Faith is a fickle co-passenger. Alternately, you are the fickle one and Faith chooses to abandon you because you lack conviction to walk the path with faith. 

Few things kill a relationship like conversations lost to the wind. I have been thinking about this for some time only because I have realized that always applying logic to the reason why people don't have stimulating conversations 'anymore' won't give you an answer. All it will give you is an excuse. The other thing which kills a relationship are excuses.

Though nothing kills a relationship like a 'wise ass'.

Now this wise ass prides himself not only at being a Practical as well as a Logical god's gift to the world heavily lacking in the aforementioned category of wise asses!

Its rather a combustive reaction when you catalyze the above with a fair dash of 'I know how things work in minds of 99 percent of the human and 72 percent of animal species'

So when things go south and the wise ass can't say much to protect that holier than thou are cause well basically his priced leg down his throat. How to make a conversation interesting? Well, don't think... After a while you really just talk without an agenda without attempting to do anything other than just doing the obvious.

Will he or Won't he?

So I am happy to say that I have started on to what I am going to call a training procedure worthy of a Rocky film. The only thing missing is the focus, the determination, the grit etc.

I am only relieved that I have started on my three point agenda.

So, I joined the weekly tutorial for that real big competitive exam! ( Yeah, like that's something new)

Now, will round it off with a work out ( makes me sound big and tough and hence I am using the term 'work out' and not saying will go to the gym!)

Haven't really taken a picture since the wee hours of 3rd April. But yeah...

Peace!

This Phase of my life is called 'STRUGGLE'

There is a Three fold attempt that I am going to try and make in my life.

1. Clear a competitive exam emphatically

2. Get fit, lose the paunch

3. Take good pictures.

While I am working...

Now, tough as it maybe for me, I would for once want to make an effort and be honest. I am going to do something I had thought I would never do, well what's new!

So, I am going to try and put down a sort of progress report each day for the next four months and see if it helps me achieving things I didn't think I could.

Let's see how this goes...

Losing my Mind!

What do you use to get you through bouts of panic? Should you give in? Should you act as if you are oblivious to it? Should you get all philosophical to deal with panic or should you get spiritual?
I am not even sure what 'Spiritual' means or 'meditation' for that matter. I only understand vaguely the difference between religion and spiritualism.
When I hear people say that they meditate to remain calm, focussed, in-control etcetera etcetera it makes me really curious about what is it that goes on in their minds when they are meditating. Are these people more in touch with their spirituality than I am? Or is everyone faking it.
What is fake? IS there really a difference between fake and authentic? What makes something real or unreal? What is the illusion which makes us believe in things as a 'TRUTH'?
Is there really a truth? Does the word mean anything but accepted propaganda? What is it that makes something an accepted way of existence but well rehearsed dramatisation of a well thought out game plan?
Aren't things just two sides of a coin. Each pointless in its existence without the other? Nothing exists as individual or exclusively. Probably why we as humans continuously aim to project an image of 'Assured Individualism'.
Is communication a bane or a boon? Did we complicate things too much because of 'thinking'? Are we in anyway better of than our cave dwelling ancestors?
What is happiness? I can't understand the concept of it. Same as I can't understand the idea of being peaceful or content.
Am I forsaken by illusions?
Am I schizophrenic? or delusional? or maybe bipolar?

An Ode

Silent Winter night in North India is very very still. Dead quiet. An Unfamiliar phone rings with crudely. I ignore it but the dread numbs my befuddled mind as I sank deeper into my quilt. I was half hoping that I had just made up the phone ring as the night grew cold and silent once more.
The second time the quiet night was shattered was a phone ringing which I couldn't have ignored even though my mind told me to do exactly that.This time my father picked up the call and as I was urging my mind to ignore the part of the conversation I could barely make out, My Father came to my room and told me why our night was shattered.
Can't say if I was sad, happy or heart broken... I can just say one thing, I couldn't cry. I won't. This isn't the time.

There is lots to be done... I don't know what but lots needs to be done...
She has left us, me...
I can't let despair choke me...
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There is not really much to say but I want to document this moment and its feelings. I have lost someone very pivotal in my life. Someone who can never be replaced. Someone who I never will have again. I can't even begin to express the sense of loss I am feeling in words but I believe this moment needs to be captured for posterity.

