Going to California

Today morning, I woke up early.

Plugged in the speaker and Robert Plant was Going to California.

So I took out my guitar and pretended I knew what Jimmy Page was doing. Such are the times that a few minutes of peace and joy are precious. Such are the times, you realize more and more that this won't last forever. So the best way to live a good life, you realize, is to have fun while it lasts. Which is just about now. 

And not as a spectator but by becoming the guitar. Becoming Jimmy Page, even if all you can do is close your eyes and listen. But no, if you even pretend like you can touch Robert Plant, you are pushing it.

Anyways, today, we have brought home our new child. New beginnings, again. And so, you have fun along the way. because you know..

Don't ever let them tell you that they are all (all, all) the same!

Good old days, you know (March 2024)

You know, I still remember the days when I did not bother about saving contacts on my phone by tagging them into relation, function and location. I saved my best friends with their nicknames. Some still stay that way. Those were the good old days. 

I remember a time when I used to get excited about festivals, for all they meant. Now even my kids can't be bothered. They'd rather watch something. 

These days, a lot of the charm is gone. Or so it seems to this bald grey head anyways.

But you know, there are still always some sweet spots. Of course the temptations changed. And what we expect of them. But hey, there is still some sweets I really consider a treat. And still a few spirits I consider sweet. 

Some things though, they leave a regret and some, nostalgia. Very few, anticipation. But still, much more than I'd consider myself deserving. 

Anyways, we can get into all that over the next one, yeah?

Signs of Redemption

Today, I found two guitar picks on the bed within two minutes. 

These were guitar picks that I, sort of, lost a couple of days back. Kids were around. You know. So.. 

Today, In fact, just now, I found them. Two of them. I don't know exactly how many were supposed to be there. But I know that I have found two within, like, two minutes.

If you don't understand what that means, we don't even know each other. I am sorry but no. 

A writers dream

That is me. An addict of a reader. 

I love stories. I'd give my right arm for a good one. 

The more far fetched, the better. 

Cliches are alright, if they work.

I will give up my day job if you give me a good one. 

I may abdicate a lot more if I find another Kingkiller! 

Don't press me, you had me at Sci-fi. 

And no more heroes please, a good villain is the good form. 

I can't write a decent story to save my life. 

Trust me I tried. Well and deep I tried. 

I don't have the vocabulary, you know. 

Maybe it is creativity too. 

But fuck it. I will say it. Laziness. 

But sign me up to be a sucker for your brand new expirement. 

Yessir, ready to dig in. 

I will give up me life, aye.

Pour it into your imagination. 

I will give my life up. 

So I can live the one you built up for me! 

Art is dying

This happened. For real.

I wrote down my daily meditation and fed it to "you know who" 

Asked it to "make it better." It did. 

Ok. I know it does this. It has enough grammar and patience to make it better. That is what good assistants do. No harm done. Very useful these "digital tools". 

Then I had to, for fuck's sake really, ask it to "write a poem about it". 

Worst mistake of my life. Because not only did it do it. It wrote something I would never have. So good that it was not just a matter of time and editing and "contemplating" with a beer in my hand, that I would come up with something so good. No. This shit was out of my league. I mean, I know I haven't won awards. But that fact always had a feeling of "..yet". You have to take my word for it. I am decent you know, and I know when something is real good. 

This. Was. Good. 

It was so good that I won't post it here. It was so good that I copied it into my journal anyways. It was so good that it is threatening to de-motivate me from writing poems. As if that is required, to be fair. 

But it is not fun. Because if my son turns out to be as lazy as me - he has all the signs - he won't bother going to the trouble of getting his heart broken by a silly girl so that he could write a tragic poem about it. He will ask the godamn "you know who" to, please, write a "unique poem" about "a broken heart" so that he can post it to insta with a sunset background or whatever. 

And it will. Which is crazy and scary. It will, and it will be so unique that there is no way any human can come up with something so unique. It will be beautiful also, trust me. And my son won't write something so good if he has a thousand years to romance a hundred girls and lose them all. No - he will be lucky to get a grammatically correct email out until after he turns 34.

Art will be dead. Maybe not with me - I still know its value. But surely my son and my niece won't. Or their sons. Or theirs. I only wish they all do, if that is all they ever do. 

All those who wander...

All those who wander are not lost

those who wander have their reasons

All those who blunder need not cry

there is still time before they die

All that is dark is not so bad

it is the birthplace of strength and resolution

All that is lonely is not so sad

there are those among us who are still glad

You may have been born in winter

darkness may have been your home so far

There is a heart yet that was born in that cold

but it needs to be roused awake and not just told

.............

See. I can still write. And rhyme as well. At least partly. At least badly.

When you sit to write once every six months, this is what happens. The act of writing itself becomes the subject matter.

For example, I did not generate the above stanzas with ChatGPT. It would have produced something of far better quality and that’s how you know. Exactly then, why do we write when it can do it for us? 

Qs: What exactly is there to write about? Poetry? About emotions? About fictional stories? Real ones? What's the point really? What are we going to write here that is unique enough compared to all that has already been written, that it is still worth writing about? And we need not even start down the set of questions starting with “Why..”

Which is why I do not write enough these days. At least that is the first bump as I get started on this road. It is only a bump, as you are well aware with all your wisdom. But it is enough of a bump and the road looks to be sloping down from here on and my bike is not good enough to handle the curves. There are dead ends which need good brakes and there are ditches which need to be avoided. And there needs to be an excellent destination to arrive at, and beautiful scenery along the way to make the whole effort worthwhile. My bike is not good enough to do all that. At least, it hasn’t been tested enough. In other words, I am not a good enough writer. 

And guess what, I have too many things to do to bother with improving the bike by the means of training and testing it. In other words, I am lazy.

Well, I stop at the first bump. I have enough reasons to. And there are sinister impulses deep in my psyche that I won’t ever give voice to, but they find these reasons - these questions - very good to hide behind. They get to do more fun things when they can steal time and energy from other tasks. Fun things like being lazy. Or other even more fun things like consuming - not just food and drinks.

