NavDharmyug

The year began with unsure steps. An unsure day steps in with an unsure Sun. I have not blogged since quite some time, though I wanted to. What I wanted to blog on was very commonplace and usual for the moment- the New year Resolutions. The exercise of New Year resolution made no sense for various reasons. For one, New Year in itself is an absurd concept. New year occurs as the Earth completes one revolution around the Sun. The idea of New year is hypothetical, to put it kindly and absurd, to put it bluntly. We are trying to invent to the starting point of a circle, what can be more stupid than that? But we still, in spite of foretold stupidity and absurdity of the idea, celebrate new year. We not only want a New year, methinks, we need New Year. It is the foothold on the slippery slopes of time which looks into the abyss of infinity. A time to pause, to think of what we have been doing wrong, correct it and to ponder over what we have been doing right and to throw all your ...

We grow up romanticizing a near-crazy image of creativity. I call it an image because it is nothing but that- an image, unreal, untrue, fantastical. No creativity can survive indiscipline. We grow up imagining writers to be people oblivious to any idea of discipline- eternal rebel, lost in their own world, not to be bothered about the world in which normal beings live. Unkempt in appearance, untidy in living and uncouth in behavior. That belief is absurd and is propagated largely by people who are either not writers themselves or have not had met the real writers.   Most art requires some basic training and that basic training brings in some amount of discipline, some pattern to their practice. Writing doesn't usually requires such training. Writing is all based on self-discipline. It doesn't require a specific training to be a writer, though I would tend to believe that trained writer can produce quality work with much ease than untrained ones. If you can speak, have s...

Winters are now getting cold, and cruel. As the thermometer slides, my girth expands. Chill has descended, however, it is not yet so bad in the warmth of the bed. My last visit to the gym has been such long time back that even the memories seem to be fading. Starting today, Nonu's school bus time has changed from Seven-fifty in the morning to Eight-twenty. By this time, however, mesmerised by lovely winter mornings, she has already lost almost half the month of classes. I am worried and concerned. My missed visits to the gym is compensated by weekend jog of close to three or four kilometres in the neighbourhood park. But then, as my growing girth would tell me, that is the game an intelligent man's intellect plays with him, making a complete idiot out of him. Thus, the weight swindles back to the glorious old days, trousers reach their designated location on the abdomen with a struggle of strong will. Fortunately for me, till today it has held back. The cruel whisper is howev...