Love, Life and Happiness

The past has a bad habit of catching up with the present, more so, if its feet are stuck in the squalid grounds of failure. The burden of it bears heavy on the soul, which with loosing breath tries to soar to the sky of a future, in which liberation shines. Errors of past hangs around your neck like a noose, and you can't even find solace in justificationd and explanations, because they are not your doing. How can you justify your past, when all that needs justification is not your doing, but you somehow carry the forced sense of guilt, because you allowed the space to other people's wrong doings in your past. Even your position in the past against those acts, do not exonerate you.  To carry your own mistakes is not easy, and everyone's past is well sprinkled with them, carriying those of others is even more torturous. When future does not promise to bring in a sense of resolution, life becomes an endless struggle, with death as only refuge. when your present seems

Having taken the advice from some great bloggers in past few days, most influential of them being Bryan Allain, master blogger and blog-coach, whose "31 Days to Finding Blogging Mojo" I just finished. One key advise which I wanted to stick to was to write more and write regularly with a sense of predictabiloty.. That I wanted to, but at the same time I was also flooded with many other sane voices advising me many methods to improve on my writing. I read it somewhere that one good thing about writing as an occupation is that you can be working when doing nothing. So over the weekend, I did nothing, and was working in mind over what are the changes that I could bring about in the manner in which I blog, and in the nature of my blog itself. That work left little time to focus on what I should write for the week. Some changes of the blog, are sure to come in the coming week or so (may be including the name). A thought was lurking somewhere in the back of my mind, and I fina

We live in interesting time, to borrow a phrase from yesteryears, and to put it in today's context, very, very mildly. We, the confused humanity as a whole are standing at a historic diversion. The path that we take will define where we go from here. I am not a doomsday prophet and therefore am not predicting the end of human race, but I do feel that decisions we take today will definitely form the shape human race and human thought will take in the times to come. I am worried to the point of disgust when I look at the sad turn we took some twenty-five years back as the global sensitivity, tolerance and thought took steps on what I would consider, precipice of fanaticism and intolerance.   The fanatics, the unbending, unyielding intolerants without any intent and seemingly, capacity to debate with the counter-thought, occupied the space ceded by the liberals out of fear or sloth, with a sense of urgency. As a Salman Rushdie rushed to his small, corner in a fatwa-ridden world,  

Life for most people follows usual curve with minimal deviations. Even the most extraordinary of lives, beneath the amazing twist and turns, hides a sense of extreme ordinariness. This is what makes a memoir truly readable and inspirational at the same time. It makes one notice the true significance of the ordinary, like playing with your child, clinging on to your spouse, as you find great, extaordinary lives so hanging on to the common thread of humanity, even in the midst of all the chain of extra-ordinary events happening around them. Joseph Anton - Salman Rushdie Reading a memoir is always a pleasure, for it teaches you life from other people lives.The pleasure of memoir is even enhanced if it belongs to an author, not because it will bring to fore some secret chapters which no one is aware of as a spy-thriller, but rather because of the unique skill of articulation which will bring out the perspective which we are all aware of, but rarely conscious of, bringing to life the

We got married on 17th January, 2000, right on the turn of the century. That was good nine years after we had first met and five years after the hot afternoon of 16th of October, 1994, though way past the summer, in the Indian Coffee House in the dusty, sleepy city of Raipur, when you did speak of your feelings to me and all the chatter of the coffee house, went to a sudden silence, shocked at the audacity of the claim, which at that time seemed to have no future. I have no idea why it was so hot in October that year, but it was sweaty, and humid and scary. There were butterflies in the stomach, seemingly disproportionately big ones, and the breathing was suddenly very difficult. She could see that I needed not only a prompt but a prod, and her statement came as that, and I reverted holding on to all the strength that I had, supplemented by one more round of smoke, with mumbled word, with dexterity of a legal expert, careful not to get caught in making a loose statement. All that I