You see, producing is hard. Producing something worth sharing or beholding is really hard. But consuming - that is so easy. Easy enough to do it all the time. Abundant enough to be able to keep doing it for eternity.

A thousand anyways' and whatevers later, another draft of pointless paragraphs lies herein that won’t be worked towards anything worth publishing. Another “post” that will remain unfinished and forgotten in this dark folder full of unfinished and forgotten posts. This folder is slowly becoming forbidden too, as its dominant smell slowly turns into guilt rather than potential. It should not be allowed to. 

One would think I’d be foolish if I allowed it to degrade to that degree. Only time will tell, and the answer probably lies in how long it takes for it to tell.

Spare me a cigarette

Spare me a cigarette, I've come a long way

A trail of sins and lies, floating in my wake 

A shining land, it swayed me away

I did come here, anyhow anyways

Circles on circles, I've seen them play 

Circles on circles, I've left them there

Once failed to fire, I've cried in pain

I moaned for me heart, all the way here

I've seen them play, with fire and tears 

I left them there, I bring no cheers

My fate is sealed, it is loud and clear 

Just the shadows remain, of the loved ones so dear

Circles on circles, lovers and friends they say

They'd be twirling, in the shadows we made 

Spare me a cigarette, I can't find my way

There lies the path, but here I stay

Circles on circles, when shadows remain

The shadow, it remains..

............................................................. 

Inspiration: "Circles on circles" - Caspian

............................................................. 

You've earned it

I don't have much to write these days because all that I have to say has already been said by Alan Watts decades back, goddamit. If only he did not exist! I would have had so much original stuff to talk about and then bask in the light of my wisdom properly appreciated. Nevermind that any worthwhile thing I have to say, I have learnt from him goddamit.

In fact let me set the record straight for all the non-believers you. I write regularly. A lot indeed. Of course most of it is too filthy to be published. Or even written down in good detail indeed. Some of the wiser stuff is too wise to put into words. And much of it is simply beyond the understanding of lay readers like yourself, let's be honest here. So I don't even bother writing it down. My time is precious if you don't mind. 

Nevertheless, here is an important thing. If you are doing something bad or filthy or utterly disgusting. If it is so bad that you don't even dare recognise the fact that you enjoy it more than anything else. If it sets your beats going. If it gives you goosebumps just thinking of how improper it is. Then, my advice is to you is to do it properly. Enjoy it totally. As if you have earned it. As if it's your destiny, that filthy thing that you do. As if no that's no one else's fucking business, goddammit. 

Of course you can keep it as private as you like. I know I do. Dont even let your closest persons know. Because you have the right to keep somethings private even if you haven't earned that right ever, in your humble opinion. Because you've earned it by birth.

But then, don't insult your Darkside by feeling guilty about it or lying to yourself about how you will quit it and won't look back. Maybe you will. Maybe this is the very last time. But then, give this last time the respect it deserves. Enjoy it properly. As if you've earned it. 

And Alan Watts would say the same thing, only a bit more elegantly.

And lets not fuck around, this isn't the last time you will enjoy it. Not even the next time. Or the one after that! 

The Mandawa Score

If this write up looks vague, it is by design. If, by chance, there are any specifics, that is just an error at best or your imagination at worst. 

Mandawa is a heritage village in Rajastan, some six hours from Jaipur and near a very average town called Jhunjhunu. Which is just as well because Jhunjhunu is the reason I visited Mandawa, with one of my friends hailing from the place. I say 'friends' loosely. He was my junior in a previous job. I taught him all the best moves of the game so that he is now so much better off. The ungrateful bastard never properly thanked me. But he did invite me to this wedding, so I graciously forgive. 

He got married in a heritage resort in Mandawa. If you take erotic drawings of couples in compromising positions - and truthful portraits wholesome women in very little clothes - on almost every wall in the old village to be heritage, that is. 

The marriage itself was done rich, though my friend is anything but rich by character. Money is enough these days. So I ended up in this "concept" wedding and a very amusing couple of days were experienced by all. Except the dads of both the bride and groom I suppose. 

I mean, if you spend a fucking fortune on a marriage which has no guarantee of lasting more than a Godrej refrigerator, only to see drunkards and rowdies dance in boxers through the whole fucking nights of debauchery, thanks to your hospitality, you'd see how they must have regretted being so filthy rich.

Anyways, the resort was a KM off the village proper and on one of those days, I visited the village itself. I got a tag along on the way to the village. A boring friend of our bride groom. All of his friends were boring to be fair. Except me of course, and a couple of stoners who were there for the amusement part of the marriage, like me. The rest of the marriage party is nothing to talk about really. 

Anyways, this guy came drove me to the village in his car, and not finding anything that would interest him, turned back. I on the other hand, had shoes to buy, beers to drink and Havelis to explore. I had almost given up on Havelis and settled down with a beer on one of the Heritage roof top cafes at the end of a twisty lane when a this Guy showed up. I recognised him at first glance. I think too he knew that someone like me was in the area, just by scent. Because he somehow showed up just when I was thinking of asking around. He was skinny with bent teeth and not looking trustworthy at first glance. But then again, I've trusted a lot worse before and I am still alive. I think I have an instinct about these things. Hard earned. 

He was a guide of course. Among other things. 

He showed me the Havelis and the Art. I didn't know that the middle ages were full of perverts in this part of the country. While the rest of the world was probably starving to death or or simply being eradicated by some pandemic, these guys were too fucking rich to bother. Rich AND Fucking to be very clear. So they paid crazy money to have painters with wild imaginations unleash their fantasies onto the walls of their Havelis in form of colorful and beautiful - extremely beautiful - fornications. Among other things of course. But some things cannot be unseen.

This guide showed me those things. I am still healing in my psyche from the damage done to my sensitivities that afternoon. He doped me into buying some decorative Heritage stuff at ransom prices. But as I quipped in my botched up Hindi later to my new found stoner friends at the marriage, "if he doesn't loot me, how the fuck will HE make a living?"

