वह लड़का जो मई की रूह सूखा देने वाली धूप में भी सर पे लाल टोपी, हाथ मे एक माज़ा की छोटी बोतल और अपना पुराना कूकाबूरा का बल्ला लिए उन डामर की चमकती गलियों पर उतरता था, सहसा आपकी बात को नकार देता। उस बच्चे के लिए गर्मी की भीषणता किसी वरदान से कम नहीं थी; जब हवा इतनी रुखी हो कि गले में बसा जल अंदर से आपको काटने लगे, तो कोई क्यों भला बाहर निकलेगा? और इसी आपदा का फायदा उठाए, सारे भारतीय क्रिकेट वीर, रेलवे कॉलोनी के पुराने शेड के बगल में इकट्ठा होते थे। शायद मेरी जान दोपहर की उस निर्दय लू में बसी थी, या फिर उस पुराने बल्ले में। आज ना वह बल्ला है ना इस लू को अपने अंदर समा लेने का साहस, बड़े होने के रस्ते के बीच यह दोनों मेरी कैप्री की जेब से कही फिसल से गए है। मुझे शंका है यह हीरे अब मेरी जेब में ना लौटेंगे।

मेरा जन्म मध्य प्रदेश के एक ऐसे कस्बे में हुआ था जो अपने आप को एक बड़ा शहर होने का दिखावा करता था। मेरी भावना भले चुभ सकती है, लेकिन में मानता हूं कि वह शहर आज भी एक कस्बा है, और शायद हमेशा रहेगा—मेरे लिए। जब भी कोई मित्र मेरे जन्मस्थल की गाथा सुनने की इच्छा रखता है, मेरे शब्दों में अहमदाबाद का उल्लेख होने में केवल कुछ क्षण लगते है। लेकिन यह सवाल कानों में बजते ही एक परीक्षा का न्योता लेकर आता है—सामने उपस्थित व्यक्ति को पूरी कहानी बताई जाए, या फिर सिर्फ यह कह के निपटा दिया जाए कि मैं तो एक गुजराती हूँ?

इन जन्मस्थलों की कश्मकश के बीच फसा मैं, ज्यादातर खुद को एक गुजराती प्रस्तुत करना पसंद करता हूं। मैं मानता हूं कि में बेहद भाग्यशाली हूं, हर किसी को खुदको एक अहमदाबादी बताने का अवसर नहीं मिलता। माना कि मेरा जन्मस्थल इस शहर से १५०० किलोमीटर दूर एक दिखावटी शहर में बसा है; लेकिन उस शिशु की पहली लुब-डूब से लेकर, मणिनगर रेलवे स्टेशन पर पैर रखने तक, मेरा अस्तित्व कही खोया सा हुआ था। इस शहर की गलियों ने मुझमें जीवन प्रभावशाली अंश भरे है, और शायद थोड़ी दिल की धड़कनें भी।

स्कूल के दिनों के प्रति तो इतनी कुछ खास यादें अंर्तगत छिपी नहीं है, लेकिन आनंद का असली महासागर तो परीक्षाओं की वह हाथ को त्रस्त करदेने वाली, हर एक घंटे में बजती लोहे की घंटी—की आखरी आवाज़ के उपरांत प्रकट होता था।

आखरी पेपर को फाड़ कर निर्दयी मौत देने पश्चात से लेकर, नौरोजाबाद की खड़कती पटरियों तक, पेट में अलग सी गुदगुदी सी छाई रहती थी। ये वह रेलवे स्टेशन था जो मेरे नानी-नाना के घर, बिरसिंहपुर, के रस्ते में एक कदम पीछे था। ट्रेन से आते समय जुहिला नदी के नज़ारे हमेशा मेरा दिल जीत लिया करते थे। उन धुंधली तस्वीरों में कही दूर एक पंडित सूर्य देव को जल अर्पण कर रहा होता था; नदी के बीच कुछ मुस्कराते मछुआरे अपने जाल में किसी मछली का फंसने का इंतजार करते हुए, एक दूसरे की पंचायत को एक कान प्रकट कर रहे होते थे, ट्रेन के पुल के नीचे कुछ भैंसे, गाय और भेद बकरे गर्मी की लड़ाई से मुंह मोड़कर नदी किनारे आश्रय लिए होते थे। और कुछ गोताखोर अपनी शरीर की कला का खेल दिखाते हुए पूल के किनारे से नदी में छलांग लगाते हुए दिखाई पड़ते थे।

इन नज़ारों का गर्मी से एक खास रिश्ता इसलिए था क्योंकि वे यह दर्शाते थे कि अम्मा और बाबू उस पीले पत्थर से सजे पुराने रेलवे स्टेशन पर मेरा इंतजार कर रहे होंगे। नानी को अम्मा और नाना को बाबू बोलने की मेरी गलती को उन दोनों ने कभी सुधारने की कोशिश नहीं करी। ये आदत मैने अपनी माँ की बोली से चुराई थी और शायद इसकी खूबसूरता मुझे अब थोड़ी-थोड़ी समझ आ रही है। बचपन की इस नादानी को किसी ने ठीक करने की जुर्रत की नहीं, क्योंकि अम्मा और बाबू को यह बहुत पसंद था, मैं भले उनका नाती था लेकिन उन्होंने मुझे कभी अपने चौथे बच्चे से कम महसूस नहीं करवाया—शायद यही नाती होने का मीठा सौभाग्य है। एक बार अम्मा की दूधवाली ग्वालिन ने मुझे इस बात पर डांट दिया था कि में उन्हें अम्मा न बोलूं, तब अम्मा बाबू ने उससे एक हफ्ते तक दूध नहीं लिया था।

हर स्टेशन को सम्मानित करती हुई नर्मदा एक्सप्रेस, जब पाली की पटरियों पर अपना नमस्कार दर्शाती थी, तब दूर कही ट्रेन से उतरते हुए मुझे मेरे दोनों मामा, अम्मा और बाबू की झलक ऐसी खुशी देती थी कि में अपने स्थल पर थम सा जाता था। उनको देखने के पहले क्षणों में विश्वास ही नहीं होता था कि मैं सच में उनके समक्ष उपस्थित हूं। जीवन के कुछ पल ऐसे होते है जब आप खुदको कितनी भी ज़ोर से चूटी काट लें, वह लम्हा आपको असली नहीं लगता। ऐसा लगता है यह सब किसी सुबह के अलार्म से टूट जाने वाला अविश्वसनीय सपने का हिस्सा है। मेरे जीवन के कुछ ऐसे लम्हों में ये दृश्य बहुत खुशी से निवास करता है।

बाकी किसी के कपड़े मुझे याद नहीं है, क्योंकि अम्मा और मामा हर साल अलग-अलग कपड़ों में आते थे। परन्तु बाबू की झलक हमेशा एक सी ही रहती थी। सफेद बालों को सरसों के तेल से पीछे व्यवस्थित कंघी किए हुए, चेहरे पर चुभती दाढ़ी को चुन चुन के हटाकर, अपनी चौड़ी छाती पर एक नई प्रेस की हुई सफेद कमीज़, और उसके नीचे एक सीधी काली और बारीकी से सिली हुई मार्डन पतलून—या पैंट पहनकर, चेहरे की झाइयां छुपा देने वाली एक बेफिक्री मुस्कान के साथ हमारा स्वागत करते थे।

बाबू की मुस्कान को देख कर लगता था कि उनके जैसे व्यक्ति तो दुःख के बोझ से परे है—भला एक हमेशा चंचल आदमी के जीवन में ज्यादा से ज्यादा क्या ही कठिनाइयां हो सकती है? लेकिन मेरी कच्ची उमर के थोड़े से अनुभव ने मुझे बताया है कि आदमी इसलिए नहीं मुस्कराते क्योंकि वह खुश है, वह इसलिए मुस्कुराता है ताकि वह दूसरों पे अपनी कठिन परिस्थितियों की कड़वाहट न छिड़क दे।

कभी कभी मैं, माँ और मेरी बहन खुशी, अपने साथ केसरी आम की पेटियां लेकर आते थे। उस आम की पेटी को लाने का उद्देश्य यह नहीं था कि पाली में आम अच्छे नहीं मिलते, बल्कि हमारे घर के बाजू में तो एक विशाल आम का वृक्ष पहले से था। उन पेटियों को लाने का असली कारण थे मेरे बाबू। केसरी आम पाली में कम ही मिलते थे, और गुजरात में काफी प्रख्यात थे। अपने कच्चे हाथों में वह दोनों आम की पेटी पकड़ कर बाबू के लिए लाना मानो एक त्यौहार सा बन गया था।

मैं बार बार बिरसिंहपुर को पाली इसलिए कह रहा हूं क्योंकि बाबू इस जगह को इस नाम से पुकारते थे। वैसे तो माँ बिरासिनी देवी के अमृत धाम का यह नाम १००० वर्ष पुराना है—लेकिन इधर के निवासी और आस पास के लोगों ने जगह को पाली नमक उपाधि देदी हैं। मुझे खुद तो ये नाम पसंद नहीं हैं, लेकिन बाबू कहा करते थे इसलिए इस संक्षेप में मेरे नानी-नाना के घर को पाली ही पुकारूंगा। कभी कलम ने इजाजत दी तो पाली नाम के प्रति मेरी घृणा के बारे में भी लिखूंगा।

रेलवे स्टेशन पर उतरने के बाद, अपने सामान को अम्मा बाबू के पीछे खड़े मामा को सौंप कर एक अलग राहत की अनुभूति होती थी, ऐसा लगता था किसी जंग की आखरी शहनाई बजाकर समापन का ऐलान कर दिया हो। आज जब मामा मुझे स्टेशन लेने आते है, तो मेरे बैग को उन्हें थमा कर मुझे थोड़ी शर्म सी आने लगती है। शायद मेरे बढ़ते कद के बीच इस समाज ने मेरे अंदर धीरे धीरे शर्म, घृणा, और दुःख जैसे तत्वों के बीज बो दिए; बाबू को देखकर हंसने वाले आयुष में ऐसा कुछ नज़र नहीं आता था। लेकिन मैं मानता हूं कि जितना जरूरी जीवन में खुशी के पलों का होना है, उतना ही दुखी क्षणों का भी है—बिना जीवन की करेले सी कड़वाहट के, उसकी आम सी मिठास का क्या फायदा? इन कुशल लम्हों की चमक जीवन की कठिनाइयों के अंधेरे से और नुमाया हो जाती है। जिस जीवन में दुःख न हो, वह सुख का पूर्ण स्वाद कभी चख ही नहीं सकता।

बिरसिंहपुर के पीले पथरीले बोर्ड के उस पार, एक छोटा सा पुराना गेट फांद कर जब स्टेशन से बाहर निकलते है तो अम्मा बाबू का घर एकदम साफ तरीके से आंखों पर प्रभाव करता है। स्टेशन से केवल कुछ कदम दूर चलकर ही उस घर का काला लोहे का गेट पेहरेदारी करता हुआ आज भी नज़र आता है। आप विश्वास नहीं मानेंगे लेकिन वह गेट हमें देख कर मुस्कुराता था, अगर वह बात कर पाता तो शायद मेरे स्वागत में शायरियां सुना देता। आंगन में बसे छोटे बगीचे में चमेली, गेंदे, कमल और तीन प्रकार के गुलाब के फूलों के अलावा एक अमरूद का बड़ा पेड़ और पान की फैली हुई पत्तियां की सुगंध अभी भी उपस्थित रहती है। बाबू को सफेद गुलाब का फूल काफी पसंद था। उन कोमल गुलाब की पंखुड़ियों को सुबह सुबह पूजा करते हुए वे शिवजी के समीप विभाजित करते थे।

बताने को तो मेरे पास बाबू की यादें थोड़ी कम सी महसूस होती हैं, बचपन में शायद जीवन जीने में बच्चे इतने व्यस्त हो जाते हैं, कि वे उन पलों को याददाश्त में पिरोना भूल जाते हैं जो उनकी मुख्य यादों का हिस्सा बन सकते हैं। शायद इसीलिए मुझे अपने और बाबू की कहानियां थोड़ी कम ही याद है।

अम्मा बताती है की बाबू मुझे पूरे घर से छुपा कर फाटक पार स्थित लल्लू पनवाड़ी के पास लेजाते थे, क्योंकि मुझे चॉकलेट और टोफी खाना बहुत पसंद था। बाबू और मेरी इस चालाकी की वजह से हमें बहुत बार डांट भी पड़ती रहती थी, मेरे दांतों के पिछले हिस्से में अभी भी एक कैविटी मौजूद है—जो मेरे अंदर बाबू की एक आखरी निशानी की तरह उपस्थित है। अम्मा ने जब ये किस्सा सुनाया, तो मेरी याददाश्त में मानो एक प्रकाश सा उत्तेजित हुआ। बाबू के साथ दोपहर में घर से छिप कर निकलने की कोशिश अब मुझे ज्यादा अच्छे से याद आती है। आज भी जब उस कैविटी में खाने का कोई टुकड़ा फंस जाता है तब बाबू की मुस्कुराती तस्वीर मुझे अपने नेत्र समक्ष प्रकट होती है। हालांकि इस याद की वजह से मैं एक दुविधा में फसा हूं, बाबू की इस आखरी निशानी को डॉक्टर के क्रूर हाथों को सौंप दूं—या फिर इस परेशानी को गले लगाकर अपन हिस्सा मान लूं? दोनों के ही अपने फायदे और नुकसान है। कभी कभी तो लगता है कि में कुछ ज्यादा ही सोचता हूं, क्योंकि यह बाबू की अकेली निशानी नहीं हैं, बस ये थोड़ी सी ज्यादा नज़र आती हैं।

मेरी बहन को चुक्की और मुझे आलू कहने वाले बाबू का नाम खुद बहुत ही निराला था। जगन्नाथ प्रसाद बर्मन जैसा भारी नाम की विराटता को बाबू ने एक मज़ाक सा बना दिया था। उमरिया जिले के मुख्य अध्यापकों में से एक—जगन्नाथ प्रसाद बर्मन एक बहुत ही नेक दिल, ईश्वर प्रेमी और कठोर मेहनती व्यक्ति थे। बाज़ार में उनके साथ निकलना मतलब अपने सम्मान का एक लंबा टीका पहन कर निकलने जैसा था।

बाबू अम्मा को बेइंतहा प्रेम करते थे—इसलिए आज भी में कभी उस घर का नाम लेता हूं, तो हमेशा अम्मा के नाम को पहला स्थान देने में संकोच नहीं करता। वह घर हमेशा से अम्मा का ही था, और शायद भगवान ने भी कुछ वर्षों में इस तथ्य को स्वीकार लिया। मुझे गर्व है कि मैं एक ऐसे घर का अंशु हूं जहां महिलाओं की बहुत इज्ज़त रही है। इस घर की दीवारों और बगल के मोहल्लों में कभी किसी ने अम्मा को बाबू से कम नहीं समझा—भगवान ने तक नहीं!

बाबू की एक खासियत थी जो उन्हें बाकी सभी परिवार वालों से अलग करती थी, वे किसी भी व्यक्ति को—भले उसने कितना भी बुरा किया हो, एक वक्त के बाद माफ कर देते थे। आज थोड़ा खुद में झांका तो पता चला कि मेरे अंदर किसी के प्रति भी गहरी घृणा न होना और मेरे चेहरे की मुस्कान का इतना चौड़ा होना, दोनों मेरे बाबू की देन है।

क्रिकेट प्रेमी बर्मन जी अक्सर रात को अपने पुराने दीवान पर बैठकर आई.पी.एल. और भारत के मैचों को अनंत रुचि से देखते थे। धोनी को देखने का भूत इस कदर सवार था कि मैच चलते समय अपना खाना भी अक्सर उस पुराने सी.आर.टी. टीवी डब्बे के सामने बैठकर खाते थे। २०१० में जब चेन्नई सुपर किंग्स ने पहली बार आई.पी.एल. जीता था, तब उनकी खुशी का कोई ठिकाना नहीं था, बचपन की तेज आंखों से देखी हुई बाबू की वह जश्न भरी चाल, शायद मेरे चेन्नई और धोनी का फैन बनने का मुख्य कारण हैं। उस पुराने टीवी डब्बे में मैने चेन्नई के चार और धोनी के पांच फाइनल देखे है, दुःख की बात यह है कि बाबू केवल २ बार ही चेन्नई को जीतते हुए देख पाए।

बाबू के चचेरे भाई के बड़े बेटे की शादी गर्मी में तय हुई थी। हम सब की मौजूदगी पाली में होने के कारण, उन्होंने ने सह परिवार आने का बाबू को न्योता दिया। मेरी तबीयत थोड़ी खराब सी थी, और में अपनी खराब हालत की वजह से चल फिर नहीं पा रहा था। तब बाबू ने पूरी शादी के दिनों में मुझे अपनी गोदी में बिठा कर घुमाया, एक क्षण के लिए भी मेरी माँ के सिवा किसी को छूने नहीं दिया—अम्मा तक को नहीं। ऐसे थे मेरे बाबू और ऐसी थी उनकी और अम्मा की जुगलबंदी।

२०१२ की एक रात को उनके सीने में कुछ ऐसा दर्द उठा की वह उन्हें पूरा निगल सा गया। घबराहट और चिंता से हड़बड़ाते हुए दोनों मामा ने उन्हें करीबी शहडोल के अस्पताल में लेजाना ठीक समझा। उधर जाकर पता चला कि उनका इलाज वहां असंभव है। परेशान और हारे हुए मामा ने उन्हें ट्रेन में बिठा कर नागपुर लेजाने की महान कोशिश करी—पर रास्ते में उनके दिल ने दम तोड़ दिया। शायद जीवन का यह ही सत्य है कि मृत्यु दूसरे के परिवार में जितनी आम और अनिवार्य लगती है, जब आपके परिवार में हो, तो उससे बड़ा कोई दुःख नहीं लगता। माँ की घर से दूरी की वजह से वह बाबू के अंतिम संस्कार में न पहुंच सकी, और उनको यह दुर्भाग्य जीवन भर सताएगा।

अब इस अकस्मात का कारण पाली में इलाज केंद्रों की कमी को बताऊं, या निकम्मी अर्थव्यवस्था का एक बड़ा अभिशाप को, या फिर बाबू की खुदकी बीमारी को नज़रअंदाज करने की नादानी को। हर मृत्यु का एक अंतिम तथ्य यह है कि मृत्यु के उपरांत व्यक्ति वापस नहीं आता, चाहे आप किसी को भी दोषी साबित कर दिया जाए।

•रामधारी सिंह दिनकर कहते है:

"क्षमा शोभती उस भुजंत को जिसके पास गरल हो

उसको क्या जो दंतहीन विष रहित, विनीत सरल हो"

शक्ति और क्षमा का नाता कुछ ऐसा है कि जिसकी पकड़ पहली पर हो उसी को दूसरी शोभा देती है। एक सांप जो ना जहरीला हो, ना काट सकता हो, और सरलता की भावना रखता हो, उसकी क्षमा का अर्थ रत्ती भर भी नहीं है। ईश्वर की शक्ति इतनी अपार है कि उसने अपने भक्तों से क्षमा मांगना छोड़ दिया है, और बाबू के निधन का शोक घर में इतना बड़ा था कि शायद ईश्वर की क्षमा से ही मिट पाता। क्योंकि हरि की क्षमा हर किसी को नहीं मिलती—इसलिए शायद हमारे घर पधार जाती तो हम मान लेते की बाबू की इस अजीब अलविदा का कोई धार्मिक अर्थ हैं। लेकिन हमारे प्यारे प्रभु ने अपने कानों पे एक मोटा ताला लगा रखा है।

मृत्यु से विशाल तथ्य को समझने लायक मेरी उम्र नहीं थी, तब घरवालों ने बताया कि बाबू कही दूर गए हैं। जब थोड़ी बुद्धि आई तो ईश्वर से सवाल करने में मैने बिल्कुल देरी नहीं की—"हे ईश्वर! तेरे दरबार में नेकी करने वाले चापलूसों की कमी हो गई थी जो तूने मेरे बाबू को अपने पास बुला लिया? क्या यह ही तेरी मृत्यु का कठोर सत्य?

अगर ऐसा ही है, तो दानव समान कपटी मनुष्यों जिनको पैदा होने का कोई हक नहीं है—वे क्यों इतनी लंबी उम्र का आनंद उठाते हे? बाबू की अच्छाई का बहाना बनाकर तूने उन्हें ५० वर्ष की कम उम्र में अपने दरबार में सजा दिया? बोलो ना प्रभु शब्द नहीं है क्या!!"

क्रोध मुझ में भरा हुआ था और शायद अभी भी है। मुझे पता है ईश्वर से मेरी नाराजगी के पुल उसी दिन बंध गए थे जब उसने बाबू जैसे नेक व्यक्ति को अपने होने वाले तीन नातियों को खिलाने वाले सुख को उनकी मृत्यु से नकार दिया था।

आज अम्मा का घर थोड़ा सा अधूरा सा लगता है, बच्चे, मामा-मामी और बगीचे के बावजूद ऐसा लगता है कि घर की एक मुख्य दीवार गायब है। बाबू के पसंदीदा सफेद गुलाब अब थोड़े ज्यादा ही खिलते है, क्योंकि उनको प्रभु को पेश करने वाले खुद मृत्यु को अर्पित हो चुका है। बाबू के निधन के बाद बड़े मामा को उनकी सरकारी नौकरी मिली, क्योंकि उस जिले में और उनसे श्रेष्ठ कोई और नहीं था।

घर के ऊपर दो नए कमरे बन तो गए हैं लेकिन छत पर जो मातम का साया है वो आज भी कभी कभी दस्तखत दे देता है। मृत्यु के बाद आदमी की याद थोड़ी थोड़ी दिमाग से मिटने सी लगती है, शायद में यह संक्षेप थोड़े वर्षों पहले लिखता तो और भी कुछ यादें कागज पर उतार पाता, लेकिन में मानता हूं कि हर कार्य का एक समय होता है और शायद इस लेख का समय आज था।

आज ए.सी. की बर्फीली हवा में बैठ कर अपनी खिड़की से नीचे तपती हुई धूप को निहारते समय वो पल याद आता है जब बाबू पाली में लाइट गुल होने की वजह से, बिजली विभाग में शिकायत करने चले गए थे क्योंकि गर्मी ने मुझे सूखा दिया था। उस हाथ के घूमने से हवा देने वाले पंखे की हवा भले ठंडी नहीं होती थी, पर उसके भीतर बसे प्रेम की क्षमता इतनी थी कि बिजली विभाग के सरकारी अफसरों को भी बाबू के सामने हाथ जोड़ने पड़े।

कल चेन्नई सुपर किंग्स का मैच देखते समय मुझे यह ख्याल आया कि अगर बाबू होते तो कितनी रुचि से इस बदलते टी.२०. फॉर्मेट को देखते। माना कि चेन्नई की हालिया प्रदर्शन से वे थोड़े नाराज़ होते पर उनकी खुशी मेरे हिसाब से आज कल के हाई-स्कोरिंग मैचों में अपार होती। मैंने देखा है कि आदमी के इस धरती से विदा लेने के बाद ही अक्सर हमे उनसे जुड़े हमारी हरकतें, यादें और उनसे प्रेरित हमारे चरित्र की इमारतें कुछ ज्यादा नज़र आने लगती हैं। मनुष्य एक बहुत ही अहसान फरामोश प्रजाति है, जब तक एक अपना उनसे छीन नहीं जाता, तब तक उनको उनके अस्तित्व की खुद से उलझी डोरियाँ कम ही नज़र आती है।

अगर बाबू आज होते तो ये लेख पढ़ कर बहुत खुश होते, पर यह लिखते समय मुझे अचानक ध्यान आया कि अगर वे आज होते तो शायद में यह लिख ही न रहा होता। बड़ा निराला है आभार भावना जताने का कार्य, इसको जब तक किसी क्रूर परिस्थिति या एक कम खुशी देने वाले पल से तुलना न करी जाए तो यह भाव थोड़ा हल्का पड़ जाता है।

लिखने को बातें कम पड़ गई है और इतना बड़ा में था नहीं कि बाबू को अपने प्रेम का इज़हार कर पाता, इसलिए शायद आज इतने वर्षों के बाद इस छोटे लेख में अपना दिल परोस के मैने रख दिया है। मुनीर नियाज़ी की इन पंक्तियों में शायद मेरा भाव अच्छे से कैद होता है और इन्हीं से मैं आपसे बाबू की यादों में अलविदा लेता हूं:

मदद करनी हो उस की यार की ढारस बंधाना हो
बहुत देरीना रस्तों पर किसी से मिलने जाना हो
हमेशा देर कर देता हूँ मैं

बदलते मौसमों की सैर में दिल को लगाना हो
किसी को याद रखना हो किसी को भूल जाना हो
हमेशा देर कर देता हूँ मैं

किसी को मौत से पहले किसी ग़म से बचाना हो
हक़ीक़त और थी कुछ उस को जा के ये बताना हो
हमेशा देर कर देता हूँ मैं हर काम करने में…

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Thanks a lot to everyone who has read so far :)

I.

I've forgotten my beta-blockers again. They are the set of pills that are allegedly telling me I'm sane, holding my insanity at bay in my subconscious mind—I believe in the midst of all this blocking, evading, and masquerading behind prescriptions and treatments, I am actually untreatable.
The doctors are wasting their syringes on a dickhead like me. If Carl Jung met me, he would've probably re-evaluated his theory of the subconscious with growing suspicion.

While dreaming, or using a better and fancier analogy—while having a dip into the large waters of my subconscious ocean, I believe with every dream I create, I am stealing the share of experiences, aspirations, or probably even the dreams of the people around me.
My view of the ocean becomes a lot clearer, and theirs is fading into an opaque abyss of loss.

I might be speculating—NO, this isn't a mere observation. Mom, Dad, and even my Dog Max seem to have lost the ability to dream.

Yesterday while I got uneasy in my sleep and saw Max snoring, his ears were now exposed to the cold winds and snow of February. Max did dream before; I remember he would toss and turn in the little corner of the high bookshelf where he likes to sleep. I tried to keep him at my side, but somehow he knew his wiggling behavior was disrupting my sleep. Hence he decided to confine himself to the bookshelf close to the window. Max's ears were still as a praying mantis, waiting for its prey to make a wrong move, and the harsh moonlight was shining over his golden fur with the occasional snowfall trying to stop its path.

When Max used to dream, he would flap his ears in discomfort of what he was seeing inside his head, sometimes hiding them between his round paws. There were days his expressions felt more human than mine.

3:37 A.M.

Max's still posture seems as if it wouldn't budge even if the house burnt down to ash. I turn my head towards the wall and 8-year-old Kaito smiles back at me, through a photograph embedded in a wall picture frame. It is from our family's trip to Fujikawaguchiko in the Yamanashi Prefecture; the picture depicts me standing in front of a convenience store, which has now been revealed to align perfectly with the view of Mt. Fuji's base—Mt. Fuji Lawson, they say. However, our family is standing tilted from the view, with Mt. Fuji being to the left of the frame rather than in the center. My elder sister, Yuri, is holding my small hands; Mom and Dad are kissing us on our outer cheeks with me and Yuri having broad smiles of blooming childhood on our faces. A Spanish guy clicked it for us from our Dad's Old Sony DSC-H20. It is one of my core memories. I just got informed by the news that they are closing that place for further tourism—that Lawson. If you ask me, a Lawson is a pretty depressing place to click a family photograph, but the moment still blooms because of its importance nevertheless. Times were so simple back then.The yellow wallpaper behind the frame is slackening a bit, exposing the devilish white paint in the back. Sometimes when I look back at that frame, I feel that along the way I have lost something essential. Kaito's smile in that frame feels supernatural to the current me.

The missing piece neither feels emotional nor physical; it is something that I can some days dream of.

Oftentimes, while I pull my blanket completely over my head, a recurring scene of me drowning in the ocean surfaces in my consciousness—no, probably subconscious. Blue water turning red, legs feeling light, chest tightening due to salt, the unique taste of metal on the back of my throat; all of it feels awfully real—as if someone just drowned me in that ocean moments prior and somehow teleported me back to my bed, dried of the remnants of the ocean, and replaced it with my sweat in an instant.

The dream ends in the same horrific sequence every time. After I've fought enough and the blues have finally triumphed over my nervous system, just at the verge of me giving up to die, the water stops drowning me.

For some reason, after the water stops pulling, the only place I can look towards is the white shore where I can see 8-year-old Kaito making sandcastles. He is trying to steal the white sand from the neighboring areas to dump it into his well-made pit. A few moments later, he notices me staring at him and drops his red plastic shovel in shock. A final depressing hand wave by him is how the dream ends. I wake up every time gasping in confusion of whether the perspiration on my forehead is real or just a fragment of my dream.

Part of my theory of why I think I might be stealing the subconscious depths of the people around me stems from the dream. What I assume that I am lacking is perhaps my innocence and sophisticated childhood hope.
I really hate my depiction in that dream. I am not a thief of any sort, and neither do I like making sandcastles. The whole sequence leaves me—probably nauseous at best.

A few minutes after my stare into that frame, I fall asleep without any dream. My phone buzzes me awake to the alarm of 7 A.M. That's when I see Max in the same position as last night. Poor Max, he couldn't even sleep next to me before dying.

Mom was saying she will be leaving for Shinjuku and then will go off to have a meeting with Yuri in her college dorm. I wonder what business she has around there; the snow here is really beautiful this time around. I drag myself to sit straight after waking up on my bed, and for an instant, an image of a ferry flashes before me.