For as long as I can imagine this person has been an integral part of my life. I have been cared for, loved, fed and missed regardless of my returns.
Thinking back in time, I only recall the white hair, the spectacles and the saree.
She was always up at the crack of dawn and at my bedside, calling out my name with a warm glass of 'Bournvita which would be returned casually if the milk was either too hot or to cold depending on how much I wanted to sleep. Patiently the glass of milk was always reheated or cooled to temperature which fancied my whim. Before I decided to get out of bed and get ready for school.
She introduced me to countless things, the first few were the many walks we would take in Jalandhar, where she discovered 'Satsang' as I discovered my power to get things from her which I wouldn't get sanction for from my parents.
I became her sole supporter where 'Satsang' was concerned. I remember this one time which fortunately was etched in her memory too. Early one autumn morning, She decided to visit Beas, some hundred odd kilometers from where we lived, to meet her Guru. She always walked to Satsang in those times , come to think of it a good 3 kms, She had to leave in good time to catch a transport along with the others going for the same purpose. I suppose she was waiting for the dawn to break and needless to say was getting late by the minute and fidgety. She was scared of the stray dogs which lurked on the roads in the dark. I decided to accompany her and we barely made it in time to catch the overcrowded truck which would take the party to Beas and back by evening. I was jubilant and basked in the glory of this heroic act of support for many years. For a ten year old I was very excited to have done something brave. Made me feel so grown up.
She bought me countless GI joes all through my growing years. Initially, she would walk with me to the market and let me choose the toy I wanted to pick. While I selected the best G I joe she patiently stood behind and let me muck around while I made my choice. The last pair of GI joes were bought when I was 16 years. Those two are still with me. A lot more cherished than before.
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My father is a tough man, very emotional but tough. I have never seen him break down and his grief was etched on his face.

She has lived with my father for all of my 25 years. HE has been a good son, I had no idea how to be half as good in his time of grief. He was parentless and even though he is 55 years old, the ten days before this night broke into our sleep cruelly, I have seen in him a young boy filled with despair and helplessness, seeing someone so precious to him wither away.
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At 3.30 am, the fog mirrored our grief as it shrouded our car in a dense shroud. Driving blind, the three of us- my mother,my father and me- were all bent out awkwardly. Not knowing what was the right thing to say or do.
A day before when we had come to get her examined, she was quiet and distracted. Appalled at being carried down by me. The ambulance was the worst contraption ever and it hurt to see her so uncomfortable and so, so silent.
Carrying her was my pleasure but she has always been so independent that seeing her dependent for the smallest of activities was cruel and painful. Her illness had reduced her to half her size. I just wanted to know what was going on in her mind as she sat sleepless night after night. Each morning saying less and less. I can't get over the feeling that I didn't take her discomfort more seriously and considered it a by-product of weakness after an illness. The question that I failed her, illogically perhaps haunts me.
And the one thought which keeps coming back to me is that I didn't visit her enough, call her enough.

