NavDharmyug

Notwithstanding the guilt-trading post which became viral on the valentine day, which yours truly was shamefully guilty of forwarding before being scolded to sense by some enlightened and better-informed soul, 23rd of March is the Martyr's Day of Bhagat Singh. Not that I am presuming for a moment that my lack of knowledge was representative of many in today's world, but the term Martyr's day has been used so loosely that it is rarely a surprise that the confusion hounds most of the citizens. In India, we do celebrate Martyr's Day on 5  occasions at the very least, depending on the ideology we follow and our allegiance to the political ideology.  Such abundance of symbolism has killed any thought which might justify the observation of Martyr's Day- any or all of them. The greatness of souls which died is not based on the fact that they are dead today. It is based on the greatness their soul ensconced, the thoughts and values that they stood by when alive, eve...

There's nothing international about the woman who taught a three year old alphabets at the doorsteps of a kitchen, handed rolled paratha on way to school.  There's northing international about the woman who held a young man's hand in a smouldering summer day and sat in a lonely prayer outside an ICU fourteen years back. There's nothing international about the woman who took a part of her being and handed me over the most amazing of her creation six years back. There's nothing international about the woman who struggles to keep her space in a hostile and competitive world and still try to teach alphabets to her child, at the kitchen door and hand her over the rolled paratha as she leaves for school.  There's nothing international about the woman who ties a thread to my arm every year, and looks at me as if I were a guardian and protector of her soul.  There's nothing international about the woman who reads what I write and sometimes, even loves ...

The mob is an outcome of fear. It feeds on fear and emanates fear. That is the basic anatomy of mob. It resembles a people rising, which is nothing but a pathetic attempt to cover an evil, selfish and feral rising. What differentiates the two is a distinguishing cause and a well-defined decency. People uprising is a chorus of empathising voices rising in a perfect harmony, while the mob is a cacophony of voices trying to outshout every dissenting voice. The line between an overwhelmingly beautiful note of music and the shrill noise is insanity if often very thin. The possibility and dread of falling to either side is always available to each mass of men (and women) coming together. The mob becomes an end to itself and threatens to muzzle those who do not agree. It no longer seeks to convince or convert. It demands slavish surrender of every voice of reason. It tries to crush you into supplicant subjugation. Unfortunately social media offers another platform of anonymity to people who a...

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...

Marta is a prolific writer and a noble soul whose acquaintance has blessed the writing of many a writers, including the yours truly. I, a moonlighting, conspiratorial writer, have often been inspired out of the non-creative phases by work of Ms. Moran. I know, people like Marta have some inherent catalytic features which can induce mere mortals to turn into creative intellectual powerhouses, if only they have a rare spark in them. I requested Marta to share her writing life which I am certain will induce many to write and also forewarn with the hard work which such a choice will impose on those who want to write believing it to be an easy profession. Writing is an art of hard work. It needs you to want to speak truth with such intensity and urgency that it far outbalances the chilling nights of loneliness. It isn't a fancy occupation, and not everyone gets multi-million dollar contracts, but still people go on writing. People, who...