II.

It has been 3 months since Mom has left for Shinjuku. Dad says that he has a lot of work in his publication hub, so he will stay there at nights from now onwards. Yuri has moved into her college dorm in Kyoto since January last year; it has been a while since I have seen her.She promised to write letters in English, as my Japanese isn't as fluent as hers. At times, I feel she starts making up words with her evil tongue just to confuse me. But I can't even deny her intellect, as she has read books with names I can't even pronounce without hesitation. However, I guess promises seem relevant only when you can see the person related to them; they are just a bag of words with false assurance.

Since the day Max left us in February, I have been eating dried sardines and cup noodles for both dinner and lunch. Cooking is not my forte; dropping warm water into a cup and opening a tin can whenever my stomach rumbles just feels right. Besides this, I have been witnessing far fewer visits from Dad. Some days he arrives after I've left for school and leaves for work at his publication before I return home around four. A very famous mangaka has released a new edition to his existing bestseller series, so I guess the work is naturally being throttled upwards to meet the increasing demands.

Wakkanai has started to warm up a little at this time in May. This town in the Soya Sub-prefecture of Hokkaidō has been named Japan's Siberia due to its blinding white, heavy snowfall and extremely cold temperatures. The period from October to April is when the heavens bless the seashore with a white bed of dissolving snowflakes. The waves capture some of them before they land on the shore, engulfing them back into the deep blue ocean, the place they originated from.

I have always liked the cold, so it was natural for me to adore the province of Wakkanai. Maybe because I grew up here, I never thought of how fun actual summers could be. Dad was brought up on Miyako Island in Okinawa, where the summers are really warm and pleasant. Perhaps we take a liking to whatever childhood presents us with, without questioning if something better was out there to experience.

Last night, I had that dream again. I believe if I try to act differently in the waters, the dream might collapse or the ending might be altered in some sense.

III.

Senior High has taken a toll on me. Initially, due to my high enthusiasm, I took up two optional subjects instead of one: Theory of Literature and Philosophy. But now, as my interest in studies has plummeted drastically, attending these classes feels like a fatal blow to my cranium. My attendance is already pretty low in both of them, so I might as well check up on Mr. Shigeo and his literature lessons today.

I gargle up my cup noodles, tighten my shoelaces, lock the door, and leave for school in a moment before the clock strikes eight. Considering how I have to reach school by 8:15, starting a twenty-minute walk by 8:05 isn't a very great idea.

A bit of the falling snow invades my schoolbag from behind. I'm lucky today isn't a day past the month of June, otherwise the snow would've melted. I forgot my umbrella in a hurry, but I guess it's good; the winds would've surely torn it apart.Fighting and blocking various blazes of snow and dry wind, I arrive at my school at 8:25. The huge black gate doesn't seem to budge with a push. That's when the watchman notices me and gives me a weird look, as if I were some burglar. Is he mad or something? Why would a stranger even dress himself in a school uniform to steal from a high school at the end of town?

Anyway, he asks me my name, checks his registry, and mutters something to his subordinate. They both have a brief laugh and then let me in.

Today, my optional lecture for Theory of Literature was scheduled for 8:30 as Mr. Shigeo's car got caught in a small accident. Luck, I believe, works when I don't want it to.

Mr. Shigeo arrives and everyone greets him with a good morning. He looks around the class and seems surprised by my presence on the last bench beside the huge window. I move my eyes in confusion, finally settling them on the bench underneath. He commands all of us to sit down and starts his blabbering.

The Cape-Soyā monument is clearly visible from my window. I have very fond memories of my father, Yuri, and me circling around it in a game of Tag. My father would grab Yuri in one arm and me in the other and twirl us around until we felt dizzy and begged him to stop. We all laughed so hard our tummies would start jumping around.

The monument is also considered the northernmost point of Japan. The Imperial Japanese Navy stored their naval fleet along the coast of Wakkanai during WW2, as it was far enough north to be outside the range of American bombers and was hence safe from aerial attacks. I believe families of Japanese soldiers waved off the submarines from the point where the monument is now built. It isn't actually the northernmost territory Japan holds, but due to the famous Karafuto expedition by Mamiya Rinzō being set off from the town and the importance it held during WW2, the government has hence decided the point to be a special one.

In a sequence while staring towards the triangular monument, a lot of memories regarding our family trips start surfacing.

I remember during the next year, since we visited Fujikawagochiku, Dad decided to take us all to his home on Miyako Island for the first time ever. The island is very famous for its summer activities and warm ocean water, completely ideal for summer vacations. Miyakojima summer festival commences at the end of July every year; and this is the event my father planned our trip to end with. Usually, I never got enthusiastic about summers, but upon witnessing my father giggling like a child narrating his childhood stories to us, a surge of enthusiasm and curiosity entered my brain for Miyako Island summers.

It was late around July, days prior to the summer festival, when we visited my father's home for the first time. Grandpa seemed a lot older than the wedding photographs of my parents had depicted. He smiled and burst into tears after seeing me and Yuri after a long time. If his lower back supported him, I'm sure he would've lifted up both of us simultaneously in that hug.

The red shovel in my dream is a lot clearer now. I borrowed it from my Grandpa. He told me it was my father's favorite toy while growing up and he decided to surprise him by gifting it to his son. I slid the shovel into the shoulder bag I had brought for beach visits, making no noise while doing this. Grandpa and I laughed menacingly after that. He told me some stories about his wife and My Dad, all of which I didn't expect. Before I could get something more out of him, my Dad was outside honking in a Rental Toyota, calling me to hurry up as we had to head towards the beach.

We bid Grandpa goodbye and moved to the west of the island which presumably has the cleanest beach in the area. It took us a few hours to drive around, and in that long commute, I first saw how the warm areas of Japan really flourished in the heat of tourism.

The ferry that flashed me prior to Mom's departure is a lot clearer now. I remember Mom, Dad, and Yuri stepping up that extended metal staircase.As my memory progresses past that moment, I cannot differentiate what happened next clearly. I press my temples hard to think of what happened next. The last clear memory I have is of standing at the shore and bi—

"Kaito!!" Mr. Shigeo exclaims.

"Ye– Yes, Sensei," I reply in a confused tone.

"Would you care to explain what I've been teaching for the last 45 minutes?" Mr. Shigeo asks, leaning forward and placing both of his hands on the desk in front of him.

"Meiji Restoration of China," I reply confidently. I don't know why, but that is the first thing that comes to my brain after having another glance at the monument while answering.

Mr. Shigeo stares at me for a few seconds and starts laughing like a maniac. The whole class joins him, and even I manage to break a slight smile.

"Kaito!" He says while controlling his laugh, "Oh, my dear historian, we have been studying the references of Patricide and Matricide in Greek Mythology for the last three days. Okay, now sit down and pay attention here."

I sink down in my bench, and now his words start feeling slightly more interesting than before. Still, the only names I remember from the lecture are Alcmaeon, Oedipus, and Clytemnestra. The tragedy of Oedipus is something I'm aware of; I wonder where the other names come from.

After Mr. Shigeo leaves the class, I go back to staring at the coastal lines; the thought of the ferry is buried deep inside me somewhere.

IV.

3 P.M. is the time when classes usually end. As soon as the final bell rings, I grab my schoolbag and make it to the coast for my walk back home. Today, as I was in a hurry, I didn't pay much attention to the coast in the morning. Snowfall stopped past two in the noon; the sunlight is soft, the kind John Keats mentions in his poems. I dust off any remaining snow from my schoolbag as it might pose a problem in this slightly warm weather.

While walking past the gate, the two watchmen give me a sinister yet pitiful look.

My walk back home is the best part of my day. Some evenings the sun glows a bright red while the ocean engulfs it in a swoop. It is rare in Wakkanai for colorful sunsets to exist at this time. The harsh cold winds and plethora of clouds sometimes cover the horizon for hours and leave no trace of light during evenings. Year-long winters have accustomed me to the colorlessness of some streets of Wakkanai. The flashing and colorful wide screens of the likes of Tokyo perhaps lie on the opposite spectrum of the late-stage capitalist society Japan has become.

As my steps reach the front door of my home, I notice that the door is slightly open. Walking slowly and examining the possibility of a burglar breaking in, I reach the kitchen floor which seems to be in a scrambled state as if someone pounced their way through the drawers to satisfy their gluttony. And there I have a glimpse of her, a cat, munching on the sardines that were supposed to be my dinner. I forgot to lock the door in a hurry.Neither do I feel angry nor do I feel pity towards her. I sit beside her, facing my back towards the refrigerator, and watch her devour the sardines one by one. After she has finished, she licks her paws, walks towards me, and rubs her small head on my school bag as an act of gratitude. She then hops out from the kitchen window facing the coast.

I have probably a handful of joules of energy left in me by this time, so I decide to have my cup noodles and crash back on my bed in my room.

As I lay in my bed, I see the light from the evening flash through the spot where Max once slept. If I had been more careful, maybe Max would've lived a little longer. The grief bottles me every night. I believe my sins are greater and sturdier companions than my—I don't even know if I have done any good in my small life.

If I were to look at the wall frame, the memories would start kicking back in. So I shut my eyes and try to sleep as fast as possible.

The dream arrives faster this night; I had predicted it would, but maybe not so early. Ocean water starts pushing me down as the script says, like it has a million hands all over my body that are resisting my buoyant nature and perhaps another million grappling me by the feet, dragging me towards the ocean bed.

I gasp. I try harder than every last time this dream has occurred. I punch the water in frustration and even kick upwards, trying to swim. In the moment of the battle, I realize what would happen next. To break the pattern, I need to come up with something else.

This time, I decide to give up fighting earlier than my will to live diminishes completely. Maybe if I glance towards the shore now, the dream would reveal its true end.

The water stops drowning me; I can now walk on it. In a moment, while trying to catch my breath, the glow of the white sand strikes my side-eye view, and I turn back to see what's present at the shore. I can now see two children clearly: 8-year-old Kaito and his elder sister, Yuri.

With as much strength as is left in my feeble legs, I keep sprinting towards the sandcastle Kaito seems to have accidentally demolished. When I arrive, Yuri is in the same white skirt and yellow top as on that day of the visit to Miyako Island.

Kaito is sobbing hard, trying to hide his tears in his sand-greased palms. Yuri is trying to console him, rubbing off the sand he has collected on his shoulder bag. I ask Kaito if he's okay, and he doesn't speak back.

My eyes instinctively reach Yuri's face, and she is already staring at me. Only Yuri can feel my presence; Kaito is as stuck and confused as he was on that day on the beach.
Yuri stands up and turns her back to the ocean, probably trying to add weight to her words.

"Kaito-san," she says in a monotonous yet grief-stricken voice,
"You should've boarded the ferry with us that noon."

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Madhya Pradesh lied in the middle, as it always does, even geographically. The state being high in vegetation and corruption, had a glimpse of the urban environment across it. Industrial hubs were still establishing themselves. There was a hint of what this place could be, if the local citizens were as enthusiastic as the newly elected democracy. However, when there’s a democracy, for its healthy growth, there must be an opposition. The one that took life in Madhya Pradesh was the doubtful minds of the youth who seem to have been divided between leaving the state for better employment opportunities or being as patient as a tiger to watch the cities grow and wait until some place eventually looks ideal and ready for late-stage capitalism.

In a then small town in the east of this confused state, a young man has 2 letters in his hand. They are job offers. Everybody is congratulating him, the dahi-shakkar that rolls around Indian houses at the start of something new has reached him already. But the young man is confused.

Out of the two letters he has in hand. The first describes a job in the infantry-oriented company, the state’s new obsession. The other is a dream, a declaration of acceptance from India’s second largest employer, the Indian Railways. When the situation seems too good to be true, there’s always a twist, and the young man was probably ready for one.

At the back of the letter besides the usual seal of the railways, there was smaller stamp which had a hint where the letter had come from, a place which was a 26-hour long train journey away from his hometown. A city in the neighboring state of Gujarat named Ahmedabad. Between stagnation and ambition, the young man chose the latter.

That young man is my superhero, my father.

In 1993, Indian Railways had introduced the sleeper and the third-tier A.C. coaches for the first time. The Ahmedabad-Bombay line was at the forefront of this revolution. Famous for its’ enormous trade, it was divided between two parts, Ahmedabad-Valsad and Valsad-Bombay. My father was employed in the Ahmedabad Line.

The stage was grand, new and perhaps a little scary, and the railways lacked performers. Or the better word would be employees. Hence, they hired young men from the neighboring states, Madhya Pradesh being one of them.

If you ask me what makes a man leave his hometown, I’ll save my answer for when I will do so for the second time, because the first was a disaster. For my father, perhaps it was a vision. His kids growing up in this beautiful place where there’s no full stop to dreams. The trait of being a dreamer was not planted inside me on a random Monday; it was long encoded in my DNA from the day I was born. There were little rooms to live from where he came from, ambition had to sleep outdoors. My father is sure a bigger dreamer than I ever will be. From being hardly able to pay rent in an almost rural town to owning multiple houses in one of the country’s largest metropolitans. I’d be lying if I said I don’t hold pride in his journey.

Gujarat and Madhya Pradesh are pretty close states as the borders suggest. Yet if a line indicating capitalism is drawn, the two states would lie on opposite ends. Or at least with a huge gap. Hunting down ambition in Madhya Pradesh was easy, a young guy would glance at the roads surrounding his residence, the elected leaders who put them there and suddenly a thought of leaving would start bubbling up in his consciously aware mind. In Gujarat, or at least the industrial part of it, no amount of dreams and ambition are enough.

People are constantly striving to expand their businesses into a larger economic section. There’s more ambition in the air of Gujarat than there are PM 2.5 particles, I can bet on that.

As I have started noticing more, what fascinates me as a young guy is the vast sense of opportunity this place holds. A dreamer requires two necessities, a space to dream endlessly and a place that holds hope for the dreams to come true. Adding the social support you get in this state upon these two, Gujarat makes a solid case for why any ambitious person would want to settle here.

My grandfather was not a rich man. In his home survival was the bigger priority, dreams had to wait for their turn after dinner. Between the 5 siblings, my father was the second eldest one. And perhaps due to his age, the responsibility of sustaining the household arrived the fastest. There was a considerable salary gap between the two job offers and that became the final reason for him leaving his beloved place.

Between the bags and the old belongings that he would take with him on his new venture, there was something even larger than himself that he carried along to the city, something invisible that would hurt him and his family members in the upcoming years, a binding force that pretended to hold his broken home together. That mysterious invisible thing was ‘Patriarchy’.

The word ‘Patriarchy’ had been introduced to me by a girl whom I once loved back in 11th grade. The terminology was vast and perhaps a little confusing. She would explain and dissect the constituents of patriarchy like a devout and I would listen to her thesis as a curious child who secretly has a crush on his teacher. If I am being honest, every effort that I had been putting in, was just a selfish attempt to stretch the conversation a little longer than usual. There was a hint of curiosity in my patience with her words and a fact of attraction that made sure every sentence was settling down in the empty corners of my brain. The attraction sure made the inquisitiveness seem feeble. Love is strange, it can make the most boring conversations sound interesting without an effort, through its invisible & magical lens.

Time passed in its usual hurried manner and the 12th boards results were around before any sense of learning could be incorporated. Not to my surprise, my teacher had failed miserably.

I remember how she liked writing random poems the world would never see. Her keen interest in literature would make a glimmer from a firefly look dim. And Sometimes I feel one of my purposes on this little planet is to live by the unfulfilled dreams of the museum of people I have loved, living through the realities my beloved ones could not place themselves in.

The patriarchal gift she was granted due to her poor performance was a beating by her own father, being locked in a room with her phone snatched away and an imposed ban from stepping outside the house, or maybe cage would be the better term.

For month after the results, I had no clue if she was even alive. I doubt my story would have been any different if she had the privilege to step outside, use her phone and probably call me about her horrible performance. The ending would’ve been the same between us, I suppose.

This incident made me realize something. Patriarchy was not just a concept of conversation; it is perhaps the most real system governing the households that I have dared to step a foot in. Patriarchy is entangled with every pillar of the social hierarchy, secretly pulling threads from above in this play we call ‘society’. It may not be visible in the air, as a threat normally would be, but the threats that aren’t clearly visible are sometimes the most dangerous ones.

When my father arrived in Ahmedabad, he loathed the feel of the air this city had. To this day he thinks the soil of Gujarat is corrupted. The belief stems from an old story narrated across generations, the tale of Shravan Kumar and his parents.

The myth says there was an ideal son, named Shravan whose parents possessed blindness and had no option to survive self-sufficiently, therefore relying on their son for their existence. Carrying high expectations from their son, they demand him a pilgrimage across the country’s sacred spots. Shravan being the religiously devout child, accepts their desire as a blessing & decides to carry them in baskets tied to opposite ends of a bamboo pole, while carrying the carriage on his shoulders. In an altered version of the story narrated by my father, somewhere along their pilgrimage Shravan places his foot besides a huge tree, where he decides to leave his parents in the shade underneath. He gets infuriated by the labor and reveals to his parents that he is tired of carrying them on his shoulders, decides to abandon them and starts walking away in a search for ‘something else’, a meaning/purpose of his life beyond the obligation. All of this was heard by his parents and they were quite devastated. Shravan’s father being a wise man, pleads to his dear son to just carry the bamboo carriage to a place little farther from this huge tree. When the irritated Shravan does so, he regains his senses and starts apologizing for his boorishness. Witnessing his agony, his father consoles him by the sentence:

“It isn't your fault Shravan, the curse lies in the soil itself, it is corrupt and vile to enable this thought process within. Never set foot on this place again”

It is said that the shade of the tree was where the Gujarat borders initiated, and what Shravan’s father did was to convince him to set his foot outside of this corrupted land.

Although I cannot find any reference citing the credibility of this part of Shravan’s story, I now know why my father narrated this altered version of the story to us.

My father assumes the soil of Gujarat was the reason of his fading sense of connection with his parents, Shravan’s altered story was a metaphor in his real one. The ‘something else’ was greed and freedom from responsibilities of being a man.

You can tell a lot about a man by the stories he narrates to himself and the people around him. He never told me about this story being connected to him, but it doesn’t take a scientist’s brain to connect the dots backwards.

However as a child, my interpretation was slight different. The story grabbed the narrative of a striking correlation between Gujarat & my father’s inability to display affection for his parents. But there’s a golden rule to correlated events a child has no clue of; “Correlation does not imply causation”

The causation my father had been lacking was a well-known & long established feature of patriarchy, demanding zero vulnerability and a forceful suppression of any emotions by a man.

At that time Fax and letters were the only reliable means of communication. My father would receive a lot of letters from his family, colleagues and relatives. Perhaps the shift was new, therefore people around him were intrigued, some of them did care enough to keep sending letters until the list confided to a handful of family members and friends. His hometown compared to this city would need a ton of superlatives of urban to be compared fairly enough.

The bits of my father’s story I am able to narrate is the result of all the letters that he had received and kept safely. A lot of them are so perfect, they almost resemble a part of a holy scripture, maybe like the dead sea scrolls. The clean letters are the ones that carry his biggest mistakes and regrets. Perhaps a man keeps a better memo of his mistakes when they are evident enough to change the course of his life in a remarkable way.

The recurring theme across the letters was the same, he had been suppressing whatever that was inside him. He always wrote letter late and a lot of the times he didn’t even respond back.

I grew up envisioning my grandmother as an evil woman with her coarse slivers of grey hair strangling around the grumpy face. The fact that she would not talk with my father concerned me every summer we visited her. She wasn’t a great human being; there were a lot of things she could’ve done better. But the problem with her or I should say her curse was expecting her son to be vulnerable and talk about his problems to her.

The request bled a hypocrisy. A child born in the circumstances of a flickering flame of survival decides to hide the storm within him first, to keep the flame intact, and perhaps to escape the responsibility which lies within. She couldn’t understand the circumstances of the broken home my father had escaped was a contributing factor of his struggle with vulnerability.

The quarrel continued up until November last year, when my grandmother took her last breath in a state where she could not speak to anyone. I witnessed my father cry for the first time. Maybe if the tears would have been shed a little sooner, the grief of not being able to have a last conversation with her mother would’ve been a lot less, perhaps non-existent. Such is the power of imposed beliefs, people die defending ideologies which aren’t even theirs, of which they have no clue of origin and relevance.

Growing up cones with having a lot of realizations. Suddenly not everything is as black and white as it seems to be on the surface. The gray in the middle of this perception is ironically the cleanest version of the truth to exist. It may not be comforting; at times it conflicts internally. Yet the closest we get to a plausible consideration of the blacks and whites respectfully, subsists somewhere amidst the ocean of these gray sentences.

At the core of neglecting vulnerability and emotional expression by patriarchy lies a belief. A stone carved sentence that shouts “men are not supposed to weaken themselves and express”. The reason is quite simple, a man perceived as the backbone, the founding stone of a family is expected to hold on and support his family in tough situations. Maybe this is why crying is seen as an external burden on the man, another force to navigate through while performing his supposed duties. But why can’t a man break down even in front of his family members?

The underlying belief that lies beneath the stoicism of a patriarchal man's philosophy, is the perceived superiority over the female gender. A man cannot break down & be vulnerable because a woman is not perceived as strong enough to be able to handle the household in the absence of a man’s emotional stability, either financially or in an ironic manner, emotionally. Patriarchy assumes that the better the container of emotions, the better is the leader.

“घर में एक मर्द का होना जरूरी है”

If you ask me how often this sentence has been poured down my ears, I would have honestly lost the count. This statement is replayed over and over again, in funerals of a widow’s husband, in divorced households and even in places where the marriages are clearly intact. The belief exists as one of society’s recognition of a home. If there exists no man, the home is a fluke at best. There are no social rules that exist for women in patriarchy, the rules are replaced by obligations and prejudices. In being a man and a woman, the potential room for errors is highly ill-distributed, abiding to society’s forsaken testament is a choice for the male gender but for the women, it is a game never resulting in a respawn. Once a social dilemma is broken, the game restarts for men, I suppose it never does so for the women.

The concept of emotional labor is foreign to patriarchal men, excluding the stoicism, which is an exhausting emotional labor in itself. The onus of navigating through a family's emotional chaos is gifted as a problem to the women. A woman is expected to express in the place of a man, for the gender devoid of basic empathy. The burden of emotions is distributed among the women, with an expectation of a magic that solves the turmoil within men which they cannot even comprehend themselves.

When my mother arrived here in 2002, the damage had already been done. Avoidant, arrogant and a carrier of patriarchy, my father had already sabotaged the relations he had with his relatives and family members. He expected my mom to help him re-establish the connection he had with his family prior to the shift he had. Delusion is a weaker word here, I would say he was infected by madness, probably of the system looming above him.

All of the emotional expression, conversations and confrontations were my father’s task to be navigated through, assigning this role to my mother was not a mistake, it was a belief that seeped deep through him even before marriage; “Women either make or break the house”.

It is funny to me how patriarchy assumes that men are the best bricks of the house, and yet when a house breaks or is inflicted upon damage, the fault suddenly masquerades behind the perceived weaker section of the home, the women. If the bricks were really strong enough, couldn’t they bear the damage for their weaker foundations altogether?

In my father’s context, making a house probably meant fixing the prior relations. I am biased towards my mother and I always will be. She had tried her hardest to hold this chaotic psychopathy induced family together. Sadly, her inevitable failure was expected to arrive. It was like equipping a rocket-scientist with a pair of pliers and expecting him to clear the sewage in the sink. The competence was misaligned.

My constant struggle with vulnerability and emotional expression is majorly contributed to the constituents of patriarchy. Part of how my father pretends to hate me, is my autonomy over my decisions. Patriarchy assumes that the leader is the self-righteous and supreme deciding factor of any decision that partakes in the family’s current condition. Any sort of rebellion or denial is viewed as betrayal and mistrust towards the leader. Homes are complex, and patriarchy fails to understand the complexity of each family member that makes a home a place where someone would wish to live into.

The idea of building a home from scratch has persisted inside me from a long time. More than its locality and constituents, I have romanticized the idea of what would my home feel like. Moreover, what would the family members think of this place. I sometimes ruminate whether my future home will just be a negation of all the barriers and blatant ideologies that persisted in my current one, or would it be completely unique to what I have imagined it to be. Whatever the answer may be, I feel my future home will be a place where laughter wouldn’t be considered a noise, autonomy would be blessed, questioning would always be accepted, emotional expression would be considered natural, expectations and obligations would be left to the door of ambition, and no woman would be considered beneath an ideology. I want the kind of home where my kids can bully me for being wrong in a quarrel with their mother, where I am the first one they run to when they need help or advice. No kid should outsource their vulnerability to strangers they do not know completely. Wanting something and actually achieving lie almost on opposite ends of the spectrum. It will sure require a lot of will and determination, probably huge setbacks in the pursuit of a home so tender. Yet, I am sure it will all be worth it in the end.

I believe that there’s nothing new that I have written about patriarchy here, a lot of the internet has already done a great job at dismantling its harmful features. Nor do I think that I am completely right here, there is a plethora of perspectives and ideologies that I have no clue of. The central idea that I revolved around was a critique of patriarchy from a male lens and my personal experiences of the ideology, and I think I have done a small job here.

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“समाज के नियमों के अनुसार पुरुष पुरुष ही रहता है, भले ही उसकी ज़िंदगी की हर किताब के पन्ने पर पाप के धब्बे ही क्यों न हों। लेकिन वह औरत जो सिर्फ एक बार जवानी के भारी भावनाओं के प्रभाव में या किसी लालच में या किसी पुरुष की जबरदस्ती का शिकार होकर एक पल के लिए अपने रास्ते से हटी, वह औरत नहीं रहती। उसे अपमान और नफरत भरी निगाहों से देखा जाता है। समाज उस पर वे सारे दरवाजे बंद कर देता है जो एक पुरुष के लिए खुले रहते हैं।”

-सादत हसन मंटो (translated from Urdu to Hindi)

वर्षो पहले मैंने मुंशी प्रेमचंद की लघुकथा ‘बड़े घर की बेटी ‘ पढ़ी थी। प्रेमचंद की उन कहानियों को मैं किसी धार्मिक ग्रन्थ समान अपने ह्रदय में समा कर रखता था। अंग्रेजी में हाथ थोड़ा तंग था और आदत अभी बानी नहीं थी, शायद इसीलिए मेरी मातृभाषा में बने शब्दों के उस संजोग ने मुझ पर गहरा प्रभाव किया था। कहानियां ज्यादातर दिमाग मैं आश्रय तब लेती है जब उसके किरदार आपकी आंतरिक विचारधारा को नुमाया या अचंभित करदे, ह्रदय रूपी किताब पर एक ऐसा प्रकाश डाले जिससे उसमे लिखित सारी घटनाए उत्तेजित होजाए। एक कहानी के किरदारों के बिच अक्सर मैं कहानी के बजाय अपने आप को ढूंढता हूँ, शायद इसीलिए मेरी पसंदीदा कहानियो में मेरी पीड़ा और जिज्ञासा की एक सूक्ष्म छवि दिखती है।

अगर में अपनी दृष्टि से लेखक का बनावटी पर्दा हटा कर नज़र डालूं , तो मुझे ‘बड़े घर की बेटी’ में अपनी माँ की धुंधली परछाई नज़र आती है। केवल ४ पन्नों में बसी इस कहानी का तात्पर्य यह है की ‘एक बड़े घर की बेटी सब संभाल लेती है’। मेरी माँ का घर बड़ा नहीं है। लेकिन अगर किसी घर के कढ से उसकी महानता मापी जाए तो एक मिट्टी के टीले में पल रहे, प्यार से भरे परिवार की ऊंचाई को और एक आलीशान महल के निवासी दैत्य प्रवत्ति के मनुष्यो के अकुशल व्यव्हार को, बोहोत चालाकी से नज़र अंदाज़ किया जा रहा है।

मुझे लगता है प्रेमचंद की परिभाषा में एक बड़ा घर वह होता है जिसकी प्रचलित विचारधारा इस दिखावटी दोगले समाज की असभ्यता से प्रभावित न हो। एक ऐसा घर जो अपने उसूलो का पुजारी न हो। यकिनंद मेरी माँ का घर प्रेमचंद की परिभाषा अनुसार काफी विशाल था। लेकिन पितृसत्ता समाज का वह अमर कीड़ा है जिसको मार ख़तम करने की दवाई का इस देश में निर्माण अभी पर्याप्त मात्रा में नहीं हुआ है। समाज के इस जाल में मेरी माँ ऐसे फसी जैसे एक सुनहरी मछली किसी खूंखार मछुआरे के जाल से अचंभित ही गयी हो।

इस संक्षेप को लिखते समय मैंने यह निर्णय लिया था की समाज की बुराई और मेरे माँ के सपनो और मीठी बातों को अलग अलग बिखेर के प्रस्तावित करुँ, लेकिन यह समाज के काले धब्बे मेरी माँ की हर एक चमकती साड़ी पे चिपके हुए है, कभी कभी तो मुझे लगता है क्या मेरी माँ की साड़ी में कुछ चमक बची भी है? या फिर इन काले धब्बो ने वो कर दिखाया जो ये समाज हर महिला से चाहता है, एक महिला के अस्तित्व का घुटना, तड़पना और आत्म समर्पण करदेना?

