Missing you...

'I know....'
'...............'
'I know....'
'...............'
'I know....'
'...............'
'I know....'
'...............'
'I know....'
'...............'
Still I miss you....

An attempt to make it better...

I have always wanted to write like ... someone who knows how to write...

A pity?! Since I basically write for a living.

Initially when I began toying with the idea… of having enough (in mind?) to fill out a paper… I wasn’t quite sure as where to start…

Much before getting initiated, while still a little boy, I used to wonder, though mostly not extending my thoughts beyond what the elders preached and the books prescribed, how could someone 'write', just like that, as they (the elders) say…

‘You don’t have to put an effort and think about writing… it’ll come to you when it has to’, they’d say. They probably meant to wait for the right moment to begin… Or may be, they didn’t… but I’d never know… I never quite understood them well enough…

Quite a few kindly ones told me not to think too hard. And some others said thoughts came to us on its own…and on their (the thoughts) arrival, writing them down wouldn't take much effort… And that was what writing’s all about…

But then ...

Are there supposed to be thoughts of any kind at all in the first place (I mean… initially, I never had any to begin with)?? Then how could anyone write without having thoughts of any kind in mind? And if so, where did these so-called thoughts come from?? Did they originate on their own (from God knows where)?? And when it happened, how do you make out if these were good enough to be written down??

To be shamelessly (?!) honest, I even had some utterly stupid doubts like if they (thoughts) had any connection with the pen or pencil or whatever… writing instruments and if they depended on the quality of paper used??

Today looking back, I feel I haven’t changed much. I still am (very much) doubtful and tensed before beginning to write (Or, conceive) anything at all. Since at most times, these aren’t (unlike the kind they mentioned) unforced ones, but results of a much-screwed-up-mental-obligation. Which is why, perhaps, I have always been in awe of all of them who can write better. For that matter, do anything better than me. Anything at all...

These days, I do not wait for the thoughts to come to me. More than that, I really can’t afford to. Force writing thoughts, ideas and solutions, to meet the deadlines, have become a way of life. So much so, that mind has started to switch off completely when not faced with pressure of any form.

And as for thoughts that dare (to break the rules), I find them arriving at the most unseemly hours, quite disappointing (and irritating) me, for being not in a position to actually pen them down, at times when I am driving, or watching a movie in a dark cinema hall, or while I’m in bed, too lazy to give up the comfort, even for a second, and actually loosing (my blog entries, mostly, are the ones I managed to recover) them from memory forever.

So...why, ask me, am I into this now? Writing, that is?!

The reason is simple. Out of a compulsive realization. That forced me into believing there’s nothing else I could do better for a living. The realization of the fact that, good or bad, nothing else would get me the recognition I deserve.

And that realization remains my only strength!

The Man

Child is the father of man.
Woman is the mother.
Where does that leave him, the man??

Kids...

Someone asked me why I loved kids so much... Whats so special about them??

I couldn't, at the time, give them a proper answer... But then, how could anyone... Its something which can only be felt, and never be explained...

A contradiction??

I hate compromises when they tend to break my neck.... but generally, I'm ready for them...

But do I contradict myself when I say so?....

Tears...

He licked at the pearls that rolled down the corners of her eyes...They tasted of salt...

Woman. The mother of man.

(Read this somewhere, and found it too hard 'not' to publish it here...)

The woman is the mother...
However great and powerful may the man be, he can never be the mother... So woman should be respected...

Even in a relation, the pleasure is always mutual... but the pain that follows is not... which makes it just why she should be respected....

The betrayal

To him life wasn't that mysterious... It was simple... It reflected to him the story of a young man who found the mother of his child in the arms of another man... When confronted, it shocked him for once... But then he gathered himself up and left his past right there... And walked into the life ahead...

Ani. My little brother...

Ani, my little brother, looked at me seriously for once and said, ‘You are very lucky for me’.

Man, it made my day… Why, I can live my entire life hanging on to that one…

My guardian angel

‘Amma, are you listening…? You understood anything I said…?’
‘Off course monu, I’m listening…Go on… And then…?’‘Well, then… Tell me where was I?’
'Monu, go on… Its good to hear you talk…’

With an amazing consistency, this was how she responded every time I sat down to have a serious discussion (or, were they just monologues, since I was only one who spoke during our ‘conversations’) with her…

I was 15 then. And two years later, she died.

Surprisingly, I never really missed her much all these years… May be the longing echo that brought me the kind word, had something to do with it… Or, may be it didn't ...

Convoluted reality

A story sounds original as long as it is a story... As soon as it becomes original, it starts sounding like a story... You seem to believe a fictious fact and not a fact! How strange is that?!

A concept that we call love..

First we fell in love...
Then we fell out of love...
In between, though, no love was lost ...
Hell... so, when did we 'love'?

Game of love?

Its useless to possess the body when you are sure the soul isn't for you... Its like venting it out on a prostitute..

A flash back?

I felt cold and lonely...

A vague and misty vision of an uncertain future hovered about me then... Directions were marked clearly towards everywhere... But none of them seemed to take me anywhere...

Trader of dreams

I am a hawker selling dreams... would you like to trade with me??

Broken Dreams

Broken, failed dreams do look artistic, like a crumbled tissue paper smeared with shit...

The book called ‘Penmarric’...

The book called ‘Penmarric’, that I lost (irrecoverably, at that...) to a very dear friend of mine, familiarized me with quite a few nuances of normal life at a very tender age... My voice hadn't even cracked up properly...

The real human weaknesses (Or, abilities?!), so to say… Words (or, should we call them concepts?) like jealously, greed, back-biting, love affairs, seduction, adultery, illegitimacy, inheritance (a far cry from my father’s ideologies) struck right across my face...

Not that they meant much to me then, but at an age I wasn’t too prepared to handle it all came the realization they don’t exist only in books and movies, but are very much around us. Very much, indeed...!

A complete family

If we (my brother and I) loved our mother so much (enough to feel insecure after her death), it dint mean we loved our father any less... it was just that we loved her so much that we believed our family would only be complete with all the four of us together. Both of them, the parents and both of us, the brothers... Any less would make it incomplete...

The pimple

The pimple on the tip of my nose hurt ... whenever it itched, I scratched around it ...
Only I was too scared of breaking it...
Things were cracking up then... I guess...

Age matters??!

May be she is young...
Or may be she was...
Anyways, she is beautiful...