounts of a whimsical king mercilessly killing his prisoners of war.

In the same chapter, Naipaul quotes a prince of Uganda (he was prince at the time) while mentioning the deadly superstitions of the Africans: “...in the old days human sacrifice was a common practice when they put up the pillars or laid the foundations of a tomb...”.

Then he writes about how cats were killed in Ivory Coast before being eaten: “You put them in a sack of some sort, and then you dropped the sack in a pot of boiling water.” In this case I was horrified for a moment, but then the mind's day-to-day preoccupations prevailed over and the 'boiling' issue went under the thick carpet of the mind.

'What is', however terrible it is, gets transformed when one stays with it totally, believed Jiddu Krishnamurthi

I read all these accounts, turning the pages in a hurry. At one point I was more interested in completing the book. Which I consider to be an achievement in itself, because, as I said, reading a book is not an easy thing nowadays. It was as though my mind read it and my heart was asleep. I was just gathering information, knowledge. Somewhere a question also arose in me: is a book meant for just gathering information?

If I have back-pain, I keep worrying and the worry nags me for days, but my mind receives the news of human and animal killings in a Africa as a mere information. So, what's wrong with me? Why am I devoid of feelings? How am I to defreeze myself so that the life-giving waters in me begin to flow? I do not have an answer but the fact of my insensitivity remains. And I am concerned about it, to some extent.

I am powerless to do anything about external violence. I am equally powerless to do anything about my insensitivity. So where do I go from here? What to do about my lack of sympathy and compassion?

If J. Krishnamurti, the teacher who defied all labels and who spoke about human violence for decades, were to listen to my concern he might perhaps say: "Neither condemn, nor justify, but stay with the fact of your insensitivity, not wishing to change it into something noble."

Neither condemn nor justify... What kind of advice is this? If I don't condemn myself won't I become worse? Even if I do as he says what effect will it have on those who boil cats in a sack? How will the world be transformed?

But Krishnamurti will have no patience with these questions. To him 'what is' — that is, my insensitivity — is far more important than the ideal of love, the 'what should be'. 'What is', however terrible it is, gets transformed when one stays with it totally, according to him. I think he is right. Efforts, worry, self-condemnation haven't led me anywhere. Change doesn't happen that way.

Having no other option, I have reconciled myself to my insensitivity. I admit that beyond my personal concerns I have no other concern. No serious event, whether it is social or political, has lasting impact on me. This is what I am. There's no point in condemning myself. Nor do I justify my incapacity to feel and act. I find my thought process slowing down when I don't condemn or justify myself. There's a brief cessation of inner conflict.

Cessation of conflict may be a small affair and it won't end human sacrifices and sufferings of cats. But for Krishnamurti, warmth of love is possible only when inner conflict ends.

And that warmth may possibly defreeze Kafka's sea.

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