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Now that you are on my planet, might as well explore ! Dive Deep !

This is the post excerpt.

WELCOME TO MY WORDS-WORLD !

To Learn….To Unlearn, 

To Know…..To Ignore,

To Remember….To Forget.

To Explore Beyond…To Search Within !

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Through my blog i wish to share my thoughts about Life…….Life which is a rich canvass, a vibrant tapestry of infinite emotions n feelings having myriad colours, shades n hues…..scenes, scents n sounds…..overpowering the senses…filling the soul….drowning the very being ! 

My writings also reflect me, my identity, my character, the essence of which is captured so beautifully in these lines of Henry David Thoreau:

“….to front only the essential facts of life, and see if i could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when i came to die, discover that i had not lived.

….to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life…to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms. “

The picture i present here is both..the Sunset and the Sunrise…and everything else in-between that you can imagine! Same with my writings. To put it succinctly through this modified quote:

“There are things said and there are things unsaid, and in between are the doors of perception”

Hope you will enjoy the adventures and the flavours.

Keep coming back for more !

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Do Nice People Finish Last?

Do nice people finish last?

It seems so. Being good, fair, and decent to others—we end up being bad, unfair, and indecent to ourselves. If we are good, people take us for granted—they push, pull, and impose. It works at a subliminal level and expresses itself in overt and covert commands and controls.

At home, at work, in public places, or in social situations, nice people suffer. You don’t break the cinema ques and traffic rules, but others do—you end up not getting the ticket and getting stuck in a jam. We offer a seat to the elderly, but others usurp ours.

Does it cost us anything to be socially sensitive, nuanced, and not embarrass people—can’t we avoid laughing or looking deep into their eyes when they commit a faux pas?

This raises questions about the civility of the people from an ancient civilization—about our character and ethos.

This brings us to another question—what happens to the rare breed of nice people surrounded by the unthoughtful, unconcerned, uncooperative majority?

We often see that goodness doesn’t pay. But life is not all about transactions. Call it courtesy or one’s methods and manners—it’s the innate decency in one’s character. What counts is the way we think, behave, and live when no one is looking. It’s the difference between being pseudo-nice on social media vs being nice in real life—when there is none to send us ‘likes’. The choices we make affect the choices of others.

Nice guys, at times, finish last… Still, it’s nice to be nice.

Pic: How light n lit up I felt when i met someone nice yesterday

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Crazy Cozy Corners

I am crazy about cozy corners.

In Sujangarh home, I spent hours sitting in a cute little window. While devouring boondiya-bhujiya* in its lap, I was spell-bound by street’s sights, sounds, and smells– foaming camels, fighting dogs, and farting horses.

In Guwahati home, I captured a small low-height room in the middle of stairs (‘duchhati’) and was quick to name it “Niru’s Nest”, lest someone else lay claim to it. This was my nest during college and university days and nights, though I laid no eggs here. Friends frequented it, parents avoided it. Here I taught ‘Break-Even Analysis’ to Bimal Patni ; and here I learnt about break-heart stories of many.  Though we still have to go up to it, today it is a ‘godown’.

In Bangalore home, I made a tiny heaven surrounded by books. Here I could see, smell, touch, and feel books… I lived with books—some which I read long ago, few which I have read over and over again, and some I am yet to open. This flirting is life-long, the charm and the romance remain undiminished.

My love affair with cozy indoors—such as captivating coupes in trains—continues. If I find none, I create one. June 2021—I found myself back in Guwahati, and I lost no time in carving a niche Study in the ground floor drawing room. The wooden contraption—which supported the wash-basin in my parent’s bathroom—became my work-table. The massive painting –which Bapuji* had insisted upon buying in Bangalore—gives relief to my laptop-tired eyes but agitates my tranquil nerves. The curves of the long abandoned ebony- black ‘Film-Fair’ lady and the recently grown grass-green plant on my desk compete with each other—my  imagination runs riot.

This love for small indoors contrasts with my love for vast outdoors—the abundant nature—the sprawling seas and meadows; the rising mountains and trees; the endless horizon and skies; the infinite space and time…

This puts me to a thought—confined in their cozy captivity, the heart can be limitlessly large and the mind can be immeasurably big.

