Haze and Mist

 The crematorium of the Hindus and the graveyard for Mohammedans were within four walls in Panjim. Dead bodies of men and women who believed themselves to be either Hindus or Muslimeen while they were alive were carried through the same grilled gate which led to either/or Hindu/Muslim side. A low wall about five feet high separated the world's two tall faiths — smashan to the right hand and the qabristan to the left. The right wing was larger in area. There was an open courtyard with a high canopied pavilion under which were two raised platforms. There the bodies were cremated. The Muslims buried their dead. The space for the Hindu was more and the Muslim, less. The logic behind this arrangement was difficult to understand. Hindus cremated one body at a time, and after it turned to ashes, the ashes were collected and taken away, making the space available for the next dead person.  The Muslims however, buried their dead and kept them there to decompose in the grave. Therefor...

A Mangalorean ran the canteen at the IPHB ( Institute of Psychiatry and Human Behavior) or simply, the mental hospital. He was a puny little man with a broad smile. The sides of his eyes had crinkled skin owing to his habit of compulsive smiling. He was also particulary generous to us, friends from the college of Art. Probably we arties were slightly more relatable, there was less formality to tackle,  behavior became easier. Simon was his name and I liked the tea he made. It was very consistent and it smelled of Jasmine. He got tea from SLanka.  He would serve lunches there also. Although not regular we ate there sometimes. We paid Simon as and when we could. He  did not ask or not let us drink tea and snacks. I guess we were more reliable among the younger folk.  But it is not Simon or the Jasmine tea this one is about. This is about an intern, a young woman in her early thirties, an inmate in the mental hospital.  In Simon's canteen the windows opened directl...

I need a human sympathizer. Someone who would just put his hand on my shoulder and say, it is alright.  Well...  Came across a sher of Firaq Gorakhpuri: فراقؔ اکثر کوئی ہر ایک سے بیگانہ سا رہتا ہے بس اتنے پر کسی کو ل وگ دیوانہ سمجھتے ہیں > Fira Firaq aksar koie har ek se begaana rahta hai Bus itne par kisi ko log deevana samajhte hain   Firaq, often someone behaves like a stranger with one and all That's all it takes for people to consider him mad Wow ! It hit me. It's so true!  I felt that it was I who was saying it to myself! It throws up disturbing questions about social norms and the individual's struggle to belong to the group. It is a cry from deep within; a confession of the soul to itself. Who do you tell about the struggle within an individual? Everyone is going through the same conundrum, the same difficulty. The need of the soul to be left alone, with no care. But if this is spoken aloud, you are likely to face  the charge of being selfish, or usel...

 Met a friendly man I know after a long time. I waved and proceeded but something made me stop and ask him regarding his work. "Yes," he said, " somehow I am going on but... " He didn't complete the sentence but it was clear that he found it difficult to continue. I dropped a name in the same profession as his —designer pottery and suggested, "You could collaborate with him because I believe that he is very entrepreneurial and I hear he's doing well. I'm sure he could open things for you".   (Let's call him) Michael did not understand, or he did but pretended as though he didn't. So I elaborated and told him that a regular flow of some money might give an incentive to continue doing what he did best. "No", he said, "of course I understand that sale keeps you going, and also it is a service to people  who like to use pottery but... "  I noticed that he had developed a way of stopping mid-sentence after a but, like a s...

Again this morning  I postponed dying. No, no,  not suicide, but that routine dying, habitually almost.  I dusted off the membrane of night,  got Bob on the lead,  then we walked into morning air.  (Mornings are beautiful beings !)  There is an un-breathed breathing,  a sort of suspension of an air-intake,  when the inhalant burns deep  in the labouring wind pipe.  Something of that sort happened to me this morning and I let go of the daily dying.  I felt uplifted.  So listen: let the world go to blazes!  Do your thing, Stop dying. 

 Already half the May gone,  not so far from resolution– for four months isn't far.  Six decades long habit has grown old in the body,  touched ground, turned soft.  I have been practicing reclination.  supine, for when they box me in the corpse mustn't revolt.  Nothing to be done now of all those procrastinations.  You are gone; they, as good as gone!