Trivial

It's that time of the night when I sit to unload the squalor of my thoughts on to a pristine paper, thereby tainting it. Must the paper not resent me? There are better things that could have been scribbled on it.

It's not really the big things that weigh you down-- well, not always. It's the small things that are more the nettling. What makes it worse is that you cannot open up to others about them. They, in the eyes of others, don't merit crabbing. For they are life-- these small things. And they have to be lived.

Every now and then, you shut your eyes, straighten your back, square your shoulders, and heave a deep sigh, and say to yourself:"I shall not lose it. Okay, let's take it on. One small thing at a time." And you do. You do so until you live. Or you live until you do so. It's these small things, trivial as they are called, that can be quite lethal if allowed to grow on you, if not battled day in and day out.

It's these small things, trivial as they are called, that actually leave you worn out, although you don't do much visibly. Not in the eyes of others at least. "Ah! that's such a trivial thing to worry about," they say, and try to belittle you. Trivial as they are called, these small little things cling to each of us and collude with those clinging to our loved ones and they form a net out of which it takes nothing less than a life time to escape.


The three headed and ten headed monsters are to be slain only in the world of fantasy; in real life it's these tiny gnats that are enough to drive you to extinction. Quite unheroic such a death is. Quite unheroic most deaths are. And we blame the wars and the epidemics. Is it not unfair?

Is it not unfair that these small struggles neither earn you sympathy when they persist nor do they earn you praise when they are overcome? Yet, a chief part of our lives is spent wrestling with these matters which we have the temerity and hubris of calling 'trivial'.

What are these small things, you ask? Ask yourself. You know it. You deal with them every day. Those small things, trivial as they are called.

You say to yourself, "Okay, let's take it on. One small thing at a time."

It's that time of the night when I sit to unload the squalor of my thoughts on to a pristine paper, thereby tainting it. Must the paper not resent me? There are better things that could have been scribbled on it.

Squalor

It’s that time of the night again when I sit to unload the squalor of my thoughts on to a pristine paper, thereby tainting it. Must this page not resent me? There are better things that could have been scribbled on it. But, no, this accursed paper is now obligated to bear witness to my sordid thoughts. What a pity! Not all of that squalor comes out though. Some of it is filtered by codes of propriety and some by subconscious that quails at the prospect of revealing it all. And thus, some of it that refuses to get impressed upon this blank page will continue to gnaw at me from within. Vice, too, seeks company. By putting it out here, by letting it take shape of intelligible words, I could have allowed it to seek its kin that reside in other souls who may have chanced upon this mindless nocturnal scribbling.

”O! So that happens with him too!”  “Darn! I so know that feeling!”  they would have exclaimed in their heads as their eyes would follow my words imbued with my vices and my lapses. It could have helped someone lessen their burden of shame. It could have made someone feel only human, more human. It could have given someone a sense of belonging, a sense of commonality, and could have made them feel less estranged. But I deny them this experience. A certain fear keeps me from it. The same fear which keeps you from stepping out of your house without any clothes on. Call it shame, if you will, but it is a fear after all. Despite their universality being established beyond doubt, our vices have, we believe, some distinct flavour that manifests only in us. We wonder if this distinctness marks us out and makes a spectacle out of us, or earns us the disregard of people we love— but, mostly and sadly, the people who do not even care for our existence.

What if they use it against us at a later date, we fear. What if we are seen only through the prism of such revelations in the future and every action of ours is judged in the light of our confessions. Riddled with all such deliberations, the mind rules against letting the filth flow unchecked. Elisions are made. Reality is made more palatable; its brutality is toned down and its sordidness is sanitised lest it offends the delicate sensibility of the delinquents.

It’s that time of the night again when I sit to unload the squalor of my thoughts on to a pristine paper, thereby tainting it. Must this page not resent me?

How are you?

It is the one question that is asked more than any other on a daily basis, around the globe. Seven continents, hundreds of countries, thousands of languages, billions of people, and one timeless question: how are you? 

One is compelled to marvel at the robustness of this one tiny three word question: is it not a wonder that it can withstand the fusillade of lies that is shot, almost instantaneously, at its being asked. Doesn't it crumble under the weight of all the lies it attracts? Every day. Every hour. Every minute. The same question across seven continents, in hundreds of countries in thousands of languages asked by billions of people.