More over, he did give me the promised gift. And no robbery too. It was worth the pain and the price.

He 'guided' me into a secluded gully towards the end of our walk. Something about 'two women making love to an elephant' being the charming words. A ragged guy caught up to us and greeted my guide then. He seemed used to running around these lanes a lot.

Hushed haggling. Increase in quantity and price. A quick handover. Some tip for the runner as well, and we were on the way to the rooftop. Just like that. A crucial couple of minutes. A clinical finish, like that of Messi in the Semi Finals of Champions League. Sign me up for such an efficient operation any week of the month. 

Add a fancy pipe for good form. Which, by the way, an old guy sells on the main street,  probably a satire on the whole situation. What did the law and order think of clay pipes made for just one obvious purpose being sold openly? But then, these guys were weird enough that even this absurdity was not out of place in this village here. I mean, just look at their fucking walls. 

Anyways, a chicken dinner (Figuratively. Marwadis eat only vegetables and other people), and something to brag about later in the evening. Afterall, not everyone can go to Mandawa and do as they damn please in broad day light. Not even if you are getting married rich. Not even if you are the dad!

Providence

Long story short, I ended up in Haridwar with excitement in my heart and heavy luggage on my back one early morning. It was December and it was Uttarakhand - this could be quite a weather shock for someone like me, used to the tropical South-Indian climate. But I was not to be deterred, I came prepared for the weather. What I was not prepared for, however, was the lazy and negligent attitude I carry during my leisure trips, especially when going solo. I usually account for my shortcomings on such occasions and so have extra checks in mind to avoid disaster. But this time - I really messed up. 

After taking a half-an-hour auto ride from Haridwar to Rishikesh, I got on a sharing jeep at Rishikesh immediately to reach my planned campsite, which is around twenty kilometres north of the temple town. As soon as I got out of this jeep on a twisty road in the jungle, near my campsite as per Maps, I realized that I did not have my smaller travel bag on me. This bag was important because it had cigarettes and, among other things, my office laptop.

The jeep had already raced away long before I realized my loss, lost in the twisting ghat roads of Uttarakhand, God-knows heading where to. Thinking of finding help in this place seemed more of a joke than hope. After a few minutes of panicking and swearing my heart out, I realized two things. One, I still had my phone and wallet with me, so I can survive. Two, there was a chance I can still catch up with the jeep if I can somehow find another ride in its direction. Because if I could not trace that laptop back, I might as well call my manager and quit right now.

What happened next feels like a planned sketch on hindsight. But I’d like to call it providence. A kind man stopped his jeep almost immediately and I convinced him of my situation so that he hesitatingly let me in and agreed to help me track the jeep. As we started on the road, I earned his sympathies through, among other things, the promise of a good breakfast and more rewards, in vague terms, if we were successful. He was a mountain guy named Suresh, or Kumar - definitely one of the two, hailing from a small mountain village north of Dev Prayag and was kind enough to give me some of his Beedis to fight off the chill.

Now, the dire situation I found myself in - more like dug myself into - was there to be dealt with, but let me dwell on this bliss that was this jeep ride just for a moment here.

I was sitting on the front seat beside Sunil, smoking those Beedis like a chimney to fend off the cold. And this was my first morning in the mountains after ages. They’ve been calling for some time now and I finally arrived. No lost bag can stop me from enjoying the views of these beautiful twisting roads among green and brown mountains, leading to heaven itself through the foggy morning. I welcomed the chilly breeze with open arms even if it felt like I was going to freeze (I had four layers of clothing on, but still). The Ganges on the right in a narrow valley was not visible, but I knew it was there from its sloshing sounds as it headed the opposite way towards the holy Shiva temples down south. I was in the Himalayas after long last and this moment right here was magic. The context of the ride itself was just background music in my mind and I wished that I could afford to ignore it.

I did bring myself back from my trance often to ponder on the situation during that ride. Had to, obviously. I think what kept me from losing my mind completely was the experience of being in such fucked-up situations before, and I am still alive, am I not? Want to know what been-there-done-that looks like? Look at my face as I was figuring out how to survive this. I was uncomfortable in the cold, a storm of pain waiting to unleash unless I got this bag back (not the least from my family back home), which was very unlikely and my original camping plan is probably ruined for good. But I also had a foolish smile on my lips because, deep down, I was swaying with bliss in this heavenly atmosphere. But I tried to conceal my joy from Sunil just so he takes me seriously enough. And I never smoked anything as spirited as those simple Beedis of his – just wow.

Anyways, we figured that the missing jeep was likely headed to Dev Prayag, then onto Rudra Prayag, or somewhere along that route towards the snow-mountains of the Kedarnath-Badrinath range. Que an hour-long ride with me trying to recollect the details of that jeep, scanning the ghat road ahead and talking to as many jeeps parked on that road as was possible.

After a lot of time with no success, or even clues, we were ready to take a breakfast break. At this point, I had given up on tracing my bag and sort of prepared myself to face the music. So, you can imagine my face when the sharing-jeep that I was searching for had also stopped at the same Dhaba for breakfast - broken glass on the driver’s side was the perfect clue. But when I looked - I felt like someone punched me in the face - my bag wasn’t there in that jeep. Despair.

After talking to the people from the jeep, I realized that I have likely lost it before I even got onto this ride somewhere back in Rishikesh or Haridwar, sixty kilometres down-south, right where I came from. So, credit to my amazing memory, I had managed to enjoy the whole journey from Rishikesh to that camping site earlier in the morning, a whole hour without a clue that I was missing crucial luggage. It slowly dawned on me (while enjoying an amazing paratha at this Dhaba), that I lost my bag on the sharing auto that I took from Haridwar to Rishikesh. Probably.

After saying goodbye to Sunil, who was very sensitive given my comical botch-up, I got onto a bus that went back to Rishikesh. As I was thinking about how this puzzle was deepening and as I tried to prime my Mr Holmes' instincts to crack this one, an amazing insight caught me by the neck and basically said “you may still redeem yourself, after all, you fucking idiot, and genius”. 

