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Today I dropped Mithi at the day care centre. She looked at me with a gaping mouth. Her eyes were getting moist. She couldn't believe it. Her mother does this to her, not Baba.
She will have to stay here for the next six-seven hours till her mom comes and rescues her. Mithi is just two and a half.It is a crime upon her, millions like her, who have to leave their parents and get caged in an unknown place. Here they are not pampered, here they are not special. They are one among many, and they must behave. It is a crime and a crime for which the parents should not be forgiven.We, as children, never had to face this. We were all very secured children. Happy kids. Our fathers worked from morning to evening, they were strangers. Our mothers stayed at home to take care of us. Mothers were our personal heroes and trusted friends. Mithi's generation, at least a sizeable chunk of it, are not that lucky.
Us parents deserve harsh punishment for this negligence. Mithi, my love, may you r…
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One day …

When sadness overflows the urn, it is the perfect time to understand yourself. Unfortunate are those people who have never felt overwhelming sadness, something that can be given to you by your very own. Just like extreme anger, sadness also liberates you. One doesn’t feel the need to justify anything or be accountable to anyone. One must meditate that time. It is irrelevant if this leads to enlightenment, or some such concept the conscious among us spend every living moment of theirs. Perhaps it exists, most probably it is an escape route for those who have lost all. Losing everything happens in a moment, but life is long. One has to live on. Some stay like a zombie, some search enlightenment by turning inwards, rejecting life and thus trying to gain a larger life. Living like a zombie is not possible, seeking something bigger than life is extreme greed. But one must meditate. Meditation, in fact, is the automatic outcome of sadness. And it is a beautiful feeling. I can't medit…

Let it rain hard

About a dozen years back, I started writing blog posts out of sheer boredom in office. The work was repetitive and the bosses were menacing. Not the fault of bosses as much as the systems put in place. It was a real-time world and you perish in seconds or become a hero. No, I was not a stock market trader, but close. I was perhaps in deep agony. I had left my family members, my root, my friends and my culture. Those years were the most important in my life, the early twenties. I was free for the first time. Free to do whatever I wanted to do. It was a lot of pent-up sexual energy really looking for an avenue to be released. I found my moksha in creativity, especially as my office colleagues started appreciating my writing, albeit with no hint of grammar in it. Slowly strangers came to my blog and I visited theirs and we became friends. And then I started connecting with people far away from my place, across oceans. With one I became friends for life – Ian Vincent Mulder. But that’s ano…


What is maturity?
This realisation that you were born innocent, like a flower, presented by gods to your human parents. And the realisation that you have, by your own actions, or through the machinations of the society, sullied the flower all these years. Maturity is removing the dirt from the flower so that when you return to your source, your God, you be clean again, or at least try to return to the original clean state as much as possible. 
That point of understanding is maturity. Life after attaining maturity is meaningful living.  And that understanding revealed itself to me only now, after becoming a father, after seeing my daughter. She is my spiritual guru i was in search for so long. 
The rest of my life will be a long struggle to return to my original clean state before i return to my God, my source.
I now have a fair idea how God’s flower looks like. 
My flower is trying to snatch this pen so that I may focus fully on her. 
I must obey my Guru’s command. 
12.45 am, 20 September 201…

Happy Birthday!

Why God make people get into a relationship?
To learn something
Learn what?
Why hurt?
Just so that you remember Him
But why do we need to remember him?
Because he created you
Ah! You seller of holy piss … my parents created me. But relationships mean forgetting your past, your parents, your old family, your brother, your sister, the friends you loved more than your life, your old memories and anybody associated with it … If I have to forget all those, why the fuck should I remember god?
Ummm …
Ummm … you are immature
May be. Show me the light then.
May be, may be you needed a new pair of glass to see the world differently. I am not saying what you witnessed so far was wrong, just that it adds more perspective …
But why? Why? Why? Why do I need more perspective? I was happy as I was. I am not happy with my new perspective. I am dying, I am choking, take it back. My eyes are burning. I don’t want to see, I don’t want to change anything. Bring back my old self, bring back my loved one…

On Mithi

I became a father on 18 November, 2014. At that moment when fatherhood embraced me, perhaps I should have been elated, jumping up and down and doing all sort of activities that new fathers do, at least, that's what most sane people do. But nothing of that sort happened to me. When I heard my baby's voice, first like an angry cat and then a mild wail wafting across the operation theatre to the waiting area where we all were pacing up and down, the first thought that hit me was how was my wife? It was a C-section and she was partially unconscious. I should not have read Internet too much, for I was reading all sorts of horror stories, of mothers not waking up or recovering etc. I was petrified as I was not hearing my wife's voice. The doctors and sisters inside the operation theater must have been very busy with their other procedures. In fact, after bringing out the baby from the womb, they were busy closing the cut, I later got to know.
The realisation of becoming a fathe…

The Sculptor's Tale

(Note to readers ... mainly Ian, who is the only one who reads this blog >> i just finished writing this in office. didn't even re-read it after writing, forget editing. Expect a leaner/fatter and better written version, if my mood permits.)
Keep your hands busy, said my father every time I used to lean against the tree to catch my breath. Keep your hands busy you idiot, keep your hands busy, don’t let your head decide for you. Keep your hands busy, he would coax me to get working. And so I would again start chiselling the chunk of rock, along the lines my father, a master sculptor, had already outlined. But I would still dream with eyes wide open. When the hammer used to fall so gently yet firm on the chisel, I used to dream of the cities and the grand mansions. I was not good in sculpting, yet I wanted to be the greatest sculptor in this world. I wanted to be honoured by my king. I wanted to be the subject for which kings wage wars against each other. I was a dreamer, I …