में खुदको लेखक मानु या नहीं लेकिन एक पुत्र जरूर मानता हूँ, और शायद यह ही मेरे जीवन की आपदा है की में अपनी माँ से केवल एक रिश्ते से बंधा हुआ हूँ। अपनी माँ को मैंने उनकी साड़ी, रोटी और सिन्दूर से परे जानने की कोशिश की तब पता चला की मेरे अंदर पल रहे साहित्य की इस रूचि के पीछे एक बोहोत बड़ा बलिदान है। मुझे इस बात का दुःख है की मैं कभी अपनी माँ को उनके रिश्ते के परे नहीं जान पाउँगा, मैं उनका मित्र होने का ढोंग कर सकता हूँ लेकिन उस मित्रता से जुडी जवानी को मैं वापस नहीं ला सकता। बनने को में उनका अंग्रेजी अध्यापक बन सकता हूँ लेकिन उस समय से बंधी रसोई को मैं उनके दिमाग से नहीं निकल सकता। बनने को कितना कुछ है इस दुनिया में लेकिन जब परिवार की परछाई किसी महिला के पीछे पद जाए, तो उन सपनो पे ये समाज एक अल्पविराम लगा देता है। एक महिला को केवल घर की चार दीवारों में घेर कर रखने को, उसके जीवन का उद्देश्य समझने वाले समाज को में पूरी तरह से नकारता हूँ।

मेरी माँ को भी कोई पकवान ज्यादा पसंद होगा, वो भी किसी किताब के बारे में सोचती होगी, किसी जगह से उनके दिल की तारें उलझी होंगी और शायद किसी साड़ी की चमक को भी वो उसके धब्बो के बावजूद निहारती होगी। जितना हो सके इस पितृसत्ता जैसी विनाशकारी विचार धारा से दूर रहने की मैं कोशिश करता हूँ, लेकिन में कोई भगवन नहीं। मुझसे भी गलतियां होती है, में भी अपनी माँ पर कभी थोड़ा ज्यादा चिल्ला दिया करता हूँ, कभी उनकी बातों को अनसुना करदिया करता हूँ, परन्तु इस समाज और सत्ता के प्रति मेरी घृणा इस मुकाम पर पहोच चुकी है, की मैं अपनी गलतियों को आज कल होने से पहले पहचान लेता हूँ। मुझे कभी कभी खुद के व्यव्हार से चीड़ सी होने लगी है, क्यूंकि ये पितृसत्ता का बीज मेरे अंदर आज से नहीं बल्कि जबसे मेरे कान सुनने लायक बड़े से हुए है, तबसे बोया गया है।

मैं मानता हूँ की मेरी माँ का पुत्र होना मेरे लिए किसी भी प्रभु के वरदान से सर्वोच्च है। लेकिन यदि रास्तें में चलते प्रभु मिलगये तो में उनसे पूछूंगा की नारी का जीवन इतना कठिन बनाने से वह उनसे किस पाप का प्राश्चात्यताप करवा रहे है। क्या एक प्रभु इतना स्वार्थी है की अपनी उपासना अर्थात वो मनुष्यो को पीड़ा के अनिवार्य चक्रव्यूह में फसा दें?

मुझे तो इसका उत्तर नहीं पता, क्योंकि में तो प्रभु को नहीं मानता, किसी दिन मेरी माँ से चर्चा हुई तो अगले संक्षेप में इस विचार पर और प्रकाश डालूंगा।

मैं सभ्यता और समाज की चोली क्या उतारूँगा जो पहले से ही नंगी है। मैं उसे कपड़े पहनाने की कोशिश भी नहीं करता, क्योंकि यह मेरा काम नहीं, दरज़ियों का है।

-सादत हसन मंटो (translated from Urdu to Hindi)

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Genesis 1:3 || Emerald tablet

Fiat Lux || Sic mundus creatus est

And God said let there be light || So the world was created. A single blink, perhaps way infinitesimal than the flip of a pair of eyelashes, created the stars, the crimsons inside beings, and probably the tomb of his devotion. A creator creating a crater to credant1. As above so below, he exists in the zeniths of his negligence and the nadirs2 of his veneration.

God’s light reaches the cries of a war-orphaned kid and the greed of an obedient priest. Light is how he propagates, through the glints of fireflies till the dark matters of the cosmos. Yet his light is selfish, it only illuminates the ones pleased from his wrath, his children drenched in darknesses are opaque.

God does not care for your objection of his luminescence, for any creation carrying disobedience in his divine flash does not exist || ceases to exist. God despises the sailors of braille; his light cannot swim past their sinful irises. There exists a shadow in the blind, far beyond their darkness, a shadow of disbelief. How can a blind man reject the grace of God’s black light?

He shouldn’t try to befriend God’s light, for the light, has rejected him. He should not fight back. To reject is to sin, to embrace is to enlighten. A rebel without his radiance is no better than the faithful blinded by his prejudice, by his wrathful light, God loathes them equally.

How grateful it is to surrender, God’s suffering must be taken with a gratification, suffering is a gift of the divine, hence God loved Emil Cioran3, God wanted to make an idol of him.

I. The Story:

It all starts with a story, and once in a while with the end of one. Mine was the latter.

- अंतः अस्ति प्रारंभः -

The end is the beginning. The beginning is the end. A subtle loop underlying in the events that cascade the stream of consciousness. One dies, the other resurrects. One decays, the other blooms. Death, life, loop, back to square one. All of it vanishes with an end in sight, yet the end rarely leaves with a sense of satisfaction. It looms, estranged with the events of the present, and the future. Fairy tales, murder mysteries and tales of holy valor, stories have an end, life doesn’t, or probably it does. We call it death, a word that haunts artists, or probably fascinates them to search for it beyond life.

My 16-year-old self watching Asur was embarked on a philosophical journey of his own. It fascinates me how my questions have kept me alive more than the answers, they acted as if they complete them. An answer arrives with a certainty, sharp & precise, sometimes dishonest. A question is like a dent on an old car, a temporary fix might make it less visible, yet it leaves its mark with a painstaking depiction of the unknown. They do not carry an address, yet they reveal a path to be treaded. Humans reward certainty, but the universe admires the ambiguous. Questions are dents on the old car of our universe, flashy spots to allure the curious minds into a journey, one without a final destination.

If the end is the beginning, what is the end of the end?

This question opened a gate, perhaps an imaginary one. Or perhaps one that would save me later. Wisdom rarely arrives with a notice in sight, it stays in the lines that were read without caution, movie scenes left unrecognized and sights that were too obvious to notice. The subtle art of noticing, or witnessing something twice, once in reality and later in retrospect. Maybe wisdom never demanded a mastery of a kind, it demanded companionship. To stay without a reason, and to observe despite a conclusion.

4 June 2024, The result date of Jee Advanced.

Three years of preparation, decided by a single flash of random numbers displayed on an LED screen. A rank. As if the ones who weren’t ranked were inhumane and had their identity surrendered and wrapped behind a number. Mathematics was destined to save humanity, not end it with a mere representation of itself. Though Irony has its tastes, some sweet, some comical and others deep in blood.

The rank list cut off was 108 marks, I scored 107. That damn chemistry question, I wanted to curse it from my bones. After years of monotonous effort, I wasn’t even in the official rank-list, qualifying was a story of an alternate universe. The wound cut deep, it made me question everything that might be the reason of this calamity. Late night study sessions, movies abandoned, days spent without a sight of a human conversation felt feeble, what’s the point?

I expected life to scream the lesson at me, or at least make it a little more visible, yet it didn’t. Life stood there, patiently, without a noise, watching me wave and punch my hands in the air of this grief, I was trying to grasp something that might justify the agony. If there existed a point of this descent it had to be a grand one. Something large enough to topple me of my prideful false peak I thought I had surmounted. As cautiously as I could notice, there was no peak, no force to push me down, no lesson, no vision and more importantly no evident point. If something was real it was me, my blank computer screen and a couple of anxious breaths. Did I blank the screen, or did it blank me? I think the answer was quite clear.

The following days were expected to calm down the experience, make it a lot more grounded and feasible. But expectations never carry an obligation to be fulfilled, they make the uncertainty of life seem a little less powerful. We live through our expectations before we live in reality, perhaps that is why we reside in them, to taste life before it is actually served. When we expect, a path is chosen out of a mix of naivety and curiosity, one that discards the prowess of probabilities. They are sweet, promising and sometimes delusional, yet most of them are hardly real. I had accepted that after what was about to follow.

My marks in JEE Mains (the exam that precedes JEE advanced) provided me the privilege of getting a seat in India’s top NIT, NIT Trichy. That privilege carried a contentment, an alternate plan when life forces you to kneel down and pray. But That’s when the second plane hit the towers.

Counseling issues, credentials mismatch and finally my boards result falling short off a mark. The privilege I seemed to have got snatched away the very moment I could grasp it. Until the damage had been done, it felt like this was the point of the prior misfortune. Life does not owe you a meaning or an explanation; it is something we build out of what happens around us. Every small crack, every brick laid and every monument collapsed collectively build a floating sense of what life means in that instant. Meaning is instantaneous; survival is eternal, up until death turns the bricks down into the pieces of sand, their natural scattered state. And I surely felt like one of those bricks, the problem being I was still breathing, maybe that was my sign to keep going. The tiniest bits of hope can carry me to places deemed unfathomable to visit. I am a Sailor of hope, and I flow the best through seas of despair.

At moments when the external world gets too heavy and blurry to sustain, humans default back to their natural probable state. A breath feels no short than a prayer, and a step feels no less than a triumph and that is how advancing through a raging storm feels like. Days felt like a victory of survival and a defeat of dreams at once, a ferocious juxtaposition. With every revolution of the clock striking past 12, my dream was been taken away at a hauntingly slow pace.

When living feels a burden, time slows down to make sure the sack hurts a little more than the previous day. The onus turns to the ruthlessness of existence rather than its exalting beauty. Something in me was still throbbing, maybe my heart or maybe just a flicker of hope. They say, ‘Real life is often stranger than fiction’ and I had the felt the gravity of that statement quite closely.

The whole stream of events felt like a huge domino pile rolling over one another, with every succeeding domino carrying an even greater plot twist to unfold. I lacked the bravery to analyze the situation from an external perspective; hence even if something good or less worse did happen, it would not register on my radius. My mother saw it probably better than anyone else, it is a mother’s curious talent to recognize the words of her child, even when they are not spoken.

“Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is ask for help”

And I surely did, I wrapped myself around her lap and cried probably more than an infant would. That place was my refuge from whatever the external world had been throwing over at me. She kept her hands on my cheeks and told me something I would never forget:

बेटा तेरी मेहनत कभी व्यर्थ नहीं जाएगी, भगवान के रास्ते पर भरोसा रख!!

Son, your hard work will never go in vain; trust in God's path!

The statement almost feels like the assurance given to a needy child who wants everything and is rolling down crying on the floor. No amount of sweetness would make the child feel that his greed is immoral or at times unnecessary. Yet, at times the child is left alone to understand that every desire is not to be fulfilled. Failure is inevitable; hence wisdom attacks it first or God does too.

God’s Path, God’s Plan.

An act of envisioning and foretelling, arranging things as probable becomes embedded, destined and inevitable as soon as an omnipotent being prefixes its existence. The words ‘God’s Plan’ carry a defeat, both comforting and devastating. These words can be muttered to generate a flash of hope and to create a gutter of despair. Fate, destiny, Niyati. The Synonyms exist as a reminder to humanity; god’s plan is the epitome of defeat. Whatever you love, hate, eat, and see all of it is decided. It almost feels unfair; the death of determinism arrives with the presence of a single divine sentence, carved into every step you take and even the ones you didn’t.

My favorite depiction of god’s plan comes from the Marvel show Daredevil. Matt Murdock is a blind lawyer who understands justice tastes better when the cook is someone you know. And such is the tragedy of being self-aware is that you know yourself better than anyone. So, he takes justice in his own hands and starts being a vigilante hunting down criminals at night, altering the lives and judgement of the sinners. That’s when he gets to witness the wrath of destiny.

Several times during the show he almost dies, most of the fights he takes up end up being disastrous, almost all of them result to nothing. Dismantled, defeated and depressed, he arrives at the church where he meets his long-lost mother. When his mother asks him how he cannot hate God and her for what they did to him, to which he replies:

God’s plan is like a beautiful tapestry, and the tragedy of being human is we only get to see it from the back. With all the ragged threads and the muddy colors. And we only get a hint at the true beauty that would be revealed if we could see the whole pattern on the other side…… as God does.

Matt Murdock, Daredevil S3 E13

The underlying story in this context is the story of Job, God’s greatest disciple4. Believing in his child God tests Job’s faith by allowing Satan to inflict him with every possible suffering deemed to exist. Yet Job doesn’t flinch and his faith in God remains intact. Job’s story exists as a reminder, and as a lesson: ○ God’s plan is your ultimate destiny, and it always turns out to be beautiful at the end ○

The dialogue and the story are beautiful, but there’s a catch, I never liked them.

The opening paragraph of this essay is written as an alternate version of Matt Murdock, who questions god beyond his limestone testaments. I bet Matt Murdock would ever write that, but I know Charlie Cox definitely would.

II. The Revolt:

I have always been at opposing of God’s plan. The idea of an unknown being deciding my actions never really appealed to me. As long as my memory stretches, I have been a revolt to whatever people wanted and expected out of me. Not in a rude and unapologetic way, rather more in the ‘I want to do this and no one cannot stop me’ way. My teachers said I was not an athletic kid, I proved them wrong. Jayesh sir said my physics sucks, I proved him wrong. A relative once said I was too unhealthy to complete a trek, I proved him wrong too. You get the gist.

• But if disapproving God’s plan lies in the reaction of unfavorable circumstances, isn’t God responsible for those circumstances as well?

• So does that mean even your rebellion lies at the hands of God, then where’s your authority in your own life?

Life had taken a pause as these questions stared back at me through my journal. I had been living a never ending game of cause, effect and rebellion with no realization of this game autonomously driving me forward. The game was more alive than I ever was.

One stone rolled after another, and I ended up being in a college in Indore which I despised more than anything. It truly was a blessing, living somewhere devoid of your parent’s existence, a dream for many people. Whether it is a dream or a blessing, no matter how marvelous it is, they will only appeal to the people aligned with them. Misalignment of a blessing is a blasphemy, one that even God would negate, if he existed.

Living someone else’s dream is equivalent of a curse. Every small step feels an inescapable thorn, and when the rose is not the one you demanded, the thorns sting a little deeper than they normally would. That’s how it felt; being in a college I never wanted to be in, pursuing a course that I would never lay an eye on. When the plans are not yours, it doesn’t matter how well they go, a small mistake becomes an avalanche, every win no matter how big or small is an obligation to survival, the dopamine arrives on days when you leave everything behind and stop moving all around.

During December’ 24, my birthday month, I decided that things cannot go on as they are currently rolling. The dread of reaching 20 and having no clue what I like about myself and what excites me to wake up every single day was brutal, and probably that was the final push that enabled me to contemplate my decisions and think for myself. Saying no to things we desperately wanted once is one of the most courageous things to exist5. So, I gathered that courage and decided that I would quit my college next year, the decision stretched out till May’ 25, but the seed was planted on my birthday eve.

At the premise of my hunt to find out what I liked doing, there were blurry flashes of my younger self preparing long English essays, noting down lyrics of English songs and trying to break them down with a dictionary, reading Prem Chand’s short stories repeatedly because English was too hard to read, a proud brother who secretly wrote an English poem for his younger sister’s recitation, and a small kid who was too stubborn to buy books from the overpriced Scholastic book fair that occurred every year in my school. I had always by fascinated by words long before I even knew what fascination was. As 10^th standard arrived, the interest in literature and the prowess of words became a foreign concept as people around me labeled it as ‘practically useless’.

Whenever I expressed an interest in literature, “You want to write a book?” was the question everyone attacked me with a shocking frowning face that screams doubt, disgust and dissatisfaction. Yet it took one man and a book to dethrone the kingdoms of destiny that had been long accepted around the world, Charles dickens with Christmas carol, Carl Sagan with Pale Blue Dot, Prem Chand with Godaan and Karl Marx with The Communist Manifesto.

When the responsibility arrives at the hands of words and books, all of future is repeated history. Several authors would be born, and they would write stories that may never reach the grace of a sunrise, some of them would be crowned, other critiqued and disrespected. Yet at any instance in the future, there shall always be a man who dips himself in ink, covers himself with the worlds’ filth, speaks a language that no one understands yet and drowns his fingers in a paresthesia of an unspoken veracity, while he writes a script the world would follow for generations to come. The best scripts turn into the most impacting movies, also causing the most nuisances. No matter the language, words have been burning the worlds that were blindly venerated and enlightening the masses of a vision beyond their dogmatic periphery, they have struck melodies in the hearts of the deaf, prejudices in the royalty of the crowned and breaths into the lungs of the deceased.

Between 10^th, boards and JEE, my relationship with words was constrained to a syllabus, with their boring inaccurate interpretations. In January’ 25 I decided I would return to my Roman empire, and I would start writing again as I did before the world kept asking me to perform for an audience that doesn’t exist, I was as stuck as free thinker in a totalitarian society.

Ram Dhari Singh Dinkar had a vision when he wrote,

एक भेद है और वहां निर्भय होते नर -नारी, कलम उगलती आग, जहाँ अक्षर बनते चिंगारी

And that’s how my fire was born.

A spark, a desire to burn down the world and resurrect myself from the traces of my dusty pyre. When everything around you is burning, it’s better to surrender yourself to the warmth, sometimes the fire is not there to burn and decimate, but rather to guide you to a path that would rather have been neglected without a threatening sense of death. A neglected path always lies at the end of an inescapable fire; one you would have never considered setting your foot on. The fire is a signal to pull yourself back up and brace for the unknown impact this route would have.

Words were my path; hence I lift my pen and started jolting down whatever came to my mind, for the first time I had been doing something neither out of revenge nor out of hatred. The only desire that underlay my immense writing efforts was to establish the connection with words I had prior to all the detours of my destiny. Yet destiny and the universe always have their ways to teach. The announcement was grand, but the execution was a different story in itself.

The return to writing was brutal. I felt like a king dethroned from his kingdom by an invisible force, just to be reinstated with no memory and glory of the past. My power was within my reach, yet I could not grasp it sensibly. Lord Hanuman on Mount Mahendra Giri, Agathocles in the red stones of Syracuse and Theseus on his ship at the shore of Phaleron, warriors whose stories portray that no amount of competence carries permanent self-belief. Even when I knew I can write, the words that hit the paper whispered a different melody.

Thoughts didn’t flow and words didn’t breathe so easily. Writing was my rebellion, my revolt towards whatever destiny had pushed me into, yet I felt at the backseat of the revolt waving flags and possibly embracing the least resistance. I was supposed to be the warrior upfront, breaking through the barricades, shouting and gasping for an ounce of breath, but I didn’t. My words had betrayed me, writing simple sentences were a task, prose and poem felt like a distant unreachable star.

Starting with basic account of the day was obvious, I started collecting quotes from the people I liked and stored them in my journal to think about later. Writing to me is like sculpting a marble figure. A sculptor starts with a huge piece of marble, he first uses a hammer to separate out large chunks of the stone, then slowly and carefully he chisels his way down to the descriptive picture of the complete idol he had prior to the first blow. I am a sculptor of words; it takes me a large amount of words to boil down the storm inside me, later after a while of critiquing and introspection, I carve out the desired structure out of every thought which survived this massacre. Being a great writer is something I will take my pedal off to think about, but I want to be one of the best sculptors out there.

There’s nastiness in a man announcing his dream to the world, for instance most people do not agree with his ambition and from the ones who do, they would never be enlightened by the vision he has, it’s quite a lonely path and also a beautiful one. Once someone finds what they want to do, death is the only thing that would stop them from laying out their dent on this universe. There’s a very unlikely and selfish feeling of discovering what you were born to do, your rebellion of the absurd. I’ve had this feeling twice. First when I picked up the old Canon camera at my mama’s wedding and second when I carved my pen to write in January’ 25. My words feel short to explain the gargantuan shift this event has; it’s very exciting and disheartening at the same time. The hit of this strange feeling makes you realize that there are not many things that will entertain and add meaning to your life; and most of them will never even come close to the ones you feel the most aligned with.

(sigh, me and my off-topic discussion)

During February last year, journaling was the only thing I looked forward to during the day. I remember one of the lines I had written that still stings my ears:

“A man’s words must save himself first before they reach anyone else”

And I live by that statement every day, there’s nothing that could’ve saved me except my desire to write. Every desire is not meant to be fulfilled, yet some of them must be fulfilled first to mean something later.

I had wanted to write about destiny ever since September when I first started posting on . If I flip through my journals there would be scattered drafts on the same. The wait had a reason; perhaps even destiny wanted me to express it with a better grip of the words I had been worshipping. God’s plan has come into existence due to another of my ruthless journal entries, resulting in questions that defy any normal level of interrogation.

• What if all of that happened prior to January’ 25 was a part of destiny itself, to push you towards the things that matter, to make you discover writing?

This time the pause was long. If this had been a grand scheme of events with the ulterior motive of nudging me towards writing, then I hate to say it, destiny had succeeded. Every loss would add to the scoreboard of my increasing passion. So, the question that arrives now is a really uncomfortable one:

• Can we really change our destiny, or is it a lifelong sentence, a cosmic tryst that arrives uninvited?

The good old debate of determinism and free will hides behind this presentation of destiny and change. The answer can wait, but theories are a different breed, they speak the loudest when there’s a load of uncertainty lurking. Such is the next part, the theory that tries to explain destiny and change in terms of perhaps what the universe has shaped itself from: heat and entropy.

III. Heat/Entropy/Destiny/Rebels:

The universe bloomed with a Bang, the Big Bang, whatever that happened prior to the Bang lies in the realms of ambiguity; however there exists a vague idea of its consequences and reasons. The universe started as a ball of low entropy, a far less intertwined state as it exists in the present. Entropy can be defined as the tendency of heat to spread out or simply as the measure of disorder in any system. The universe was a dense ball of heat, low in entropy and complexity, high in energy and in a time even quite immeasurable currently, the ball exploded, spreading out its heat, the atoms it had kept under its cosmic circumference, and the light that was trapped inside, perhaps by a being that snapped its fingers to commence the cosmic belt that exists in the present.

The most compelling truth of the universe as long as it has been throbbing, emitting heat and radiation, generating stars, announcing planetary collisions, illuminating black holes and sustaining life; perhaps lies in a single sentence, the second law of thermodynamics, which is simplified as:

|| The total entropy of the universe must increase in any possible scenario6

The universe and entropy are a loyal husband-wife duo bound by the vows to help each other prosper. Entropy is what helped universe expand to form the stars, planets, our countries and the ice creams we spill. Our universe helps entropy spread further. If we assume the current entropy of the current universe as 100, the entropy it had at the time of Big Bang was approx. 0.000000000000003. The spread of heat is cosmically huge and perhaps one of the reasons life exists is a tryst that had been planned even before our planet’s rocks formed.

There’s a theory that suggests Life as a chemical/thermodynamic process exists to increase the overall entropy of the universe. Any form of life is the most efficient dissipator of energy, thus accelerating the conversion of the amount of total free energy available into unusable high entropy packets i.e., increasing the overall entropy of the cosmos.

If life exists to serve the universe of its existential vow, the cards have been turned against us and probably even placed on our table before we took our first breaths. The case of Humans is the most exciting one, not only are we complex engines of increasing entropy, but we also contain a share of what the universe has probably been discovered to have just recently, consciousness.

The second law of thermodynamics is a probabilistic law and not a deterministic one. There’s an extremely high probability of what the law predicts to happen, will happen, nonetheless. Yet there exists a slight anomaly, a slight rebellion, so infinitesimal that it becomes almost improbable at larger scales.

Any heat must flow from a hotter region to a relatively colder one, yet there are small nasty packets of heat, legitimately improbable and highly unfavorable, which travel opposite to its conventional direction, from cold to hot.

The claim sounds bizarre. How can heat travel from cold to hot temperature? Wouldn’t that violate the second law of thermodynamics?

Yes, this heat kind of revolts against the cosmos’s long proven law. Yet the magnitude is so microscopic that the probability of such an event happening at the large scale is effectively zero.

In the above setup, heat should flow from the left bar to the right one, however for just a flicker of time the heat flows from the cold to hot region. The probability of all such rebel maneuvers in this case for 8 atoms per bar is approx. 10.5%. Which is pretty small in itself, real life structures include about a 100 trillion trillion atoms, so the heat revolt becomes so irrelevant and improbable that its occurrence is highly neglected. I was looking down on this data and that’s when I came up with this.

⭐THE GOLDEN PATH⭐

Every human that has ever lived, will ever live and the ones currently breathing are all small nasty packets of heat, irrelevant to the universe, improbable to conventional heat flow. When compared to the Universe’s toll on time, a human gets born, finds his job, marries and dies in perhaps even less than a blink. In this small inevitable piece of history, humans rebel against the greatest law that governs the universe, the law of increasing entropy.

You are currently reversing entropy, breathing, moving and until you do so you would be the most efficient consumers of free energy out there.

When a human is born, the path is laid out, it is perhaps one of the most prominent things that the universe gifts our existence with, a cosmic tryst. The universe does so to gain control over its atoms. humans being conscious try to obstruct the natural flow of heat, the gigantic spread of entropy, by trying to change their destiny. Such is the wrath and inevitability of the universe that it cherishes us with its stardust and snaps our will to use its shine in an instant.

With every rebel, every momentary decision to turn down the path of destiny, a human is reborn, in a new path, a new improbable state, or perhaps in a new rebellion towards cosmos’s gifted destiny.

The tragedy of my theory is sweet yet grievous. No human would ever know they have trod their foot on THE GOLDEN PATH. Perhaps every rebellion lies in the way of the golden path or just puts a human a lot closer to our natural and probable flow of heat.

The universe is a large heat machine, and we humans are the nuisances trying to obstruct its natural flow.

The universe punishes our silly acts of rebellion by shaping our destiny, our golden path in ways we cannot predict. The deal seems unfair at a personal level, why do we have to rely on a universe that is almost empty and probably has no life otherwise. Yet when we zoom out far enough, all the people we know, the dreams we have, the wars we fight and the meanings we derive out of life, all of them are constrained, quarrelling and co-existing in this pale blue dot we call our home, our planet Earth.

Humans are just another blink of time in this stream of intergalactic matter and the formations it has had until now. The universe is cruel, yet it has provided us with unimaginable beauty.

In the far distant loop of time, when all of the matter would have existed, all of the planets would have collided, the energy of the universe would be so spread out that there will be no flow of heat at all. The universe would stand still and the concept of time would cease to exist. This, is called the heat death of the universe. When this would happen the entropy or disorder would be the maximum.

When humans are born, they are simple, playful beings, we move on our lives doing the most monotonous tasks, this simplicity comes back pretty late at the verge of our death bed or perhaps our final years on this planet.

In a very beautiful manner, entropy is quite similar. When the universe was born, it had exceedingly low entropy and also low complexity. For the day its inevitable end arrives, it will be in a case of extremely high entropy, this time with a very little sense of complexity. Both low and high entropy are low in complexity, the magic happens in the between.

It’s in the middle of this inescapable loop where humans venture, fight, carry dismay and seek meaning in their lives & the universe governs planetary motions, the flow of heat and the stars that blink in the moonlight. We are here for a very small amount of time, our universe does not dislike rebellion, it probably dislikes our superiority over it, humans thinking that they matter on this small ball of rock and molten lava.

Let’s appreciate our planet and our universe while we are here and probably let’s be the best rebels of entropy out there, outshining the stars, shaming the huge planets and making Gamma-ray emissions seem weak in front of our grit and quest for a better and beautiful life.

Let’s use our ends to dictate us further because the end is always the beginning, perhaps of something even more beautiful…

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Cover art by the Talented Artist :))

Thank you so much who have made this far, it’s a pleasure to interact with all of you and also read your responses to my work. God’s plan is my reminder to take my dreams even more seriously and to put myself in more uncomfortable positions of growth and learnings.

This post is mainly inspired by two things, first is the YouTube video Veritasium put out which explains entropy, I would highly recommend y’all to check this out.

And second is the post The Art of Eating Alone by Abhishek Singh

I got the idea of that cartoon of Destiny while I was rereading his post, he’s a phenomenal writer do check him out as well :))

I have decided to name this publication अतिशय or ATISHAY, the name implies being extremely patient and I think that is someone I aspire to be every day. Do tell me what you think about this.

If you liked this post, consider sharing it with an avid or curious reader as you, it would bring a smile to my face, thank you so much :)

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2

The point on the celestial sphere directly below an observer. Opposite of zenith.

6

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“I am nothing special; just a common man with common thoughts, and I’ve led a common life. There are no monuments dedicated to me and my name will soon be forgotten. But in one respect I have succeeded as gloriously as anyone who’s ever lived: I’ve loved another with all my heart and soul; and to me, this has always been enough.”

The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks

Hello, how are you doing?
Could you spare a moment, I just want to confess something.
It's been a long cold year
of that day in March, or the one in February

Some days I'm happy, and other I lose to an adversary.
My antagonist, my shadow.

Would you believe I started writing again?

My shadow wants to speak, it still bleeds your remembrance
Not me, I'm Certain.
What I bleed is your name
In bruises, In breezes,
In the way my friends ignore my laughter
& in the light that escapes my purple curtain.

A Greek light follows me every night,
a tragedy, a despair
a tale in its hindsight.