The auto in which I seemed to have lost my bag probably bore the number 2020. How do I remember? someone had specifically mentioned it to me as I was asking for directions at the bus stop in Haridwar “go to that auto number 2020”. Like, if it was some fucking 6532 or something, no chance it would have registered. As I said, providence.

Anyways, after another couple of such positive omens, my crazy detective instincts, and with help of some kind auto-drivers, I did trace my bag. The driver of the 2020 auto was kind enough to deposit it at the Union in Rishikesh, everything inside untouched including the fucking-laptop.

On looking back - and tell me if this whole thing is not reminiscent of the Alchemist story in any way, ok? - if Sunil and I were not able to trace back that sharing jeep en route to Dev Prayag - with help of lots of Beedis - earlier, I would have simply assumed that the bag was lost in the sharing jeep and given up. I would have probably travelled further north hoping to trace it there, but since it was halting at that specific Dhaba (with its amazing parathas) I would have likely missed it. And with that, I may never have realized that there was this auto called 2020 on which I had forgotten my bag.

So, stopping at that same Dhaba for our breakfast was pure awesome luck. I mean, we were talking of stopping at three other Dhaba’s before this place for breakfast, and we simply did not for God-only-knows-what reason. Just randomness you’d think. But I’ve found that this happens to me every so often - I dig myself into a deep pit and then find some unlikely way to get out. 

So, 2020 came back in December of 2021, to help me move into 2022 with a semblance of grace. Well, at least the number 2020 did. But the whole experience had a greater meaning. Over the journey on the slopes of Rishikesh-Dev Prayag in the quest for that sharing jeep, I realized that I was not really afraid of losing that laptop or my job. Any job, for that matter. In fact, there was this sense of relief that it was somehow decided for me. I carry that over into 2022 and beyond.

As it turned out, an old mountain lady at Deoria Tal asked for that bag a few days later on this same trip and I gave it away. It was a special bag – made of jute with shaded blue and red colours, with ropes for straps. More than a few people asked me where I had got it. “In Kasol”, I’d reply with a smile. And man did it save my ass on more than one occasion. But then, its time had come to move on and help an old woman with her chores.

I am giving up on my career too, by the way. It’s time too has come to move on and help, well, whoever needs a career, I guess. Losing that bag decided it for me. Or maybe it was the journey en route Dev Prayag with Sunil. Or Kumar.

On that day, actually tracing that bag back had set off something in my mind. A belief in some sort of providence. Or maybe, the providence was, after all, my carelessness in losing it in the first place.

Swamy, or how to prove yourself an utter failure

We had a dog and I called it Swamy

We had it only for a week but I still had to fucking name it

It was not well, or I would've still had it 

This is the fourth time I am trying to say it

We had a dog and I called it Swamy 

I tried hard but just couldn't tame it

It was a stray and I was a layman

In the end we were both tired of each other 

We tried to pet and care for it

I tried to get my son used to it

I tried to hold on as long as I can but

In the end it became too much of a bother 

I had to let go of it

I abandoned it and I am now a meme

I left it on a street full of wild beasts

I tried but couldn't even cry back then

I still remember the day when I betrayed 

I started my car while my dog was still playing 

I wish my kid doesn't remember 

How his dad once behaved like a coward

We had a dog and I called it Swamy

One day at night I sat down on my bed and started crying

Knew I had killed a part of me

I wish that was the worst of me

At the Tal

There is Sulochana Devi at Deoria Tal. 

A mountain woman. Never travelled south. Never knew what it is to be a city woman.

All she cares about is her family and her god. 

When she asks me for my travel bag, all she thinks about is how useful it would be for her. It is a useful bag afterall. 

What does she know of all that this bag has been through with me. Maybe just give her some money to help out. This bag, I should keep. 

This bag has been my only companion on treks that never ended.

It hung around in places I had no business being. 

This bag has carried stuff I would've died without.

A bag is not just a bag. It is everything that it has been made with. Everyone who touched it, and everyone else.

I may end up buying a new one, just as cute or ever better. But it will not be like this one.

Not sure if anything can really replace this. 

But this one - I should give up. 

Talk Big

When you talk, talk about the big things. Or don't talk at all

When you talk, talk about ideas, not events
When you talk about events, talk about the very best
And at any rate, keep the people out

If at all you should talk, talk silly
Like how everything is beautiful, with a capital B
Like how a child's laughter fills a room
Like why you still look back on that dark day
Or why a certain shady hotel is memorable
Maybe somethings louder than others, you know

If you want to make a moment count, talk about the beautiful stuff
Like sunsets and candle light dinners
Holiday plans for the next few years
Bucket lists long forgotten
The latest sensation in Indie rock
Or why Blackwater Park is the best Opeth song
Or why Blackwater Park is the best song, ever
talk poetry man
Damn, write poetry

If you really want to talk, right,
Talk about the ideas you care about
How a certain way of looking at reality makes it almost bearable
How existentialism is all good, but it only asks a good question afterall
That the answer is there but you are not there yet
And god forbid you actually find what you are seeking deep, deep, down

But fuck my hypocrisy, talk whatever man
Talk about reality shows, If you have a fool to take it
Talk like a man of gold, if you can fake it
Talk whatever man, just not to me

If you want to pass time, talk events
But make sure you twist them enough
Make memory more dramatic, dreams more realistic, and women more beautiful, always
Definitely have an affair gone bad
Mountains make for good stories too, especially if you almost killed yourself climbing one

So you know, so much to talk about
If that's really what you want to do
But gods, please keep the people to a minimum

Some Evenings

Some evenings are made to smoke a cigarette and think in
Some evenings, to work away
Some evenings are to watch a good film
Some evenings, like this one, are made to drown in

So I drown in this one, cos' it seems like the perfect one
I will drown in this one and I won’t care where I will resurface
I will resurface somewhere my future meets my fate
I will resurface where fate seems to interest me again

But I promise, I won’t judge fate when it shows up
I only ask that it show up with a twinkle in an eye
Something worth a background score
I won’t ask for too much, just not another bore

Some evenings, I feel like I’ve grown too old
I wrap up between the sheets, to rest my bones
I sometimes lie awake, thinking of old times
I sometimes sleep like a baby, assured of times to come

Some evenings, I am just happy with what I have
I smile and dance at the fortune that I am
I don’t bother sleeping, I don't even yawn
I stay up late, dancing to the dawn

And what about the times whiled away on Goan beaches
Crying to sunsets and trying to save small fish
These fish, they escaped too late
So they struggle on the sands, waiting for redemption or death

It feels like there is a part of me in them
Afraid that this is already it
Yet there is hope and I seek it
Dreams so big, I can't even speak it

Anyways, I drift around these evenings
Living in the moment is a cheap thrill it seems
There are achievements still to come by
More important things, did pass by

The Same?

