Oh to be alive

Random,  could also be called hit and miss or arbitrary, but thoughts are thoughts, no more no less and have misted up my mindscape for a long time…woolly at times, at times crystal clear, they whiz through every now and then. They are all at once animate, vibrant and suddenly foggy or frozen.             Thoughts they say should be treated like birds flying across the sky…one needs to just look at them and not interrupt them in their flight across the firmament…at best one could fly with them for a while, hover, dip, dive and fly away into eternity or return now and then like the migratory birds.              The mind, it is said, is like a projection of the universe or an inversion of it, there are several time and space zones interlinking eons to myriad experiences, weaving a tapestry that has a varying manifestation through every being.    ...

             Poets have waxed eloquent about the rain; the ever elusive pot of gold is only at the end of a rainbow. Chasing it is both a challenge and a dream. Romance they say is in the air, cupid showers his arrows in the most unexpected directions, striking many a desolate heart. Even Eliza Doolittle the ‘Fair lady’ was taught English by Professor Higgins, by taking refuge in the rain…only metaphorically: The rain in Spain is falling on the plain. There is always something hugely poetic about the rains. Of course it can inundate, cloud and cause havoc too, but as of now I would like to elucidate on the beauty of the rain.               Over a period of time the rain has meant different things to me. Sometimes a friend walking along quietly, knowing fully well that’s all you need; sometimes a playful child, urging you to break free and romp in the deluge; sometimes a comforting, overpowering, overwhelming ...

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...