Friday, 2 October 2015

What To Do?

The train of thought never stops, does it? Standing on a vague platform, everything except me undergoes a peculiar kind of metamorphosis now and then. Bewildered, I stand in utter confusion, with a dazed expression and remain amusingly voiceless. Waving madly for the train to halt or at least lazy down a bit, I am increasingly getting ascertained about the fact that either I am powerless or I am being considered as a crazy cheerleader.

Often, no, more than often, I have successfully boarded the train. What happens then - settled quietly near the window, with a half read great novel that I have tried to finish since one year, five months and two weeks, looking old and rich in my hands, I get lost in the dream world looking through the barred window; settled quietly near the window, with a notebook in front and a pen in my hand, I write down miraculous lines, tying down the strength to move the humanity and a saleable story together, staying humble myself throughout the reverie; settled quietly near the window, but loathing everyone around me and worshiping softly to reach my destination soon…

“My destination…” I say and I am kicked out of the train, back on that floating platform which dances every second on some idiotic tune and disturbs my balance. I fall down, cry, raise questions, get answers, plan things and proudly compliment myself, with a touch of modesty of course. And then what do I do? I go off to sleep. How much can the mind take? “So long, my friend”, says my mind and dozes off. Shut down! Power off!

Click! Switch on and I am back on that platform. Trains have started passing me. I yawn, a full day of travelling to a gazillion places ahead. Busy life, what to do?

The Busy Life by Jean Dubuffet 

Tuesday, 29 September 2015

Papa and the Crimson Clouds

Papa said, ‘I am not a negative thinker’. I almost clapped in approval, but then I saw him drinking at 9:45 in the morning. I dared to speak and I did, reminding him of the 80% blockage in one of his arteries. Gulp! ‘No negative thinking’, he advised me.

His red eyes and newly ignited soul went into the garden to work. After a few hours, I checked the fresh hair style of the garden, it was almost bald. Papa said, ‘Plants should grow this way’. Which way you must be thinking? Whichever way Papa wants to grow it, you fool. He replied so, I am just quoting it.

My sense of understanding is weak; I am a wrong person to walk left when the right is right. I am also stupid if I don’t remind Papa, thrice, that he wanted to drink tea, which invariably loses all its piping hotness and turns dead cold by the time he returns from the garden.

Kindly ask everyone in the street not to stare at me. So what if I look like an outgrown, zigzag tree, my Papa will prune me. I have the whole life’s agenda, second wise, installed in my brain. I am to wake up early every day and run to the office, work and be good in it and come back home to get recharged for the next day.

Every hour I am to be alert; I am allowed even to worry about security. I again dared and asked Papa, ‘Security from what?’ ‘That thing… that… something…’ he said. I understood zilch about it. Patience please, I am a slow learner.

Every minute of the hour, I am to relish the complexities of the present. It is to be like the dogs, they are so cute and hold only one feeling at a moment – hunger, aggression, love or anxiety. I reluctantly told Papa about my opinion. He laughed and then shooed me away, like a dog is shooed away.

For your benefit, I am sharing that it’s not the wise thing to do. Homo sapiens sapiens can do better. I have read so in a book. Of course, I didn’t say a word about it to Papa. You think I am that stupid? Ha!

Every second of every minute, I am to remain lost in whatever shit crazy thing I am doing. This will result in an unhealthy body, but a good position and a reasonable flat after a few years travail. I am a middle class being, this means to me what nirvana means to that mad ascetic I once met.

Do you know what the ascetic told me? He asked me to sit under a huge tree, pointing in the jungle’s (point decimal of what is left) direction. That’s it! Gauge that! What am I supposed to do there alone, I shouted behind him and he shouted back, ‘Think’.

Confused, I asked Papa about it one day - a day that showcased crimson clouds from the window. He didn’t say a word. I looked at the crimson clouds once again. Then I stared at Papa. I didn’t know there were four clocks in his room, one on each wall, until that day. I was sweating when Papa suddenly opened his eyes and asked me to get some water for him. He coughed badly.

He is coughing badly right now. From that day the crimson clouds haven’t left the window. I mostly stay near Papa and only occasionally go to sit under that huge tree.
  

Crane on Turtle Candlestick Holder

Our blacksmith picked up the mould and studied it. His expressions were not discernible, but the sweat on his forehead highlighted his pre...