NavDharmyug

Eye of The Tiger I have been athletic but never sports oriented in my life. In between, I had faced my own sins of youth, arrogant decadence of all ills of youth- smoking, drinking, an incandescent  conscience and an unyielding spine,  aggravated further by constant strife between my refusal of all social judgments and an insistence by the world around me to judge me, nevertheless. It hit me, hit me hard. I went down with a feeling that I will never come back again. I remember those bleak days, fourteen years back, when every step taken would be precarious ringing with a hissing fear of death in its sound. I was hit by affairs of the heart, and with that I am not referring to my courtship which culminated with a marriage resulting in excommunication by the society and family. It was odd feeling. It was  unexpectedly  expected. I was told that was to happen, but being an only son, believed that warning from the parents to be hollow. Boy, solid it was, they ...

The weather is still full of caprices and undecided on which way to go. The Sun is still brutal and unyielding, clouds are inconclusive. Such weather is perfect for brooding and pessimism. A weather like that diminishes the good, happy feeling and pronounces the pain which is consistent with sad, humid contours of a rainless day.  It has been three years for a health-check which ought to have been annual. In the middle of this overwhelming, at times, unreasonably annoying days, I sat thinking couple of days back. I thought of my now near-regular 5-miles run, irregular diet and my general health, or rather not knowing the real state of it.  For some reason, my mind kept on pulling to the absurd optimism in an impossible immortality and to the fact, that I could be dying in the middle of the unreasonable hope. I knew, a detailed peek into the functioning of my body was well needed, as I also knew, I waited stupidly for someone to drag me out of my slothful stupor to a hospital. ...

I stepped into the dreaded zone of diabetes, close to one year back. That placed a seal of educated declaration on what I always believed in - that is, I am a basically, a sweet person. It was heavy and dreadful with research on the internet and scary taglines screaming - silent killer.   The struggle began with some medicine and then some gym. Eventually, as with everything else the dread faded away and so did the exercise. Lack of time, irregular work hours, travel, moodiness- I was having a quiver full of arrows in terms of excuses. Eventually, slowly and slowly I drifted in to danger zone. Then almost on a whim, I went out and bought out an expensive pair of shoes. I began running. No gyms, no machines, out in the wild. It was a different world. The initial pain slowly became fun. It was my way of testing myself and surprising myself. The great thing about running is that it suited my temperament. It is a solitary exercise. You do not need a trainer to make a run, t...

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...