*Boondiya-Bhujiya: Sweet & sour Indian snacks; * Bapuji: Father

Pics: Foaming Camel; Door to Niru’s Nest; The one with painting says it all.

Story of Our Stories

“I am me”—I shout from the rooftops. But am I? Since everyone claims to be himself, I am no different.

Somebody, everybody, or nobody—we are all storytellers. We tell stories about others and about ourselves. And we colour those stories, we paint pictures—as we want or imagine. Whereas we can’t twist others’ stories beyond a point, we have a field day with our own.

The narcissist in me loves myself. I repeatedly tell myself and others about myself. And I put chosen stories within my story—to showcase what I wish to. This creates ‘me’ I want to see and to be seen. This imaginary ‘me’ takes over the real me, my life, times, and relationships.

Layer upon layer, we weave fantasies to display an identity that is phoney and false—at least in parts. We select or discard the realities, the essentials, and the history which have shaped us. Our subjective interpretations and biases change our person, persona, and personality.

We become the stories we keep repeating about ourselves to ourselves and to others. How we project ourselves in our stories could be very different from what we are. It’s easy to convince and deceive ourselves that the situations and people have forced us to be what we are not.  

Becoming crafty while crafting our stories, we plant prejudices and embed distortions. We ask our stories to tell us what we wish to hear. As we believe in the make believe, we become what we pretend. So we make the stories or stories make us? These stories coax, cajole and compel us to think, believe, and act in the way we portray our characters in these stories. 

At times we make stories of others our own. We become other people—living a vicarious life of sham and show. As Oscar Wilde wrote: ‘’Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else’s opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation.’’

How do we overcome illusions and delusions? How do we quit living in paradoxes and frameworks of fakery? We can begin by telling our genuine story to ourselves. Telling others is optional, for others sense our truth sooner or later. To twist Huxley’s words—there are things said and things unsaid, and in between are the doors of perception. The world knows the story of our stories.

Image: ClipcartKey

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इंतज़ार—इंतज़ार का…और चाय Intezaar—Intezaar ka… aur Chai

जिंदगी  जब  चाय  की  एक  प्याली से  दूसरी  तक  सिमट आती  है,

छोटी  होती  है, पर बहुत  लम्बी  हो  जाती  है…

अलसाई  चाहतें  चुस्कियों  में  तलाशती  हैं  चुस्तियाँ,

बेबाक  बेफिक्री नहीं, रह  जाती  हैं  सिर्फ  मायूसियां…

चाय  की  बिखरती  भीनी  भाप  में  भीगे  कुछ  सवालात  हैं,

कुछ  कश्मकश, कशिश, कुछ  ख्वाब  ख़यालात  हैं…

चाय  के  ऊफान सी  हैं  उफ  ये  ऊफनती  उल्झनें,

परेशान  हूँ, पीता  हूँ  मैं  उसे  या  वो  पीती  है  मुझे…

चाय  से  सने  सूने  सपनों  में  कोई  शामिल  नहीं  होता,

बेइंतहा  इंतज़ार, और  इंतज़ार  का  इंतज़ार  है  रहता…

 Intezaar—Intezaar ka… aur Chai

Jindagi jab chai ki ek pyali se doosari  tak simat aati hai,

Choti hoti hai, par bahut lambi ho jaati hai…

Alsai chahten chuskiyon me talasti hain chustiyan,

Bebak befikri nahee, rah jaati hain sirf maayusiyan…

Chai ki bikharti bhini bhaap me bhhege kuch sawalat hain,

Kuch kashmakash, kashish, kuch khwab, khayalat hain…

Chai ke ufaan si hai uf ye ufanti uljhanen,

Pareshan hun, Peeta hun main use ya wo peeti hai mujhe…

Chai se sane soone lamhon me koi giraft nahee hota

Beintehaa intezaar, aur Intezaar ka Intezar hai rahta…

Image: Clay Banks–unsplash

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Human or Humanoid? Who Am I and Am I Me?