A question that, if pondered over intently, has the potential to plunge one into the pit of deepest existential crisis. A question that, if sought to be answered inwardly, can shake us up, wake us up, take us up, and break us up.

Who knows how many doctrines and philosophies, has this seemingly banal three letter question engendered. Innumerable souls must have gained nirvana upon brooding over this question. To the pinnacle of their enlightenment, this three word question must have been the ladder. Only, they must have asked it to their own selves instead of squandering it on others. Their dwelling over this question has enriched them with a wealth that can’t be sized or seized.

 And yet we show no gratitude to and reverence for this question. We just utter it as a greeting— mostly, almost always, when we are not even remotely interested in the reply. And the lips, highly trained as they are, curl into a smile, artfully, making a perfect passage for the most bewildering question that can ever be framed in any human language, to come out: how are you? Just like that.

And the replies to this questions-- Oh the replies to this question! The reservoir of insincerity must be as infinite as the cosmos for the replies to this question to draw from it. How else could this question, and the replies thereof, have sustained since the advent of speech. Every day. Every hour. Every minute. Seven continents, hundreds of countries, thousands of languages, billions of people, and one timeless question: how are you?

Even the most scrupulous souls whose lives are validated by nothing but their righteousness, do not hesitate even for a fraction of a moment before they promptly make a reply to this devious question. So much for their tall principles. A tiny, compact, three word question is capable of smashing the fort of veracity which these people claim, or think, to inhabit safely. Down it comes like a house of cards.  All one has to do is to ask: how are you? Just like that.

Should not one’s soul revolt a little before one replies to this question? It (the reply) feeds on one’s misery like a leech. You can’t shake it off. Every time someone asks you this question, you, helplessly, unknowingly, unfeelingly, tirelessly, conceal this leech, this badge of shame, which was sewn into your existence the moment you were brought to life.

The beauty is that questioner never doubts the veracity of the reply, despite knowing the hollowness of it when it’s their turn to reply. Both the parties tug at the cloak of decorum at their ends, trying to hide their respective badges of shame.

Have you wondered if this question asked to confirm whether your life is as nondescript and tiresome as the questioner’s rather than genuinely asking after your well being? And we keep disappointing them with our rehearsed smiles and rehearsed replies. And rehearsed lies.

So the next time someone asks you how are you, don't be an insensitive jerk, regurgitating the most cliche replies that you've practised all your life. Hug them, hold their hand, look them in the eyes, and say, "As are you. The more pressing question is how are you? Ask yourself and you will know it. My answer is is the same as yours." 

Seven continents, hundreds of countries, thousands of languages, billions of people, and one timeless question: how are you? Every day. Every hour. Every minute.

28th October is Here!

27th October 2013

A bachelor's den. Taps running dry.
Impetuous arrival at the ceremony.

Bashful attempts to hide the creepy footwear.

28th October 2013

And the night descended.
Youth shone in all its (vain)glory.
Narcissism in all its hues.

A wedding procession soaked in mirth and wine.
Amused like a six year old, He saw it wide-eyed. And attempted to snatch the merriment as much as He could, however unwonted.

Trying to mingle with the dominant flavour.
Supressing and deliberately ignoring his own.
Maybe this was how it could be gotten, joy.

Donning new ethos, he beamed and jigged. Unimaginable. Liberating in a way nonetheless.

Dichotomy-- an old companion. How could it remain far behind. Two hundred meters away someone had ceased to be. A road-accident someone informed. There He was in the chasm between life in all its glory, and death in all its pervasiveness. It was easily brushed aside. The illusory and elusive mirth had to be insulated from reality after all. How precious it was.

One bed.
Four contenders.
Night-long nudging and pushing.
Errotic snores.

29th October 2013

Blobs of butter melting on hot paranthas, munchable sandwiches.

A hub of capitalism.
A world of fantasy.
The luster of the wares gleamed in their eyes as lust.

On ice glided the charmer, from this end to that. That smoothness incredible.
On the frozen ice He could feel his heart melt.
"You were much better towards the end," were the parting words, punctuated by a smile. And an endearing accent.

Upon returning home, He smiled as he nursed a bruised knee and fanciful mind. :)