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Tag: mind

7

Time

4.     Value your time and time yourself. I’m a writer and so most of the time there’s no boss standing over me, or no system of clocking in and out. That means it’s pretty easy to deceive myself and slack off. But I’ve come to understand the importance of giving true value to the hours you have between waking and sleeping… those hours are full of astonishing possibility, each minute is in fact. But you mustn’t take them for granted. Regard each day as the last you will breathe and your outlook changes. I have taken to putting a timer on my desk, so that I can challenge myself at doing the more boring stuff (filing, accounts etc). It has worked for me.



TS

12

Remember

3. Remember kindness and help from others and repay it. I’m a big believer in paying back into the system and not taking more out of it than you’ve paid it. I rarely ask favours of people, and when I do, I make sure that I repay those who have helped me, at once. Beyond that, I think it’s extremely important to remember the people who have given advice and help especially in the hard times, times when others didn’t even give you the time of day. Those people are true friends.



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4

Value

2.     Never undervalue yourself. We spend so much time listening to others and not listening to ourselves, that we often find ourselves spiralling downwards, into a pit of gloom, lacking in self worth. But if you switch this outlook of gloom, with one of enthusiasm, self-belief, amazing things start to happen almost at once. It’s miraculous. Believe in yourself and no one else and the impossible becomes possible.



TS

11

The Front Door

1.     Never ever go in through the front door. The society in which many of us live teaches us to jump through hoops in an order and route of their specification. It’s partly so that the teachers can maintain control, and partly because they actually believe that the way they are teaching is of use. The truth is that you can reach your ultimate goal a whole lot quicker by using original thought. Plan a zigzag route, any route and life the universe and everything will take you to the front of the queue.



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6

New Blog...

I am starting my blog again to spew out some advice, tips and random ideas on things I find interesting, as well as those that have been helpful to me. Each day I’ll add a line or two, but no more than that. I prefer that anyone who reads any of this spends a moment thinking about the central idea. I’m doing this because I think it’s valuable, and because it’s easier not to do it at all.

I’m going to start with the main rules for getting ahead…


 TS

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June 19, 2008 Posted by tahir in Travel

Rainbow

OK, I can hear you, you’re thinking to yourself, ‘this guy, this Tahir Shah is just talking rubbish. He’s got nothing at all to say so he’s doing random colours now.’ OK, well, it’s not true… OK it is a little teeny weeny bit true. But this blog writing lark is very good for getting my juices juicing in the mornings. To tell you the truth, I’m getting quite fond of it.

The thing about sitting here a lot of the time, staring out at the delicious garden and the tent at the far end, is that a lot of stuff goes through my head. Sometimes I try and tell Zohra, the maid, what I’m thinking, or Rachana, and usually (99% of the time) they brush me away. They’re too busy to listen, or have no interest in random thoughts, most particularly from me.
So the blog is a way of venting thoughts, a way of sending into cyberspace all the nonsense (well, a small proportion of it at any rate) that spews out of my head. And it seems as if I have a lot of nonsense to spew. The greatest thing about the Internet is that it’s like the universe — it’s so massive, so ridiculously unwieldy that it can absorb a huge about of stuff. I could spew nonsense on an industrial scale for decades and decades and still there’d be space for more. And, the way the net is expanding, there’s always be a black hole of the size of Pluto ready to be plugged with debris from my mind.
So why Rainbow? Well, today, I was sitting here with a blank canvas for a mind. Nothing came out… not a colour, not a sound. Then, all of a sudden there was a blinding flash and POW! — A Rainbow, the likes of which I have never encountered.  I fell backwards on my chair, almost spun around.
And what is more natural, more blessed than a rainbow? Nothing, well, hardly anything at all. Because a Rainbow nature illuminated in its most dazzling perfection — like the dawn light on a dew-covered spider’s web. It gets you all choked up, all emotional. And so it should.
The next time you are lucky enough to see a rainbow and, who knows, it may be today… say a little prayer for all the thoughts from me and everyone else, floating around us in cyberspace.
TS
 
