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Where Nothing Happens Pillai’s Where Nothing Happens is a book that is difficult to club into any particular genre. This is a spiritual-philosophical autobiography where the author undertakes an intense journey into the field of self-realisation. The book is written as a letter to a mother who is no more. Writing about his daily routine after his mother’s death, Pillai remembers his mother who seems the epitome of perfection. She is a lady who remembers every action and he tries to keep her memories alive by retaining her room as she left it, complete with the painting of Krishna who happened to be her childhood companion.
The writer goes beyond the realms of theology, spirituality and philosophy as he shares his personal experiences that awakened him. Standing in front of one of the images at Konarak, he was suddenly filled with a sense of gratitude. Burdened by the fragments of a broken marriage,`A0a quotation from Kafka suddenly frees him. Very beautifully a parallel has been drawn between a disintegrating marriage and the tectonic forces that loosen stones and boulders that lead to the collapse of the entire hillock. The intense writing that deals with "I", "I am" and "ego" gives the reader much to contemplate about. This work delves into the unbreakable cycle of the yugas, life and death. The writer encounters the power of energy which seems to flow into a room where the furniture, paintings and objects seem to be in synchronisation with each other. Pillai has made friends with Kant, Husserl, Descartes and Hume. He has been brought up in a home where there was a passion for books and where reading of all kind was encouraged "without bowdlerisation or censorship". A thorough analysis has been made on facts—theory, causality and objectivity. The writer shows an expertise when he draws a link between the epistemology of science and the philosophy of science and states that Kant’s work laid the foundation for Newton. The reader will appreciate the ruminations on India and its varied landscapes where "extremes prevail". The author in his soul-searching highlights the genius of yoga, analysis the fundamentals of maya and evaluates the Hindu social system. The artistic vision of Pillai is evident as he is drawn to art, architecture, colour, form and structure. He gives an innate description of Padmanabhpuram, the city of Vishnu, where art shows no demarcation and there is a flow of life. The book celebrates solitude and offers a certain intimacy with it. The writer seems to be familiar with death and has rather befriended it. This book is a good read that takes one on a self-understanding sojourn.
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The
writer reminisces about how his economic mother would put aside some
money from the household budget for dining at Alps, Connaught Place,
and describes her as "too sunlit, too tranquil, too much in plumb
with the world". With his father he felt that he was treading the
same ground as they shared the same temperament. Performance at the
academic front was a disaster which had the father raging. The mother
shielded her children from the strict, disciplinarian husband and
showed a love that "did not need reciprocity".