Skip to main content

A Life of Never-ending Thirst

Anger has become such a big part of my life. I do not know it has something to do with the loosely used term of city rage or is it something very peculiar to me. Somewhere, I want to be pampered, showered with the same love which I had always tried to search in the longing. I suppose the rage which was simmering all the while and came out as witty cynicism, now holds my conscious by its neck. It feels it stems from the failure not only in getting the love which I was longing for, but rather in the fact that the failure seems more certain with every passing day. The confidence which I had in my own being, in my own physical being seems to be fading away every passing day, a struggle which begins every dawn to arrest the decline, by digging my heels in the quicksand on which I stand, gives way to a heavy and melancholy sadness by the evening, which comes down as a dark cloud, heavy with pregnant storm within, floating downwards, before being hit with the finality of a dreadful lightening. Every afternoon as I struggle to keep the sense of dark patches floating across my vision, the sense of death, a closure of the curtain seems too close for comfort. Some watery patches with dark dots keep floating in front of eyes, as I struggle hard to keep up the pretense of normalcy. Sometime I feel I could still be better off if I could forget the past, the time when I was moving around in a yearning, which was so pronounced and still so poignent, and while eyes were set on a faraway future with a promise of great love, the love which was really true, beautiful and ethereal in nature was all around me. When eventually future became present, only then did I realise the love which I had left behind in the past.
I had patched up with life, some time back when life had stepped forward, cutting through the cynicism which offered a security,we entered into a bargain. When I look back, edging to the middle age, I could only say that life has not kept some part of that bargain. The annoyance and the vacant place in my being where the promise of a man once existed created such anger that keeps seeping through the sanity. When I entered into that bargain, I had relegated myself to the back and now I find how far back I had left my self. A big part of what I was has been left behind and now those for whom it was done in the first place, feel short-changed, a skewed balance of bargain which started elsewhere, step by step entered into every facet of life. A skeleton of the man moves around looking for a life left far behind, struggling to regain what was once his, what he once was, if not for anything else at least for the one who has not seen him when he was complete, even through raw and unfinished and solitary.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Why Teaching Kids Read Early Makes Sense?

Picture Courtesy- GettyImages I am an only child, though not a child anymore. My childhood went in search of friendships outside the home, and waiting for the evening to come by to immerse into those rare moments of camaraderie. Our days, the Pre-Appu childhood, was largely supervised by our parents. I do not much remember visiting my friend’s place in childhood. Much unlike my daughter and her friends who keep meeting up in their homes. My friends were kids of my father’s colleagues and we met when they met. Friendships were formed and finished in the children park.  The interspersed period of loneliness was filled up by books. It was from Comics to pocket-books to Geeta Press to even, Indian Classics like Ramayana and Mahabharata . They filled up my days of solitude with rare happiness. I was called introvert and adults left me alone. It was an arrangement which we both liked. There was no other arrangement in the view. For some reasons, parents those days did not appr...
2 comments
Read more

पुस्तक समीक्षा - मैं मुन्ना हूँ - लेखक - मनीष श्रीवास्तव

  जिस प्रकार वनस्पति घी डालडा होता है , जैसे प्रतिलिपि ज़ेरॉक्स होती है , मनीष श्रीवास्तव जी श्रीमान जी होते हैं। कम लोगों को पाठकों का इतना स्नेह प्राप्त होता है , जो उनके कृतित्व एवं लेखन से आगे निकल जाता है। इसका कारण उनके लेखन में   सत्य का प्रतिबिम्ब परिलक्षित होना होता है जो पाठक ने उनके व्यक्तित्व में देखा सुना हो। लेखन मेरी दृष्टि में वह माध्यम होता है जिसके द्वारा अपने सत्य को वह कपोल कल्पना का आवरण पहना कर सार्वजनिक कर देता है और आत्मा को एक पिशाच के बोझ से मुक्त कर पाता है। कलम के माध्यम से लेखक वह कहने का साहस जुटा पाता है जिसे अन्यथा वह संभवतः न कह पाए।जब कोई कृति यह कर पाती है तो वह न केवल लेखक की आत्मा के पिशाच हटाती है वरन पाठक की आत्मा के धागों पर लगी गिरहें भी खोल देती है और उसके मानस को मुक्त कर देती है।   इस दृष्टि से मनीष की यह पुस्तक " मैं मुन्ना हूँ " अपने दायित्व का पूर्णता से निर्वाह करती ...
Post a Comment
Read more

On the Eve of Formation of New Government

The long dance-duel of democracy has finally ended. The rulers and wanting-to-be-rulers have now decided to rest after a no-holds-barred battle is over. The unapologetic political parties and apologetic, righteous neutral commentators, jumping in and out of the discourse. In fact, the case for the commentators was the most curious, under the thinly wrapped veneer of neutrality and forward-thinking lurked the opportunity to shoot and scoot.   This was a campaign which made people see through the charade of intellectual bourgeoisie, who pretended to be neutral but treaded the thin line between the public and private. Thankfully, the campaign ended and hopefully we are left with few things still left to believe in.   Narendra Modi has a task cut out for him. Swearing-in happens tomorrow evening. My view he has things to do, new paths to tread.   He has invited the SAARC countries, all of them to attend. That to me is a good be...
Post a Comment
Read more