The purple curtains of my self-imposed attic hug each other at the end
Those purples never meet dear; they carry a curse.
A small light leaks off their middle
whether it's a glint, a gleam or a slap?
I cannot comprehend

That hug reminds me of you, the sunsets we could've been.
Almost certainly, in rains of endless agony
why do we remember a cosmic being?

Do you remember Macbeth and my devotion of its tragedy?

A bang created the light, carving your red cheeks
and the wrath of your hazel eyes

Love is remembrance
Love is presence
Love is nonsense

All love demands is a sacrifice
Let me tell you dear, I am no saint
I'm a thief of memories, of intimate moments shared
I snatched them all away from you,
to free you off my disdain.

Do you remember the bougainvillea stuck in the back of my maroon hoodie?

Names carry a weight, especially in my country.
Shakespeare would never understand how a groped corpse carries two names
But the sinner not even carries one

A name blessed with a long life,
another one who brings delight.
In another life, beyond God's light,
would they still be as deeply intertwined?

Names foretell destiny,
they sometimes challenge it
Whenever a name is erased, 
it is etched somewhere else.

In hearts forgetting love
In plants forgetting the sun
In woods forgetting a warmth,
and in hands forgetting a touch

I still remember that day in January.
When things seemed to be okay,
or as I interpreted them to be.

You said poetry loses its essence in a structure
so I write this without one.
Some errors, some rhymes 
& a humiliating desire to be your raging sun.

Do you remember I once told you to read ‘White nights’?

I have stopped wearing that maroon hoodie,
your favorite thanks.
That despondence now belongs to my sister,
she wears it occasionally, sometimes with a jacket.
A memory is printed at its back,
your hug, your shawl
and your carefully placed hands.

I envy your blue activa,
it only comforted me twice.
College road, river talks
ice-cream walks, hoodie swaps.
I remember all of it, with excruciating detail.
My curse is remembrance, 
your blessing is my absence.

Sometimes I scratch my head,
trying to recall the moments I had failed
Was I that hard to love?

Did my love carry a blasphemy making you insecure of your devotion?
An agnostic and a devout,
was that even a compatible duo?

My trail must exist within you,
buried under your negligence.
Some say love alters you deep within, 
carving a path of an inescapable presence.
But rather do they know how love forgets
the bushes you tread
the people you hate, 
& the indifferences you project.

I can never hate you
It's a weakness I do not regret.
For once I tried to be someone worthy enough, 
and I guess there lies the answers to my regret
The one I had been seeking since that day of despair.
since February,
beyond March
In a light that I would never forget.

In that cold afternoon of January, I felt as if the world did not exist beyond us two. Your odd lit blue activa, your red Kurti and the neatly mismanaged hair felt as if they all belonged to me, as if they were obliged to exist beyond your will. When that vanilla cone did fall over our plate, why did we laugh dear? Wasn’t it a waste? We laughed because the world did not matter beyond us two, some days it hits me of how perfectly imperfect I was with you. No one had ever accepted me as you did, my truest authentic self will be buried deep with you, in that grave I dug on 4 February. Sometimes I think did I bury you deep enough that ruthless February night?

I will always be a sinner, a mistake to be absent at your worst. No judgement would entail my sins of your negligence, you were there right in front of me, bleeding with a carving on your chest. Unfortunately, you would never be comforted by my words; a knife does not scrape a wound off a deceased.

Stereo hearts. I have stopped listening that song for reasons quite obvious. It was something you clanged onto when life deemed you more worthy than you are, your moments of ecstasy. I have forgotten some of the songs and movies I liked before meeting you, and that is what pierces me deep on a random February night like this. There existed someone in me who had not been built at the foundations of you, he had songs to share, movies he liked and random photos of clouds to display. Every time I see a cloud, I am prompted to take a picture, then in almost an instant I realize why I did start doing so in the first place. I love clouds, but I hate to say that I have stopped liking them clicked. Every cloud is a reminder, it makes me realize how much I had forgotten of myself just to make space for you, for your oak trees, and the songs you told me you liked more than me.

Would you unlearn parts of you deep ingrained in yourself just to make space and fill it with me and my interests, my ways of loving, and my spooky laugh?

Would you remain intact and calm when everything around you is breaking apart, when your legs seem weightless and the winds speak a language which is forgotten, and still, still when I need you, would you care to give me a shoulder?

I know you wouldn’t and there lies my descent. The gap wasn’t suddenly evident; it existed long before the lament. Somewhere along the line, I realized that I could not be living like this. How long does a hand shelter a flame, when there’s nothing left to burn rather than the palms it carried?

I have a strange calling to oak trees, and I surely believe the reason is you. I cling to them as an old dying vine would. There also exists a vine inside me, with every breath I take the vine grows. It almost steals me of my life, a perfect transmutation. Alchemy has its regrets, but I am sure my vine doesn’t. It lasts, expands and fills itself for the day I will be buried. My vine would burst, into a beautiful tree, probably an oak, a birch, a maple or maybe your favorite flower a bougainvillea. No matter who I turn into, the leaves that my tree wilts would seek of your name, they would die searching for their meaning to exist, but I will be gone dear and I hate that you will be too. In another life, my vine would be snatched, burnt and broken away, by a small flicker of love, by your blue activa, by you. For it would be a thorn to the rose of your existence. My beautiful vine would not exist, and I would not be cursed. You would not be reborn, as a tree, as a vine, as a mistake, and I would not wait for that day because someone I once told me that parallel universes do not exist. I believe that lie a little extra when February arrives, sometimes it is more glowing than my purple curtain’s light.

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Pull yourself up, on legs, breathe slow, my big three. I follow their command and brace my back on the wooden sofa the thud had discarded. I write, my pencil is not as sharp as my conviction, is this even a pencil? Or is it a black pen? The difference does not matter; I have to write before David comes back.

“Who’s David?” a voice follows, I shake my head in disagreement. Probably a character I made up.

The voice repeats itself, slowly fading, as a speeding ambulance carrying a half-alive corpse, Doppler’s effect. My index finger feels stiff, I cannot write ‘e’ or ‘r’ or ‘p’ even ‘a’. these are my best friends, they will never abandon me perhaps.

Erpa, what does that mean? Probably another character from my stories. The notebook feels warm. It is ingrained with golden stripes, lurking out it’s hardcover. I try to feel them on my left, no luck. My left is uncommendable, probably a case of Parkinson’s.

For a moment I have a thought, what if this book was the holy gospel? It sure felt like one, I turn my pages backwards, keeping my pencil between my index and the middle finger.

Random scribbles, eerie drawings, attempted suicide notes and a lot of curse words. This is my notebook. The notebook. The gospel does not curse, sinners do. I have felt like a sinner since birth, there was never a single moment of veneration for the divine, disguised hatred covered by negligence. Yet in this moment I need him, I need it. A divine force that interferes, corrects my pilgrimage towards salvation, one that doesn’t need to be questioned. The thought of begging disgusts me and I curse myself with every bit of hatred I accommodate.

I continue writing,

Where’s mom, where’s dad, where’s Bruno, where’s David?

Bruno was my golden retriever. I haven’t seen him since I was nine, he’s dead. David’s parents think their story worked, I saw them bury him near the railway line behind my home.

The name David looms around, encircles me and bashes me everyday. I am not David, I am Sorites.

Yes, my name is Sorites, a very good name. I don’t know what it means but I’ll keep it. Better than being a nameless monster who gulps down people, Johan Liebert. Such a good name, I venerate it, more than him, more than the gospel. Misplaced Matthew 17:21. Probably, a disguise.

My pencil falls on the tile floor, I stare at it, expecting it to move towards me. I feel a lot dizzy, probably time for sleep. I glance over my watch 2:34 A.M.

It’s pretty late and I pass out on the sofa.

A second thud arrives, this time a lot more real, my left temple feels a little wet and itchy. I put on my cap to numb it. The big three, yes I should call them. I should probably ask my neighbor about David.

The dent in my sweater feels as if it existed before me, I ignore it and put on my black hoodie. Its chilling outside, the weather’s overcast. My phone’s dead, I cannot check the temperature. I lock my door and head downstairs, my apartment on the 1^st floor had no neighbors, I have to reach the ground floor for a conversation.

Two blue doors, freshly painted, they have a very languid smell. They stand opposite of each other, waiting to be interrogated. Every floor has 2 apartments in my building; didn’t it have four? I knock on both of the doors and scratch my head in confusion.

When Bruno was here, I remember playing with him on my floor, he ran into the 3^rd and the 4^th apartment they had blue doors too, exactly like ours. Probably ten minutes have passed since I am standing here. No response, what a fucking disgrace, neighbors are the nastiest and gross humans to exist. During pulling my left hand up to my vision something drips from my left temple, I wipe it off my watch, to notice the time again. Blank, no glimmer of hope from my digital, Dad was right, analogs are better.

I kick the front door in frustration, a wave of discomfort follows my knees. Strength was never my forte, it was hatred that I specialized in. I try to brush off my agony by rubbing my arid palms on my knees, it probably made it worse.

I go to check upstairs and I am devastated, my memory had failed me, there was no 3^rd or 4^th apartment, it was probably another story David made up.

Since I have no idea of what time it is and how much time has passed, I decide to mark my fingers with the blue-black pen I found in the pocket of my black hoodie. For every hour that I think has passed away, I will draw a huge dot on the tip of a finger. Before marking I run a count.

1,2,3……….13. I have 13 fingers. I frown in disbelief and count again.

1,2,3,…….9. now I have 9, how is it possible?

I count them a final time.

1,2,3,……..10. Perfect. This is human.

Maybe it is human error, but a mean reduces the chances of human errors in observations, basic statistics. So I take a mean.

13+9+10 divided by three. 10.666, a recurring decimal. I will keep it at 3 digits after the point. I admire the number three.

10.666 fingers, my final truth. Where does the extra .666 come from, I have no clue. Isn’t it the devil’s number?

I think an hour has passed by since I found the pen, I mark my left index finger with a dot. I go downstairs for the second time, my boots ring louder than before. It is probably a defect in my ears. I wish I had my headphones and something to play music on, it would feel a lot less lonely. Music is my solace, through which I travel beyond worlds. As I reach the exit of the building, a melody starts playing, out of memory. I know it by heart, A Desolation song by Agalloch.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Here I sit at the fire
Liquors bitter flame warm my languid soul
Here I drink alone
A graven life, the stain of her memory
In this cup, love's poison
For love is the poison of life
Tip the cup, feed the fire
And forget about useless fucking hope
Lost in the desolation of Love
The passions we reap and sow
Lost in the desolation of life
This path that we walk

For love is the poison of life. I love this line. What a tragedy for love to symbolize a life’s end. I remember the strumming pattern from my failed attempt to recreate it on a guitar.

D UDUDUDUD UDUDUDU D….

I imitate the strumming pattern during my walk with my right hand. As the lyrics in my head come to an end, I can feel the breeze from the last part of the song. It is real, this isn’t my imagination. The only time the strumming pattern changes is in the end, it has no lyrics, only a guitar single with random gusts of wind. I hum the tune with the breeze carving my cheeks. My cap feels stiff as if something has bind my head to its fabric, it’s better this way.

The railway line near my home is in my sight, a huge engine carrying at least a hundred boxes of rectangular colorful steel, a carrier of goods train goes by. I try to count them, but my fingers feel off so I drop the act anyways. There seems to be no sign of anyone, is this an alternate reality? I should ask David when he comes back, he should have been here by now. He has a time limit, as I glance at my watch and the time hits 3:41 A.M, he comes back. My watch is dead, he has no chance. I walk towards the platform.

The station is lovely. Empty, full of lights and digital red displays with half of them never working past 7 P.M., classic Indian railways. I stand at the platform and there is an announcement:

“Train number 114** will arrive shortly on platform number two”

I am on platform number one, so I turn my back and walk towards the other side of the marble structure, platform number two.

I have no clue where this train goes, probably I do, but acceptance doesn’t come fast enough to me, fear arrives faster.

As I am waiting for my train I remember marking the first hour since my watch died. My left index finger, I think another hour has passed. My blue-black pen is missing from my hoodie’s pocket, I search for it in my jeans. My fingers feel off again and I try to take a glance at them. Four of them are marked with a dot, left index finger, left thumb, right middle finger and the right ring finger. Did 4 hours pass by? When did I mark them?

My big three, I have to summon them.

Pull yourself, on legs, breat-

I feel a tap on my shoulder, someone’s breath followed it. A short-man with a white shirt, black coat and black pants, he looks like the stationmaster.

“Hello Theseus” the man cries in a shrill voice.

“Don’t you ever call me that, Theseus was a failed son, I am Sorites.” I shout at him with a voice vibrating my diaphragm, displaying my anger.

“You are no better yourself” he says with a huge grin on his face. He does not utter a word for a while and keeps staring at me. Slowly, he starts turning his back towards me and briskly walks towards a small cabin at the end of the platform. I can see him disappearing, he is about to fade in the dark. I want to ask him something.

“What is your name?” I shout so he probably listens.

“Erpa!!” he shouts back without turning his head and vanishes in the dark.

What a strange name. I think he might be David’s dad, I know he works in the railways. Probably David and I have the same dad. Probably, this word haunts me. The dangers of probabilities have killed me way more times than the wrath of an abominable God ever did.

Probably the train is late, it has been quiet a long time. Perhaps time is shifting to my perception, relativity in a nutshell. There’s a huge horn in the distance, the train arrives slowly and there’s no one inside the coach I’m about to enter, except a family. I board myself in and witness the family of four in the middle of the coach. I sit besides them, seat number 33, my favorite number. The family consists of two men, a woman and a probably 7-year-old kid. All the three adults seem robotic, sitting in tight upright postures and staring at me without a blink. As I seat myself near them, they all keep their gaze on me without uttering a single word. The kid sitting besides me lays down and rests his left hand on his forehead with the same gaze as his elders. I feel uncomfortable, so I leave that seat and walk down the aisle towards the last seat near the gate. Side-lower seat number 71.

I look outside while the train covers a very long bridge. Something is evidently calling my name. While taking a glance, I witness a black abyss from the window. A quite filled one, filled with life, the water below the bridge. I look down and trace a bright spark, what is it? A green light?

No, it is a reflection, very distorted but convenient enough to mark the lighthouse in vision. Have I reached heaven?

At a close inspection, I notice fingers raising up from the water, turning into bare, bruised hands. The are following a pattern, a geometric progression-5,15,45,135…...

I cannot believe this; I rub my eyes and all of them vanish. I think it was a dream.

My left temple is throbbing, and my ears seem to have betrayed me. A sweet voice increases in the background.

Please JUMP------DEAR

JUMP----DEAR

JUMP---DEAR

The tempo of JUMPDEAR is increasing rapidly, I open the emergency window to get a better grip of the view. The strong gust of wind harasses my earlobe. Wow, the lighthouse is glowing even brighter.

There is something on my shoulders, the temple has stopped throbbing, why does it feel wet near my neck, I think something has flowed downwards. I can simultaneously hear my heartbeat and JUMPDEAR, 180 beats per minute, too damaging for the ears. Perhaps my heartbeat has synced with the shrill. I can witness my heart ahead of me, severed and separated, it feels like the lighthouse is taking my heart away from me.

I stretch my hand to take my heart back and I notice an electric pole flash towards me. My gaze was fixed on it and I trip on my window. The tower of steel kisses my ear and the speeding train slams my torso and legs apart. Everything goes silent. A relief of silence, I can now listen clearly. The river had ended and the lighthouse grew dim. David lay there trying to catch a breath, trying to reach for his legs. Don’t worry David, you will never reach them. What a feat have I achieved.

I have killed David, a sinner the world would say. But do they realize the weight of being suffocated in a body you hate living everyday. I despised David, I hated his oppression, so here lies my rebellion, untying me from his cage. I stare at the sky and dawn has probably arrived, a few birds flee above. I love how David will never be able to admire the sky anymore. This is Nirvana.

This is the song that inspired this post, I really admire the vocals and the guitar part of this. especially after the song ends, there is a very nostalgic feeling guitar single at the end. there is almost no one on the internet that I have found nailing the last part of this song, but this gentleman has done it quite well, give it a listen.

Thank you for reading, it genuinely means a lot. I always fall short of words when expressing gratitude, perhaps it is a defect.

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3 20 A.M.

It’s a bit cold under my blanket, the slight gust of air from the glass pane seems to strike my toes decisively. thoughts of quantum physics and death linger around my mind; I guess Tenet did its job well. I have a very strange yet normal habit of being overly excited for any trip, whether it be a visit to the nearest chai tapri or a snowboarded trip to Manali, excitement and enthusiasm are the loyal tools of my arsenal. I can draw them out to mend the reality ahead as per convenience. no one loyal to extreme enthusiasm has a normal death, that’s what my mom says. maybe the truth of enthusiasm lies in a constant belief that things will be far better ahead, somewhere extremely north than in the present, an optimistic yearning for the future. German even has a word for it: Sehnsucht. Wittgenstein’s philosophy interprets the experience of reality to the expression of language, the immensity of your vocabulary determines the depth and abundance of your experience. I am personally intrigued by words that don’t exist in the languages that I know, and this German word surely opened a portal of reality that existed long before but had been waiting to be discovered.

I drew my blanket apart and search for the cavity in the window, the cold I was fighting here at might be a mere prelude to what was about to come ahead. a watchman was strolling past my block covered in a white shawl, he seemed like a corpse from the morgue just walking and waiting around to be encountered. a coarse coughing rhythm followed him, it had the shrill of a dog weeping in cold. my fingers are frostbitten as I was witnessing his act while my window was waiting to be closed, he might have not paid attention but his brisk walk had been under my scrutiny and skepticism for the last 5 minutes. I slam my glass pane hard, so no whistling air reaches my toes this time, the watchman’s hypnosis broke loose with this and he stared straight at me from the ground floor. the 3-floor gap between his stare and my gaze was a moment of confusion and awe. from the behind I could sense my mom waking up from the slamming, so I quickly draw the curtains and pretend to be asleep, unfazed by the frigidity that I had sustained just recently. I wonder if this interaction was more frightening for him or me.

the next train of thought would take me to a very familiar place, a place I can call home other than the buildings where people are comfortably unfamiliar, far away from the mystic mazes of concrete. there’s a strange distinction that concrete buildings carry, they bind a lot of homes closer but drift people apart, they seem firm from the outside, yet they carry a shallow shadow of detachment. the particular place that makes all these yellow lights feel inferior, where people actually know each other beyond the dopamine of a screen, my Nani’s home, a place very close to my heart. out of all the places that I’ve had a blessing of having meals and a roof to call home, my Nani’s home always felt the sweetest. I am ruminating about my visit, only a few hours apart I would board that train, to my version of King’s cross station, maybe the magic always lied in my expectations. every summer had that sweet ending of a visit to my favorite destination, a home beyond home. passion has its roots in the Greek word pathos, a synonym of suffering, and passionate people suffer the longest as pathos means ‘to endure’ or ‘to suffer’. maybe that is why I was the least passionate whenever I set foot there, as there was almost no suffering it turned me into a sloth, one who is the embodiment of overconsumption.

The element that made the home a lot more mystical than it is, my Nani, was already with me. she visited us back in December and it was time for me to drop her back home, we board our train and as always, my enthusiasm is at an all-time high. visiting old familiar places is an activity that I highly recommend, whenever I think I have hit a plateau of growing wise enough, a small lesson, a realization, a regret or just a normal appreciation always lies there for me to be picked up, these gems shine the brightest upon a return. a lot of eastern philosophy (as named by westerners) has the preachings of returning and repeating simple lessons, the ones that seem too repetitive. the Sanskrit word for philosophy is दर्शनम्, which is quite different from the general meaning of philosophy. it portrays a perspective, not a collection of thoughts. major eastern philosophies such as Buddhism, Taoism, and Hinduism focus on correcting and understanding the physical and the meta-physical self through repetitive emphasis on self-reflection. maybe that is what the home screamed always, a time to reflect, to pause from the internal conflict of avoiding breakfast for classes, or from the days of zero sunlight.

social media might have deluded me to think rural life is a state of eternal bliss, completely slow and oozing of oceans of tranquility, that’s what the netizens preach. logic does not entail truth; it is one of the lessons that strike sooner than expected. perhaps poignant is the word that encapsulates a rural experience better, days here start at 4 A.M. and they continue being fast as soon as they start. each small interaction deepens the emphasis on small talks and how they shape the monotonous days into something called a life. if there is a drug worth drowning yourself in, I think it is the feeling of an authentic human connection. a mere presence of a being who acknowledges your existence, sometimes that is enough to stop a person from taking their life. the skill that a lot of people have mastered here is irrational optimism, it is one of the best ways to connect with new people. whether the hope is a delusion, escape or just acceptance, it does not matter, there’s already a lot of misery lurking around in this foul world and their enthusiasm is a revolt. Ernest Hemmingway once wrote “the world is a fine place and worth fighting for”, the missing piece of information in this statement is the presence of the discerning filth that makes this world a fine place, one which should be fought against.

after a very long twenty-five hour train journey I finally arrive at the home that I have been ruminating about from the last two days. If I observe and sit long enough with things and places, they eventually start talking back. from the outside it may seem like speaking to a void, an act of insanity, but these conversations with familiar places do matter and they sure make me what I am today. the house might have disguised itself into a familiar stranger, but it hugged and patted me like a parent who had been waiting, patiently and gracefully for their child’s arrival from a long trip. it might have been a bit of emotional too, I could sense what it was longing to say, “welcome back traveler, I hope the world has been kind to you in your journey”. the gates, veranda, terrace, rooms and halls have all changed, non-resembling of what they were before, yet they are my Ship of Theseus. in whatever proportion may have change altered the identity of my ship, it still carries the essence, the memory, the belonging and the mistakes of its past, of my past, and that connection may be enough to call it the Ship of Theseus, or my Nani’s home.

when I discovered the word Sehnsucht for the first time, the most vivid image that my mind interpreted of it was this home, it drowns in Sehnsucht. the place carries a close and warm belief, mirroring a passionate lover who is ready to embrace a past and look forward to the future, sometimes in a deludedly blinded state. the expectations often weighed heavy, yet the home never failed to deliver. maybe that is why the constant belief of optimism was always there, the place never managed to dull it down. whatever that I had always expected of, this place has delivered more than it, sometimes unexpectedly and sometimes quite willingly. my mom used to write in Hindi and she wanted to be a scholar, some of her books are still sitting here waiting for a dreamer to embark them on a journey from their ragged and dusted shelves, maybe I am that dreamer or just someone who pretends to be, but as Oscar Wilde says:

“Yes, I am a dreamer. For a dreamer is one who can find his way by moonlight, and see the dawn before the rest of the world.”

Dreamers suffer the wrath of both, the source of life and the one who imitates it in its absence. I am a dreamer and I am destined to suffer the regret of my dead dreams. maybe my mom understood that way before, this home carries her dead dream too, the corpse of a potential scholar. I wonder what happens to dreams when they die out, where do they reside?

There exists a ‘land of dreams’ in Greek mythology. the ancient Greeks had a fascination of dreams; it is a way the dead communicated with the living. personification of dreams is called Oneiros, dreams might be real people themselves and with my fair number of encounters with them, dreams are way more real than people are.

Perhaps dreams, aspirations and ambition are just unlived lives from the deceased that burden the universe, therefore it does what it is best at doing, it releases the weight of them onto humans, dropping its overall entropy. a selfish act of satisfaction. maybe we crave gratification as it is the deed of the universe itself. I think the universe has sure assigned my mother’s dead dream to me and I am quite grateful that it did.

•What makes a home? Moreover, what makes it special?

This is a question my mother asked me when I was young, and I still think about it. honestly, I do not have a firm answer however I have tried to answer it in various forms over the years, in her language. the interpretation of a home is a perspective that varies over time and there exists a literary barrier between my understanding and conveying, therefore the answer may seem a bit scattered.

आखिर क्या बनाता है घर — एक कमरा? एक गली? एक मकान? या फिर एक व्यक्ति?

घर की सीमा अक्सर दीवारों की कठोरता तक सीमित रह जाती है, बर्तन की गूँज, फीकी दाल का पानी, पिता की डाँट और माँ की हँसी इन सबको समेटे वह चार दीवारें अपने अंदर रखती हैं। इन ईंटों के संगठन में एक लोककथा का वास होता है; जीवन जब कठिन लगने लगे, तो उससे लड़ने की शक्ति देने वाला है घर। जब कोई अपना दूर हो जाए, उस दुख को आसान करने वाली जगह है घर।

यदि ऐसा है तो क्या घर केवल एक समाधान तक सीमित है? या फिर उसकी नींव कहीं और स्थापित है?

क्या है घर की नींव — सहायता? अपनापन? आपसी अनबन? या दुखों की एक खुली किताब?

मुझे लगता है घर की नींव एक प्रेम की दुकान है। इस दुकान में न कोई ग्राहक है और न कोई सामान। जिस वजह से यह दुकान चलती है, वह प्रेम का आदान-प्रदान है। यह जगह आपसे कुछ अपेक्षा नहीं रखती, लेकिन आपके योगदान की भूखी है। रसोई के चूल्हे की गर्माहट, आंगन की वे बातें और छत की ठंडी हवा में बसे प्रेम को यह दुकान हीरों की तरह संभाल कर रखती है। जितना प्रेम आप इस दुकान को दे सकते हैं, वह आपके घर की नींव को मजबूत बनाता है। आखिर, नींव ही तो घर को स्थिर रखती है।

love carries power to bind, to destroy and to alter a human being. the definition of what makes a home is quite scattered in itself, but I think love will always be there as a starter. for me, what makes any place a lot familiar is the presence of empathy, care and connection, it’s natural that I will reside by the power of love to define a home. Nani does the job very well; I can count her and this home as an ally despite any circumstances, if I happen to commit a crime someday, this is a clue where my first refuge would be.

the surroundings that exist here seem to suck out any possible signs of life, sometimes even death after 7 P.M. it is an attempt to create a civilization between a forest, far away from a lot of places that may seem vital to survival, at least to people from the city. the nearest hospital exists 40 km away from the place where the home resides, there is no airport within a 100 km radius, the only viable form of public transports are trains and buses. there exists a working railway track just 100 meters from the veranda, the building hiding behind the trees in the 3rd picture is a train-shed, it is home to unused trains, some working engines and a lot of stories inside it. besides the shed there is a railway station and trains halt and breeze there occasionally. although the platform is functional, it is almost a barren land, probably more barren than deserts, at least deserts have the wonders of the oasis. the platform is one of those perfect spots to camouflage yourself in a game of hide and seek, effective, frightening and at times traumatizing. no one almost visits the tracks except for the passenger-train timings, for only 3 hours of the day the platform looks like it exists for a purpose, other than those golden hours, it is a nihilist’s dream, no meaning, no importance just vile existence. the absurdity of its existence does not shadow its beauty. there’s beauty in negligence. I think the place being quiet and unattended is something that adds to its importance for me, and for its beauty itself

•Nostalgia, probably in bits:

memories, stories, regrets and nostalgia are parts of any place that feels home. I’ve had my own versions of utopia with this place. one of the most forgotten memories is that of cricket, as passionate my 3-year-old self appeared to be, I am almost a different person. passion has always had its share of resentment embedded to it, the first taste of which I had leaving my beloved sport. it’s not that I have developed a hatred for cricket, the sport does not entertain me anymore as it used to. I think it’s fine sometimes to accept the death of passion, as it might be the birth of something else. the funeral created a considerable gap between me and this home, because as far as I remember, playing cricket was the highlight of my summer vacations, it’s one of the main reasons I adored the heat as a kid. I have viewed myself from being crazy about chasing a ball down a hill to not being interested even when asked to hold a bat, I still think what is the reason for my growing gap for the sport. ‘You have grown up’, my mama says, but is growing up attending the funeral of your old selves or crafting someone you admire from the selves you have? the distinction and the distance made it clear that I can only hold onto my past selves as long as I deny that I have changed, for when acceptance becomes a normal act, the changes start feeling as if they were always there. maybe it’s the cousins who now have all ‘grown up’ or maybe it is just an unhealthy sense of distaste for my older selves, growing up comes with its wave of deaths, which fool us into thinking what emerges out of this metamorphosis is a better being.

I would consider myself blessed to have a lot of cousins to be around with. it is strange how privileges look better in retrospect, as if the present is not a commendable marker of appreciation. heat has a questionable identity of expanding and creating gaps in this universe, but that was not what it meant to us, ironically it bonded our tiny shadows and mischievous feet effectively. climbing on guava and mango trees, trying to outrun trains, wandering in forests, collecting different leaves, catching dragonflies and trying to tame pigeons and parrots was how a normal day unfolded. Normal is such a strange word, if applied to the present it usually represents the mundane, however when applied to retrospection it traces the boredom and highlights the gratefulness for a time that was worth living. the days sure felt normal during that time, but I would place them into one of the best times of my life. perhaps that is the case for all moments of our lives, mundane in the present, magical in retrospect.

