Skip to main content

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 meditate, and I find it meaningless too. I don’t believe closing your eyes and sitting still brings you closer to your inner self. If that was so, every night when I sleep I would have reached my inner self and pleaded whatever is inside to guide me to be indifferent to everything around me.
I can’t meditate, but I must.
So I write. Moving my fingers in the keyboard and keeping the mind blank calms me down. I am writing now. I am meditating.
But I will put this on my blog. Why? Isn’t there a wish that someone will read it, someone will comment and I will feel good? Most definitely so.
I guess, my sadness is not complete. I guess I am one of those greedy people chasing enlightenment.
But then, I am also extremely lonely. I need someone to talk to. There are only a few I can talk to. My blog friends are the only ones I can think of.
I know whatever I have written here doesn’t make sense. Yet, I know you will try and get a meaning. At least you now know my state of mind. At least you know I am not happy.
I feel a little bit relieved that through these meaningless sentences I am able to convey whatever is going on inside me, which doesn’t have any name in English, or perhaps my vocabulary skill is not up to the mark.
Emptiness is too empty an expression for what I feel now, sadness is too shallow. Perhaps it is a different shade of loneliness. I don't want to turn into a psychological patient. So I must write to keep my therapy on. 
How I wished I was the stream of happiness for people around me. I am not. And I can never be. I am a narrow canal, which remains dry most of the time, in summer and in winter.
But during monsoons, I swell. And I destroy much before calming down. It is raining heavily. I am putting my dams.
I have a baby; I want her to grow up. I want to guide her and make her a good citizen of this world. I want to fulfil my promise to her that I made when we first met. She was just a few minutes old, me a veteran of 34 monsoons. She was the most beautiful work of art I had ever seen, small rainbow-colored bubbles popping from her red lips, her eyes shining like two stars. I bowed to her and promised ... 
One day I will tell her; I didn’t die because of my promise to you. I shall thank her for being there in my life. I should bow to her, and kiss her hands. She is my saviour.
And then I will be free. Like a man condemned to 25 years in prison, I count my days. I will have to remain alive, I will have to pull myself and continue with my life – not like a zombie, not like a selfish saint. But like a person who has no expectation from anyone and no love left. Only responsibilities, a handful of responsibilities.
For now, I meditate to remain alive. Please be there with me dear friends, till I am free.

One day I will be free for sure.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Kaun banega karorpati...dwitiya

--Namaste, satsriakaal, aadab, mein amitabh bacchan aapke samne, leke hajir hua hu, phir ek bar, kaun banega karorpati dwitiya.
(audiences in dark start clapping along with a music as if crusader king Richard of England just captured the castle of a jehadi king)
Aaj, mere samne beithe hai Jarshad kakiara…kakku…cuckoo…
(a club-shaped man intervenes, with a child-like smile, “Kakkrakandy”)
Ji haa, kakkara (“kandy”, the man again intervenes with a shy smile)
-Yes, Jarshad kakk…, whatever, aiye aap aur hum khele yeh adbhut game, jiska naam hei …(looks at the club-shaped man)
Jarshad Kakkrakandy, answers “kauun banayega karrorrpatti”

Amitabh shows Jarshad the seat, adjusts the seat for him. Jarshad sits, the chair shrieks.

--aur abhi mere samne baithe hain Jarshad n. k., from Chennai, who is a journalist with reuters, loves reading dilbert, unka favourite movie hai “chandramukhi”. And he is the self-proclaimed ‘king of PJ’.

--Haan to Jarshad saab, aapne likhe hein ke apke naam hei Jarshad n.k. now …

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 …