NavDharmyug

The haste is killing all the beauty of life. We are wading through life barely living, huffing and puffing barely catching our breath. We are barely holding on to the breath, trying to hang on to a tired heart and a brain pummeled to pulp by pounding sense of constant urgency. The butterflies, the lovely butterflies which yearn to escape to the free, virgin airs of solitary mountain, struggle, caged in a rigid mind. The time is running out is a constant theme which pervades all my being. I read and write as if racing against the time which is fast running me out. I read with more of an urgency of a dying man than with the living curiosity of a new-born child (latter I so much long to have). We listen to music, on the commute, not to exceed even for a moment beyond the pre-assigned time. When was the last that we fit in our day’s work into art which spread across the day, luxurious, broad and glorious?   It is always the other way round, and we fit in art into the cracks....

To doubt, to debate, to negate, counter and argue is the greatest virtue of human mind. It is a pity that we have long since forgotten taking a position. Then, one might argue, why should one take a position- any position? Why do I have to side with any truth which I have not discovered myself.   The people are divided into large masses, a huge chunk of human sea, split by diverse conviction.   Social media which was invented as a platform to share one’s own convictions has long since been reduced to a virtual battleground. A converse opinion is responded with  a feral violence. I do not feel happy anymore about debates. They aren’t debates.   There can’t be any debate without decency. The world is fractured and it demands that I lean to one side or the other.   Why must I surrender my right to be an individual and join a group to seek strength in number? Why there are no debates which either converts my opponents or me? We are fast turning into a wor...

Death is such an easy thing to happen. At times, I feel, it isn’t death which is accidental; rather it is life, which is. It is strange not to have written about it. Death has been a consistent thought hovering over my mind like an ominous vampire clouding over a meek moon. While two of my stories, “ The Death of   A Soldier ” and “ Betrayed by Time ” dealt with death as a kneel over which they revolved; on my blog, I never have written about death. To think of it, it seems a rather strange   thing.   Not to have written about death. Any blog about life had to stray somewhere into the dark realms of death. It is rather coincidental that in last few months, I have read several books which dealt with death, the most recent being “ The Year of Magical Thinking ” by Joan Didion. The book traces a period of intense grief through which she survived post the death of her husband and her daughter. While reading it, I found it rather strange that having had so closely bee...