I would like to meet my younger self, not to pass any bit of self-proclaimed wisdom that I have gained with some age, but rather to observe him more closely. how he felt when he bruised his knee while playing kho-kho yet decided to play cricket afterwards, the boy who fought his sister for the last piece of mango, the curious mind who made a kite out of newspaper only to crash it onto a tree, the brave boy who wandered in the hills and got lost in the forest yet never lost hope, the empath who decided to cure a squirrel without any knowledge of first-aid, or the new atheist who started doubting the power of the almighty God after his Nana left this world, he was a boy worth having a conversation with and I think I am growing well enough to be comfortable with my past selves, even admiring them occasionally. it almost puts a smile on my face of how badly I wanted to grow up, and now when I have apparently did so, I crave the authenticity, the audacity and the curiosity of my younger self. loops are the most essential part of the universe, planets, stars, orbits and galaxies are the intergalactic examples, our lives are the infinitesimal, the small ones. the cyclic nature of existence is portrayed quite well in Hinduism. time is treated as a loop, after every edition of the loop, time starts again from the Satyug and ending in the Kaliyug. considering there is several research suggesting The BIG BANG might not be the start of the universe, maybe our ancestors were onto something that we discard as misinformation, perhaps they were just highlighting the uncertainty of existence. ‘All of life is a loop’ is something my dad said quite frequently to me as a kid, maybe he knew something larger or maybe it was a lesson whose importance unfolds larger and larger with time, yet circles and loops have never failed to fascinate me. they seem like the shape which define existence, an exquisite wonder of mathematics.

•Nani and her allies:

My Nani is a clueless feminist, what feminism means is outside her understanding, yet she preaches and practices it every day. I call my Nani ‘Amma’, I picked up this habit of calling her Amma from my mother. she hates me calling her Nani, it’s not that I have not tried, rather she wants to view me as the 3-year-old who called her amma out of naivety. her admiring and still viewing me as my old self is an act of love that I could not neglect, therefore I never try these days. the word amma better explains the bond with her, naivety and ignorance go together well, sometimes even better than experience and awareness do.

when Nana left us, this home was in shambles, both of her sons were technically unemployed and there was no one present to support the home, this was when Nani took charge of this masculine position of a family leader and she did better than what the society expected of her. I have witnessed that woman renovate this home and build another one besides it on the power of faith and grit. a large portion of what I perceive as masculinity is attributed to the women that have shaped me along the years. women have made me more of a man than men ever did, her traces of strength and resilience are noticeable in my mom and in somewhat me too. we still tell her to stop working so much and take some rest, yet she still is the hardest worker in this home. I wonder where she draws this strength from, the depths of suffering or the heights of belief?

For the day I would ask her to enlighten me of her the secret of her imperturbable strength, her answer would contain the simplest of wisdom, which seems too obvious to most of the people. I think this line by Camus captures quite well the answer that I’m seeking from her resilience:

Camus’s philosophy views effort as a virtue, something that stops you from killing yourself, and maybe that is what is the source of her strength, a desire to live and moreover a desire to do something. it is never easy battling the death of a closed one, yet she chooses to stand up every day for her family, for this home and probably the most important, for herself. this unwavering resilience is the life force of a lot of strong women that I have been blessed to share lives with.

In my country, women are burnt twice, the first instance being her marriage, whatever emerges out of this tragedy is burnt the second time when she stops breathing. as if the first flame wasn’t enough to end all of her aspirations, dreams or any other sense of life she had. a lot of women are long dead before they are decimated and burnt out of existence. a slow death of her charming self, the irreversible damage to herself is labelled as a responsibility, a role, a relation that she will spend her life living, most of times out of her will. patriarchy has reduced women to housemaids, a brutal and helpless attack to their individual identity. perhaps a woman’s blessing lies in having a voice, and a man’s privilege lies in having the power to suppress it as per his will.

when my younger mami was newly married in this home, I was the only person she could talk comfortably with, in that array of unfamiliar people, I was the element she held the most familiarly to. being viewed as a person, a personality beyond the relations that bind people into obligations is still a dream for a lot of women. maybe that is why she bonded with me so well, I viewed her as a human beyond my Mami. when I left for my home after her marriage she cried a lot. a young and naive woman stuck in the grievous loop of navigating the in-laws in her new home, a story quite similar in a lot of households. things are better now we all love her as much as her home does, yet that special connection from her home is still there and I am happy that it still exists. I would not consider her lucky to enter a household which had the appreciation of the complexity of women, instead she entered a quite normal household. feminism and appreciation of women is not special; it’s the way they should have been treated normally. the question should not be ‘do we need feminism?’ but rather be ‘where is it needed the most?’. however polarized the feminist movement must have been, it sure did a great job of highlighting women of their basic needs, which had been long suppressed by patriarchy and other forms of destruction on their identity. the world has long suppressed the voices and privileges of women, it’s time for them to burst out and express themselves in way that weak minds will fear. as Dostoevsky says:

It's not miracles that generate faith, but faith that generates miracles.

Women revolting is not a miracle, it is just a painstakingly immaculate depiction of their faith. the world has always feared powerful people, who reside in faith, women sure have made a lot of those people in distress.

The next portion is quite unrelated to the post, some of y’all asked for these so here they are. if you are interested in some creepy ghost and disappearance stories, the next section is probably going to be your favorite. You can choose to leave a comment or just read ahead. if you are the kind who gets easily frightened, I would highly recommend you check the next section, how long will you run away from your fears?

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It is quite easy to be skeptical of ghosts unless you are stuck in an almost abandoned town, don’t expect perfection and structure from these stories just the natural flow of a conversation

1. The foul smell

about a km down the station road, there used to be railway quarter that was the home of a newly wedded couple and the guy’s mother. despite their enormous wealth, they were quite greedy. for context they already had like 3 homes beside this quarter but decided to stay there just for this guy’s job. they were quite opposing of the rural traditions like they would never use a chulha and never participate in the group festivals and they had quite a bad reputation of treating women with foul behavior. when this guy got married to this girl, her father probably arranged the dowry from a loan and thus the marriage commenced. the problem was this guy was so greedy he wanted more, greed blinds people more than the dark does. one day the neighbors noticed a chulha burning inside their home and it gave a very foul smell. when they asked what was happening, the mother said they are learning to use a chulha, so the neighbors insisted on helping them to which the mother denied. quite suspicious of the smell some of the elders wanted to know what was inside, so they pushed her out of the way to witness the newly wedded wife chopped and burning in pieces and the son trying to hide this calamity by putting out the fire. apparently, they wanted a car from her family and as she was not financially stable, she denied, tension grew up and one day the mother son duo decided to restrain and burn her out of frustration and hatred. when they elders entered the home, most of the walls of the veranda was painted with her bloody hands, the hands of a girl trying to survive this duo of monsters. the place is abandoned quite since and numerous people have confirmed the voice of a crying girl from that place.

2. the suicidal tree

banyan trees are quite infamous of them being the residence of the ghosts and the disappeared. there exists a certain banyan tree in our neighborhood where almost all suicidal people visit before death or are seen wandering around it in some way or the other. it is not that the tree is the cause of the suicides, as the people say here, but rather the people who grow a liking to this place are quite doomed to suicide. the story of this tree seemed to start with a vegetable vendor who committed suicide by hanging himself to this tree, he is visible to people who are new here, still selling on his cart. my favorite of all these suicidal stories is the one of a young guy who committed suicide by drug abuse. apparently, he appears to all the people who indulge in these substances and talks to them as a friend, blinded by his words and with the addition of being high, he drags people almost to the banyan tree where he resides and then he disappears. the story almost seems weird but that is what makes it worth telling, it has no good or bad ending. just a guy on drugs.

3. Mr. C.N and his stories

so, I would like to introduce Mr. C.N. into this conversation, he is quite an old and a guy full of wisdom and lessons. my natural reaction to most of the ghost stories is of a hoax or an illusion, but when this guy speaks of it everybody has to listen. there are a lot of stories associated with him and I will tell you the best ones

First: Mr. C.N. owns a courier service business, so he used to travel a lot before when he wasn’t charge of the company. he had a habit of travelling almost 200 km by train every alternate day. he usually carried a lot of stuff with him when he came back from the trip and he had this friend who used to help him carry his stuff to home. the train usually arrives here at 11 p.m. but sometimes it got late and the time stretched as far as 3 a.m. one day when he was returning from the trip, the train had been late and he arrived at almost 2 a.m. in the dark he saw his friend waiting for him on the tracks with his head bowed down. he called him out and had a conversation with him, when he asked his friend to carry his bags, he denied a lot of times. out of anger Mr. C.N. carried his bags to the other side of the platform and viewed the station master standing there. he put his bags in frustration and asked about his friend to this station master. the station master was in shock; he described that the train he went away with had been the reason of his friend’s death and the station master was in charge of separating his body from the tracks. having witnessed what we call a ghost Mr. C.N. was terrified and put his bags away and ran for home.

Second: Mr. C.N. is a health-conscious guy. he used to wake up as early as 4 a.m. for his runs. he had a habit of waking up to birds chirping in the morning, and one day he woke up with the usual sound of birds put on his shoes and got ready for a run. as it was winters, the dark was quite harsh. despite the harsh weather and visibility, he saw a guy running in the stadium he used to run. he decided to have a conversation with him and after running after almost half an hour he decided to wave him goodbye and decided to return. during his departure he was stopped by the sweeper who was present and he asked him what he was doing at that time. Mr. CN. replied that this is the usual time of his running and he runs quite frequently here. the sweeper said that he had seen him but not at 3 a.m. in the morning. quire confused he had a glance at the clock behind the sweeper, and he was telling the truth. he asked the sweeper to check for the guy behind him and the sweeper said there was no one besides him and he did not want to interrupt his running, so he did not say anything when he witnessed him talking to air.

I would absolutely salute to people who have read this far, you are a true curious person and of course a great reader, this is one of the most honest pieces I have written, and this would not have been possible without the effort and magic of , a truly mystical person and moreover a homie. to witness her magic, you just need to spill out your cup of ambition and desire, the remaining job is on her side, and I think she does it quite well.

Thank you for reading this far and wish you a very happy journey through this year ahead :)

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“Mumma there is a race in my head, all of my forehead is going back and forth. it feels like there are horses inside, all of them unleashed at the same time. there is something sitting on my head, its tingling and- and it hurts randomly, maa, what is this?”

“It’s called a headache, beta.” my mom replied.

the phrase ‘it’s called …….’ has a certainty attached to it. as if words diminish the barriers of our understanding of the world, fascinating and concluding at the same time, what words quantify is ironically immeasurable. the science of naming something is called nomenclature, but there’s more to it than bare words.

a child does not know what a headache means, he only knows what he is experiencing in his head and with whatever vocabulary he has, a probable explanation is what he crafts out of his pain. to constrain his reality to a single word is almost beautiful and tragic at the same time. this quote by J. Krishnamurti encapsulates the idea that is conveyed above.

according to Krishnamurti reality is far more vast than experienced on a daily basis. to speculate and to adjust your lens of the world to the tragedy of nomenclature is a calamity in itself. so much is captured yet so less is experienced, a delightful imbalance. words conclude and expand the parameters of reality, to name ‘something’ or an ‘experience’ is neglecting the weight of uncertainty it carries along with itself. consciousness as a whole is the collection of uncertainties that come with existence. subduing consciousness to an explanation is unfair, to define something, a knowledge of its existence and purpose are majorly used as the parameters. consciousness does not have either.

when something is named, a sense of relief is what follows. to name the creature who flaps its beautiful and replaceable hands, one who can lift itself up the ground by the action of pulling them close to itself and releasing them vast mid-flight, who can stand still in the air neglecting the pull of the ground, as a bird, is concluding the experience of it to a mere word that just means a living being which can fly. imagination is slaughtered the moment it strikes the mind of a child. children have the imaginative powers parallel to supercomputers, it is suppressed through time by drowning them into the depths of certainty. Whenever I listen to a story narrated by the child, it always has details no adult could have captured.

it is a tragedy indeed, but words do a favor too. they reduce cognitive load and processing complex experiences such as emotions become a lot more satisfactory.

there’s a dichotomy of what words shape our experience of reality, it has the traces of both beauty and tragedy in itself. perhaps the most admiring beauty of words is literature and music, to express in a concrete way yet hold on to the depths of experiences is an art in itself.

George Orwell’s 1984 has a wonderful paragraph about words and their importance in expression,

the following paragraph is narrated by Syme, a subordinate of Winston Smith who is the rebel in the story. newspeak is the language proposed by the party to the citizens and in some time, it will be mandatory to express your thoughts in it. the process of eliminating words for expression has a spectacular benefit to the party, thought cannot be rather articulated in the new language as it restricts and bans the use of words irrelevant to the ruling hierarchy.

when people won’t have words for their experiences they would stop expressing as other people won’t understand what they are meaning to convey. this is the beauty that words carry, although they fail to encapsulate the broad meaning behind the reality they are weaved with, they make communication and expression a lot more convenient.

that feeling you have when you have a yearning for the past can be rather expressed as nostalgia, short, crisp and satisfying. even though it is incomplete, it provides a vague idea of what the other person might be experiencing.

a fascinating perspective on experiences comes from Immanuel Kant’s idea of reality, it is a rather complex one, but it majorly centers around experiences and how we perceive them. Kant argues that we can only experience reality by the perception that our mind forms of it, in other words what we experience is rather clouded by the filter of our mind. we can never experience reality as it is, because for experiencing something we need to use our mind our consciousness as a stepping stone to our limits of understanding. for instance, we can only experience a rock as our minds perceives it. what the rock views itself as, whether it is conscious or not, or does it exist outside our perception, we can ever know.

Kant’s idea of reality highlights the point of experiences and words rarely perfectly syncing in unison. if we consider his ideology, even experiences are misinterpreted with respect to the reality that is experienced, how does one expect to point down and articulate something that he does not even understand completely? this is why words fall short of a lot of experiences; the power somewhat majorly lies in the experience itself.

uncertainty and delusion probably lie at the opposite ends of the spectrum of comprehension or basically how we understand something.

uncertainty turns into slight certainty and when it is not questioned enough for a long time it transforms into false and arrogant certainty or delusion. sort of all useful knowledge whether it is real or not lies in the questioned slight certainty in between. what words do is they thread together uncertainty and delusion together.

we fear uncertainty more than we love delusion. at any given instance we would rather be substantially deluded than be obscurely uncertain. there is a strange and welcoming comfort in delusion that uncertainty does not offer. words have immense power in them, they inflict meaning and make uncertainties disappear, even if for just a while.

probably a great example of delusion of a word is love. the word is not delusional in itself; it is strikingly beautiful, yet the word is incomplete. encapsulating such a large cohort of experience to a 4-letter word has consequences of its own. thus different phrases like: to love is to… , love is…. , love should not…. , love must… , are used to explain what the author means by them. the uncertainty of expression that comes with the mention of love must be explained further to clarify what the writer means. there’s a beauty in love that cannot be restricted to words, almost all of love is delusional yet we chase it with the highest certainty possible. perhaps love is neglecting all uncertainty that comes with binding yourself to someone, letting the delusion take over your senses and falling short of cognition at every expression of it. love may not be the perfect word, but it sure is one of the most perfect acts humans perform.

for me, words always have a special place to fill. the use of words that I practice the most are journaling and meditation.

probably why journaling works is that it boils down our experience to simple words, writing something down as experienced makes it more evident, the depiction may not be perfect, but it sure takes off the load of processing and experiencing something at the same time. the mind deviates its focus to experiencing, making the lesson or the pain a lot clearer than it probably was.

meditation is the art of experiencing without the use of words, what I feel out of it cannot be expressed in words. maybe that is what it’s meant to do, to separate experience from language as they both sometimes pollute each other unintentionally. some things are better unnamed, it’s better to sit with the uncertainty than feed the delusion.

there are feelings and emotions for which we have no words, that uneasy feeling of loving and hating the same person, the hope that everything will work out probably better than you imagined, the realization that you will miss the current moment in the future, the regret of expressing at the wrong time to the wrong person, the guilt of not being able quantify your love for someone, the hatred you have for yourself for feeling unfamiliar in previously familiar places all of these are better off unnamed. to name is to collapse the experience to a smaller radius.

whenever I currently feel something that I cannot express in words, I try to sit with the feeling, not trying to name or make any sense of it, but rather let the experience be not bound by language for once. rushing to a conclusion is human tendency, uncertainty is not, but all of curiosity originates from uncertainty. if there was no uncertainty, humans would not at all be curious.

thanks for reading, if you like what I write do consider subscribing :)

also, this essay somewhat based on assuming Kant’s idea of reality is true. so if you have other explanations or other arguments feel free to share them in my messages or comments. forgive me if I have interpreted something incorrectly, I make a lot of mistakes, haha :)

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I want to die before you, Dad
I want you to burn me from the outside too
A calamity as they say, But I address it as a favor
A Blessing in disguise
Just short on demise.

For years you have carried your loved ones on your back
I can see them Dad
I can see them, Dead.
The tomb has taken a lot of space,
You cannot sleep on your back.
I feel suffocated, Dad.
There are a lot of people here, I know almost no one.
At the end of the stone, I see someone familiar
My superhero! Weeping in despondence.

Perhaps Love was always about remembering,
The dead have no one to weep for
No one to remember.
Grief is strapped to love
To love is to grieve
A thousand funerals prior to their end.
So you grieve for the dead,
Better than when they were alive
What a blasphemous tragedy!

Abandonment.
Torment.
Entombment.
The atrocious sequence of your love.
How long before you learn to love,
Without Lament?

You were my idol, Dad.
Until a stranger vandalized the marble sculpture I built out of admiration.
I am terrified, he lives with us now.
The stranger, the perpetrator of my reverence.
The stranger is filled with hatred
He feels a lot unfamiliar and gross.
He calls me a rebel of admiration
Fighting a constant uphill battle of remembrance.
My love is almost divided, between him and you.
He is good at putting upon an act, a disguise of affection.
You are good at letting the act disappear, fading the sense between perception and reality.

I remember you loving me,
Watching my plants bloom
Praising my imperfect spiderman
Teaching me badminton.

The stranger has replaced you,
He is good at a lot of crimes.
But they do not serve me, sadly.
I am convicted to love a felon, Dad.
Will you ever come back?
My benevolent idol?

All of virtue lies between two vices,
Courage between Cowardice and Recklessness
Generosity between Stinginess and extravagance
Ambition between Sloth and Greed,
As Aristotle says.

Your vices lie between your crimes,
Malevolence between abandonment and murder
Anger between pretentiousness and irrepressible wrath.
Denial between ignorance and indifference.

How did you turn this way?
You are my superhero, aren’t you?
The crimes beheaded your virtues,
And they sure slaughtered my superhero too.

I am writing a story, Dad
One that you’ll never read.
Perhaps a writer lives his realities through his stories
Waiting for the question: Do you have a story?
As he always has one
He has put his lives into them,
The ones he hasn’t lived.

As I grew up, you started criticizing my art
Grammar in my Hindi Essay
Balloons in my birthday party
Drawings in my ant project.

I never wanted to be perfect Dad,
I always wanted to try
Effort is my grandest virtue
An artist is a cathedral of failures,
He worships them more than his art.
Maybe that is what you wanted me to know.

In this life, I bless the Stranger with my Death.
It is the only act that can make him love me
I am a sinner, a sinner of admiration.
Too much admiration leads to misfortune
Even for the ones we venerate more than life.

As the embers of my pyre brace your arid hands, you will feel my warmth at last.
Do I feel like the child you carried on your back?
Whom you killed that Night of December?
The pile of my bones beneath your feet would seem trifling,
What weight do mere atoms carry over grief?

Please let me burn, stranger.
It is the only way I can find my superhero again.

I have a flame inside me, Dad.
The flame has dreams,
A lot of forgotten reverence too.
It burns everyday
Without a pyre, Without you
I keep my flame intact and not let ambition ruin it.
As I have to save my warmth for the day my stranger burns me.
For a moment, I would feel alive
My superhero would feel a little warm too.

Burn me Dad,
Throw me into your Tomb.
Let me meet my idol again,
Let me be on your back
Your tomb is scary, but it sure has my superhero.
I can never burn him, Dad.
I can never watch my superhero Die,
At least by my hands.

So keep your vow and breeze in a sprint past me.
As the stranger has forgotten but the superhero sure has not.
He is dead, in your tomb, weeping like me.

If you like what I write, please smash that subscribe button. Haha :)

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From the end of the field, my father could have a glimpse of my confident stature. Red cap, fast legs and a gritty gaze is what he describes of me. All of which is incorrect. The cap is stained with my sweat, a ball of fire above has drawn black lines tracing my torso, an ankle twisted by the ferocious clash with my sister and my vision is more confused than a democratic government. My throat is slinging back and forth, throbbing for a drop of life. Amidst the suffering, the passion for the game never runs dry. LA PASIOʻN

The players are a lot older than me, they like my presence, as if the effort I put into the game was the image which was clearer to them, not my red face. Competence as I describe it now. Gully cricket rarely does the favor to provide an even playground. If your area isn’t filled with random bumps and roads, what kind of gully cricket are you even playing?

Moments of Glory span between an impossible run chase and finding a new tennis-ball in an abandoned apartment. The later is the more glorious, as it adds to the absurdity of the harsh climate.

As I am trying to make a sense of the batsmen from a distance, I hear my name being screamed. This is the moment. I break out of my sweat, the cap feels a bit heavier as if it knocked on my head to declare it’s presence. Tennis-ball in the air, an evident clue of glory, if I grab it. Sun is too bright, luminous, merciless and blinding. I stare at the sky to get a foul clue of the trajectory the glowing lime ball will embark upon. Mr ankle, fuck you.

I knew it before even bracing my legs for the run, you would not support my sudden sprint. I move nonetheless.

With full confidence I extend my arms out to grab it and my vision blacks out. An after image of the ruthless sphere of life blinds my vision, covering my eyelids wider than my lashes ever could, where am I? where is my cap?

I stared at the ball for too long, consequences of neglecting sunglasses were real. My stained cap was flown away by the sprint, my dear sun dethroned it.

Even worse, a bumpy road ahead witnessed my confusion a prepared a treat of kidness for my hurt ankle, grabbing it and twisiting it even further. Balance fumbled, vision blurred and here I fall. Icarus was favored enough to fall into an ocean, my left shoulder was cursed with the taste of the flaming gravel below. As I rub my eyes, I can witness my teammates rushing, one of them carrying a cold drink. The color looks quite similar. Damn, it resembles the stain of blood I have on my wrist.

The tennis ball was left deserted, it was no where near my hands. I had breezed through it in my blinded and quite colorful attempt.

Out of all the impossible performances of my gully cricket career, my father had the generosity to witness my most miserable failure.

“What is the point of your harsh effort if it does not lead to any fruitful result?”

I wish he had asked me that question today.

“Effort is the only thing that matters. In the ruthlessness of existence, effort is the virtue that makes humans more realistic.”

Maybe he expected that answer I can never know because his lessons are always beyond my perception. Quite harsh, I’ll summarise. In the fog of the moment, my younger self took that statment to heart.

Life has it’s own way of teaching lessons. The answer may not seem obvious at the present, every bit of knowledge seems scattered. As if they all belong to their own puzzle, not the picture you are trying to make a sense of with the pieces you have. However, these unbelonging pieces fit perfectly into your picture. The self becomes a jigsaw of non-belonging segments. It seems like life collected and threw all of them at you with a sense of assurance. Our duty is to pick as much as we can, even when the pieces feel unfamiliar.

There was nothing in which I felt competent enough than cricket. My father made a critical blow to the self-esteem I had, the base of which was my competence in the sport.

Self-esteem is defined as the respect you have for your self and the confidence you have in your capabilities. This definition is incomplete, the idea of self esteem does not solely depend on ourselves. It is governed by the people, situations and our responses to the situations around us.

A delusional self esteem is the result of ignorance, fake appraisal and perceived confidence in one’s capabilities. It even has a name in psychology, the Dunning-Kruger effect.

True wisdom lies not in being certain, it lies in knowing the limits of your certainty.

~ Derek from Veritasium

Consider two factors, i) Competence and ii) Confidence over self’s comptence. Highly competent people are expected to have a greater sense of confidence. But that is not the case, rather the highest degree of confidence is usually portrayed by people who percieve themselves as competent enough.

I am rather fascinated by the sense of ‘perception’. How powerful it is, as one must say, actually lies in a fairly complicated figure. The figure of the self or ‘self-image’.

Self esteem lies on the broader image of the self. My idea of self image is a rather fringe one. It comes from the most sacred study of the 20th century, Quantum physics.

When a high energy photon interacts with a nucleus, it splits into a electron-positron pair. As the photon initially had no spin and no charge, the pair must follow the sacred rule. Charge and momentum must be conserved. If the electron spins clockwise, the positron is doomed to spin anti clockwise to conserve momentum. This dependency on each other’s state is referred to as Quantum entanglement. A positron is entangled to the electron and vice-versa.

This might be the closest evidence we have for travelling faster than the speed of light and also for the existence of multiple worlds. But those topics are of a different day to discuss.

Consider the electron as the self image and the positron as the price you pay for it. As the electron positron pair are doomed to be entangled, so is our glorious duo of self-image and price.

I have denoted electron as the self image because in physics, the electron is way easier to detect than the positron. Similarly, it is way easier to know what you perceive of yourself and also what others perceive of theirselves than the price that went behind it.

The greater the spin of the electron is, a positron must balance it out to zero. I think I am making sense of where this is going.

Everything has a price.

Everything has a price. The sentence almost feels evil, it seems to follow a law of equivalent exchange. One that alchemy preaches of, but the magic life flings at us far exceeds the wonders of alchemy.

For the most of my ignorant intelligent journey, I thought passion and ambition are the two things that were the most disassociated with the horrors of life. Sadly, they fall into the hole of exchange too. Atleast ambition, I suppose.

This entanglement of the self image and the price has become more and more evident to me by meta-cogniton, the process of thinking about your own thinking. In retrospect, a lot of actions become meaningless as they are the result of nudges that I had carried, but never acknowledged.

Nudges that I have carried shaped me more than my desires ever could. In Grade 12, Jayesh Sir discarded my alternate physics derivations, that old man was too dogmatic to be a teacher of a subject so vast and open to discovery. My fragile ego took that judgement to heart, there was one thing he hated more than students using their own brains, JEE. So my ulterior motive became to disprove this man and score a 100 on the physics section in JEE, an exam he would not dare to teach for.

I did achieve that feat out of pure hatred, but that sweet sense of victory from correcting my science teacher in Grade 6 was gone. That child was curious one, this one was too, yet his hatred took over the passion for physics. I wanted to show my scorecard to him but I did not. He would induce another nudge on me if I did so, I did not want that.

Surely, I would have scored the same without his words, but the fuel I used to reach there was rather unhealthy. The old man spoke to me whenever I thought of sleeping an extra hour in the noon. The self image I gained was a student who has aced high school physics. It came at the price of the sleepless nights, torture through unnecassary sample papers and all the evenings I could have played cricket rather than studying.

Whenever I brew a cup of coffee, the choice of adding milk to it seems desgustful. The disgust I have for choosing a tastier option is the price I paid for the self image of a guy who works out regularly. A small cup of coffee has become the deciding factor of a successful morning for me.

In the story of Gully cricket, I returned home that day with a quite unsatisfied face. After sorting the mess in my room, I took up my mom’s old phone and searched ‘catching practice and tips’ on youtube. That nudged kid wanted to prove a point to his father, who almost even forgot what he said. For weeks after that incident, I spend hours in the noon bouncing my old tennis ball back on forth on the cyan coarse wall of my veranda. I wanted my father to see how good I am, but he never gave me the blessing to witness my competence. I am still confident of my catching ability, you might even see the Dunning Kruger effect in practice if you throw a ball high enough for me to catch.( Comment haha if you got this joke)

The overconfident people pay the price of their probability of being incorrect, which is quite high. It perfectly resembles the delusion they carry with themselves.

I read an article last week titled ‘The more I heal the less ambitious I become’. At the end I was just struck by how much of ambition is just a nudge towards someone who doesn’t even care.

The hatred for a normal job comes from your father. Desire to be famous comes from being unloved as a child. Fear of dogs comes from a traumatic chase in the childhood. As we acknowledge the existence of our weaknesses, they tend to bend towards our strengths.

Highly ambition driven people are usually the most broken ones, the self image they have has a deceitful price attached to it, which is not visible to everyone.

The whole idea of healing is to confess what has been neglected. It is quite usual that we encounter our weaknesses first, our brains are negatively biased.

Through time and effort in confirmation, we realise the filthiness of our beliefs and actions. Quite effectively, knowing that you hated when your friends gave attention to people other than you hurted so bad was just your anxious attachment style at play, it makes the situation more clear and malleable.

“Are you willing to pay the price?”

This is the question I attack myself with whenever I want my self image to be altered to a different state than it is currently.

Recently, this question popped in my head when I thought to associate myself as a writer.

Am I willing to pay the price of the nights that I spend thinking about my ideas rather than sleeping? To spend my time reading and researching mythology while I could be watching a TV-show? Or the days when I don’t feel like writing a word but I still show up with the pencil and notebook duo?

Turns out I am stubborn enough to accept all of these and even the ones that are currently hidden from me. Being a writer is paying the price of your creative resource and that seems to me as the most heavenly exchange possible.

This is more of a note to self rather than a post, I hesitated to publish it but did it anyways. I thought some of the thoughts here might resonate with someone. Thanks for reading :)

A week had flashed through already. The speed was familiarly unusual. It was not my first instance of experiencing a split of time feel like a blink. The robotic days were freshly close. Way closer than I’d expected.

I was missing my warmth. The cold had an enormous growth, it stinged beyond my physical self. Was it the weather that had been impatiently waiting for separation from my beacon, or the frigidity that had been long buried within my psyche? I don’t know. Perhaps she will have a clue. As she always did.

