There's probably no god

This is a very creative and provocative atheist campaign in London that is starting to gain popularity. Even Richard Dawkins donated money.

Polemic F1 moments during the Japanese GP

FIA released a video with new angles of the polemic moments that culminated with the punishment of Hamilton, Massa, and Sebastien Bourdais last weekend in the Japanese GP. You can see it here.

For me, none of them should have been punished. F1 is becoming too rigid in the name of security, putting all the fun in a supporting role. It would be a waste to see this year's championship be decided on some rule or technical decision. Or, worse, see drivers more and more caution because they are afraid of being punished.

Hanging out

I don’t really understand why the need for a social gathering after the death of a related one. I assume it’s for a last goodbye or to set an end and move on. It is probably a right assumption but it doesn’t make much sense to me. So I pretend. I go to funerals and I make sure others acknowledge my presence, as if I was part of it. But I’m not sad. I usually don’t feel anything, even if it is someone related to me, even if I try. I stand there, watching the coffin being buried while everybody but me is crying or praying or both. I disguise myself with sunglasses and by constantly looking down. It seems to fit the ritual and nobody notices how careless I am being about the whole thing. I could probably sing, make joke or have a beer in there. Cemeteries seem such a nice place for a beer. It is calm, green and breezy; like going to an empty beach or the outskirts of a park. If it wasn’t for the dead people underneath, I guess most people wouldn’t mind hanging out there either.

My grandfather died when I was really young - probably six or seven. It was the first funeral I attended. I was picked at school and remember being happy about it. After all, it seemed as an opportunity to skip that day classes. From that day, I only recall my already dead grandpa. Even my mom and dad’s faces are blurred to me. Everybody but grandpa was ghosts, wandering, giving me pity eyes. But grandpa, grandpa I remember. A lot of him is distinctively clear, a vivid picture taken seconds ago. He had an elongated face, brown skin, eyes shut, and cotton in his big nose. The hair he had left was well combed but most of it was on the back of the head. He was all a big wrinkly forehead. The rest of his body was confined within an indistinct wooden coffin. Nothing else really seemed to matter but my grandpa’s serene expression. He had a happy look, although everybody else was utterly sad. “What a contradiction”, I still remember thinking.

I also remember getting sick that same day, still in the cemetery, moments after my grandpa was buried. I remember a burning sensation in my stomach. I was about to throw up so I ran. I didn’t want anyone to see that. And after arriving at a distant sidewalk with no time left, I put it all out. Today I can tell it was like an awful hangover. My mom, of course, saw me and followed my steps. I remember her saying: “It’s ok son, lets take care of this.” I wasn’t really sure what was there to be taken care of. Of course she didn’t know I threw up not because of a dead body being buried. It was probably due to hyperthermia or lack of food. Or am I on denial? Maybe I still need care.

Since that episode, every time I go to a funeral I remember my grandfather. It is the only emotion that arises, I guess. But it is not happy or sad; it is just a recurring thought of my childhood. I guess my presence is important for others in those moments so I go and I try to comfort them. I don’t need any. It feels like I’m hollow inside or worse because I’m pretending not to be. And if I had to pray, I would for the ritual to be over as quick as possible. I always feel like having a beer after it is over.

Note: This is a work of fiction. Although some events inspired it, the story doesn’t represent any actual facts or a true narrative of my or anybody else’s past.

Gandhi Jayanthi

Today, 139 years ago, Gandhi was born. The date is one of the only three national holidays here in India. And to celebrate it, here is one rare poem I read in his memorial during my visit to Delhi last december.

The poem is attributed to Venibhai Purohit (1918-1981), a poet from Gujarat. It is said that in the later years of Gandhi's life, this poem was read by him every morning, before the beginning of his formal activities.

Whether weary or unweary, O Man, do not rest
Do not cease your single-handed struggle.
Go on, and do not rest,

You will follow confused and tangled pathways,
And you will save only a few, sorrowful lives.
O Man, do not lose faith, do not rest.

Your own life will be exhausting and crippling,
And there will be growing dangers on the journey.
O Man, bear all these burdens, do not rest.

Leap over your troubles though they are high as mountains,
And though there are only dry and harren fields beyond.
O Man, till those fields, do not rest.

The world will be dark and you shall shed light on it,
And you shall dispel all the darkness around.
O Man, though life deserts you, do not rest.

O Man, take no rest for thyself,
O Man, give rest unto others.