Someone said after looking at an old FB post, "The fucker looks the same as five years back"

Of course, that's the advantage of setting up a low bar. No hair to shed and not much weight to lose.
I still prefer black tees nor is the expression on my face in need of changing. The same equanimous smile year after year. Despite all that happened over the years and decades. Equanimous? Indifferent?  Whatever.

The point remains - in many ways, it's more of the same the more it changes. Life is just not the same from years back. Priorities changed. People changed. Experiences changed and places changed. Maybe not the places - I still haven't relocated to the South Goan beaches, there is time for that yet. Damn but, what has really changed? Fundamentally?

There were people who'd light up my face with a silly expression a decade back. I used to think losing them would be a tragedy. Turns out, not really. Call me an asshole but losing people doesn't hurt, not as much as people make out. The trick is to listen to a lot of Alan Watts.

That FB pic has such a crazy-fuck back story, that even I am surprised at how little an impact the whole episode had on me. It is but a small glitch in the matrix of a very secured life so far, despite all the drama that I may portray.

And new people have taken up old places to fill in the voids with better than expected outcomes. not to brag but I am too chilled out to take the changes too seriously, not when there isn't much lost on the balance. You may call me selfish but I will call out your hypocrisy and we will end up with another argument with unsatisfactory conclusions. Not worth it. So we will just say I am awesome for moving on swiftly.

Flowing like water, eh.

Our Time Will Come

Our time will come in a few days
Or maybe after ten years
But our time, it will come, have no fears

We will grow and we will glow
Life will be ours for the taking
and Life, it will be ours for the living

Maybe that day is today, but maybe not
Today is perhaps for mourning
To remember the lost, and for crying

Maybe today is for nostalgia
Bright days and darker nights
Times, lost even to memories, of so much life and brighter lights

Perhaps it is for sorrow
For those who lived their last
And for those who still, with regrets, last

For those who are left behind
Beyond the bridges burnt out of spites
Or just for the wrongs or rights

Because nothing lasts forever nor do no-one
But they leave behind their prints and their traces
of light worth more than the candles burnt, of their smiles and their graces

Traces sticking like dry greases onto our shirts and trousers
Not relevant anymore, yet a missing piece in the core
An unused guitar with a string broken, a sorry never really told

For all that, there is still the present moment to live out
Too noisy to call it heaven, too rich for hell
It defies names, because there is story yet to tell

And the future needs to be looked forward to, too
So gather your hopes for the rough journey
To fight the darkness within with purpose and glory

Purpose is a stupid concept, yet has its uses too
Like stories need to be told, because they have their uses too
And so time has a purpose too, to come when it chooses to

Life can have a purpose too, for what that's worth
But better to have some fun while at it I'd say
Better make those memories worth some tears at the end of the day

Hampi Diary - Dec 2020

There are these seeds. They've been bad for me before, but why not give it another try? The three Bangalore guys I met here yesterday promise me it will be one hour of pure hell, meaning nausea emanating from the knots in your guts. These seeds are not meant it be in your stomach afterall. 

But, and it's a pretty big but, they say that hell is definitely worth the trip you will ride for the next several hours. And just like that, I am sold. Afterall, I am all about taking calculated risks and won't miss out on a good looking strike, especially now that I have willing partners for the crime.

        This trip to Sanapur village, near Hampi, is seven days through now. It will last another five days. I am travelling solo, As I do on many of my trips. It isn't always by choice but it is this time. What with all that went on the last year or so, and not just the pandemic either, this tour was definitely in the coming.

There are two dimensions to Hampi. What you mean by a trip to Hampi can mean totally different things depending on which side of the Tungabhadra river you are talking about. A saying goes "Thunga pana Ganga snana" which either means one should drink the water of river Thunga and take bath in river Ganga, or that drinking Thunga's water is as good as taking bath in the Ganga. Well whatever, I definitely drank enough of that water to cover both interpretations.

Anyways, the great river flows from East to West and the main Hampi, which has the world famous heritage sites and the holy Virupaksha Temple, is on the Southern bank. The old temples and ruins are a thing of beauty obviously so check it all out. There are lots of resources online to read about the history and legend of these ruins. One suggestion is to take your time with the ancient structures and their architecture and aesthetics. You can cover them all in a day. You will take three if you really mean to experience the place rather than take status pics. If that comes across as unkind, it will help to know that I completely skipped visiting the main Hampi this time round, so I am not the one to point my fingers.

            The other side of Hampi, and more fun side if you ask me is the Hippi island (or even Hampi island). It lies to the north of the Tungabhadra and is now DEMOLISHED. Yep, gone forever. All the beautifully designed cafes, the rusty huts which can hold no more than one person in them, the abundance of super-chill vibe all around. All of them gone now. It was the place where foreigners came and settled down for a week, or six months. The famous sunset point still exists and the sun still sets, just not many people watching it set. Long story short, it was illegal, the Supreme Court allowed the Government to run bulldozers over the whole region and a thing of beauty is no more. Well, almost.

