Musings on my writing

Perhaps I owe it to this blog to let the world know that I am working on a novel in my mother tongue and that explains why I have not posted here anything for a long time. I am too busy writing, and getting busier  procrastinating .    The reason why I am posting this, though, is that I am frustrated that my novel has got stuck somewhere in the abyss from which I am not able to extricate it. I have a serious doubt now if my novel can be finished after all. But no point doubting, I will have to finish it.    What do I gain writing it? Why am I struggling so much to finish my novel after all? Well, when I was young, I had this vision of becoming a great writer, someone who will earn his living writing. That has already been fulfilled. I am a journalist, and I have to write every day. So much so that I am tired of writing, and very cunningly and suddenly, of course, I take a day off for nothing. Or, there are days, perhaps once a month, when I don’t write anything at all even when I am ve

not what it seems

  Charming faces, full of life, or wisdom … all gone, god knows where Never to return, that is for sure, or never to return in the form God knows where they disappeared…   one day, or the same day everyday, he’d sit with his back to the sun A paper in his hand, combing worthy something to read Mostly miracles   Life is not what it seems, he’d say, and death is not what you fear he knew things like that, the old man … and so he searched for reality, mostly miracles   beauty, be mine, i prayed once but the besty had her heart gone in labour, the chid survived the air turning lavender, she’s somewhere here   those sparkling eyes of little kids They reflect my death i smell their hair, they smell of me I live underneath,   I am not what they see, I am what they’d feel one day Life is not what it seem, and death is not what I fear

Nearing the end, perhaps

I started my journalism career in 2004. I had a good innings so far, got a few awards, a fellowship of IMF-World Bank. Love from readers, and quite a lot of trolling by anonymous cowards on social media, which these days is a certificate of a journalist doing his or her job properly. That innings is probably coming to an end in 2020. Coronavirus may not have killed me yet, it is very much raging everywhere around me and so far either I am lucky, or I am one of those super lucky asymptomatic 80 per cent. But I may lose my job anytime now. Even if I don’t, life and journalism won’t be the same again. This week they fired a bunch of my dear colleagues, including my boss, the resident editor of my newspaper. I have never seen a more dedicated person. We all were expecting he would succeed the paper’s editor who is retiring in October. But no, my boss had to face the ignominy of hearing his service is no longer required. What chance I have in this profession even if I survive the present

Ian, my friend

Ian and I don’t interact much these days, at least not now. There was a time when I wanted to be a writer, and I thought Ian was my gateway to the world of fame and eternity. I don’t know myself well, but as far as I do, I am not selfish. But in Ian, I initially saw profit. And so, he edited my stories and I dreamt of writing ten stories and getting them published and become an instant hit. This is partly because he himself used to think that my stories were wonderful and fresh. I pitied him really, for I knew I was not special. Not at all.   I was never sure about myself, but Ian was. He persisted when I long gave up. We started interacting on emails, I think it all started in 2005 or 2006. I was 25-26. By the time I was 28, Ian turned into a friend, and I no longer could think of him as my ladder to success. This is also the time I came to Mumbai and soon lost interest in writing. The city overwhelmed me with its daily struggle. Life was no longer comfortable and fun as it was in B

really random

Now that we are all stuck at our house, many wonderful things should have happened. to start with, I should have finished writing my book, but I didn't. rather, whilst away my time doing nothing and playing video games. or maybe listening to podcasts, which can still be considered a good habit, maybe productive even. but that's about it. I have no valid reason to complain that I don't get time for myself to concentrate on my writing career. I do, as I can see here. and what have I done with it? I have precious nothing to show really. so, the oversimplified answer is that I don't have it in me to become a writer, I was never a writer material, but simply a statistician who thought himself as a great mathemetician. my apologies to statisticians here, but I sheltered behind the oft-used expression that you guys are all too familiar with I am sure. but it is not that I still don't have an alibi left. working from home doesn't mean that I am working less. my wr


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 y

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 m