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Stray

 Don't know if it is just me but I do find that many young people, on the social media at least, sound either pessimistic or gung ho. Extremes but in both cases, like copies. Imitation. Possibly, those who are at work, the kind which gives meaning to their life, are not on social media.  That said, I myself spend hours scrolling nothing of interest. But then I think, if I had something of interest I would be productively engaged with the object of my interest. If I had found anything to draw me in, I would not be scrolling so much of meaningless stuff!  Everyone seems to want to write or post images which are sensational. The singular purpose is to grab attention. Create sensation. Even poems are like versions of prose, written linearly, one line beneath another. Deep thought, yes, but when you decide to let loose thought, there's no end to the depth. Mind is a bottomless pit. You concoct up phrases with combinations of planned, deliberate words, you end up putting on mak...
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Simon smiles and bididiré

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...
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Daily Gatha

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...
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Meeting Two in one goe

 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...
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Stop dying

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. 
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Poem about n i p

 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! 
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Tongueage

If we expose ourself to any language we learn it. An illiterate beggar on the road is more likely to surprise us with a turn of phrase which a scholar may not. It is the same reason why an ordinary German may know fluent German than a foreign scholar of the same language. It is because language thrives on the open streets, not in closed biblioteques.  Why we accept the elitist opinions on the beauty of language is beyond me. A workable grammar, proper syntax & a reasonable vocabulary are the survival kit of any language. What gives language its vitality is its easy use with the purpose of carrying a thought across and not ornamental doodah! It is not what the 'Shastrys' of language claim and whose advise is taken by the Goverments in their official documents, circulars, etc. It is not a living language but a pile of dead bodies of words, put together to sound officious only to be, more likely, misunderstood. On Indian railway platforms you read notices with words like ...
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