Love, Life and Happiness

Today is the day of Logic. A few days back, annoyed with the world which makes less and less of a sense as the time passes by, I put up a status on my Facebook account. Annoyed and angry and disappointed with failure of logic and my own insistence to stick logic to buffoonish face of the world, I wrote. I wrote, " It is most unfair to expect life to be fair. Life is not designed to be fair. Life is just designed to be. When you expect life to be fair, you are being unfair to yourself. You will weigh heavy with guilt or sense of failure. To search for justice in this world is a tiresome and futile exercise. Do not expect life to be fair and the world around to be just, but be just and fair anyway."   Prompt came the reply, from good friend Vinay, " There is no fixed point, its an experience. People work hard to look good and they do. Events like machines have processes. Like aesthetics, justice floats in our eyes. Problem is that we can't overcome the judgemen

She was a little five year old, as old as my own daughter. She had her father working on daily wages and did not change into pink pyjamas with Disney characters at night to snuggle into the protective arms of her father. He would come back late at the night with meagre vegetable which they would cook on the luckier days and then tired of back breaking work and backbone breaking hostile world around them, would go to sleep. She would sit on the side of the road and watch the cars pass by, throwing in the air poisonous smoke. She would watch the schools and kids her size walk in there, every morning in uniforms and waving back to their parents, who dropped them in their long cars. She would hear some sort of chants from outside the tall walls which guarded those schools and wonder what fairy world existed inside. Her father would tell her, one day she will go to that school. He would be worried and apprehensive on the days when there was no work and hold her tiny hand. She would feel

The human mind is an autocratic tool. It is driven by it's own fancies. It will let go of the most extra-ordinary events created with the most efforts, pass by uninterested, but will pick up like pearls among the pebbles, the seemingly most ordinary ones. It is really fun to look back at time and to assess and evaluate what your mind has decided to hold and keep and cherish. Those magical moments are more often than not, inexpensive, easier to attain. I recently drove off, annoyed by to stressful a schedule to the mountains with my wife and five year old. While a post has already been placed mentioning the tranquil beauty of Shimla and the Naldehra golf course, when today, a fortnight later I look at that trip, which did I carry back home with me? It isn't the mountains, the tall trees and the salubrious air. What I remember is the drive up to the mountain, and the Moon which chased us with all its benign beauty. As we rose from the plains and drove up, the night spread ac

No one, I repeat, no one writes about the agony of youth as honestly and as brilliantly as Somerset Maugham. It is not easy for a writer to resist falling into the traps of idealism, realism, some -ism or other, and obstinately and courageously decide to tell a story as it is. The Razor's Edge is one such brutally honest story, which touches your heart with the strength of simplicity. It does not ask you to stand on the toes to watch the horizons, it sits you down holding your hands and tells the story of a difficult youth, wretched but hopeful youth. The story spans almost the entire life of Philip, the club-footed protagonist, beginning from a melancholic childhood, following it through with a stubbornly, lonely youth till eventually he finds a resolution in the person of Sally. There is no melodrama, he narrates without any attempt to dramatize, or moralize. Maugham is a writer's writer and that shines through the simplicity with which he tells the story. There is

I pick up the cards Silently and cautiously I watch my hand. My glance glides Across the table Butterflies rise In the abdomen, My eye twitches But the face struggles To not to betray Any emotion. I stare at life On the other side Of the table Dealing the cards With the finesse Of a deft player. I pick the card With a swift stealth And a blank card Stares at me. Once again, Another evening I loose the game As life stands up With a winner's smirk, I hold my head Down In shame, And prepare For another defeat For another evening.

I used to walk Long distances every evening, Right across the horizon Where a tranquil lake Slept under the caressing skies And every night the moon Showered me with Benign white light, And the trees would Bathe in the moonlight As if snow has just fallen over them And cherish the love Which the skies have showered And in silence, We sat. Me and the lake, We talked many things And the night understood Which escaped The comprehension of the day. We drank The emotions and drenched Our souls, As the bitter sweet liquid Of words, of poetry Moved through the throat, With a burning sensation. And then Suddenly selfish sloth Crept through The grass and bit me on the toes, And in a slumber I fell, I slept for something Like a century, And when I woke up In drunk stupor, Middle aged, With broken glasses Of failed idealism, Around me, And the benevolent moon Turned its face away, Annoyed and disgusted. I rose Slowly, with silent submission As brittle

Starting late from Delhi, at close to Twelve, pressure mounted regarding when to reach the mountain. Quite unlikely to all other drives we had taken, this one had no plans, no bookings, no destination. Well, no destination in physical sense, only destination sought was the sense of closeness, a rekindled happiness in the shadow of excitement laden, mild uncertainty. The roads were smooth, welcoming and friendly, as the Sun, settled leisurely on the hammock of blue clouds. The skies were pregnant with the possibility of an impending rain, which showed in layered colours of oranges and blues. Love after years of marriage becomes like an old currency note lying at the corner of wallet, loosing the crispness and fearful of an eventual loss of value. It deems fit that the note be taken out and shown the divine light of sun through sudden outings as this. It is no wonder that in the Indian mythology a board game, claimed to be first in human history was created by Lord Shiva for his wife