Karlovy Lazne. Prague. There you would find him tonight. His last in the city of Kafka, his first of this year. It is strange how time never stops, never withdraws existence like every other thing does. Love, as people abandon you. Love, as you abandon people. God, as He ceases to exist at some point in your life; as soon as you begin connecting with the darkness within and around you. Hope, when it dies with the diminishing light of your father's eyes.

May the perpetual light be, if there is any, with those departed.

The year 2012. Love. God. My father.

Meri Basr - My Existence

How often do you look back and count variations? How well can you justify your own metamorphosis? Of your existence... Are there any justifications available? Is there a single pattern, a single trend defining our lives?... Yeah? Sometimes I think about my childhood. Years gone by. How I was then. Little shy, reserved, very opinionated. Very much into my own world. Not so talkative, kind of quiet. Have I changed now? I am not so sure, but the growth patterns have been interesting. Tangled within themselves. Today I work as management consultant with top organizations.. but is it even relevant? What about that shy kid? Died? No, I don't think so. Living? Yeah, may be.. somewhere. Is he still in his own world? Kind of. He wants to but have to stay something in between.. What the hell, are you sure of even one thing? YES! I will never give up, no matter what. Because I know.. the dots do connect backwards. I don't know about you but I do find 'reason' in the metamorphosis I have gone through over years. Like a veteran chess player sitting up there somewhere (or may be within me) making almost all right moves... and the moves which seem wrong or not-so-right for now, I believe they will show up their reason sometime in the future. I believe, everything will connect. No regrets, no fears, no insecurities. The absolute faith that while I surge forward, I won't be doing anything wrong.. the faith that whenever in life I will look back, I will always find things in their right places. Artistically connected or to-be connected. When? You know the answer will always be same... somewhere in the future.

May be I am not doing justice to this beautiful thought I have/had to share tonight. Nevertheless, I am just happy that I wrote something after a month or more.

Ekla Chalo Re

If they answer not to thy call walk alone,

If they are afraid and cower mutely facing the wall,

O thou unlucky one,

open thy mind and speak out alone.

If they turn away, and desert you when crossing the wilderness,

O thou unlucky one,

trample the thorns under thy tread,

and along the blood-lined track travel alone.

If they do not hold up the light when the night is troubled with storm,

O thou unlucky one,

with the thunder flame of pain ignite thy own heart

and let it burn alone.


Rabindranath Tagore

If only you can reflect

"Your remedy is within you, but you don't sense it. 

Your sickness is within you, but you do not perceive it.. 

You presume that you are a small entity, whereas within you is concealed the vast world. 

You are indeed that magnificent book, by whose alphabet the hidden becomes evident. 

Therefore. You have no needs beyond yourself. Your essence and secrets are in you, if only you can reflect".

( Hazrat Ali A.S)

Creating Value

It’s a sight to behold. How he packs up his school bag, slipping books in one at a time, ever so carefully. These books and that stationery box with perfectly sharpened pencils may well be his only treasure; at least that is how it seems from here. Has he already realized the value of these books? I am not sure. Would he always care for them, manage them the way he does now? I can’t say.

No one I believe can really look into the mind of a young kid and map out his thinking process. Or perhaps I feel no one should. You know the principals and followers of some unknown revolutionary paradigm must realize, that there are processes in this world which are sensitive by nature, and connected such inherently with different factors that it is almost unbelievable how a seemingly insignificant input, of words, thoughts, or perception, could in actual change the entire process. Like a dent, for life. How a child develops and how he understands our world is, I believe, one such process. It does not need that ‘shaping – melting – reshaping’ exercise, it does not depend on our participation either; all it needs is some support, to augment what is already in there.

We have been undervaluing this for long, tangled in the debate of nature and nurture. Perhaps our job, as teachers, parents and society, is nothing but to hold back our guide books and just assist through the journey.

Journey that leads to the glory. And character.

Through the Night

Deep down inside, if you really want to experience, and experience the damned fucking contentment of life, what your mind feels and what your heart thinks would gradually become irrelevant. You wish to budge things along, as they would want you to, needlessly trying to keep everyone happy; but haven’t you realized; your baggage full of empty windows, and broken mugs, and untouched possibilities and compromised dreams, and disregarded sacrifices, and pictures, and wishes, and cards and gifts and carefully folded gift papers, and pictures and text messages and… blank text messages…

You got to move. Real. Forward. But not being frenzied. Appreciate the craft. Add. Lose yourself, in it.

How else would you correlate delirium and meditation? And haven't you realized, they always go together.

Jugal Bandi

‘A philosopher’s importance lies not in the correctness of his views, but in whether his ideas move men to action’. Some, irrespective of the earned knowledge or ignorance, go beyond their personal misery; an uncharacteristic feat cutting straight through the realms of both sense and fiction. One such man I met last week, painting his world with a butterfly wing, unaware of whether he was humanizing colors or were they just transcending him into a mystic. A mythical self that could trail any path, as for his curiosity, tangled stories producing nothing but experience are to be found everywhere.

Every story has its own color, but only for a meager fraction of time. It changes, as the subjectivity of both sense and fiction finds peace in confusion. Every story is colored by its interpretation, as you would know; black can be the color of love, and white may well signify both ‘nothing’ and ‘everything’ at the same time.

Why are you scared?