How do I know who am I and am I me? Usernames, passwords, passwords for passwords, and passwords for remembering passwords have usurped my identity. The OTPs—one time passwords—make me look like an all time fool. But I console myself that my enemy has a constantly constipated look, not finding any password even for passing the wind. As I can’t bypass, and pass out many a times living by the leave of passwords, I wonder whether I will need a password to pass away.

Negotiating the maze of passwords transports me to the secret world of deciphering complex codes—and I live my adolescent fantasy of Sherlock Holmes’ cloak and dagger life. Attired in his trademark hat and overcoat, and smoke oozing from the curvaceous pipe, I follow the fugitives in the foggy eerie nights in London’s dark slippery streets shrouded in sinister shadows. Life is spooky—Corona or no Corona.

The toll-free number too takes its toll—“Please wait, you are in the queue… Kripaya intezaar karen, aap katar main hain…”. After waiting for the Godot, when I get connected—I am coaxed into playing a numbers game. For a 3 years old seeking electronic adventure—pushing 1 till 9 and hearing humourless recording over n over again could be thrilling. For me—having pushed luck all my life—it is the endgame. “For English push 1, Hindi me jankaari ke liye 2 dabayen”—whispers a melodiously morbid and monotonous voice. Whatever number I push, I hear what I don’t want to. I go on fishing from 1 to 9 till eternity—only to get disconnected. I repeat the cycle with sadistic pleasure yearning to hear—“Ab aap apna aur saamne wali ka gala dabayen… Now strangulate yourself and the woman at the other end”(men always put women in the firing line). Customer delight or customer fright? It’s death—digit by digit. One resigns, reclines, n recites:

“उम्र ए दराज़ मांग कर लायी थी चार दिन, 

दो आरजू में कट गए, दो  इंतज़ार में…”*

(I begged four days from life, 

Two I lost in longing, two in waiting…)

*Couplet by Seemab Akbarabadi

 While Corona kills—the sinners and the saintly, the gadfly and the godly—all are perpetually online. Appropriate all the inappropriate Apps—these are abundant and free. Tweet taunts and tantrums or face-off on Facebook; be an instant hit on Insta by posting the latest pics in bikini with a bunny or do Zumba on Zoom; endlessly forward ‘gyaan’ on WhatsApp making friends n foes writhe, wince n weep or be a darling dude on YouTube—you never lack social media choices. First these ‘apes’ tempt n lure, then they coax n cajole. Coercion from the likes of ‘WhatsApe’ apart, we continue to fall and remain in their trap for FOMO—fear of missing out. We can’t shake these monkeys off our backs.

Even emotions are electronic. Emojis express it all—anger or anxiety, love or lie, smirk or smile. Forget the back-slapping bonhomie—one can go hug a pillar.

The unescapable World Wide Web, Goggle’s googlies, and the machines on our palms, laps and desks manipulate us to download miracles, mischiefs n miseries without measure. WWW answers all our Whats Whys n Whos whenever we plunge into this unfathomable ocean. We wish to find one tiny pearl of wisdom, and it places millions on our palms—we don’t know where to begin and where to end. The plethora of goodies so confuse n confound that one leaves the humongous store without robbing it.

Bored with your life on this earth and on the web? You can live it up in an online “Second Life”. Then there is the Dark Web, which offers you A to Z of the ugly and the illegal—from arms and drugs to thugs. You are a nut case to enter it, and a gone case once into it.

The email story is astounding. We don’t talk or walk, we email—children email parents sitting in the same room, colleagues email each other from adjacent cubicles. We are so scared of others and ourselves that we put everything on instant electronic record. Hail email—it won’t fail, has a trailing tail.

As Ambani urges us to “Karlo Duniya Muthhi Me”—hold the world in your palm, and we ‘rely’ upon him to “Jio” (live) a life of ‘mobile’ dreams, life for most remains a static nightmare.

The binary life—can we ever escape its tentacles? Can we live a life of our own ever again? Digital life is relentlessly marketed and sold to us where we must have it all, else we are nothing. A perfect 1 or 0—everything in-between is meaningless, mundane, and oh…so middle-class.

Caught between being a human and a humanoid, I ask myself—who am I and am I me?

Image: pxfuel.com

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SILENT MUSINGS IN SOLITUDE…As I give more Life to Time and more Time to Life.

