I always used to think I was addicted to writing- That writing was my way of seeing things through – that it eased the pain of existence or added to the joy of living

But there is more- I think I am addicted to stories. Writing is just a manifestation of the story – Travelling to other places- Living the stories is another one

I can’t spend the rest of my life as just another person My fear is that I will just atrophy in my comfort zone - When I die, I want to be able to say that you know what – I did what I wanted to

I do suffer from existential angst – Thinking- is this all there is to life- But I also think that you, in some way create your own reality. I am scared, I am happy, I am angry, I am loved, I am alive

And I am thankful- Its kind of difficult to think about all this on an empty stomach isn’t it I am thankful for food on the table and a roof on my head and parents who are struggling to keep up with my constant need to flow

Forty rules of love

“Listen to the reed, how it sings of separation”
I am reading “The forty rules of love” by Elif Shafak . For those unfamiliar with Elif’s work,
this should serve as a good introduction.
The book runs into two parallel narratives, one is the story of the budding friendship (romance?), between Ella, a 40 something housewife living her mundane straitjacketed existence and Aziz, a world wandering photographer.
The other, more interesting narrative, tells the story of the mystic Rumi and his spiritual soulmate, Shams of Tabriz. And this Shams is the wandering dervish who is perhaps the most interesting character in the story.
And the one who has set me thinking the most... About meaning, about purpose.
Every entity in the universe, makes itself manifest through its opposite. The yin has the yang, the bad has the good, the hot has the cold, angels have their demons...and so on and so forth.
God, you see, has no opposite. And that is why she does not manifest herself to us. There is one other concept which follows a similar part, a similar routine. “Sifr” or Zero. Zero has no opposite, no great cancelling factor – It itself cancels and is cancelled by everything. Anything divided by zero becomes undefined, loses its existence. And so does anything divided by god. God defines and is defined by our existence.
Zero, the way we represent it, is a circle. And circles, the author says in her talk above, are powerful and dangerous. Beware the circle, she says.
If you want to see anything wither away, if you want to see anything die of starvation – A thought, a word, a plant, a soul – Put it in a circle and watch it wither away. We surround ourselves with such circles. Circles of friends, family – Those that seek to protect us from our own baser natures.
On meaning, on purpose- These are questions I often wonder to myself. Why am I here? Why has god given me this life, this education, a chance to understand the world the way I do.
Maybe the answers lie within, maybe without – And maybe the journey to find the answers is the answer in itself.
What do you think?

Indian religious tradition teaches that human beings can have two commendable aspirations.
1. The abhudaya , or worldy prosperity
2. The nihasreya , or spiritual illumination
Of both of these, dharma, or righteousness is said to be the basis.
Will power is said to lead to the development of this dharma, and hence, it is the secret of success

Hence, how to develop this will power, is the most important fundamental basis of one’s existence.
Swami Vivekananda once said
“What is education, is it book learning? NO... Is it diverse Knowledge... Not even that. The training by which the current and expression of will are brought under control and become fruitful is called education”
It is imperative then, to remember, that all of our resopurces, mental , physical and spiritual- be focussed towards attaining this from of education. This is the education of concentration- Learning to center oneself within.

The development of will, paradoxically, is possible if we only have the will to develop our will. Shiva burnt Kama- the god of desire, when Kama tried to disturb him during meditation. Similarly, the daughters of “Kama- mara” – The god of desire and death in Buddhist mythology – could not sway the young Gautama from his path of enlightenment

Similarly, we too, must brun all desires, if we have to develop a will as stroing as iron. Every dream can be real, every wish fulfilled, and herein lies the second paradox of will. A strong will is necessary to attain our desires, while a purging of all desire is necessary to attain a will.


The prayer
Lord,
All I ask of you is redemption
I have commited many sins, but I have also tried to be good
I know that I am a sinner, but you, lord almighty, you are our master and we are but your slaves
I ask in your most holy name, forgive me, protect me and take me under your feet
Give me but a small place there from where you are visible and your glory, tangible

“Until one is committed, there is hesitancy, the chance to draw back, always ineffectiveness. Concerning all acts of initiative and creation, there is one elementary truth the ignorance of which kills countless ideas and splendid plans: that the moment one definitely commits oneself, then providence moves too. All sorts of things occur to help one that would never otherwise have occurred. A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one’s favor all manner of unforeseen incidents, meetings and material assistance which no man could have dreamed would have come his way. Whatever you can do or dream you can, begin it. Boldness has genius, power and magic in it. Begin it now.”