The mid-terms had finished. I had thought about her every day since the English exam. Some days the thought overpowered my desire to study, the imbalance was distinct. Even on the days that felt like a personal triumph, the separation quietly knocked. It made its presence known despite the distractions that I had been stuffing myself into.

Yet, no distraction seemed large enough to suck the worry out of me. The mismatch between the size of my worry and the distractions that were supposed to constraint it was evident. The worry was an elephant in a shack of distraction. The elephant was doomed to feel uncomfortable.

I did not have a journal back then. I am sure even if I did, it would have made no difference. Scribbles, questions, uncertainty and self-hatred would have conquered every part of it. An excruciatingly accurate replica of my thoughts. Considering how seemingly worried I was, I am sure that my journal’s existence would not even be recognized.

Solitude and loneliness have crept their way down my neck in various proportions. Some scary, some thought provoking and even self-harming. I have a long way to be comfortable with being in my own company. The shacks of distractions exist even now, even when I denied them and told myself ‘I have grown up’ or even worse ‘It’s okay I’m fine’. Or when I thought I was healing myself through journaling. They did help, but they rarely address the root cause. Ironically enough, I am even more confused after a long self-talk.

It surely puts int perspective the disordered monologue within, but I have yet to find the causation of the monologue through it.

Self-talk is like finding the screw that fixes the chaotic machine of unrest within. It fixes the machine but does not do you the favor to tell where the chaos came from originally.

Every bit of self-talk during that period was as lethal as a gunshot to the chest. However, that flash of nitroglycerin kills you in an instant. Self-talk is rougher. It pierces you, subdues you, resurrects you back and provides you the dopamine of a false peak. Only to push you back down to the avalanche you surmounted previously. Pretty vicious. But even lethal self-talk becomes more bearable when walked through in acceptance.

I had accepted my not so easy state. The turmoil had grown a lot more distinct.

I have a greater inventory to decide and interpret what I feel now. Anxiety. Existential crisis. Regret. Sonder. I have them all. Placed into different corners of my mind. But that was not the case back then. The under expressed flood within me was taking a more physical form. One that my mom could notice.

Honestly, even when I have sexier words for the situations that life puts me in. I rarely do have a sense of the flood I put myself into. I flow downstream guided by my Limbic system, with my emotions. Any attempt of rationality seems like an attempt to go against the stream. It is only when the current calms down enough to escape from, the rational behavior kicks in. Maybe, my attempt to explain the turmoil with a flood is just a more aesthetic representation. It may seem to make sense from the outside, but it rarely does within.

My mother is a magician. To witness her magic, I do not need to ask her to spawn a pigeon out of a hat, I just need a bad day. Of all the tricks she has curled up her sleeve, this one never fails to surprise me. The trick of spotting the chaos within me. She loves me, all moms do. We all know we would never be able to compete with her love. A woman’s unconditional love is a Theodore of the greatest kind. A gift that can change a man’s life.

Her intuition is sharper than the knives she plays with. Unfortunately, she still gets caught up by emotions. The evidently strongest being I know of still falls short to the mercy of emotions. May be that’s a warning or a gentle reminder or a lesson. Intuition and emotion work in unison not in distinction.

She asked me what was going on. I had no answer. She speculated the stress of exams was too much and advised me to relax as they had finished a day prior. Her emotion of love won, sadly. If only she had paid more attention to her intuition she would have realized that exams rarely bothered me, they were just a fraction to the monster of worry that I had tried to avoid.

I cannot blame her. She had witnessed me studying harder than I ever did in that week. Sleeping between books, staying up late and constantly avoiding fresh air was normal routine. Only if she knew what I was doing that for.

The monster was real. It had grown from a simple thought of worry to something potentially potent enough to harm me physically. I told myself repeatedly that I have no idea what was going on. I was lying. I knew exactly. The monster was right beside me, sometimes I’d face him head on. And for the times I couldn’t, I would close my eyes and pretend it didn’t exist. Ignorance was my refuge.

The studying was a mere distraction. It was to mask whatever I was feeling within. Sorry maa, I could never explain it to you. I never had the words maa. I still fall short of them.

Out of all the things that fascinated me the most at that time, cricket and science topped the list. My mom advised me to get some fresh air and try to befriend the people around. I knew almost no one in my new home. The flat I live in currently was still unfamiliar and strange back then. It had all the usual elements of a home still, it felt strange. As if, I had not offered enough of myself to this new place. The familiarity was in the process.

If it had not been for that day, I would have never met some of my friends that I have currently. Thanks mom. You seem to know the solution to every problem out there.

My ambition was a perfect representation of the chaos deep down. I aspired to be a scientist who is a professional cricketer. Pretty confusing to be honest. The professions seem to lie on the different ends of what ambition demanded of. One requires intellect, the other requires self-belief. I had neither.

My friends found it quite amusing, but I was firm. Although, the passion for cricket is dead, the curious scientist is still alive. He is not a scientist anymore; his profession is magical. An alchemist. Alchemist of words. People dismiss alchemy then carry on to enjoy literature as if writing is not magic in itself.

That day was too much for me. I had barely any will to engage myself in any physical activity. Yet, I walked out and tried to interact with people around me. I think the monster was now visible to everyone out there, they felt like I was a different breed. They could not comprehend what it meant.

The time was barely fruitful. Except, I met a guy who is a great friend of mine currently. That was the only highlight. The night had struck and my ears ringed with the words of my mom. I knew I had to be at home soon, I just didn’t want to go. Inertia of comfort restricted me from escaping.

For some reason, that burst of fresh air sparked some hope in me. I did not want it to fade away. Yet, I had to put that hope aside and return to the place I had yet to grow familiar with. I never hated my home; the reason I feared the return was because of the courage it would require confronting both the monster and the unfamiliarity, at once.

I sat on my chair and played some of the songs I found peaceful. The strong cold breeze from my window elevated my memory of that moment. I was cautiously aware because of the cold. I took my mum’s phone and tried to distract myself with a YouTube video. A notification glowed a little too bright for a message, I scrolled down to check.

FUCK, it was a missed call. From a number that I had least expected to. It was her mother.

My younger sister Harshita, and her sister Shree were very good friends back then. How convenient it is for siblings of best friends to be great friends too. She also had a younger brother, but I never saw him because he was in elementary. I know almost nothing about Shree, out of the impressions I have of her, she is a lot similar to her sister. An optimist filled with passion.

Harshita is rarely like me. She is strong, sharp and a lot clearer than me. Although she is younger, I would not be ashamed to call her evidently more mature. She is an artist of the born kind. Started sketching at 3 when I would struggle to make a sentence. All the artistic genes went straight to her. I am a flawed artist, one who needs inspiration. She is a real artist; inspiration flows out of her.

I was so angry at her, she could make oil pastels look like an art from the west. I would dismiss her artworks and told they were impractical and useless. I was jealous. Ironically, she would beat me even where I thought talent did not matter. Intellect. Though she is similar to me, her concept grasping power is better and faster. Maye I never tried hard enough, or the harsh fact could be that she is more intelligent. I’m ready to accept either of the two.

She is never bothered by judgment. Whether it was my father, me, her friends or someone else. I still look up to her for the unfazed reality she lives in. It is not that she does not feel anything. She does, probably more than me.

The backbone of the imperturbable personality lies in the management of the self. She is comfortable with sitting beside her pain, expressing what is needed. These are the qualities that I look up to. She has them all. I might be biased, but she is the greatest artist I have known personally.

Harshita and Shree knew each other from a very young age. If I remember correctly, they were in the same class since kindergarten. I don’t know the depth of their friendship now, but they were quite good friends back then. I had never seen them together at school. I supposed they might not share the same vibe and didn’t connect well. That illusion would break apart with the very next call from her mother’s phone number. It was Shree who had been calling.

I hate myself for not being home when Shree called back. I knew a call would come anytime soon. I was a coward. My father was heading out for some reason. That evening, I insisted him to drag me too. The fear of confrontation with the worry and anxiety of the call seemed so huge. I could not imagine listening to whoever was on the other line. I am still confused of what to call of that act of running away, smart? brave? thoughtful? fate?

Whatever I may call it, the aftermath that followed would still feel short of description. The interaction was unimaginable.

Hello? Hello Shree? Aunty? Are you there? Who’s speaking? Is anyone listening?!

Hey Harshita, it’s Shree, I wanted to tell-

Where are you idiot? You have missed all of your exams?! What is going on? Is everything okay?

I- I will explain, but not on call, what happened is th-

Shree handed the phone to her mother, she couldn’t speak.

Tell you friend Shree! Tell her! She deserves to know Shree, please don’t do this to me!

Her mother said crying as she handed the phone back to her daughter.

Harshita, I am begging you, please don’t cry for me, the reason that me and my sister were missing exams was because we had been in the hospital for the last 11 days. My sister was admitted. And-

AND?!!

My sister is no more Harshita. She left me yesterday. She left me alone.

The silence took over the conversation. Both of them had no words. Shree sat there waiting for an answer.

I do not have a clue of what my sister gave as a reply. This is where she stopped replaying that conversation and burst out in tears while telling me. My mom was besides her, trying to console.

The story was fake I could not believe her. My mind was convinced this was a facade.

She is acting, I know. It’s one of her horrible pranks. You cannot fool me, I know you better than anyone. You are a pathetic actor. Haha, you would start laughing any moment now.

She didn’t. Her tears grew louder with time.

Maybe I should ask mom, she knows everything.

I turned my head towards my mom who seemed a lot more distressed than I expected. She felt the pain of my sister and had rarely noticed my confusion.

Mom, pls look at me, you are joking right? All of this is a dream, right? Please don’t tell me what you are saying is the truth. Please say something, please notice my confusion!!

That is what I probably replayed in my head. The strongest individuals I know have crumbled right in front of me. They needed my help. My mind was not processing what was happening around.

I sat in front of them at the sofa and let them cool down before asking something.

My sister stopped crying a few moments later. I asked gently,

Are you alright?

Yes, but that does not change anything. I still cant believe it.

Whatever that you have told me, is this true? Was that really Shree?

I sounded calm, but the monster had already warmed up inside. Ready to sprint all around my mind.

I hate to admit, and I wish that all of it could have been false. The way she talked, her voice, her mother, the words, all of it seemed so real. I cannot dismiss any bit of what I’ve told you. I’m sorry.

Please don’t say sorry, it’s okay that you are sad.

I wanted the dream to end. I pinched my forearm with the toughest grip possible. The pain almost snapped me out of my mind. It made reality more real. The dream did not end. Harshita was still sitting in front of me in utter shock. The sense of despair had inhabited the air around.

I got up and went inside my bathroom, splashed my face multiple times with the cold water. I wish that the water was colder, because it did not end that dream right away.

What kind of cold water are you? Please wake me up!! Why are you not cold enough? Why is everything against me? God? Are you listening?

I stared at my bathroom reflection. The creature almost looked alien. It had the boundaries and curves of my face, but it did not look lively enough. His face resembled the deceased. The confrontation was at the front, probably a mere foot away. My hand stretched out to console what that piece of glass resided, a lost enclosed kid. He wanted to talk, express, burst out, cry. He just wanted expression. I wish that someone noticed him.

The tears could not escape the vicinity of my eyelids. As if some non-existent imaginary pool of negative gravity pulled them back in. Defying the laws of physics. That interaction made reality a little more real than it should be. A reality of separation.

Hey monster, where are you? Why don’t you speak now? Don’t you have any questions, any self-talk, any advice on the menu today? Why are you so silent?

Reality had hit it harder than it hit me. The monster of worry vanished in plain sight. As if he was never there, this time with my eyes wide open.

Perhaps the monster just longed for the truth, the naked, undisguised truth. My sense of reality was the last meal it had before it’s death. Before it left me alone in my head.

To be fair, it had been doing me a favor. It masked the other parts of my brain that I didn’t know existed.

The battle of Normandy had already begun, with me at the coast. Witnessing the clash between allied forces of reality and the Nazis within my brain. Victory had already been promised before the battle even begun. The allied forces crushed. Everything. Literally everything. Not a single glint of existence of the nazis. My thoughts resembled the nazis. I exemplified Normandy.

If I said I felt numb, it would be a disgrace to whatever was about to come. The texture of my mind was being altered in real time. My cranium felt bulging by the activity it had suppressed. Probably, the only thing that kept my brain in place from the transmutation. And from myself too.

Either half of my brain was in question of reality itself. How do you expect me to remember a mere date in so? Maybe I know the date, if I meditated long enough it would eventually escape opening the shell of ignorance I have coated it with. But I will rarely do myself the favor of remembering.

Someone knocked on the bathroom door. A faint knock. I knew who it was before even letting the voice flow into my eardrums. Ma, I know you are worried. What is your son doing in the bathroom for the last half hour. You are a genius ma, on a level I cannot fathom to reach.

I am not feeling well, it seems like the junk food caught up with me. I am fine, maa.

Oh, I see, no problem!! Dinner’s ready.

I laid my bed that night in question. Wondering even if the bedsheet might tear apart to create a wormhole large enough to swallow and separate me from my mind. A place to escape. I hated my mind. I hated sleep. I did not wat to close my eyes, but I did and passed out, nonetheless.

I knew exactly what had happened, somehow my brain had not been working in harmony with me.

How can you sleep you fucking idiot?! Do you realize someone has died?? ANSWER ME!

It did not care. I hate myself for sleeping that day. The tears never came instantly, and I even hate myself for that. It takes a long time for an event to seep down my neck, to my heart, which is the only crying mechanism I have left. The heart decides when to burst and sometimes I feel relieved that it does. My brain needs repair.

Next day in school, the news had reached everyone. I still wanted to pinch myself out of my dream after the intense questionnaire yesterday had dragged me into. How stupid. How ignorant. How disgraceful.

Assembly mourned her death. A lot of her friends cried too. I did not. I stood there, unagitated. What a fucking coward. No one did the favor to ask me. I am glad they didn’t. Nobody could have handled the eruption within, except for her.

The day went by in denial of the present. Sure, I still remember the formula of concave mirror. That is the best memory I have. How sickening.

Evening is rarely something I looked forward too. Probably because every noon exhausted me so much, I had no tolerance for the wrath of a cold evening. The class, the building, her sister, my sweater, my tie, my stupidity. Everything reminded me of her. I hated noon. Another addition to my pandora’s box of hatred.

Whatever was working before had now become ineffective. Studying, a walk and sitting idle, nothing worked. Later that evening Shree called back. She requested my sister to visit her home once. She wanted my sister to be with her. So for the first time, I visited her home on the day that followed. It’s quite catastrophic that I never got to witness the charm which held the home together, while it was alive.

My new home was distant from the place she lived in. However, my previous home was just at a walking distance. As I was growing familiar with my new home, I had grown distant from her. A complete contradiction.

The lesson of moving on from familiar places was instilled in me even before her departure.

Enter a new place→Feel misplaced→Find your way through confusion→Grow familiar→Feel contentment→Get your heart broken→Move on→Feel lost→Find a new place→Repeat

The cycle is a grievous path of suffering carved by destiny, that too in different dimensions, so it would accommodate every single probable version of me. The infant, the child, the adolescent, the adult and even the elderly. The experiences back then were on the contrary ends of this loop.

Destiny has its own rules. We are just a puppet at the mercy of it. At moments I feel it is more real than God himself. I witnessed destiny at the zenith of its extent that day, at her home.

The place was quite ordinary to my surprise. No grandeur of sorrow was at display. Perhaps the building had accustomed to the loss of affection it had. None of the cracks screamed agony, even the ones terrorizing the members of the family.

‘Perhaps’ carries a brilliance that is astonishingly magnificent. t adds weight to every word that succeeds it. A sentence or a phrase followed by perhaps makes a little more impact and meaning than a random collection of alphabets, arranged in a constrained length. Devastation comes attached with every use of it, without an assurance of reinstatement. Every perhaps bends reality into a path which cannot be retraced, cannot be returned to.

Perhaps her father would have carried her a last time, telling her everything is alright. Every sentence he speaks is embedded with the dread of cremating his daughter. Horror is a bluff; true terror lies in disbelief. Any event would not strangle him anymore, an epitome has been reached.

Perhaps, the house would echo her laugh. Her mother would chase her down the veranda and extend her arms to seize her close to her chest. Surely, she would return, won’t she? The hands, the house and the laughter exist, except she is replaced by acceptance. It is never the absence that aches alone, the acceptance makes it worse.

Perhaps, she would return from that trip. Her younger brother thinks this is the reason of her dismissal. He is naive. He laughs, as if the calamity could be hidden by a lie. I cannot blame him; he doesn’t understand death. He would grow up one day. Faced with the truth that his parents stood in front of. It would make him uncomfortable, he would be in disbelief, just like I was.

Lament. Agony. Despair. Remorse. Rift. Rupture. Demise. Extermination.

What purpose do my fancy words carry if they cannot bring you back?

They are feeble, futile, frivolous and foolish. Another set of them describing the petty of themselves.

Words are impotent yet; they are the only thing I have left of you.

Dear Shrushti,

Please come back.

I have grown my dear. Alot more mature, firm and expressive. This is my confession, the one that I’d avoided hat day. I wish you were here to witness me.

I love you. I could never tell whether you ever did or not. My ears have grown unfamiliar to your voice, it is fading. Please come back before it vanishes.

I have become a better son, a better friend and probably a better lover. That sweater haunts me; it does not fit anymore. Still, I have told mom to keep it. The strands are getting worse. Please witness it before I have to discard it.

Whenever I wear a tie, it reminds me of you the most. The talks, the jokes or the grief, I have forgotten them all. A mischievous tie is what remains. I try to keep my tie as neat and ordered as possible, the way you wished it to be.

Every close friend of mine is doomed to attend the funeral of our tragic love story. They pity me, dear. I don’t want pity, I want a celebration of my love. I want them to be happy, laugh about it. You would love to meet them, you would love their company. Please come back to visit them.

I am a coward, always have been. I bever have the strength to make my way through. I get stuck, sometimes bruised. Yet, I move forward. My resilience has grown, and you would love to witness how gritty I have become.

You never appreciate your mother’s food, idiot.

Your idiot has grown a liking to the food he abandoned. I could not decode the magic and love that my mother put in her food. How ungrateful, dear. I have started eating my veggies, tracking my calories. I love my mom’s food. As you wanted.

I do not annoy mom anymore. You always took her side in any arguments we had. She understands me even better now. There are a lot of stories I wish to tell. How she has lost weight, takes care of herself and even enjoys English music. She would love to have a talk, please return for her.

My sister has grown as an artist. Her artworks exceed my imagination. She amazes me with every stroke of oil paint, a creative endeavor out of my competence. You liked her pastel artworks even though they were stupid. Please have a look at her art, she will be happy. She will definitely want your appraisal. You hated how I scolded my sister. Take pride in yourself dear, she scolds me now.

It will bring a smile to your face of how proud, honored and artistic she has become. Please come back to tell her that his brother loves her. Even though you never did. I hate you. I told you to write that birthday letter on September 17, my sister’s birthday. You wanted me to write it on my own.

You will be happy; I finally wrote a letter to my sister. I told my sister that I love her, as you intended. Please read that letter, point out my bad grammar, my typos and certainly my pretentiousness to sound intellectual.

Ayush can now write full, meaningful sentences. He knows a lot more words and can articulate better. Please read his work, please appreciate him or just tell him he is doing great.

Please tell him that his mess is not to be doubted. Ayush has started doubting himself whenever he is in a dire situation. Please say something. I believed in God because of you. My beliefs are shattered.

You wanted to see my father, right? Wished that I have a normal relationship with him. He was a tough man to decode, still is. He was not easy to understand and convey. Completely contradictory of your behavior. Yet, I made him understand. You wanted me to fix things with him. I have done it dear. I can finally laugh in front of him. His anger does not scare me; his advice is not discarded as noise. I listen to him and sometimes he does too. Pretty transactional, but it’s fine. Please come back and laugh with him when I explain how I put salt in his tea.

I saw your father last month, accompanied by your younger brother. There was no chance he would recognize me. My brows and beard have grown dense. Your younger brother was waiting to be dropped at school. They sat in the same building we used to, a few benches apart our usual spot. He had a smile. He has grown up. Probably enough to accept your demise. He would probably spend a lifetime in regret; thinking his memory has failed him to forget you. He cannot do anything. God has bound him with the weight of your carcass. A burden he would never want to dismiss.

You are a coward, dear. I hate you. I hate you so much. I never had the courage to know what killed you. Perhaps I never dared to ask. It does not matter. My hatred grows inexplicably.

I hate doctors. I hate capitalism. I hate God. I hate destiny.

What kind of destiny spirals a 16-year-old to the depths of suffering?

What did I do to deserve the demise of my lover?

Dear God, enlighten me of my sins. The ones which made you choose to betray me of my home. My home God, my home!

Do you know Mr. God, how much tears I have shed. How much have I missed her?

You are not wrecked by suffering, therefore you envy me. You envy my existence, my mortality. I know you laugh at the mortals and the ugly nuisances they carry. You have no idea what it is like to suffer. Your envy has blindfolded your judgement. You made me suffer because you cannot.

You are pathetic. Narcissistic. Self-centered. I hate you more than I hate anyone.

What kind of impotent being let’s his innocent creations suffer, why would you even want me to bear such anguish?

Please tell me God, highlight my vices, portray my sins, from this life or the previous ones. Where did I commit such an anomaly that I am bestowed upon this divine judgement?

Will I ever be able to atone for the sins you have put on me?

Am I committing a sin now? Criticizing you? Doubting you? Cursing you? Betraying you?

Why did you decide my destiny?

Did I ask you to gift me that envious suffering of yours?

Did I ever mention to be put up front the gates of hell on earth?

Do I deserve love? Am I destined to suffer?

I understand it now. You do not listen to rants. You listen to devotion, prayers and sacrifices.

Was my sacrifice enough?

Was my separation a sacrifice to my destiny?

Now I deserve to be happy, right? RIGHT???!!

No, because I am still miserable. I still do not know if you exist. I loved you God. Only until you snatched my bright lantern from me, it guided me through the void you have created for me God. How could you commit such a sin. My love is gone, dear God.

You have ascended the pedestal of suffering. You are immortal, infinite and beyond rationality. You are the creator. I am too, God. Not as powerful as you. At least I’m humbled to accept my envy. You have flawed me God. I feel, I carry your wishes and burdens. I wish you had attended your funeral. You are dead. And I will probably the rest of my childish intelligence disproving your existence. Even if you appeared in front; I would dismiss it as a hoax. A hoax of the divine kind.

God is ruthless dear; he does not understand my love. If he really wanted to grant my wish, I would convey him to let me meet you for another day.

I’d carry you on my back and never let your bare feet touch this cruel sphere of matter. It swallowed you whole dear, how could I let it brace you again. I would display my cooking skills, make plenty of food for you. Enough for your journey after our separation. We would visit the florist near our school and beg him to make the grandest bouquet possible. Roses, tulips, white gold, sunflowers, daises, lavenders, orchids and even the ones that he doesn’t have. I would learn Alchemy to make the flowers bloom in the afterlife.

We would run far away to a place where you are not bothered by judgement dear. A sunset view would be one of our final moments together. I’d wrap you in my tanned arm and let your ponytail rest upon my weak shoulders. Pathetically weak ones, they might not even support you. But I would try, for you Dear, for you.

As sky turns gloomy and the darkness comes haunting it, the stars would flicker upon us. Your new home. Maybe they are not twinkling, they are laughing, at me dear. My naivety amuses these creatures of God. I would cry dear and I know you would too. You would like me crying so you would smile instantly, telling me that I will find love. I would return you to God, as promised.

I would want you to carry this letter with you, my tears keep spoiling the page beneath. This is the third time I am writing this letter from scratch. I break down every time I reach this pint. I still cannot let my tears fall. A few of them have escaped my jurisdiction. They have fled into this page. I would be careful not to wipe them off, they would ruin the graphite below. I want this letter to be perfect. Every paragraph has to be written on a separate page, safe from the demolition my tears carry.

God would separate us at dawn. I would not cry at your separation this time. My smile would be even more luminous than yours. As your reflection would fade away in the dark, I would not be able to glance at your last bits. I would be grateful that you existed, and my love would be a proof.

I know you would want me to find love and I surely would do so. This is my final confession to you. A lover greater than us would be my companion in the future. She would listen to our story one day, dear.

To love is to suffer. I am glad that my suffering brought me to you.

For I am a changed man, who has learned to live without you. Even if you get the chance, please do not come back dear. I know that you want the best for me and I am surely going to live enough for both of us.

I hope that the heavens are kind on you, if they exist. Even if they do not, you will surely exist within me. I promise…

A song that has a special place in my heart is Iris by Goo Goo dolls. When John Rzeznik sings;

And I’d give up forever to touch you                                                                           Coz I know that you feel my somehow                                                                       you’re the closest to heaven that i’ll ever be                                                              and I don’t wanna go home right now.

It feels as if he is directly talking to me. This song probably has the most iconic live performance of all time. And it is the inspiration for this post too.

Thank you for whoever read this far, I owe you a coffee.

If you liked what I have written, do consider subscribing. I know this will not reach a lot of people. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is my effort and my joy, and I had a fair share of both writing this one :)

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It was 2019. When life had peaked for the last time. Days were filled of joy rather than confusion and despair. Not so sure of the despair, because it rarely strikes when we expect it to.

June had arrived and I was still homesick of the glorious summer vacation I had. Trying to settle myself in my fairly new yet familiar place of my hometown was not so easy. The year had already peaked for me back in May, the visit to my Nani’s home.

Fighting through the desire to spend some more time with my cousins and the obligation to be present at school was a tough mountain to surmount. Yet, I was excited to visit school.

The start of a new grade, but this one was not like my previous ones. 9th Grade was a bit serious. At least for the teachers. I did not seem to care. Morning timings were new to me, and I looked forward to them. My excitement was particularly for my new bicycle.

I thought I had grown enough to be on my own. Making decisions myself. Even when most of them were wrong. I was naive. I think I will probably recite this sentence to my deathbed. The kind of naive who could not differ between a decision made by the self and the one that is influenced by someone. The urge to own a bicycle was not an autonomous one. It was influenced. The kind of influence that strips cognition out of you.

The bicycle was just in the Wishlist, so I could accompany her. She was my influencer.

I had known her for 6 years by that time. Ever since we met, I knew that we would be great friends. We were the homegirl homeboy duo before it was a thing. The connection was strikingly familiar. As if the universe had re-arranged the atoms in the most perfect order, minimizing any signs of unnecessary entropy, just to create a highly probable event of me meeting her.

I do not remember our first interaction. The oldest memory I have of her is when I shared my sandwich with her. Although I was very young, but me remembering that specific interaction has a reason to it. A quite intricate one.

I remembering dropping my bottle on her head later. To my surprise, she burst out of laughter. She was laughing at my stupidity. I may not remember the laugh, but I do remember the smile.

I have this habit of noticing smiles very generously. My superpowers contain of spotting different smiles and the elements those smile carry within. A heartfelt smile. A hopeful smile. A grief-stricken one. I have seen them all. Collections of different evidence and elements have given me quite fair share of knowledge about them. Maybe, my superpower came from admiring her. The smile that struck a chord into my heart was not a perfect one. That’s what she complained to me about.

She had developed a habit of covering her mouth whenever she smiled. According to her, the teeth Infront of her smile were not perfectly aligned. They displayed imperfection, insecurity dripped out of the display of them. I am sure she was wrong here. Her teeth were the most beautiful imperfection that I had bestowed my eyes upon. She was oblivious enough to neglect the beauty of the offset. The Wabi-Sabi as they say. My attention drew to the beauty as a whole, not the slight imperfections that ruin the picturesque.

I remember her being envious of the slightly less imperfect teeth I had. My envy of her was of the seemingly more intimate smile she had.

Of course, my envy was way more potent than hers-a comparison where I could finally defeat her. The next time when I would come close struck way sooner than I’d expected.

School had already begun a week prior. My arrival was a bit off time. Still ruminating about my bicycle along with the vacation, I set an alarm for 6 30 A.M. This was probably the first time I had intentionally set an alarm this early. I was accustomed to waking up late, but things were surely going to change a lot.

Dropping out of bed on time, I got ready and set my foot to the pedal of my new companion. The route to my school was straightforward one. With the exception of a small alley that led to the front gate of my school. This is where I would meet her eventually in the upcoming months.

I arrived at the alley and noticed my breath for a moment. Calm. COMPOSED. As expected of a high-performer student that my parents wanted me to be. Ironically, she knew me as the exact opposite. Not caring about my studies, always down for an adventure and being highly hedonistic were my personality traits according to her.

She arrived a minute later. We waved and spoke about our new timings. As we were getting late, we folded our excitement into our stomachs and headed upstairs. Today, we would be allotted our new classrooms.

My grade had only two sections. The division between the sections was to be done by a numbered list. All student names were put on a paper. The odd numbered ones went to section A and the even ones to section B. I was odd. She was even.

It was a total collapse, as agonizing and grievous as it could get. My first day of the new grade had already been ruined. I had to spend the remaining year without the only true friend I had. My idea of friendships was unfluctuating. I knew a lot of people, very sweet ones. Most of them could arguably have been my good friends. Instead, I was always skeptical and picky. I nitpicked my friends out of the large friend groups that I was supposedly a part of. No one seemed to get me like her. Although, we talked a lot less than you would expect best friends to. The time I spent talking to her was equivalent to a blessing.

She really wanted to talk to me. It could be seen in her eyes.