Solitude had spread its shadow, and I had slumped into sweet slumber. Rising, I see subtle changes—my spirit soars, my style shines.

Confined in shrunken spaces, I have found soul’s landscape is vast and expands forever. Sitting in silence, I have looked at myself—barebones and naked. I was never a saint and will never be—but feel more evolved when less involved. Oh, I am changing, yet never—though short-changed time and again.

Now I laugh often, cry more, complain little, and speak less. I am writing a bit and reading a bit more; I rest in the arms of music, lose myself in the lap of nature, and play with my perceptions—I have always had love affairs with these stunning beauties, now I lust.

Full of faults and failures, but with fewer presumptions and prejudices—I now judge less and try to understand more. Now I search less for motives, and look more for compulsions behind behaviours. I guess I am growing, but am sure about my ego—it is diminishing. Though much more intense, I am now nuanced.

I am more at peace being less cynical, less critical; and happier being more content, more accepting of myself and others—as I am and as they are—with idiosyncrasies and imperfections, wrinkles and warts. Now I am better at tolerating the rituals I hate, braggadocio that I despise, and stupidity which I abhor; but I still shun sham, sophistry and sarcasm with contempt and disgust.

I have forgiven those who betrayed me, though can never forget their treachery—tormenting wounds run deep and traumatising scars remain raw. Memories live within me forever, for my soul sucks and soaks deep—every bit, every drop, every ounce—be it nectar, be it poison.

I understand it is unnecessary to have all the knowledge in the world; it is fine to possess less; and it is OK to stand second or third or even last in life’s lines. I had never found fault with frugality, now I see abundance in it—yet paradoxically, the hedonist in me seeks the small little pleasures life tempts with.

I had always missed my family and friends, now I realise nothing and no one is more important. Feelings are heavy and moist remembering those I have lost, and light and joyous thinking of those I have. The naughty twinkle in my eyes shines brighter at the slightest prospect of back-slapping bonhomie with friends—over beer or tea or nothing. Unabashed, I hug in my thoughts those whom I love but dare not reveal; and I hug openly with my eyes and arms—all those whom I love and can flaunt.

Deep within I know it does not matter to miss out on many, but how important it is to hold on to a few who matter; and even as I extract more from life, I now give more of myself to such men and women.

Now I have less of many which were more, and more of some that were less.

I realise it is awesome to love and be loved, it is indispensable to have integrity, and imperative not to break the trust—ever.

I hear my thoughts echoing in these beautiful words of Pablo Neruda:

“…And we must pass through solitude and difficulty, isolation and silence in order to reach forth to the enchanted place where we can dance our clumsy dance and sing our sorrowful song — but in this dance or in this song there are fulfilled the most ancient rites of our conscience in the awareness of being human….”

As my wondering thoughts flow into wandering feelings, my words whisper :

I am more human, more humane, and more of myself n me…

As I give more life to time and more time to life.

Image: Keegan Houser/Unsplash.com

Solitude

Let’s Salute These Soldiers

The culprit lurks in the shadows, hides in nooks n corners, and is airborne. The vile is invisible, but surrounds us. This scoundrel neither selects nor surprises. The devil doesn’t discriminate. It can attack any and all. The enemy is within n without. The rogue infects most, kills many. Humans have given it a nice name—Corona.

And while petty among the politicians politicise and even bright among the bureaucrats bungle—the doctors and other health workers, seen and unseen, continue to wage relentless war against this dreaded enemy to save us. They don’t trumpet the tales of their toil, nor do they sing songs of their sacrifices. These warriors fight sans fanfare—often without the right gear, equipment, and medicines. Working day n night against heavy odds and without complaints, they risk their lives… Many die too.

Our defence forces fight to protect the nation and citizens. Harried n harassed, the health warriors—doctors, nurses, para-medics, lab technicians, ambulance drivers, administrative & support staff, volunteers, and many others unnoticed n unseen—fight for our health and lives. In both the cases—many a time—it’s fight till the end.

Let’s not belittle them. Let’s not take them for granted. It’s easy to sit in comfortable drawing rooms, be nonchalant, and declare—“it’s their duty, they get paid for it”. Truth is, they go much beyond the call of their duty.