I do not know, why I am writing this to you.... this is be "stupid" and irrational. i wrote this to you yesterday - in half sleep and half waking- when the mind rambles and sleep is slow to come. I know you wanted someone else all the time, someone who would come to you in the middle of the night and lift you ip in their arms and whisper in your ear as your were sleeping - so that when you woke up(and here I paused- for about five minutes- thinking what to write next) , when you woke up the world would seem a better place.

I want that too. I want that relationship- that "world disappearing beneath the sheets" meeting of souls- where it doesn’t matter how old you are or how much you earn or what diseases you have- All that matters is that you and I are together, you and I are one. That is a world. That is our world. And now, once we have found it, I know I will not be able to live outside .

I know you wanted someone else, someone balanced, stable, someone who would think rather than feel.But that was always your job, wasn’t it??
And I know you wanted someone else, someone who would not freak out so much, who would not "feel" so much- Like the stable -"dead" line of the ECG, someone who would remain stable throughout. I am sorry I am not that person. I am flesh melting into flesh made manifest. A product of a fractured union of two bodies- a union of flesh. And the flesh wants, craves, desires, lives, lusts and flows in boundless passion and energy. "Rajas" they call it , I think (and here I pause again- as if what I want to say has not fully been realised)-

sire There are stories in my head, two , actually. One is this love tale of longing and desire that ends in a furious passion- The moth, as drawn to flames, burns himself but lights up the whole world.
The other, well, it will soon see the light of day.

I have alos found one caharchter for my book. How she sees the world(yes, it has to be a woman!), or how she uncovers the double life her father lives. Biit by bit, one lifetime at a time-

I saw ROckstar yesterday, and have not been able to get over it since. More on that, soon.

The movie ends with a quote by Rumi -
"Somehere out beyond conceptions of right-ness and wrong-ness, there is a field. I will meet you there"

More research on Rumi and I stumbled on this little gem

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what "spirit" is,
or what "God’s fragrance" means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to "die for love," point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?

Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?

Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.

We are all trapped in this bubble- This prison of our own making. And sometimes, the prisons interlock agaisnt one another- and we are left facing anothe person for the rest of our lives

We call it love

She sees him from a distance, her hair cascading down her face in tufts of black velvet....she sees him, and smiles. Perhaps today shall be the day he tells her, perhaps the waiting will be over. Her heart tightens into a knot at the very thought of spending the rest of his life with him.
We are all pulled into this. This bleak and blank expanse of love and hate and desire, What we are, we are not i t makes babies of us. We desire, we long and we want. And when everything is stripped away, when the flesh does not want, and the blood does not coarse through the veins, what then are we?

Just beings of flesh and bone

There is the spirit too. Where is the spirit ? Where is the life? Disenchantment grows quickly under this sullen skin.

“But you have had a good life” she tells me

“Yes, but not an honourable one” What do we do that affects the world...where do we draw the line between hat we earn for and our desire to change the world, to make a difference in it somehow. They look at me and all they see is the fat and the laughter and the round face. Maybe that is because when I look at myself all I see is the same. If I looked at myself differently, would they change their opinion of me ?

“Dont worry about them, the world does what it must “

Yes, and sitting here with you, in this Kafkaesque version of my reality, I feel nothing. Is it the same as feeling at peace , I ask her.

She shrugs and leans in closer to me...and we watch the rain pass by the window

Love is a many pronged thing, snaking its way past undiscovered crevices- making its way into the deepest part of us -- Till a causally said line like- ' we should just be friends' finally causes breaking strain
And yes, the heart is a fragile thing - After every disaster, every koss, we tell ourselves- no ' I will not fall in love again' - yes, the heart is fragile
so are dreams, hopes, families, and even bodies too
But I would rather recollect a life misspent on fragile things than one spent avoding moral debt
So the only uestion to be asked - really- now- is this
When the lights are off, and the sound of applause has died- when all the audience to this great drama has moved away- when finally, there is a need to be taken home
Will you still be there - witing in the wings- helping him clean up, helping him sort out the mess on the stage- putting him to sleep ??

Writing, I reckon, is much like walking....exploring circutous routes around your own psyche...curious about what you may find around the next bend...its just about putting one word after the other and before you know it...you are conjuring up whole universes...