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She hated the winter. The right thing to say is that winter hated her. She couldn't stay away from the kitchen and she would wash everything- vegetables, utensils- so as to make everything absolutely clean and nourishing. Eating the countless lunches, the amount I cribbed and criticised what she cooked on rare occasions, as she was a fabulous cook, makes me feel thankless. She would always cajole me to eat the vegetable I refused to eat because it was green with a smell or the wrong shade of yellow.
She used to let me have a few sips from her extra sweet afternoon chai. I know I was the only one among my siblings who ever had this pleasure.
She would also give me the malai she would remove from the milk in afternoon with extra sugar.
She warmed my glass of evening milk in the tea leaves used by my parents to make their tea, so I could live out my whim of feeling older when I was waist high.
She made the most delicious 'Gujias' for me every holi in bitter winters. And large quantities, so I would never find them less- The more she made the more I found them less. I would never ever taste one as heavenly as those 'Gujias'...
She would put special chuka in my dal.
There are innumerable incidents which make me feel more special then I can tell... I doubt I did anything half as comforting for her as she did for me all my life.
She hated falling ill when I was home because she wouldn't be able to make for me all that I fancied.
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At 6 pm, a half dozen hours before we were rudely jostled from our deep sleep, we- my father and me- had gone to visit her in ICU. Eight hours earlier she had been put on the 'DI' List ( Dangerously Ill). My father seemed unperturbed at the news as apparently this was done as a procedure and didn't always mean the worst.
We saw her unconscious and half asleep, the Doctor had ruled out anything mental and instead told us that she had a brain infection and a powerful antibiotic had been administered. This seemed like progress, right? The illness was detected and medicine administered, soon she would be free from the shackles of the oxygen mask and the various painful drips pumping in her frail body the glucose she couldn't consume herself.
I am not sure what I was feeling at this point. Seeing her in a restive stupor indicated an improvement. She didn't respond to my father's touch nor to his voice, neither mine. I hope with every inch of me that she heard us. God would be very hard hearted if our words didn't reach her.
We left cheerful and informed everyone in the extended family that she was on the mend.
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Calling anyone at 3.30am is not a pleasant act and when you are relaying bad news its beyond horrible. What's the right thing to tell a son that his mother has passed away? What do you say? Is there a way to comfort family members when only a few hours back you have conveyed that all seems well?
I hated the sound of my voice and every word I uttered sounded hollow and unfeeling to me.

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Her body could only be collected after 10 am. Everyone would have arrived by then for the rituals. I was waiting in her room.

Staring at a pair of woolen socks she would have no need for anymore and a chair, a bed and clothes she would never have any need for. It all hit me then. It sucked my very breath. I would never see her covered with the many quilts. I would never see her smile at me as I enter her room to make random jokes. She would never call out to me to remind about something she had told me twice before. She would never call out to me and ask me to reduce the television volume.
What has left me inconsolable is the fact that she passed away in the dead of the night surrounded by strange people in a strange bed, in a room which wasn't hers, in clothes which wasn't her saree or her self knit sweaters. Without anyone holding her hand. Without her family for which she worked tirelessly. Wordlessly she left.
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I had mumps as a child and she played carrom board with me all day long. She let me win a lot.
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Her last wishes? She wanted her last rites to be of as small a duration as possible. She wanted her organs to be donated.
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Carrying out her lifeless body from the morgue, brought to my mind the last time I carried her down the stairs to take her to a hospital and how light she had become. Losing the soul makes a body rather heavy. Her body cold, all her warmth spent during her life on all those who mattered to her the most. Her body dressed in the Saree I had bought for her at Diwali, the first saree she hadn't even looked at when I gave her, it irritated her that I had bought her a new saree,"why do I need new saree?" She said irritably. Selfishly I turned away hurt.
While everyone grieved over their loss and I read a few pages of Gita for the peace of her soul, I realised how irrelevant this time spent with her body was and how little time I had spent with her to let her know that she was important, it disgusts me that I was so self involved all my life. Even my realisation now seems pathetic and churns my tummy with revulsion.
As her pyre dissolved her into wisps of twirling smoke and the heat of the pyre warmed me to the bone on the banks of river Ganga, I realised that she still had so much warmth in her.
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My Father's mother has passed away. My grand mother has gone. She left alone. No amount of tears will make up for all my mistakes and carelessness towards her... But I hope for an instant before she passed away she was happy knowing that she was loved and respected and would be missed.
Hope she 'Rests in Peace'

Contrary to popular belief screw ups really never have any saving grace. In my case, when I screw up things and even when it is by repetition of the same idiotic, I sometimes feel like I had no clue while the said screw up was in the process of its existence and my screw ups are always very very disastrous. I mean thank god I am not the president of US otherwise Bush would have gone down in the history as not so bad president.
I can't tell you how much I want to beat myself up and reduce me to pulp. I mean who repeats screw ups again and again when clearly they are not so cool in real life! I mean its like Sanjeev Nanda smacking his head after crushing people under his imported car.
I can't describe how completely damaging these stupid screw ups are... I wish I wasn't a screw up!