Oh to be alive

If ignorance was rampant and you didn’t notice it, make a trip to Vadodara Gujarat, the erstwhile kingdom of the mighty Gaekwads. A legacy so abused, that it would perhaps go down again in the annals of history, as a land ensnared by land sharks, peopled by callous strange,  superstitious people, especially when it comes to plants. One often wonders how such an ironic paradox coexists, as the other side of the picture has the full of life, vibrant, vivacious, swearing by Navratri , globe-trotting, yet simple souls: happy revelling in dal-bhaat-saag-rotli. Generalised, though it may sound, twenty odd years is a long time to come to a conclusion, that most of them are anti-plants. Their oft heard, knee jerk reaction to a simple question like, “Why did you cut down that tree?’’ is simple and banal, “Well, mosquitoes are created here’’ (sic).  Not to mention their scant regard for cleanliness as a community, anything that is not consumed within the house, must go out. ...

In the daily rush of life, sometimes, ever so quietly, just per chance sometimes, comes a moment one wants to savour forever.  A moment so vibrant and yet calming, a ripple in placid waters or a restful instant beneath a storm, it is often difficult to discern. In the brouhaha caused by the criss-crossing labyrinth of life around, be it hyped and sensationalised simple everyday goings on, or earth shattering news; one is often inundated with a mantle of unnecessary information, bytes that bite, in fact gnaw into ones innards, like an omnipresent carcinogen. The consequence is not too hard to guess, individuals flailing around, battered, floundered souls; grappling with lots unknown.                     So how does one disentangle from this octopus like grip, of these so called hazardous situations/events?  There is a way, the middle path as the Buddha would have us believe or the Zen...

Decadence, depravity or both, what is it one wonders, that is afflicting mankind of late. Has it always been the same story or is there a twist in the tale? Perhaps the health of a society is reflected by the health of its individuals, the reference here, however, is not to physical health, but mental health; one’s psychological make-up. Quite early in life, one learns what the WHO has to say about health, but does it just get relegated to the back- burners of academia or does it actually trickle through the fabric of this hugely convoluted society and manifest somewhere as a positive? What one often heard while growing up, way back in our times, were stories of Samaritans, of brave hearts and philanthropists, of people who lived and died by a simple honest principle. Has that tribe vanished or did it never exist? Well, exist it certainly did, as my memories are sprinkled with a plethora of experiences, tangible, intangible, some, if I stop to think for a minute, even palpable t...

  Among some more crystal clear bubbles , effervescent as ever, surfacing, resurfacing, ever so often, are the compassion and concern bubbles, as I choose to call them, after all these years of experiencing both.                         It is said, whatever happens in the early growing up years, does not require any kind of photographic documentation; the mind itself is an extremely powerful tool that is eidetic till the age of five, primarily. Though this ability to trap visual images, sounds and smells, stays till a later age too, due to the innumerable images constantly bombarding the brain, some become fainter than the rest and some just evaporate, whereas, some are just etched there forever.                         Brought up on a near daily do...

   Some memories float in the air: fragrances, aromas, smells; some faint, some sharp and distinct. Some memories are entrapped somewhere very deep, enmeshed in the mind, ensnaring the heart. Sounds, looks, a touch. All it takes is a little trigger to unleash bubbles, some incandescent, some iridescent, some delicate, some robust, but essentially bubbles they are and remain.                     Earliest memory is, of actual soap bubbles that one blew as a kid, watching for hours on end, an extremely simple feat: a series of bubbly bubbles, just floating around; trying often times to catch them forever. Some bubbles burst right on one's face, leaving a soapy bitter taste The innocence of childhood, would re-launch the entire mission again with the same or renewed vigour, creating around oneself, the elusive, reflective magical bubbles again.        Then one grows up and looks for these very bubble...

As time stood still, I looked around the milling crowd, in the farthest corner,  beyond the din so shrill. Embedded in the honeycomb maze of life, only few shadows sprung up & took shape amidst, the multiple images. I gathered them & trudged  further looking for a reprieve.

Death is a great leveller they say, treats kings and paupers alike, but when the soul is dead, one must know there is a devil deep inside. There are people living, perhaps, but their souls are dead, they have sold out to the devil instead. God is in the detail, one must look closely and feel, the devil beckons, god doesn’t even reveal, it is for us to decide, whose call do we take, do we continue looking for god in the minute details? Or succumb to the devil’s game… (My original lines as usual)