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June 16, 2008 Posted by tahir in Travel

Green

The swimming pool has been going green again. Turn my back for a second and it’s like a secret curse, appearing for nowhere to afflict us. When the waters go green, the guardians line up and shake their heads. They say it’s the dust, and the noise of the donkeys and the cows, and the chemicals put in the tap water by the evil French-owned water company. Then, when I say we have no choice but to drain the pool, they go crazy. They jump up and down, plunge their heads into their hands. It’s as if draining the pool and filling it with an abundance of fresh water has robbed them of honour.

They beg me to buy a huge industrial barrel of Chinese-made chlorine. Only that can do it, they say… for as everyone knows, the Chinese made the world’s most potent chemicals. I don’t dispute this. But the idea of hurling an entire barrel of chlorine into the pool seems too much. Go for an evening dip and we’d dissolve. So I asked Osman to think again. There had to be another solution. One which didn’t included our flesh being melted from our bones.
Days went by. The pool went a little darker green with the passing of the hours. Mosquitos began to breed, and there were unpleasant little bubbles of air boiling up from the deep end. Again and again I insisted that we drain the water and use it on the flowerbeds. Still, the guardians refused. They said that an answer would come. ‘When?’ I asked. ‘When the time is right.’
So we waited and waited, and waited and waited until i could wait no more. I went out and bought an enormously expensive orange-coloured pump, then pointed at the device and then at the dark green water. The guardians, who had lined up again, looked sheepish.
Osman shook his head again and asked for about $2. I gave it to him. He rushed away and returned at dusk. In his hand was a twist of old newspaper and, in it, a small quantity of chalky powder. It was blue.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ ‘Just wait and see.’ Osman sprinkled the powder into the water. Next morning I came down in my dressing down. The guardians were in their places, lined up beside the diving board. They were smirking. I pushed past and inspected the pool.
The water was deliciously transparent, unclouded, clean and bright.
Osman grinned.
‘Even in filth there is purity,’ he said.
TS
0
June 15, 2008 Posted by tahir in Travel

Sunday: Beginning and end

Only someone who has tasted loneliness can fully understand the mesmerising joy of crowds. A thousand feet walking in every direction, faces smiling, grinning, scowling, or blank of any expression, bodies of all shapes and sizes, the scent of perfume and perspiration.

After my teenage travels through Africa — especially the vast empty Great Rift in the continent’s east — I took refuge in Japan, and found pleasure in the press of commuters at Ikebukuro Station on a Friday night. It was like a powder keg in those subterranean tunnels, the sound of birdsong blaring through speakers, a psychologist’s solution for keeping crazed minds calm.