Let’s salute these soldiers.

Image: Ashkan Forouzani, unsplash.com

doctor & Corona

I stole but I was never a thief

I stole but I was never a thief.

In my early childhood in Sujangarh—when I knew neither a kiss nor a miss—I stole dadi’s kissmiss n cashews, kaka’s kites, cousins’ crayons, and friends’ fries.

As a young school-going kid in Guwahati I stole stamps from ‘Pick Me’, coins from maa, and comics from the Wheelers’ station stall. And in typhoid’s hungry stupor I engaged with a distant relative’s engagement laddus in stealth while the satiated slept.

Stealing cashews n kissmiss were hit-n-miss affairs and earned me terms of endearment camouflaged in the choicest Marwari curses—O’ let your nerves shatter, O’ burn alive wherever you are, O’ go sell balloons etc. Kites or crayons, I came out with flying colours in my exploits.

Stealing coins was never a big deal. Though the danger of getting picked up always lurked in ‘Pick Me’, the triangular ‘phoren’ stamps lured me time n again. The whistling trains pumped adrenaline in the book-thief turning him into the ‘ghost who walked away’ with the ‘Phantom’. The pleasure that I derived from devouring king-sized laddus during my nightly prowls surpassed that of Count Dracula when he sank his sword-length sharp canines in an unsuspecting succulent neck under eerie shadows.

Paradoxically, I stole when I was innocent—when neither money nor material mattered.

With innocence, I also lost my appetite for stealing.

Coming of age, I have been at the receiving end of the organised thievery perpetuated by many business associates, most lawyers, and all governments. They steal in ways subtle, in-your-face, or crude. I am left winking while they hoodwink with impunity. I harbour no ill-will towards my lawyer friends. I too have LL.B—“Best in Legalized Loot” degree, though I don’t practice : )

My childhood stealing skills are no match for the sophistry of the sophisticated.

I stole, but I was never a thief.

The thief in me was a child.

(Sujangarh: small town in Rajasthan, India; Guwahati: city in Assam, India; Dadi: grandmom; Kissmiss: raisins; Kaka: uncle; Maa: mother; Laddu: Indian sweet; Marwari: language of Rajasthan; Phoren: foreign/imported; Pick Me: A popular store in Guwahati)

Dracula neck bite

रक्तिम शाम

रक्तिम  शाम  ये ऐसी  मानो…

प्रकृति  की  प्याली  में  शराब  छलकती,

रक्त  टपकता  सुर्ख  साखों  से…

जब  ढलते  सूरज  की  किरणें  आ  टकराती,

बारिश  है  बर्फ  की  तो  क्या…

खून  से  सना  है  हर दरख़्त,

लहू  लुहान  हैं  सभी…

आसमान, धरती, दिशाएं, और  वक़्त।

Raqtim Shaam.

Raqtim shaam ye aisi mano…

prakriti ki pyali me sharab chalkati

Raqt tapakta surkh saakhon se…

jab dhalte suraj kee kirne aa takrati,

baarish hai baraf ki to kya…

Khoon se sana hai har darakht,

Lahoo luhan hain sabhi…

Aasman, dharti, dishayen, aur waqt

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I Run… Yet I Remain

Whenever I lose a dear one, am hurt by someone close, or when I make a mistake—I try to console myself. The collective wisdom asks me to learn from life-lessons and move on. But the anger and the angst keep hurting. Memories never fade. Sadness doesn’t leave. Good, bad or ugly—sounds, sights and smells linger. Yes, with time it becomes easier to forgive. But can we ever forget? I can’t. I run…Yet I remain.

People and experiences are never alike. There is no template for life questions, answers and lessons. Each time I cry, my tears are different. My laughter is never the same in every situation.

The way each tragedy kills is unique. Happiness gives joy in myriad hues. We can’t copy- paste life’s dimensions, times and relationships. Perceptions differ and keep changing. These can’t be framed in formulae.

We live and die moment to moment. And each moment we are reborn, we are different—so is the world. My thoughts echo in Heraclitus’s words: “No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.”

Wondering Mind Wandering Thoughts Series

Self Portrait: Fireside Thoughts

Fireside Thoughts-Self Portrait