The people who ran the shacks on the Island have moved to nearby places along the rivers' northern shore. There are tens of shacks spread across the Anegundi - Sanapur road now. In fact Sanapur itself has 12 shacks by my count, offering pretty much the same natural and refreshing vibe, surrounded by paddy fields and a stone throw away from the river itlsef in many cases, or within walking distance from the Sanapur Lake - a place where Sunrises are so grand, you will sleep early for it!

I will wax poetic about the beauty of this place for the next fourty pages because that is the whole point of why you are going there. Just kidding, I am not being paid for writing this. But just know this:

"The only Zen you can find on the mountaintops, is the Zen you bring there with you". 

"Hippi Hampi" doesn't give you much - it gives you nature, space and calm but not much in the way of entertainment. It is the mountaintop in that way. It totally depends on your mental space whether to dwell in peace or wage a civil war within yourself.

Incidentally, that statement is by Robert Pirsig, the author of the famous book "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance", and that is the kind of book you would immerse yourself in on lazy afternoons sitting in the shade of a quiet cafe amid the cool winter breeze blowing across the green fields.

Getting back on track, the whole stretch is looking at a great influx of international tourism come the vaccine, and that will be a good thing for travelers like me for reasons I will not discuss here. 

            I am living in the dorm at the Waterfalls Guesthouse since I arrived here this day last week. It is run by a local, unlike many other newer shacks in the region, called Ramanjaneya. The place doesn't have a camping ground which would've been useful as I carried my own tent, but it has other charms. During my stay so far, all I did was stare at the fields, trek through them, play in various water bodies and have really fun conversations. I am a bit limited in my adventures though because there is a fear of Leapords running free in the mountains (long story)

I am having my share of loneliness and self-loathing that goes without saying when travelling solo, but hey, I can write a book about all the really brilliant people I met so far in this trip and the crazy conversations I shared with them. Maybe half a book but the trip is also only halfway through as yet. I met a stand-up comic who gave up a big4 job to pursue the art fulltime. I met a Himachal-based guy who recently gave up a lucrative Delhi job to start teaching at a smalltime college in his hometown among the mountains. I have just ordered his first book from Amazon.

 And yesterday, I met these guys from B'lore who are with me now as I write this, tempting me to take these seeds with promises of an mind-blowing trip. 

        I moved to a new place yesterday, called the Wilderness. It has a camping ground where I pitched my tent. Wilderness is located further along the outskirts of the Sanapur village, and is definitely closer to "Wild" than other places.  The place has a tightrope on which you can walk, a guitar, daily bonfires, and many other shady ideas in the heads of the Mumbai guys running it (never mind the "boss" Thimma). They play a lot of hip-hop but will listen to rock as well. This place is more for the people (really) young at heart - which I am, yes I am. I could stay here for a year, all else equal, that's how much I like it.

Anyways, I tried those seeds the other day in the Waterfalls Guesthouse and it was a troublesome-trippy experience. I vomited earlier than others meaning I had a better time than the B'lore guys as I was clear out of hell sooner than I expected and I did bliss out for a good part of the day. But I have come to a decision that the whole trip is definitely not worth the horror show that my stomach has had to endure. No more of the world famous Hawaiian Rosewood seeds for me, thank you. Unless you have a more humane work around, of course.

Later that day, the vibe in the place felt a bit pushed and I felt the need to move on. So I walked straight for the Wilderness with my backpack. I haven't meditated as much as I would've liked to so far in the trip but this place is made for being calm and present and let us hope that will happen.

        Alright, let us make the "Things to Do" list for Hampi for a climax. Well, I don't know man, do you like to meditate by yourself and prefer to have a mountain to stare at when not doing so? Would you walk across paddy fields and trek through the mountains to reach a hidden gem of a place rather than ride a luxury car? Can you spend a week or two without much use for a phone or laptop or gossip? Maybe not gossip, it is more prevalent than mosquitoes which you can avoid with a repellant.

But you get the idea, if doing "nothing" is not your thing, then we have a point of departure.

I am here for almost another week. Maybe I will update this later on with what I have been up to. Maybe not.

(some pics with captions follow)

This is view from the Gowri Resort, right at the foot of Sanapur lake.

The view from the lake road.

This is the Sanaur lake levee in the background. and.. When the levee breaks, I'll have no place to stay.

I worked from the Waterfalls Guesthouse for a coule of days.

The landscape after a few minutes walk away from the the Waterfalls Guesthouse.

This is Sonu fron Nepal. I met this guy on a dirt road and then he took me to the Wilderness. We were like best friends from the get-go!

The crew at the Wilderness. One of them is a chef and is hiding something from the photo. The woodhouses are still being built.

This one is a Sunset, I think.

The garden/ campsite at the Wilderness.  I trekked up the mountain in the background and met a Sadhu who claimed many things and offered a Chillum hit in exchange for listening to his tiring tales. I made a lame excuse and came away - the nonsense is just not worth the high.

A view from one of the cafes, I think.

Wilderness cafe.

I spent many a beautiful hours at the shore of the Sanapur lake, in the company of my portable speaker.

The sunset at theTungabhadra. The Sun is actually visible as the red dot if you zoom in enough.

With my travel bag, chilling at the Gowri resort.

Manifestation of Mindlessness

Some times, the pain becomes unbearable.
Just like being breathless in a gutter

Sometimes I am trapped in this maze of toxicity
I try but there is no way of getting out

Perhaps to be more accurate,
there is no way of making my mind seek the exit

No, it wants to linger in this pain. A sodomism hard to explain. The pain is real but so is the addiction to it. Once my shirt is slightly stained, the only reaction I produce is the need to deny the guilt. No, there is no stain.

There is no stain by any stretch of imagination. None whatsoever. And whoever proclaims otherwise is evil. Not even ignorant. No, evil. Gullible.

But the stain is right there, there is the guilt. I will never wash myself clean off of it, though I will never be able to define it either. And there is the pain, arising from this denial, the self-deceit.

But I am too much on fire to realise this. My only concern is to prove that I am blameless and so must be obliged. I am so concinved that I don't even see the foolishness, even as it stands right in front of my eyes.

