NavDharmyug

I almost gave up writing for good seven to eight years. A period during which I wrote nothing but office mails and minutes of meetings and contracts and such things, dreary and dull, devoid of any beauty or romance. I would write in my mind, sentences getting written and erased in my mind. I quit smoking right at the turn of the century and the glamor of smoke forming poetry in the air to be scribbled with urgency was lost. So I did not write, until couple of years back a sense of loss, a scary thought of dying with all my thoughts faced me. Something told me I had it in me. It used to be fun. It used to be exceptionally fun  in good old, pre-computer days when I would write on a paper with my pen. I felt that I was living half my life, with a half a me, the half which carried the truer sense of me, stifled and locked inside me. I would be loud, obvious, and laugh with the crowd which obliterated and belittled the intensity of thought. I laughed with a voice which scar...

There was a time when I was a very young man, with idealism intact and big ideas to change the world. I was formally attempting to be an Engineer, trying to "use the knowledge of basic sciences for the good of the society" as it said on a plaque at my college, but I was not at peace with the world which I was supposed to contribute towards. It was a society, which was living with decaying laws, and did not have courage to embrace what was true and bright and honest. I was not a happy young man as they say, but I was rather a troubled soul with more questions than answers. I was sad, aghast and disgusted with the world and I knew it. A lot many things around me did not make sense, and I had a point of view, a defined opinion about those things which troubled me. Those were the things which were totally incongruous to my idea of a right world. The world which lived inside me was built around the ideas like love, trust, honour and truth. ...