Disordered and muddled by the separation, my face had already turned red. Was it due to the anger, the regret or the envy? I do not know. However, I am sure she did. She called me out of the crowd to say something.

“Don’t be disappointed, consider this as a new adventure. I am so excited!”

There comes her usual talk. It was easy for her to say that. She embodied optimism. Also, few of her friends were in her section too. Which was not the case for me. Out of the few friends I had nitpicked previously, only one was in my section. That strange feeling of loneliness, despite being surrounded by people. I had my first encounter with it that day.

The moment felt like navigating through an ocean storm in a lifeboat. Any sense of control was non-existent. A whole day of confusion went by almost in an instant. I was submerged in my pessimism; any future positive was not on my though list that day.

Days went by and I was turning into somewhat of an ideal kid that my parents wanted me to be. Quiet, focused on classes and to top all of that, no social interactions i.e. no distractions. I was to still eager to go for classes so I could get a glimpse of her. Moreover, my escapism from the numbness of existence came in the form of my classes. The only place where I could rest my mind from the pessimism that emerged within.

I can say I was distracting myself. The confrontation with my feelings was a road I had not taken. Be a man. Toughen up, don’t cry. The bits of stoicism that had found a way through my conscience were already getting heavy. Of course I did not know what stoicism was. However, the philosophy found me way before I found it. There are elements of this universe that we experience, perceive and forget which we currently do not have a name for. I call these ‘plots of the subconscious’. Nostalgia for example.

Witnessing and experiencing nostalgia came way sooner than we had a name for it. My experience of stoicism was the plot of the subconscious that I came to know a lot later.

My days in school were simple. The classmates on my bench even started calling me a robot for my monotonous behavior. A robot that writes, reads, speaks and goes home. No maintenance, no improvement just blatant repetitiveness. The only highlight of my day was my wave off with her, in the lunch time.

The feeling of confrontation almost found its way out of me every day during lunchtime. I was just strong enough to push it down the neck. There was this strange fear of confrontation. My stoic self was not brave enough to accept that I missed her company.

Within one month of the robotic behavior, I had discarded any bit of emotion that was left in me. Days were so exhausting, I hardly have any memory left of them. Out of the chaos that had been going around, I even forgot to eat during lunchtime. Separation and anger kicked in, almost in equal parts. Not sure on which to focus, I started listening to what the guy behind my bench had been saying. That combo of me with the mixture that followed, created an endless stream of self-deprecating thought.

My mom cared for my school more than I did. As you would expect moms to behave. She made sure that I always had a lunchbox. Despite, she hated waking up early too. I surely inherited that from her. My mom is the greatest fighter I know, but even the greatest surrender under the might of unexpected sickness.

The only time that she was unable to make a lunchbox for me, is the day that I clearly remember. That avalanche that followed that day threw my pessimism out of the window. At least, for a bit.

I sat down in class, trying to concentrate what my history teacher was saying. The monotonous mode kicked in and the first half of the day passed by in a blink. During lunchtime, I searched for my lunchbox. Not present. Any sign of memory was voluntarily lost in that moment. I sighed, sat down and interrogated myself in silence.

“What is happening to me?”

“Why can’t I feel anything?”

“What happened to my charm?”

“What about my loneliness, will it persist or will it fade away?”

“Will I get accustomed to loneliness?”

“I am not a great friend, I am not a great student, I am pa—”

“Ayush? Why are you sitting alone? Don’t you have anything to eat?”

I recognized that voice in an instant. It was her. Apparently, she had entered from the back of the classroom. Out of my sight, just to surprise me from the back. I was delighted. My face had not been lit up like that since a very long time.

'‘Yea, today my mom was sick. She could not prepare anything, so I just left without a lunchbox.”

‘That’s so sad. I hope your mom recovers soon. Here, have a share of mine. “

Without any hesitation, she settled herself besides me. She asked me what I have been up to and why I had been sitting alone for so many days. She wanted to know what was inside my head. A mess that she was ready to sort.

My neck finally lost the battle that day, a declaration of war came from within. Whatever nonsense that I had been holding up until now was in my mouth for the first time since ages. She listened carefully. Not even interrupting me to ask any questions. In that moment, I felt desired.

For me, love was never about the grand gestures. A simple thank you. A kind confrontation. Slow and deep conversations. The attempt to understand without delusion. The desire to include someone in your life, despite the chaos you hold within. This is what makes my heart go boom. A quiet yet evident expression of love and care. I suppose the whole act of falling in love consists of the acceptance we crave, to be accepted without change. Though change is inevitable, someone who we fall for is the one who would accept ourselves as the inevitably changing creatures we are.

In that old school bench, I surely felt a lot. Probably everything mentioned above. For a moment, I had been teleported to utopia. Amidst my rumination, I finally accepted something.

At that exact moment, I had fallen for her.

The acceptance came of the desire to be understood. She had never failed to understand me. Whether it was my Monday existential crisis or the month-old robotic self, she understood it all. She comforted me without any words. Her presence was enough to know her intentions. Honesty of that kind is rare, and I felt it from her. I think that is what we desire in love. We ought to be understood. To be comforted without words and to be desired without exception. She ticked off every box of the idea I had of love.

After listening to my crap, she smiled.

“I knew you were carrying something within. I just didn’t have any idea that it would be so much. Sorry, but we are somewhat short of time. Let’s meet after school. Our usual spot, okay?”

“Fine, see you there!”

I forgot to say thank you. As pathetic of a person I was, this added more to my hall of shame. I guess she never expected a thank you. She would even laugh off the thank you that I would give her.

Our usual spot was a bench inside the main school building that was separate from the high school one. It was funny that she called it the ‘usual’ spot when we had not gathered there for a long time.

All of the friend groups assembled there after school, to chat about the school drama. That spot was the daily newspaper of the school. I neither had any friends, nor any school drama interested me. So, I left for home straight after the final bell rang.

That noon, I entered the building with the sole purpose of talking to her. No extra social interactions. She was already waiting for me when I arrived. This time, I comforted myself besides her.

Without even giving me time to think, she started speaking in succession.

“You think a lot, don’t you? This tiny brain of yours wanders more than I thought. Why don’t you talk more about it?”

I had no answer. I said I was immature, but that was rarely the truth. The feeling of not belonging anywhere, forcing myself into places and friend groups I don’t want to be a part of. That feeling was real. The worst part was not the feeling; it was the denial of it. Pretending it was fine to feel that way every day. Not realizing it was not space that I needed, it was assurance. I needed to be assured that there’s nothing wrong with me. She understood all of this.

With her, I spent the next half an hour scraping out my imperfections and insecurities. Laying them all outside, in front of her. She never questioned or tried to dismiss any of it as overthinking. I know she was wrong. Some of it rarely made sense, even when expressed. She rarely cared about the sense. She cared of what I felt within. Through the thick mud of my incomplete self, she cared to find the lotus within. The one that been shy of blooming. The mess was real, and she wholeheartedly accepted it.

Everyone had left the building by the time we finished. She was able to stay for so long because her father was to pick her up. He was late. I am glad he was.

That interaction made me realize how much I had fallen for her. When she said goodbye and turned around, I could have a clear view of how her ponytail looked from a distance. Another beautiful reason to love her.

A shade of brown so ethereal, even sunlight bounced off it in joy. The reflection would make even Narcissus hate himself. I do not hope to witness that flicker of beauty ever again. I want that sight to be as special as possible. As ineffable as it was, I hope to hold that divinity within myself.

I went home certainly happy that day. Trying to sink in whatever had happened. Euphoria followed me around. A display of bliss which was clearly evident in my presence. Sadly, I had no friend to share this Joy with. I engulfed even my happiest moments inside me, hoping it would somehow fill the void.

Certainly, that void had shrink a bit. I knew it was there. Nothing can fill that so easily. Day by day it started growing. Not the void, but the garden that was filling the void. The garden of love, carefully crafted and irrigated by her.

The interactions that I had with her became my primary motivator to stay after school. I would say even my desire to be present everyday was mainly fueled by her. We had interactions every now and then, at the same spot. Until the first term was around the corner.

My school system evaluated our grades on the basis of three exams (or terms) throughout the year. Every one of them was important. Even though marks were calculated and grades were given at the end of a term, what mattered the most was the final grade at the end. The first term rolled around September.

Thankfully my robotic self had studied enough for me to get good grades. The only thing I could be grateful for. The shocking part was, she had even better grades than me.

On our next interaction I asked her what motivated her to study and work so hard.

“I want to be a doctor someday. The one that kids look up to and be amazed. A doctor who cures her patients just by her presence. I dream to be a person like that.”

Fair enough. As expected of her. She already knew what drove her and where she wants to go. How did I think a monotonous, robotic and confused self would beat her?

There was no chance. Game was rigged before it even started.

There was no sense of jealousy, only awe and confusion. She seemed to be a lot more sorted and convinced by herself than me. I admired her certainty. Maybe, I saw in her what I aspired to be. A strikingly perfect reflection. It surely made me like her more. Someone had the courage to live out the life that I feared to. Inspiration followed her. Out of all the feeling I had or her, a new one was added recently. It was hope. I hoped the best for her.

The breezing winter had arrived. Not freezing, just breezing. My hometown is humid and hot all year round, but it sure has its traces of winter in form of occasional cold breezes. The winers are never cold enough to wear s sweater past 11 A.M. With all its might, the sun would be ruthless in the noon. Pillaging any bit of the frost that the winds carried.

That is why, most of the students did not even bother carrying a sweater. At the same time, she was different. She did not want to be affected by the cold. It was her ritual to bring a sweater every day, even if no one did.

I witnessed unfamiliarity and doubt on her face. This was strange. She thought she was weird and different than all the ones around her. Although she never told me, I had noticed that transition between strength and unfamiliarity quite a few times already.

I knew that I had to do something. As impotent I was, the strength to confront and comfort her was not present. I wanted to tell her that she was fine. She is not weird. The desire to make her feel seen was growing rapidly. In the end, I could not confront her. Instead, I did something even better.

Next day, I showed up in the old red sweater I had. I did not feel cold, but I wanted her to feel warm enough to be accompanied. My act of love was assuring that she never felt lonely. She had to know that here is someone as weird as her. Een if she had never asked, I knew she wanted to be understood as well.

I gave my best effort, and it did work well. The monster of unfamiliarity had been slain, what bloomed ahead was the flower of acceptance.

Of how evidently strong she already was, I added another element to it, and I am proud that I did.

That is what we do in love. We erase boundaries of comparison and let that creepiness leak from within. I am sure we all are creepier than we imagine. Creepy in the dedicated way. We make efforts that would never be noticed, write poetry which will never be recited and have thoughts that would never be shared. Love revolves around being able to accept the imperfections that we all carry. Love eliminates indifference.

In our next few interactions, I always removed my sweater right before meeting her. She knew that I felt uncomfortable and had advised me to not wear it for that long. Whenever I removed my sweater, my tie would be offset from the usual position. She always laughed about it. The state the sweater left me in was so hilarious that she choked on her breath laughing. I did it for her. She had this habit of realigning my tie after I removed my sweater.

“I like this out of place tie of yours. It reminds me of how stupid you are”

How funny it is, she seemed to hate her imperfect smile but openly praised the offset tie. The universe gave her a sharp reality check.

We both had a great laugh every time we met without the sweater.

Almost all of the times, after that horrendously comic act of removal, my tie would be greatly misaligned. And of the times it didn’t, I would displace it myself. Intentionally.

She said she would never get enough of my stupidity. Perhaps she was right, I was stupidly in love.

I had decided to confess at the end of our first mid-term exam.

December is when winters peak here. The Death Valley of the mid-term. Our school had decided to maximize our suffering by conducting exams in the coldest weather possible for the year. Quite a pessimistic outlook.

Despite the melancholically cold atmosphere, her flame shined bright enough to illuminate a path of hope. She annihilated any despair that I had.

In our last interaction before the mid-term exams, she was hopeful. As optimistic as I envision her to be, she even surpassed my imagination.

“I am so excited!! I have prepared a lot, and you know what just witness my powers this time. I am sure no one would come close, this the exam I am looking forward the most to, what do you think Ayush??!”

Sure. I nodded. I knew she will ace those exams. There wasn’t even a bit of hesitation and doubt. Her eyes glimmered hope. My all the best surely added to her arsenal of certainty, but she rarely needed that.

We all had a notorious habit of collectively bunking last three days before any school exam. It was our act of rebellion towards student cruelty. The day of rebellion was just after our last interaction. I knew we would not meet for the upcoming days, before waving her off I wanted to say something.

“Take care of Yourself.”

She smiled and told me she definitely would. My heart raced from this small bit of expression. It was the first time that I had mustered up the strength to express my love for her in words.

Honestly, I wanted to confess right there. I wanted her to know the chemical reactions that she had ignited within me. The fear of confrontation was right there, standing in corner. Waiting to be summoned. It did take the lead as soon as the word yourself slipped out of my mouth.

“Should I tell her?”

“What if she thinks I am crazy, will she accept me, what if she bursts out, what if s-”

She was gone.

I witnessed her move right out of my sight, within my reach. That was the perfect moment. However, I was hopeful. As for me, the decided day of confession was three days later.

I spent the first day of the rebellion plotting the prudently perfect confession scenario possible. If my mother had not intervened, the exam preparation would be non-existent.

I had maximized my rumination on the first day itself. Quite embarrassing as it was, it surely motivated me to confess even more.

The next two days have been wiped off my memory, probably because I spent lesser time thinking about her. I really wanted to score good as much as I wanted to confess. These two perfectly drove me to insanity.

The day of confession was here. First mid-term exam, the subject she was most fond of, English. However, she was nowhere to be found.

How ruthless and careless of her to be late on the first day. I was angry at her. Only a couple of minutes were left before the papers were to be distributed. No amount of courage could make me question her friend about her absence. To my surprise, she asked me where she was up to. I was furious.

“WHAT THE FUCK??!! AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW?”

“She never told me about today; I thought you might have some clue!”

I left for my classroom in despair. The adrenaline had started to fade off, and my anger turned into concern. The transition was almost seamless. My mind became a battlefield of questions till that point.

“Where is she?”

“Is she alright?”

“What happened, why did she miss her exam?”

I tried to cool down myself and started focusing on the questions beneath me, not the questions within.

After the exam, I asked almost everyone associated with her. I was a bit late; her younger sister had already left for home. Nobody had any clue of what had possibly happened. The anxiety was real. It almost ruined my preparation. Thanks to the exhaustion from the day, I could get a few hours of sleep that night. I did not want to sleep, I was still not sure about her. My glorious confession day had been ruined. Moreover, I was concerned.

Exams went by one after the another. No trace of her existence. The only clue I had, was her younger sister. Apparently, she was missing after the first exam too.

Three exams later, my anxiety had surmounted my rational behavior. Out of the few interactions we had on phone, I had somehow remembered saving her mother’s contact info. We both did not have our personal phones by then. I rang her mother’s number in question and uncertainty.

First call……BLANK.

Second call…...NO RESPONSE EITHER.

Third call……WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING, WHERE ARE THEY GOD DAMMIT?!

The cascading effect of concern had overridden my sanity. My prefrontal cortex was about to explode in confusion. It was using the last bits of its rationality to determine the causation. My emotional circuitry was at a toll already.

All of my attempts to reach her were futile. My efforts were left unanswered.

Hey, I have been working on this post for quite a long time. Honestly, it is hard to remember most of the events, and I am trying my best to put the events chronologically.

The story will end in the 2nd part, Unimaginable. No cliffhangers I promise. I am drafting the second part already.

Please forgive me for any mistakes and feel free to point out any suggestions.

Thank you for reading❤️

This post would not have been possible without , thank you for the title suggestions and the drafting. I am grateful to have a friend like you.

See y’all in the next one :)

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l’art és vida

I have an unhealthy obsession with football (if you call it soccer consider yourself an Opp), and this obsession carries over everything related to football, the teams, their coaches, their rivals and their histories. My obsession towards Spain and Spanish culture started with my favorite football club: F.C. Barcelona. This team represents a special cohort of people; the Catalans and the place they reside is called Catalunya, a small region inside of Spain.

In 1939, when Franciso Franco led the Nationalist Forces crushing the Second Spanish republic and completely destroying the democracy of Spain, his ideas were not limited to leadership. He wanted more. Annihilation. Oppression. The region of Catalunya was then and still is the biggest autonomous region within Spain and Franco could not stand that. He ordered a ban on the Catalan culture; any expression of the Catalan identity would count as rebellion towards Franco’s dictatorship. A rebellion that has its effects until now. There’s a strange truth about oppression i.e. it never works. Throughout history, acts of oppression seem to reunite people more than the natural expected behavior of disassociation. A rebellion becomes an act of kindness, the kindness towards the identity of the self. The love for their culture felt the most when they knew it was dying, that might be the fuel for the rebellion of cultural identity.

Throughout Catalunya, Franco’s troops wreaked havoc. Catalans were suffering, getting destroyed and being killed for an identity that they weaved through their childhoods, something that distinguished them from the rest of Spain. Despite all the struggle, they never gave up on their identity. Their culture is what kept them alive and fighting. F.C. Barcelona is a part of their act of rebellion towards the Nationalist forces. Barcelona became the face of the ‘Catalan identity’. The Nationalists and Franco favored the current capital of Spain, Madrid. The Home of Real Madrid C.F. The oppression manifested in football. Although historians claim that Franco never had a favorite team, his actions tell otherwise.

During a Semi-final of a tournament renamed in Franco’s honor Copa del Generalísimo (currently Copa del Rey), Barcelona were already 3-0 ahead from the first leg, but as much as Franco hated Catalans, he hated F.C.B. He ordered a ban on the Catalans supporting their team for the second leg at Madrid’s Home ground, to him it was more than a football match. It was expression. An expression of rebellion towards the Nationalist forces’ favored team, Real Madrid C.F.

Stones were pelted at the Barcelona goalkeeper; coins were scattered everywhere making it impossible for the team to defend. The Referees favored the home side resulting in an 11-1 victory for Real Madrid. The Catalans were furious. Not only were they disallowed of their victory, but this act sent a message to Europe. The message of Oppression. This event sparked a Rivalry that still goes on today, the rivalry of the Spanish giants: El Clásico (the classic in English).

• But why am I telling you all of this?

It is because the Story precedes the phrase mentioned above: l’art és vida.

Which means art is life in Catalan, the language of the people of Catalunya. It is not an official phrase made by the Catalans; the phrase is made by me (with the help of google translate). The story of the Catalans fascinates me; it is one of those stories that put you in questioning the fundamentals of your understanding. For many Catalans, their culture was their life and any culture in itself is a form of art, hence the phrase art is life.

The Catalans defended their art; it might be the purpose of their life. People say love transcends time and space. But what is love that is known to the world?

It is ART.

Art: Etymology, Depiction and Meaning

1.) Etymology of the word Art:

The word ‘art’ seems to have first originated from the Greek language, in Greek the word for art was techne, meaning both the idea of skill and craftsmanship as well as the concept of knowledge and science. This dual meaning reflects the Greek understanding of art, which is one of the first attempts to explain art.

The English word ‘Art’ has its roots in the Latin word ‘ars’ which means skill or craftsmanship. The word ‘ars’ itself is derived from the Proto-Indo-European root word ‘ar- ‘, meaning to fit together or join. Latin depicted ars as merely the skill and craftmanship, the creative aspect of art is how English, which is derived from Latin, describes it.

In Old English, the word for art was ‘æst’, which referred to any skill or ability. It was often used in the context of craftsmanship, such as metalworking or weaving. However, it also had a broader meaning that encompassed the concept of beauty and creativity.

In Middle English, the word ‘art’ started to take on a more specific meaning related to the fine arts. It was used to describe the various creative endeavors such as painting, sculpture, and music. This shift in meaning reflects the growing recognition of the distinct forms of expression through art.

In modern English, the word ‘art’ retains its broad meaning, encompassing both the traditional fine arts and newer forms of artistic expression. It is often used to refer to any creative endeavor that involves skill and imagination.

Art is being recognized worldwide even beyond modern English, for example a relatively newer form of art, photography, is no where related to the modern English’s definition of art or fine arts. Instead, it is a form of creative expression that humans developed over time. Similarly, cinematography another digital expression of art birthed through humans.

Cinema is art, it drafts people and puts them into a flood of emotions and experiences, as art should.

Although cinema is just another aspect of storytelling, an art which has been practiced in every civilization to exist. They say all great civilizations did not have the wheel, but there is no civilization that does not have stories. Stories have been a part of us, even before we existed, and cinema is the most fascinating and modern expression of stories (at least what I think). We will never stop narrating stories and that is what we do through cinema in the modern world.

Even through various iterations of the meaning of the word art, we still cannot completely encapsulate what art means and what does it constitute of. The definition of Art seems to change as we evolve as a race, there are arts that might have died due to various circumstances. War, poverty, capitalism, social differences and human vices, just to name a few. Even when we do not fully understand art, we still express it in various ways. It is as if the language of art is something we all understand, despite not knowing how to speak it.

2.) Depiction and Expression of Art, what it constitutes of:

-Paintings:

Whenever Art is mentioned people usually first think of paintings, as if paintings are the only representatives of art. But I get it, our obsession with paintings goes far back, even before we had language to communicate. The first paintings were made on caves, carvings and depictions on stone became our way of representing ourselves through. The oldest paintings date almost 60000 years ago, depicting various animals.

There’s a famous myth about the first painting ever made, it is said that a couple living in the caves were being separated by death, and the man loved the woman so much that he traced down the shadow of her body on the walls of the caves. That outline became the first painting ever and a way of depiction of love through art. To him the expression of love was his longing for her, which was then translated through his efforts of creating the wall painting. His love was expressed through the art of tracing her shadow.

I am personally very fond of paintings; a painting is a 10,000-word essay compressed into a singular visual expression. There is so much depth to what an artist might want to convey through his painting. Sometimes the artist doesn’t want to convey but rather express himself through the canvas. A Painting becomes a refuge for the artist to reside, even through the chaos and turmoil of his life. One of the most fascinating aspects of art is that it lives on even after you die, all of the meaning of your life may be a piece of art that you created by effort. One of such many ever living artist is Vincent Van Gogh, my favorite painter.

Ever since I witnessed his paintings in 8th grade, I was flabbergasted. To my developing brain, an expression of art like this was so unique and expressive that it made me excited and happy to know his story, but my joy was not ready for the disasters that preceded his art. Van Gogh had a terrible life; he began his artistic career at the age of 27 and committed suicide at the age of 37. Through this short period, he made over 2000 artworks including more than 800 oil paintings. Van Gogh suffered mental illnesses throughout his lifetime, and his finances did not have much luck either. Describing his thoughts and suffering, he wrote various letters to his brother Theo. He only sold one painting in his lifetime and was only recognized after his death.

Van Gogh would have never imagined his art would get so famous and influential and that is another aspect of art. We can never know how big or famous our art would get. There is no way Van Gogh could have predicted that he would get famous after his death; he spent his life thinking he was a failure.

This story shook me at that time, because how could the world not recognize an artist like Van Gogh? The one who became one of the most influential figures of western art, spent his time rotting in a bed, where he wanted to die. The proxy for art has always been Pain. It is one of the requirements to create art, although debatable but the artists who endured massive amounts of suffering are the most famous ones. Maybe smaller artists suffered even more, but the world might not be kind enough to notice their art, just like the case of Vincent van Gogh.

There have been various other paintings that I have liked, some of them I will mention below, but the case of Vincent van Gogh strikes a question to the minds of the curious people, what actually drives and motivates humans to create art?

-Music

What’s the one thing that makes life less miserable during any moment of chaos, it is music, and if it’s not, then probably you have been living in a different world than me. Music is what connects people beyond language, the language of music is the closest we can get to global harmony and agreement, and ironically the world global harmony itself has music in it.

We all listen to music every day, in one format or the other, but can we describe it? What does music do different than other aspects of normal life?

I have my fair share of answers to these questions.

—We seek in music what we long for in real life—

I recently witnessed Rajasthani folk in my town, although I don’t understand Marwari (the language of Rajasthan), I was impressed. Not only by the music, but by the representation of various themes of life that are portrayed in the music. Rajasthan is a geographically water scarce state, covered in dunes of enormous amounts of sand, with temperatures exceeding over 48 degrees Celsius in various places. The struggle of finding water has a long history and even some present. The state is even more popular for the normalization of child marriages, although that interpretation is highly incorrect. The first image of Rajasthan is of a waterless, drenched in heat and a supporter of child marriage state.

One of the most famous communities representing Rajasthani music is the manganiars. The music of the manganiars include various themes and messages of what the people of Rajasthan seek from life.

They depict the struggles of collecting water from the barren land, women convey how hard it is to carry heavy earthen clay pots (मटकी) on their head. The constant battle against the scorching sun of the tropic of cancer. The atrocities of child marriage and how early marriage affects women. How does the community fight these insurmountable battles?

They seek refuge in music.

The music of the manganiars perfectly paints the picture of the struggles and glorifies the solutions to them. Their music implies asking the gods for rain, pleasing them with music and devotion, women fantasizing a world where they don’t have to collect water anymore. They convey to the gods, their message for mercy in form of favorable weather conditions to live. Although not directly but indirectly opposing child marriage in form of subtle conveying through music. The grief of a newly wedded girl, who seems to miss her home, does not eat and is depressed. Her decline of health through the struggle of communicating and understanding the in-laws at such a young age is portrayed in their music.

Whoever wrote these pieces of music sure wanted the world of Rajasthan to be as perfect and pleasant as they describe; they sure experienced and witnessed a lot of struggles and that is what drove them to create such heartwarming form of art. Art that displays both the melancholy and hope of life.

Not only the people of Rajasthan, but we also long for the ideal life. The music choices we have are highly influenced by our moods and the emotions we feel. When we long for love, hopeless self-deprecating songs do not appeal to us. Instead, we seek for someone like Ed Sheeran, the music genius who portrays love like no one else.

Similarly, moments of grief seem to destroy our liking for joyous and pleasant music. In moments of grief, we do not seek hope, we seek understanding. Therefore, the music written by artists who are almost suicidal and have gone through multiple heartbreaks appeal to us the most, artists like Joji. That is due to our longing for understanding.

There are so many categories of art that it seems impossible for me to be mention all of them, art has been an influential part of my life, and I hope it has been for you too. I mentioned two of the depictions of art that have been the most influential. Photography and literature are the ones that I wish to write for in the future. These two have been on the path of my learning and I hope to learn more about them before I write something. For now, let me present to you the meaning of art and why the question of what is art? is incomplete.

3.) Meaning of Art:

The question of what is art? only seems to capture what constitutes art, i.e. what the depictions of art are, the question does not capture what we mean by art. We need a different question like what does art mean? which is different from what is art?

This is where we might disagree, not because of what we think of art. Rather it is that art is too broad to be captured in a single definition, people have tried trapping art in a single definition throughout history, but none have succeeded completely. There are aspects of art that fit one definition correctly and then there are the ones who don’t.

I will not leave the meaning of art to be defined by yourselves, that would be a very diplomatic and subjective answer to the question of finding the meaning of art. Instead, I will put forth the various meanings of art I have collected through time and experience and leave the discussion and thinking to you of either accepting, debating my definitions or presenting your definitions.

i.) Art is Expression

It is one of the definitions of Art that I have in my inventory, but the question of “What is Art?” does not have a definitive and objective answer and is also incomplete. People are subject to think what is art and what it means to them. If you notice a lot more than other people (which is an art in itself), you can find art everywhere, from the crooked ceilings to the epitome of art, what people call as paintings.

Remember the caveman who traced a woman’s shadow on the wall?

To him, the tracing of the shadow was an expression, one that screamed art. His art was his expression of longing and grief for the departure of a loved one.

Not just love, any form of expression becomes art. An expression of creativity, boredom, emotion or a mixture of these three in favorable quantities becomes art. What we cannot express through mere words, we express through art.

ii.) Art is what moves you

The one thing that art does perfectly is driving the emotional circuits of our brain in insane and fascinating ways. What is art that does not move you?

If any art form appeals to you, I am sure you have some sort of an emotional reaction to it. The kind of joy in rediscovering an old favorite song. The nostalgia that overwhelms us while we visit places that we used to live in. A writer conveying in words of exactly what you have in your mind and the sense of jealousy of not being articulate enough to express it yourself. These are some of the various examples of how art moves us psychologically.

Art even moves the artists, or often they are moved so they create art. Conveying of emotion through art remains a constant theme throughout the history of art. When an artist experiences an emotion, he is compelled to convey it through art. I think that is the identity of an artist. The compelling feeling to convey something.

Artists left traces of their art and creativity in the civilizations they were part of, and even if they didn’t, they at least traced themselves.

Beyond meaning: What precedes art and why does humankind create art?

Art is generally considered as the expression of creativity and intelligence. While it is generally true that creativity is what drives and precedes art, without creativity there is no art.

But what exactly is creativity, and why does the need for creativity even come from?

If you are fortunate enough while scrolling on Instagram and you understand some Hindi, you might have come across the legendary poet Javed Akhtar.

Javed Akhtar in one of his interviews tries to explain where does creativity and the urge for creativity come from.

He explains that the urge for creativity stems from the presence of psychological disturbance or simply bad mental health. If you have not experienced any psychological disturbance, then you will not have any creativity or the need for creativity.

Although debatable, there have been various research papers depicting that psychological disturbance gives birth to creativity and many counter arguments have also been proposed.