I feel sometimes, that whatever we write about exists somewhere.. on some plane of existence..the charachetrs we make are really really living...

What if one day you meet someone from your stories..would you be able to look them in the eye...to tell them that you have done their charachter justice..that you have made them all you could..

I suppose that is how god would feel if one of US ever confronted him

Neverwhere

Am currently reading neverwhere by Niel Gaiman ....Thought i would laze out and post a few of HIS quotes for a change..

“He had noticed that events were cowards: they didn't occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once.”

"Dear Diary.

On Friday I had a job, a fiancee, and a life that made sense. (Well, as much as any life makes sense.) Then I found an injured girl bleeding on the pavement, and I tried to be a Good Samaritan. Now I've got no fiancee, no home, no job, and I'm walking around a couple of hundred feet under the streets of London with the projected life expectancy of a suicidal fruitfly"

Has it been a month since I have written... could it really have been that long... words flow over the keys of this typewriter easily now.. When I started writing, I hadn’t thought that it would be about anything in particular...

What set me off was this... I heard somewhere that it is sometimes important in life not to be strong.. but to feel strong... to find yourself in the most ancient of human conditions

Things have happened lately... not bug things.. but little things.. where there was certainty, is now only doubt

Little voices whispering in my ear., surrounding me like ghouls on chilly nights.. The gita says that “verily should the man control the self, for the self alone is one’s friend, and the self alone is one’s enemy”- and that , I find, is true. We are our own greatest saboteurs- are we not...

We sabotage our relationships, our loves, our professions our happiness- Insecurity, ego, the “I don’t really need you so don’t care fuck off” attitude...

Unfinished thoughts here...

He was there the day her world ended... and the day his began...
He claimed to know her... through the aeons...
They had been born together.. he said... They had been gods..
and the night they made wild..passionate love was the night another universe was born..

Sarah Kay- If if should have a daughter

If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air.There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.
And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”
But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boots nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.
I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind.Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this,“There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.
You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.
And yes, on a scale of one to over-trusting I am pretty fucking naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.
“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”
Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.
Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.

The refuge of the insane, or the utterly despondent, the written word. Tonight, I hope I shall write out all I feel on this kind, yet faceless computer screen. In between what I have been , and where I shall be, there lies the present. They say that the past is comfortable, the future, insecure, But the present is a bit of a Bastard.I see her sometimes, stil, coming at me from thacross the cast empty moonlit beach, with the seawaves caressing her feet in a strangely aqueising sort of way... Like the godess that she is. Her long floral skirt conceals much, and yet seems to augmen he contours of her body in a way that reminds one of Venus-De Milo. She waves at me, from across the shore.... and then suddenly, a mist draws upon us... Her silent shriek echoin throug the night. As I am left in the darkness, with only the lilting cadence of the intonations that the waves make as they splash against the water.
The mist clears, and there is no one... all feelings of devotion turn to uetter horror, as her mangled body lies on the shore. Like some broken branch of a now dead tree, I see her face turned towards me, its visage a mask of utter horror. What happned in that ist, I shall never know, for the strange quality of mists is that they conceal more than they reveal. Maybe she was never there in the first place,just a figment of my shattered imagination,The seashre withers away into a glass shell,
Ans I am left banging against the wall, my hands restricted by the straitjacket, screaming away into the dark recesses of m slitary confinement.