So I fight harder, trying to make the white win and make the black lose. Because I think I am as white they come.

I shout and scream, or just stay silent and fight that way. Play the victim that I think I am. Play the punisher when I can get away with it.

In the end, I take it all too seriously. And end up fouling others but never be forgiving of  their fouls.

A day or two later, when the senses finally hit home, that is the real shame. Because even then, I seem to be too keen on being accepting of my behaviour, but only forgiving when it comes to others.

Immortality

Thirty four – the number of people killed today when the PNB-Agra Express crashed into a truck on the tracks. Just another day in a stretched out sequence of train accidents. It does sound like a stretch of the same thing happening over and over, rather than a new experience. Trains crash everyday. People die everyday. Last week even, was it one-hundred and four people or was it one-eighty that got killed when some other express derailed? Point being, I couldn’t care less these days.

Thirty-four? Not impressed. I’ve seen a lot more and didn’t even cringe.

Statistically speaking, isn’t it some 1.4% or 0.03% of all the casualties everyday, in whatever ways people get around to dying? I mean, why just count train crashes?

How does it matter that, that’s another thirty-four smiles not happening anymore. In that train, on that day, among those dead, there must be a kid playing around with new-made friends on the upper birth. Or maybe he is thinking of the upcoming holidays. How he would play cricket on the terrace with his best friends every single day of the summer. And he would bat a lot!

Surely, there was, among the casualties, some brother frustrating his younger brother over why tea is better than coffee and what the choice tells about ones character. Like my brother argues with me over whether my career choices can get any worse.

But that brother is dead now. So is his son and his parents. And maybe even his wife and younger brother.

But relax, they are not the ones writing and listening to this. We are. And we are just sitting here and talking right. Safe, and assured about our immortality.

The problem

And then, you took yourself seriously again. You thought that your happiness it is an important issue. That everything should align towards that end. And that, my friend, is the problem.

Conversations

"Of blissful days long gone by. Concealed behind my dying eyes, this hell of anger and weary lies"

"Who fucking talks like that?"

"Celtic Frost"

A Meditation

All right now, all quiet now
Slow down, find the breath
Shut down the thoughts
Shut down the mind
Be conscious of the breathing that you are.

And realise this if you may. Don't you rationalise it. Don't you think about it. Just repeat it, visualise it, and let it realise itself within you. However long it may take is irrelevant, however many repetitions it may take is irrelevant.

"...
This moment is all there is
I am here, nowhere else
I am in this moment, not the future, not in the past

This moment is all there is
And I am happy here and now
I have no regrets, I have no complaints
I am grateful. Thank you.

Who am I?
I am not this body, I am not this mind.
Who am I?
I am not my thoughts, feelings or emotions
I am not my joys, fears or regrets, ambitions or plans
not my love, or my loved ones
I am not the pain nor the pleasure
Who am I?

For now, I am a being that responds
So I choose to respond fully, without hesitation
So I choose to respond joyfully, with all the life in me
So I choose to be unconditionally responsible for everything and everyone around me.
I have control over how I react.
Consciously not compulsively.
I alone am fully responsible for my life.

I have no limits
All limits and conditions are only in my mind
I accepted them so that I can use them, but they don't have any power over me.
I am capable of achieving anything I put my mind and heart into.
All hindrances are temporary or delusional.

I don't need to achieve anything, or have anything, to be at peace.

I am peace."

Strong in the Rain by Miyazawa Kenji

Strong in the Rain by Miyazawa Kenji
(November 3rd, 1931 [?] – published posthumously)

Strong in the rain
And in the wind
And in the snow and in the summer heat
Robust
Lacking desire
Never angry
Always smiling quietly
Eating only four cups of brown rice daily
With miso and some vegetables
Watching, hearing, and understanding carefully in all things
Without including oneself in the equation
And never forgetting
Tucked away in a small thatched hut
In the shade of a primordial pine forest
When a child falls sick to the east
Going to care for them
When a mother grows weary in the west
Going to shoulder her bundles of rice stalks in turn
When someone is dying in the south
Going to tell them that they have nothing to be afraid of
When there is a fight or a dispute in the north
Going to tell them to stop bickering because it’s foolish
Crying in times of drought
Walking falteringly in cold summers
Called simple by everyone
Never praised
Never worried over–
That is the kind of person
That I want to be

The one that names things

What's the name you can give to the one that names everything?

The one that views the thoughts, is it not thoughtless?

The one that feels the pain, is it not painless?

The one that knows the laugh, is it not joyless?

Or is it pretentious?

That one is not pretentious, that which sees the pretense.

So how do you expect the one that names things, to have a name?

A POEM FOR THE OLD ONES

A cheeky cheeky one
this is just for fun
for the beers, not the tears
come the sun, we wake up and run

When push comes to shove
I am there for you bruh
when dark and desolate and so-so-late
I will stand there with a lantern and some love

Meanwhile on other days
a complete disgrace
slippery, never calling
for six months I am lost without trace

Who do I think I am with this face
making it look like I care for my grace
out of touch, out of sight
you'd say "he is full of shit anyways"

But there goes the tragedy yes?
its hectic if not a total stress
we are given a game to play 
and we are told to say yes

We are told to embrace
there is this uneasiness
this threat if you don't embrace
shame on you, you disgrace

But but, we are in the same boat bruh
two fish in the same pond old 
if I have my soul got sold
I also lament your heart so cold

So here is me standin' clear
no buddy, no judgement whatsoever
call me up if you feel like a giver
but if you don't, its just another turn from here

Don't think our paths will cross again?
but I've seen it happen time and time again
time itself will bring you back
you are like a white shirts stain

again, you will embrace me with that hug 
and smile that ugly smile when I am in luck
we will end up laughing at the same old jokes
making fun at your clothes and my nose

Maybe not right now, not very emotional now
this is no time for lanterns or love
but when push comes to shove
I am there for you bruh

Being a father

You'd like to kiss him, at least touch his cheek and rub on the soft skin. But you can't. It's two in the night and he needs to sleep. More importantly, you are afraid because you know you don't have the capacity to keep up with his energy at this point. You'd rather not kiss him now.