But the overall balance between negative and positive association of creativity and mental health tends to lean towards the negative side. There have been a lot more creative artists that have bad mental health than the ones having good mental health. The predisposition to psychological disturbance seems to fuel more creativity.

This might be the reason for various famous artists such as Sylvia Plath, who killed herself in an oven, Friedrich Nietzsche, who supposedly went ‘crazy’ during his final days or my favorite Vincent van Gogh who lived a miserable life ending his life in a mental asylum at the age of 37 are all highly creative individuals.

The mental turmoil transformed and fueled their creativity in ways we cannot imagine.

An Updated Evaluation of the Dichotomous Link Between Creativity and Mental Health

Subsequent research papers and meta-analysis also convey that creativity might not be only negatively associated to mental health, there are positive associations too. Which makes sense, because if creativity had only been linked to psychological disturbance, we would not have authors and singers depicting of what I think is the most powerful positive emotion, which is love.

The point here is that whether we understand creativity or not, it is what drives art in the most powerful way.

I am still not certain of why humans even bother to create art, maybe the answer lies in the meaning. We create art to simply express ourselves in a way we wish to be understood. Or maybe, it is a lot more complex than that.

The one thing that I am certain about is that we will never stop creating art, we will defend our art as the Catalans, we will express our struggles as the Rajasthanis, and we will be negatively associated to creativity as the famous dead artists, but we will never repress our feeling to convey and I hope this feeling of conveying something stays with us in the form of the art we create.

Heyy everyone, congratulations for reaching the end of the post. I know it was a long one, but it sure took a lot of time to put all of this into one place. If you want to correct something or add something, feel free to message me or leave a comment below. You devoting your time to read this is highly appreciated and I thank you with the greatest Japanese style bow down in existence.

THANK YOU VERYY MUCH❤️

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Ever since I was a kid I carry around the reputation of the disobedient one, the one who never listens, the one who makes his own decisions, the one who is not obliged to point out the wrong in people. I was the rebel who said whatever felt convenient to me in the moment without second thought and other people and even my family found it unpleasant.

My cognitive capabilities were not developed but I will still admit that I was quite arrogant from the start, I don’t know why I grew up that way and maybe it will take a whole another level of self-analysis to find that out. Whatever may be the reason, the thing I am happy about is that I tend to take my decisions myself and no amount of hatred and criticism will take this happiness from me.

The idea of a life where my decisions are a set of actions determined by someone else terrifies me so much that I would rather be homeless and broke due to my decisions than suffer the if’s and what’s of my unmade decisions. I want to choose my life and I think that is where I maybe different from the general cohort of people, which the fellow humans around me call a society.

I am incorporating and developing my decision making capabilities, and I am trying to not be ignorant of advice from other people. My arrogance is what I would like to have full control upon because after so many conversations I have come to realize that arrogance does not lead to anything fruitful. Arrogance is basically you completely disregarding the person or advice in front of you and thinking you are superior in some way. This is wrong.

I think “Great conversations” require understanding, disagreement, listening and speaking your thoughts out. In no way you do yourself the favour of listening and understanding when you are arrogant or when you think that you are superior, and in most of the cases both are simultaneously true. The arrogance in me is what I know can be fixed, but my authority over self?

That is what is a problem for the people around me, even my parents they think that my decision making is a threat to their importance in my life or it is a threat to their love, their identity. This is far beyond the truth. I sometimes feel stuck in a psychologically claustrophobic way about what should be my natural or ideal way of making decisions.

I dont remember the person who said this but a comment on my arrogance is what stings me even today;

•Your arrogance overshadows your beauty and you will never beautiful with how arrogant you are.

I personally think that this might not be the best way to tell a child that his arrogance is wrong, sure I do agree that I have been arrogant but no child deserves to be attacked for something that they do not know is incorrect. Children are very sensitive to such harsh criticism and I am no different, I took that as something that I should avoid, to please the people around me and whenever I am arrogant, I feel disgust and hatred as a response and I still don’t know how to process and respond to this flood of emotions and I am confident that I will find a way through it.

The ability to make your own decisions is something that I am making my default mode through life, I cannot live a life that is moulded by the decisions of someone else. If i disagree with someone I tell them right away, the filter of being nice is what I am trying to avoid. In some ways anger may not be fruitful, but when you feel it you should realize that things, conversations, people or scenarios did not turn out as you expected them to be. Maybe we should not run from our anger but try to understand the motive behind it.

I look around the people my age, the ones who are too conditioned to think outside the box, the ones who believe mass media fed propoganda, the ones who do not question their beliefs and the ones who have stopped their journey of intellectual and personal development. They have believed that it’s evil to be successful, the ones who are intelligent are gifted and worldviews beyond theirs do not exist.

Do I crave to live a life like them?

Absolutely not.

The people that are mentioned above and many others all around the world, including my parents have concreted their perspectives and they have somewhat given up on their decision making capability. They are too condtioned to accept that a 20 yr old would drop out of college to figure out life on his own without any experience.

Do I hate my parents for not liking my decision? NO.

Am I superior than someone who does follow a conventional, an ideal path? NO.

My parents wish the best for me and for them me quitting college might be something that shattered their dreams of graduating. Although I love my parents a lot, I think that I am not obliged to follow a path of life that they choose for me. They are confused and scared that I might end up destroying my potential and my “sharp mind”( according to them ) might be wasted. But to be honest they expect me to behave a certain way, the way of socially ideal kid.

And as of now I do not meet their expectations thus they have a sense of mistrust in me. I am sad and happy at the same time.

I am sad because I could not become what they dreamt of me initially, even though I am not bound by their way of life and their decisions I still want my parents to be happy. And their sad faces is what bothers me and asks me : Am I really on the right path?

The happiness in this situation arises from me proving myself. I proved that I have authority over myself and I do make decisions regarding what I feel is correct and my decisions are not a set of actions that have been instilled for generations before me, which may or may not even be relevant today. Maybe the decision I took was not worth it, but it was something that I chose for myself. I have pride about my ability to be not easily convinced by someone for making a decision and I feel we eventually would upset someone no matter the decision we make.

The socially ideal kid is long dead for me and he can enjoy his praise for the persona he carries in the disguise of being socially acceptable. The idea of being socially acceptable disgusts me so much. You have to be different to be great, you just have to be. You can not be someone who receives praise from everyone around you and not everyone will understand your actions. Sometimes it is fine to be misunderstood than to recieve praise from people whom you do not even care about. It is not worth it and I don’t think that in any generation it would be.

Social acceptance comes from being accustomed to the rules and regulations set for everyone, the more knowledge someone gains the more they realize how foolish it is to behave by the norms of the society. I do not imply that morally questionable behaviour is acceptable, that is wrong. But the fact that I am supposed to behave as a puppet, and experiment of the decisions that people around me make does not sound good to me and I will never accept such a way of life.

I may be wrong, I may disappoint my parents, maybe no one would understand me. The regret may be too big in the end. Maybe I would die suffering the aftermath of my bad decisions, who knows what might happen but will be glad. I will be glad that I took my risks and never doubted what I could do and criticism, self doubt and even regret of decisions might help me make better decisions. I would happily die suffering the consequences of my decisions, even if they were wrong.

Forgive me for the typos in this post, I have written this while sitting in a train and this is just basically a journal entry to myself.

Do tell me if you find this relevant or relatable by any chance :)

All my stories start with a pretty heavy situation; the kind of ones that made me think in such astonishing perspectives that altered my worldviews for once, but not this one. It starts with somewhere that I would least expect to give a lesson.

It starts with my Kitchen.

Its 3:30 in the morning and I cannot sleep, not because of any external circumstances but due to something that takes a long time to calm down. My brain. I’m the worst when it comes to shutting down my brain for sleep. The situation gets even bad when I have some ideas. The constant struggle between ideas and sleep is real. It becomes like a tug of war game between strongmen and elementary school kids.

This endless thought loop often ends up in disrupting my sleep and that eventually leads to a late morning with a heavy headache and an angry face. That is exactly what happened. Frustrated by last night and inheriting my mother’s anger I walk towards my kitchen, and there I notice something. A warm cup of black coffee without any sugar (as I prefer it to be), resting on the granite platform waiting for me. the sight of black coffee calmed down my anger, and I tried looking for my mom.

I found her in the corner fixing something that probably doesn’t even need fixing (typical mom things). I call her out and she turns around with a smiling face, pointing towards the cup of coffee. She promptly says, “It’s for you!!" and goes back to her usual work for the day. I guess if there was an instrument to measure the warmth of a person, my mom’s smile would definitely be warmer than the cup of coffee Infront of me.

Apparently, she had noticed my tossing and turning around in the bed last night and somehow mysteriously calculated my fatigue and my waking time to blend a cup of coffee at the perfect hour. It was a WTF moment for me, but for my mom it was a random Tuesday. That cup of coffee made me realize two things. One of them was that my mom knows me more than I think. It’s crazy that whenever I think my mom does not know me more than I think, she pulls out another magical trick from her arsenal of life experiences and makes me realize that I will always be her baby. It’s just what moms do on a regular basis. And the second realization was what made me write this article, the amount of love that gets unnoticed, the love that’s left on the table.

We go around searching for love all through the world while not noticing what’s present in front of us, the kind of love that goes unnoticed every day. This dragged me into deep thought. Just how much of the love can we all actually not notice. While crusading through life at unimaginable speeds, do we care enough to acknowledge that we might be receiving the love we crave?

I do not think so. While thinking about this a quote that I read long before struck me and things somehow started to make more sense. It says:

It is a natural misbalance which we all might carry. This misbalance that I might be willing to treat is not a bug in my system of life, it is a feature. There are a lot of features we wish we never had in our system, and I think that this might be one of those annoying ones, at least for me. There exists a discrepancy in the amount of love that we get and the amount we actually notice and if there exists a god then I would never forgive him for this feature.

As soon as I got a hold of this discrepancy with my most usual behavior, I started trying to challenge it. I love challenges and especially the ones that get on my nerves. I started noticing more of what was present Infront of me. Every small act, every gesture, every word spoken and tried collecting all the fragments of love that were scattered around me. Starting with the recent cup of coffee.

Brewing that cup of coffee was an act of love, noticing my uncomfortable sleep was one too. Smiling while talking to her son was another one, cleaning up my table for the morning which was yet another one that went unnoticed for a long time. I widened my lens from the acts of my mother to probably everyone that I meet. I started noticing things that you would not think are acts of love at all.

The watchman that smiles and greets me good morning was love too, what does he gain from these interactions? Probably nothing, but the fact that he considered me a person worthy enough to be greeted is an act of love that you might not notice. All the unknown people that we breeze through every day, especially the ones that smile and greet us are all carrying love within which is not noticed.

Think about the clothes you wear, an underpaid worker who is most probably unknown to you crafted it for you. Although he might not know that you will wear it in the future, he put his effort into it. He cared enough to stitch and blend the fabric perfectly, so it fits on you. This, for me is another act of love that gets unnoticed.

The singers and bands you listen to, the writers you read (including me), the actors you watch, the decor that you admire at home or in the market, applications and devices you use, the nature that you admire, all of it is art. Art that was carefully crafted by artists who cared enough to create art, even if it may solely be for you but still, it is an act of love and care that too gets unnoticed.

The songs you introduced someone else to, they might still listen to them. The old man you helped cross the road still remembers your kindness. Your friends right now might be thinking of a memory they shared with you. your siblings would be remembering the fights they had with you. Even your exes, some of their acts screamed love but we never cared to notice. all of these things are acts of love disguised as day-to-day life perfectly, waiting for us to be noticed and reflected upon.

It’s not our fault; the system was rigged even before we entered it. Even before our births our mothers who carried us in their wombs was a selfless act of love that we would never be able to repay. The point is not to repay or reciprocate any of the love we receive. The point here is to notice it beforehand, even if we will never be able to repay or reciprocate it. Honestly, if we actually knew how much we are loved we would act a lot differently than our usual behaviors.

If we noticed perfectly, the amount of love that we receive would become a superpower. One that would not let doubt and fear enter our minds. The fear of losing would simply not exist. If you knew how much other people rooted for you, it would allow you to make better decisions. It would allow you to put yourself on more risk than usual. Although whatever others may think about you does not matter at all, but if they love you, you can transcend that love into your strength. The received love would create a safety net for you. Every time that you fall down, it would remind you that you are not alone in your struggles, other people do love you as you are currently and maybe that would create happiness. The kind of one which cannot be bought.

Every time that I think of a life that would fulfill myself, a life maybe full of happiness. I think of love.

Love is a factor which I think would be common for anybody’s dream life or the ones they would want to achieve. Love might be the only thing that transcends space and time and to not be able to notice such a powerful force in its entirety itself is a tragedy that puts me into rumination.

I think why does this feature might exist if it does not serve us anything, and why did I even care to notice this in the first place. Think of yourself as an omnipotent being like God.

• Would you not want your creation to notice the things that it chases all along its life?

• Would you not want your creation to experience the thing that transcends beyond the cosmos?

The answer would be definitely yes for me, and it might differ for other people. But the question here is why we are not allowed to notice all the love that’s around us. I can think of an answer which you might agree upon.

Maybe God created this feature to make us realize that love is not only about noticing and showing. Love also lingers between the acts and gestures that are left unnoticed. It is also between the silence we interpret as rudeness or nonchalance.

~Maybe love wasn’t present to be noticed, but only to be felt.

And the fact that I happen to notice the feature of not noticing enough love maybe a hint from the creator himself, a hint that implies that we still do not know enough about love.

Heyyyyy, this piece was written as tribute to my mother’s love for me and I have written this in a single afternoon so please feel free to point out any mistakes or points you want to add, do leave a comment about how this piece made you feel, and also consider subscribing, see yaa :)

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Imagine all of your photos, videos, heartfelt notes, your contacts and your social media accounts get erased from your phone in an instant, that is what you would call a factory reset and in some ways death is also a factory reset but just for life, in a different way.

A factory reset of your phone will not actually damage the vessel, the phone. But it erases all of its content within. Death is something that works in reverse, when a person dies the vessel, which is the body is separated from the soul, the conscious or whatever you may call it, death damages the vessel, not the internal soul trapped within.

Whether it is a sudden factory reset or death of someone the instant reaction would be a state of panic, where we would not know what to do ahead. The way an factory reset destroys whatever we held inside our phone, death of our vessel sets free whatever we held inside, our will to live, the love we carried, the dreams we had, the gratitude we contained, all of it. Gone in a blink. Where the people around us do not have an idea of what do, where to go or how to navigate further with the absence of a human being who was so accustomed to our daily lives that we cannot imagine a glimpse of life without them.

If you ask me am I sure that souls exist? Maybe not, but I can for sure say you experience and witness the magic of the soul everyday, your subconscious mind. The way it holds information that you may have ignored. May be it’s one of the parts of the soul, I’m not sure but there are feelings we have that cannot be put down in words, some of them too complex that we can’t even form a thought for them, where do all these come from? I do not have a clue. Maybe they are an essence of the whole part that we call soul. Whatever the soul it is complex and we humans do not understand it and certainly today I have experienced something quite similar that was too complex to be elucidated in words alone.

My grandmother is on the brink of death and I have travelled over a 1000 km to see her in person, she had a brain tumor surgery 15 days prior and has not woken up since, as I had my first glimpse of her I saw her laying there unconscious probably thinking something that I do not know, dreaming an alternate life, probably grateful for her current life, or probably embedded deep into her soul, the one which we make speculations about, who knows. Humans have still not figured out what happens to us in a state of coma and whatever happens there might be connected to our soul, that is what I think.

As I set foot in the ICU Ward, I realized what death meant and to my surprise it was more real than I thought. Witnessing it in person, the bright flames of the lives once lived were flickering in a search of hope, hope through various means, hope through faith, hope through denial, hope through the darkness that has now inhabited them. The immoral and unjust darkness of the end of life that we call death.

That feeling in ICU was one of the strangest that I had encountered, it was not a single feeling but a strange composition of them.

The room was filled with hope, the hope of the people who came to witness their loved ones for probably a last time, hoping that their presence may alter something in the other, driving them outward from the path of death, and hope is one of the strongest feelings of mankind.

At the same time the room was filled with regret, as expected regret weighs down on humans more than anything, you carry regrets everywhere you go and it was not so different for the people waiting for their loved ones to bid them a goodbye. There was the regret of not spending enough time with their loved ones, not reciprocating their love back, not picking up their phone, not sitting them for just another normal meal, the regret was real and I could feel it.

They could see all of their loved ones being toppled down by the unconquerable force of death, it is in front of death one realizes that as powerful of an emotion love is, it is impotent Infront of death. No amount of love brings back a deceased person and that is what makes people regret.

Witnessing their all mighty love powerless in front of the wrath of death. This is a truly heartbreaking feeling for anyone to have.

The strangest feeling of what I had was of Joy, to have the feeling of Joy, in such a dreadful place surprised me.

Maybe it came from the people on their death beds, knowing that though their demise is inevitable there was someone by their death bed, someone who cared enough until their last breath, maybe that is where the joy stems from and maybe that is what’s needed to appreciate a good life, the presence of another fellow human by your deathbed.

Maybe the joy came from the people who were witnessing death like me, however impotent and powerless our love might be, we stand in front of death giving it a tough competition for our loved ones, these moments of bravery might have sparked the joy in the visitors. The joy of fighting for love even when death stands by.

The most joyous one of all was a woman who was beside the love of her life, who was probably laying on his deathbed, the nurses had stopped attending him, tonight was his end and remarkably his last night with his wife, his wife sat down beside his face in a small uncozy metal chair resting her head on the corner of his bed, smiling. Not just smiling, but smiling with the brightest face I have ever seen.

All while he laid unconscious probably not knowing it was his last night or probably he did, he would be thinking of something too, the evenings he had spent with her, the nights when one of them could not sleep and they comforted each other, the rushed mornings which went unnoticed as an act of love. He would be contemplating and replaying his life in his mind and probably trying to say I love you for the last time but he could not, his condition did not permit him to do so.

She starts talking with her husband, communicating through gestures and facial expressions in case her husband can not hear, he lays there unconscious not knowing how to respond, waiting to die in a few hours and his wife still hasn’t lost hope. She is laughing, cherishing her final moments with him, that laugh, that joy came of acceptance, acceptance of the natural force of death.

She realizes that she would lose a companion, there would be no one to argue for tomorrow, no one to cook meals for, no one to talk to the kids, no one to send roses for, no one to love and probably no one to live for. And yet, she smiled because her joy of accepting that her loving husband is going to be deceased and she had spent her life loving him in a way to cherish moments for the future, this joy has taken over her.

I think she would have forgotten what will happen to her husband tomorrow, she was too submerged in the present to think about it. But whatever might happen she knows that she will overcome it. Not instantly but gradually. She can heal herself with her maturity. Her world may be in shatters, but from within she is clear and has accepted whatever that is in front of her.

People think that she has gone mad, mourning the death of her husband has made her insane. But I will tell you with absolute clarity that she wasn’t mad at all, she was more aware than probably anyone of us because witnessing death is not for the faint hearted and just by her looks, her personality and energy, I am sure she is braver than anyone I know. To accept death is a kind of bravery that I am or probably a lot of people aren’t familiar with and no one who has witnessed death will tell you it was beautiful but I’m sure a lot of them would say it was life changing. It was quite similar for me.

I think about death a lot and today’s experience added another lesson to my inventory of wisdom related to death.

We all have heard the advice of not caring about what other people think of ourselves but we still get ourselves entangled in the thought loops of getting affected by what other people say of us, and to that I asked myself:

•Will the person that I’m too keen to get an approval or appraise from care for me on my deathbed?

•Would they pray for my speedy recovery?

•Would they stay until I could not physically move and would they be kind enough to have a conversation with me on my death bed?

If the answer to any of these questions is NO then I would not give myself the mental burden to try to convince them, anyone who will not be the one to accompany you to your deathbed and would not take pride in having a deathbed conversation with you was simply not worth it. The person is not simply worth fighting for and I will carry this lesson with myself.

The interaction in the ICU has changed me and this was just an attempt to capture what I had felt throughout the visit but still a lot of what I felt might not be reciprocated in my words and some of it need not to be…

Do tell me your thoughts in the comments and share with me how this piece resonated with you :)

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A few days ago I ended up conversing with a stranger in the gym who looked quite new and still had the vibe of the i-know-it-all quirky kid. We ended up having conversations on workout splits and thereby I mentioned the relevance and importance of cardiovascular exercise and health and its correlation to longterm fitness to which he had quite an interesting reaction , he jumped on me interrupting

•Yea yea yea , but any form of cardio makes you lose muscle and and I’m trying to gain muscle and you know to gain as much muscle as possible we shou-

I asked him to stop yapping and then I asked him:

•What makes you think or what evidence do you have that any form of cardio makes you lose muscle ? How do you support your statement ?

He was confused almost as If I asked him in an language he was unfamiliar with and indeed he was unfamiliar but not with my language , what he was unfamiliar with was ‘The curse of certainty and how it destroys wisdom’

I continued:

•Can you trace back where did you acquire this information?

•An instagram reel , He replied

I did not need any more answers from him but this interaction put me on rare pedastal of emotions where I felt angry and pity at the same time. I was furious because he had crafted a narrative in his brain without any prior thinking and logic which may or may not have any relevance to the reality and pity because how naive was he to accept whatever that has been told to him , to not question his knowledge , to not experience the joy of being wrong and be amused by finding out how foolish his thinking was , he was surely missing on the joy of entailing the truth.

Now whether cardio causes muscle loss is a completely different debate but the point I’m highlighting is that those engulfed in certainty will never chase wisdom and knowledge. They will always chase certainty , try to be more and more complacent , rush to conclusions before actually drawing out the possibilities.

Being certain about something usually depicts that you lack the ability to think from different perspectives , any certainty is a perspective that you have deeply ingrained in your conscious. How can you be so certain about anything? Have you forgot to question? Or have you become complacent enough to accept whatever that is in front of you as true?

We all ‘certainly’ do not know about a lot of things we usually talk about , but does that mean we should stop talking with certainty? Absolutlely not. That is not possible. No matter how much we educate ourselves about different perspectives in any given situation we will definitely hold a perspective that we favour and that is completely fine. We all are allowed to hold our perspectives but we should never be foolish enough to declare our perspective as the ‘certain truth’. We all should be developing the ability to tolerate and understand perspectives that challenge our ones. If you really think that a person has a perspective which is foolish you should try to disprove of what he says by logic and evidence and not by declaring the other one as ‘dumb’ just because he shares a worldview diferent than yours.

I disapprove of what you say , but I will defend to the death your right to say it

~Voltaire

It puts me to question how much of wisdom is avoided to the naivity of certainty , he who is certain can never doubt of what he says and does , and he will be in a state of delusion. This is because all of our paths towards the truth will be encountered by a lot of doubt , doubt of our thinking , doubt of our existing beliefs and even as we progress there will be doubt of our new world beliefs. No one exactly knows what the truth is and anyone who tells you he does is probably decieving you.

Honestly , if you ask me that am i certain even about this post and what here written is true?

I would not be able to answer that because no one is certain , and I am just here to express what I feel and think , I am superior to no one.

There’s another quote by Voltaire which would be the most relevant for this post and it goes like:

Doubt is an uncomfortable condtion , but certainty is a ridiculous one.

Earlier this year , I was on a trip into the Himalayas where I was having one of the best experiences of my life. I am grateful that this year I have discovered something that provides me immense joy and that something is ‘trekking’. What can I even say about that trek , it was astonishing , views that would make you question the meaning of your existence , the overall surrounding was ineffable , too beautiful to be described in words , mountains and snow scattered far beyond my gaze could reach with no signs of civilization. It was as if I have ascended to a more ethereal existence , the kind of existence that I knew was temporary and the kind that I would miss even months after going home. If there’s something that I would glaze even in my most life draining moments it would be mountains or more specifically a trek into the mountains.

Deep into the trek where trees would not dare to grow out their branches and mobile network was a foreign and unknown concept , I was stuck or I should say , I was blessed to be with my thoughts (and the fellow trekkers, lol). I was present. I was alive. Ironically more alive than the last time I experienced love.

A lot of thoughts struck me one after the another and the one that I got carried away with , the one that made me write this post was “What things do I value?”

The general answers came first family , friends , the ability to travel , a home , and the list went on , I stayed with that thought for a long time and I eventually realized that I certainly value the experience of being here and being present , I value the human experience of trekking without any connection to the external world.

As I sat longer and longer with my thought I realized the every human being is having an experience someday in their life that they would value a lot , the kind of value that is internal and not external , that experience currently for me is trekking and it may or may not be the same for everyone but it is indeed valuable for me. So I asked myself a more general question.

What thing would everybody value in this world?

And the answer was human experience , as humans we are subjective to what we value , no two humans would be similar in what they value , but the approach I was going with was to find something everyone would value , and that lead me to the answer of ‘human experience’

We all experience things , sitautions , places and people differently and the one common thing that I have noticed is that people value human experience a lot , whether it be fantasizing the perfect lover , the wish to shift to a new country or just to travel to one , the thrill of an activity they enjoy ot just the experience of trekking.

All of these come under a broad cohort of genuine human experience something that cannot be explained or replicated just by words.

The beautiful thing about any great humam experience is that you are just left with the words:

You had to be there to understand what I felt !

You cannot replicate the human experience of a thing unless the other person actually was present or has experienced something similar to what you have experienced and your experience would still be unique. Our most profound experiences cannot be expressed in words and no matter how hard we try we cannot replicate the feeling for the reader or the listener. Every good human experience has the energy of you had to be there.

This is honestly one of the greatest learnings I have recieved this year and I am extremely grateful to experience something so cool. The lesson of valuing human experience will always stay with me and I will always share this lesson to everyone I love to talk. Indeed we all would agree that human experience is one of the most valuable things in this world.

It’s crazy to even acknowledge this , but I certainly did not know that time really does go fast , I have been ignorant of my school life for a long time because I genuinely did not like my school , my school was not a place that I would find my peace but it wasn’t always like this.

I liked my school for a long time until I entered the late years of high school , I clearly could not resonate with anyone nor did anyone befriended and accepted me , I felt trapped in my own school and I could not even recognise my old friends anymore , all of these piled up to create hatred for my school , and still there are moments when I feel a sense of joy when I remember my school life and today was certainly one of those days.

My neighbour is one of the most enthusiastic , cheerful and charming kids I have ever met , she spreads light wherever she goes and she surely is one of those people who actually are enjoying life , and living it to the fullest. Even though she is a lot younger than me but her charm is surely one of the things that I feel is very positive about her , she was sharing all of her school drama , her memories , the videos she had captured with her school friends and the fun they had all with me. And I was put into awe and nostalgia , i was amazed of how much she appreciates her life even being so young , that is one of the best things I like about her , and secondly I was nostalgic , I was the one sharing photos and videos of me and my friends with other people just a moment ago , how fast did I grow up to not notice the amount of people I left behind while chasing things that did not even matter?

My friends would add up to already funny stuff and make me laugh till my stomach hurt , why do I do not feel the same sense of warmth , the sense of being someone’s “bestfriend” anymore , they would make up different nicknames of each other , steal each other’s lunchboxes and throw them around for fun , there would not be a day when we would actually hate coming to school , how did it turn this way ? Did me and my friends grew “mature enough” that they forgot to enjoy life? I think so because most of them clearly had no life left in them till the final year of high school , I do acknowledge that people do change throughout years but they were so changed that I could not resonate any longer with them , the silent conversations turned into a silent group chat and maybe that silence grew long enough to severe our bonds , or maybe I was the one who never wanted to re establish that connection , but maybe it wasn’t necessary , maybe it was meant to be this way.

This rail of thought struck me and I was deep into thought of how small our lives actually are and how time really does go a lot faster than we think. Damn it Mom , you were right again , time really does not wait for anyone and it goes fast enough for anyone to catch upto.

It is in these moments that we do realize that time will not wait and we have to utilize what best of our lives we have left , after all we only have 4000 weeks to live , a third of which we will probably spend sleeping. We really undermine how short our lives are.

Marcus Aurelius Expedition From Vindobona(Anton Hoffman)

As Emperor Marcus quotes in Meditations :

“How much more grievous are the consequences of anger than the causes of it”

Anger is an emotion created by the human mind as all of the other emotions to increase the chances of survival , it serves as a fuel to sense that something wrong has been done to us that decreases the chance of our survival , for example we get angry when someone physically hurts us , that is because the anger is a reaction to the physical phenomena that decreases our chance of survival , similarly there are mental phenomena that make us angry , for example betrayal , anyone betraying us sure makes us angry as betrayal decreased the chances of survival of a hunter gatherer group in whole , anger is created to serve us , and not the other way around.

Marcus states that the actions that lead to our anger are far less painful and griveous than the results of what we do in an angry state. We all regret anger nonetheless , no one of us would actually agree that a decision made in the state of anger is actually a good one , anger clouds our decision making capability and fuels us to say words and perform actions that are beyond our calm and composed mind.

He points out the grief of the actions performed in anger , no action performed in the state of anger serves you well , Marcus’ interpretation of grief highlights the point of not taking decisions and not performing while in an angry state or else the grief of the angry state would far outweigh the grief of the situation that caused the anger.

It is like a loop as such:

We can stop this loop by the act of not reacting , we all will definitely encounter a lot of situations that would make us angry but we should remember that the grief we would have by reacting and performing in the state of anger would be far greater than the grief we experience currently , so it is not worth it to allocate suffering to our future self by reacting in an angered state , this is what Marcus Aurelius wanted to convey.