Of weary travellers and lost tales

Ah, so we have a traveller at our inn again... it has been a long time! How are things in your part of the world...wayfarer...May the happiness in your life be as plenteous as the stars oin a chilly hillside evening....May the angels of joy gallivant ahead of you strewing little pieces of happiness all around... A big storm rages outside...come in.. And shut the door behind you...
A good stiff drink then...for you! You may remove your coat and place it on the stand by the door...And I shall make sure that you get a comfortable room for the night..
What is it you said.. A story... do you want to hear a story from us..?? Well.. Make your self comfortable then for the night has just begun..and the storm may rage for a while longer..
Hear then this, the story of the blind fortune teller and the dancing Girl of Semptokha
This happened a long time ago...at which time, men had not yet becomes as cunning and beguiling as they are today, and much good still prevailed in the world..
The animals too, had not yet lost their power of speech. That did not happen till. Let me see.. the hundred year war was it?? Ah! But I digress, that is part of another story, and one you may hear tonight, if you are lucky !
So, much peace prevailed over the world, and in a now long lost kingdom, nestled deep in the mountains, lived an old monk.
What the monk was named is not important, and neither is the name of the hill where he stayed. He stayed in a monastery not long removed from the capital of the kingdom, but the hillside was dotted with many such monasteries, such that his, like all the others, has now passed into oblivion. There was nothing special about the hill, the monastery, or the monk, each being alike to their multitudinous brethren strewn around the country.
So every evening, this monk would go and light a butter lamp at the shrine of his deity, and then close the door behind him to retire for the night’s meditation. And every morning he would come out again, extinguish the butter lamp , and retreat back inside to tend to his small garden- From where the monk derived most of his sustenance.
One day, as the monk came out of his hut for lighting the butter lamp, from atop another hill, there sat watching him and fox and a badger. Now, if you do not know this already, let me tell you, the fox and the badger were the most cunning animals who ever existed. And the squabble between them has lasted eternally, ever since the first fox and the first badger came into existence. Why it is so, nobody knows, for not even they now remember the reason behind this quarrel.
So there, on the hilltop, sat the fox and the badger, and they eyed the monk with more than a passing interest. For soon, a wager was made between the two. Whoever managed to drive the monk out of his monastery, for more than 3 days, would have won.
When the monk rose the next day and went out to extinguish the lamp, there came upon him the sound of thundering hooves. And he saw, from afar, three horses atop whom sat the king’s soldiers. One of them was wearing the rank insignia of a captain. The horses stopped in front of his door, and from close, the monk could see that they were the special breed of dragon horses that the king’s magicians had bred into existence. The horses could breathe fire.. and were wild enough tp strike fear in the heart of the hardest of men.
Ah!, but look, dinner is ready. Ale and cake and meat await us. Come, weary traveller, let us eat, and I shall continue with my story.

How much diagonally can one lie on a single bed? Depression, self-loathing shortly ensues. ImissyouImissyouImissyou. You don't mind that my hair sprouts from the center of my head, and thus ends up everywhere. You don't mind my debauched vocabulary or my inexcuse for experiencing carnal pleasure. Who are you anyway? So far off, imaginary daydream of mine. Whatever it is, just know that I have memorized your scent by heart. Know that I am tired of daily successes (like finishing that fucking book already) and daily failures (the inability to get out of bed). I emailed them, after I finally forced myself to figure out what the problem was (because it's never me, you know), and apparently they don't make superhero garb in my size. How fucking fantastic, right? At least now I have a legitimate excuse for being a downright cunt.
'Excuse me, are you on the job today?'
'No, you fucker. Every day is off day for me. I win'

Note: this is attributed to
http://chocomallow.blogspot.com/2011/05/jd-salinger-sine-qua-non.html

The story- Part 1

They all reacted differently to my grandmother’s death... I can remember my father’s face...stoic..as he heard the news ..The woman he had looked up to, been in awe of, respected feared and loved for the last 40 years was now nothing more than a clump of bone and flesh... I could hear mother sobbing in the kitchen... I was considered too small.. of course, to be told the news straight away...

It was broken to me , as always, in the form of a story..on the ride to the village , where we were all gathering to pay our last respects. On most occasions, I hated going back to the village,. The lack of cable and early morning show cartoons being the chief reason for my disgust (“What god forsaken place does not have cable these days Papa?” but I knew that this time, all my cousins would be assembling ...extended families from all over the globe..

We reached there by the afternoon and in the evening my father took me out for one of our customary evening walks..I rather looked forward to them.. they were our chance to bond as a father and son.. we who were otherwise too wrapped up in our own worlds..him with his office and me with school...worlds with problems far too important than the mere death of a person

I remember that talk clearly.. most clearly ot of all the ones that we have had.. and I will always remember it as the day that my father finally broke down

I will digress here and give a thought to the fact that my grandfathers(from both side of families) , could not outlast my grandmothers by more than two months.. I suppose it says something about the men of our family..

When it came down to it really, the dynamics were simple.

They would all go, and the body would be cremated where the last 3 generations of the family had been cremated(ever since the family ..(or thos who had survived).. had come over from Pakistan.

Buit such matters were not seen fit to tell little boys in those days. Matters of the gravest concern, especially, were discussed in the living room of the house owned by Uncle. The eldest son, almost 12 years elder to my father. This was done after all the children had been put to sleep.