There were so many people, a streamlined mass — black briefcases and rubber-soled shoes, striped neckties and poly-wool suits. I used to wade into the middle of the frenzied rush, splay my feet wide and bend my knees to be rooted to the spot, and enjoy the surge of life all around. There was no feeling on earth like it — a sense of invisibility — while being buffeted by humanity.
I have spent almost twenty years searching for the perfect crowd and have been sucked down in them all over the urban world: in Rio de Janeiro and New York, in Lima, London, Calcutta, Cairo and Rome. There’s something almost supernatural about a good crowd: something complex, random, dynamic.
Think of it — our rural ancestors could never have understood the raw energy of ten thousand, or fifty thousand people, all packed into a tight space. I can hear you cursing — ‘Well, lucky them!’ That’s wrong. They missed out. Because there’s something intensely human about a good crowd, an experience which reminds us of who and what we are.
Of course, when you have struggled across Mumbai’s Victiora Terminus at dusk, you know you have found it — the greatest crowd on the planet. For me it was like the moment when a surfer has tracked down the most sublime wave: the perfect swell. There was a sense of silence at the heart, a terror beyond all terrors and, at the same time, satisfaction like nothing I had ever experienced.
Half the world was right there, touching me, brushing past. There were beggars and commuters, dabawallas, salesmen, students, ladies in sweeping saris, fortune-tellers and godmen, eunuchs and pickpockets, and a seething blurred mass of legs and arms, and dark glistening hair, satchels and nylon socks.
But then, the other day, I found myself in Jma al Fna, the vast central square in Marrakech. It’s name translates as ‘the Place of Execution’, and hints that it was once far more than place de touristes. The sun went down and the air was touched by the muezzin’s call. Then, as if arranged by an invisible conductor, hundreds of stall keepers set up their food stands. Each one was illuminated by a hurricane lamp, eerie platinum light radiating out with the smoke and the chaotic sound of feet.
I stood there, right in the middle of the square, smoke racing,  swirling, twisting, mixing with the incandescent light. There were so many people squeezed in that I felt myself overcome by claustrophobia for the first time. I choked, my eyes wide with fear. Forget Mumbai, I thought to myself, this crowd may be smaller, but there’s something ancient about it, something so powerful as to defy description.
You are probably tied down in life, caught in a spider’s web of bills, chores and responsibility. If there was any way you could break free, I’d counsel you to make a beeline for that square. Spend the afternoon under the shade of a nearby cafe. Then, as the sunlight ebbs away, venture out. Wade into the ocean of people, and prepare yourself for the greatest show on earth.
TS
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June 12, 2008 Posted by tahir in Travel

Thursday's child

On some days I sit here alone hour after hour, fingertips striking keys, my mind in a twilight zone far away. When one of the guardians creeps in and stands to attention, or when the phone rings and I have to answer it, I find there’s an abyss between where I am and the real world. It’s something that fills me with awe, and troubles me all the same.

Sometimes I find I am so deep in a story, so detached, that my soul has become separated from my body. Or that’s how it feels. It reminds me of ‘Susto’, the Latin idea that a sharp noise, a jolt, can rip one from the other… with the terrible fear that they can never be rejoined. But with me there’s no jolt, rather a gradual descent, a slow and even deviation. I can hardly explain it, but have come to know it’s something of extreme value… a way of reaching another world, the real world.
My little son, Timur, will be five in less than a month. There’s a quality about him that I wish could always stay there, inside him, without being knocked out. It’s the quality of pure innocence and  a natural human genius — something that the adult world strives to destroy as soon as a child has entered school. Our world regards it — a way of appreciating and processing the fantastic — as a thing of evil, a faculty to be replaced surgically with the ability of  cold, clinical thought. Timur still has it though… only just… a mind that embraces fact and fantasy as one and the same, two inseparable elements.
Ariane is seven and a half and she’s lost it. You can’t tell her a tale, a fairy story, without her having to establish whether it’s fiction or fact. And she insists that we have to make clear, one or the other. ‘It’s a little of both,’ I sometimes say. And when I do, Ariane’s face sours with rage. ‘It can’t be!’ she snaps. ‘Because you can’t have both!’
I have travelled with tribes and so-called ‘primitive’ peoples who are, as you would imagine, far more brilliant than us. Their souls are still attached, their minds screwed on right in their heads. I once spent months with the Machiagenga and the Shuar peoples of Peru, and learned to appreciate an ancient and natural way of thought that is the default setting within us all. The longer I spent with them, and the more I came to know of their customs and ideas, the more I understood how terribly misguided we are.
It sounds like basic criticism, a cliche, the sort of thing that’s fashionable to say. But it’s not. Not really. Instead, it’s something that we can all relearn… a little bit at a time. When Timur makes Lego, something he likes very much indeed, he slams some bricks together and, when asked that stupid adult question ‘what is it?’, he fumbles, then says, ‘an elephant.’ A moment later he adds a red brick to the top, and christens it ‘an aeroplane’, and after that ‘it’s mummy.’ 
Of course it is, and that’s how it should be. And we all — all of us — can learn from that, from the default setting that little Timur and every other four-year-old in our world is desperate danger of losing — his imagination.
TS
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