He is fast asleep. He hasn't seen anything yet, or he would be awake too. Maybe you haven't seen enough that you are wide awake.

The dance

There is only one way I know to keep my neck healthy, that is to bang my head with the music

There is only one way to keep still, that is to move with the change and dance with it

Neither do I bang enough nor move enough, that is to say there is enough to do

But I will get there I know, that is to say I am already on my way you know

The Prologue (short fiction for a prompt)

I find myself in a hospital bed. I smell pus and realise I have come to. But I wouldn’t last for long as the stink forces me to puke. There is nothing in the tummy to let out, so I let my body fade away to oblivion again.

I open my eyes again, I still have the memory of that smell, but it is not in my nose. I focus my eyes and see that I still lay in a hospital bed but a better one. I also have more energy, probably from some saline injections. Then it dawns on me and I sweat. The police are surely waiting for me to wake up so I can be taken away. Yes, I am done for this life and that means an end to my life’s work as well. Incoming..

A nurse walks over, takes my pulse, asks some unintelligible questions and walks away without waiting for answers. No clues yet. An hour later, a doctor comes over and wakes me up. I feel better now. He says that I was admitted by a neighbour who found me in my apartment few days back. That’s all they know and the neighbour hasn’t returned after promising to come back in an hour. I find out that I was in the general ward of this government hospital for two days before moving to the intensive care as my health deteriorated. Since they didn’t have anyone to contact, and I didn’t have anything on me, they informed the police who decided to wait for a couple of days and avoid the paperwork. After all, I didn’t seem to be defective pathologically. If I did care enough, I should rapture with joy on the realisation that I am a free bird. I don’t.

I wait for the doctor to move on after he declares me healthy and says he would call the police so that I can clear up with them. He goes out and I get up, stumble a bit, and walk straight out ignoring the staring pairs of sick eyes. The only thing running through my mind is the last thing my memory holds.

It was the third day with her after the ritual. Three days after I relieved the body of the soul. It wasn’t the first body, nor the soul, but every time is unique. Nothing is more divine than separating a beautiful body from its corrupted soul. The raw energy in the lifeless eyes and the shell-shocked body after going through the ritual is too enticing to bother about food or sleep.  I usually live on water and go sleepless for days.

But on the evening of the third day, I knew it was getting critical. I hardly ate anything for last two days and the hallucinations were more tangible now. I finished the scraps in the refrigerator in the morning. I needed to eat more now or risk starving to death. I put on something, grabbed my wallet and headed out.

The hallucinations were there for sometime now and they were not surprising me in content anymore – they were about being a normal human being with a family and a day job. There were vague mental images of working the day and coming back to wife and kids in the evenings, socializing with friends and travelling on holidays. If I were ever forced to live the run-of-the-mill life, I’d kill myself. So the hallucinations I thought were not potent and there was no threat to my psyche. What was alarming was the frequency and length of the hallucinations. I would sometimes live in this alternative world for many minutes without coming back and this now happened almost daily. I never understood my mind’s attraction to this state of consciousness but I couldn’t do much about it. I did recognize that maintaining a good health would help, but sometimes, like this time, I was too involved with my baby to bother.

As soon as I stepped out I was delusional inside out. There was nothing to point me to my reality and I started thinking and behaving like I was indeed a regular person with a normal life. Out of the blue, my mind now had a whole context and history of this alternate world to work with. I smiled to the waiter and asked about cricket. I thought about my imaginary girlfriend and the upcoming marriage. I ate selectively tasty food and ordered whiskey. I smoked a bit and called my family after many years, with all intentions of re-connecting with them. They all thought I was dead or missing and I didn’t miss a beat in promising to go back. I don’t know how I managed all that and why, but the switch that turned on (or off) inside my head had changed everything.

Back to the flat in this delusional state, I was about to insert the key and turn the door knob when the door creaked open by itself to da rkness beyond. I imagined that I had locked the door and left the lights on. Now, could it be a faulty lock and the fuse? Could it be just my memory playing tricks? I sighed. Problems were my best friends I thought. They never left me alone.

I stepped in, left the door a bit ajar, and groped along the wall, uncertainly feeling my way, to locate the nearest light switch.  Somehow, something did not feel right. There was a faint misty floral fragrance and I was certain that it was not there when I had left the house. As I tried to place the scent and think of its origin, I suddenly heard, an ear piercing scream – close enough, from deep within the walls. It sent a chill down my spine. I gulped and somehow managed to stifle my own scream. Maybe it was the neighbor’s loud TV? I needed to flick the lights on, like, NOW.   I continued my search for the light switch – only to reach an ice-cold, damp, bony hand. The stifled scream let itself out. I let myself faint – the option looked better than facing the owner of that hand…

Looking back, nothing could have been more absurd. Imagine blacking-out from the shock of touching the love of my life, how awful. All the screams were mine of course.

Now, free again and in possession of all my faculties, I walk back to the same apartments in the same pyjamas I wore that day for dinner, half-expecting to get flagged at the entrance by the guard, or worse. If my saviour neighbour somehow didn’t discover the body that night, which is hard to believe, it was only a matter of time before the stink spread and someone called the police.

I approach the building entrance and nothing happens. The guard is busy in his register and only glances at me before looking down again. No encounter on the corridor or the elevator. I reach my floor. Heart beat slightly elevated as I prepare to face any music. I slowly move towards the door, what could be in store this time?

I see the door is closed. I don’t have the keys with me and have no second thoughts about what to do. I simply turn the knob. It opens. It is daylight and I see everything clearly. I immediately realise that no one has entered the flat since. I would instinctively know if anything changed. I lay my eyes on her naked body hanging by her hair just there. Ah, that mesmerizing, silky brown hair that drew me towards her a few months back. My phone and wallet on the floor two feet away, simple enough.

I start the clean up – I cannot carry on here. The body has decayed too much to eat now due to the heat. I dispose it off but not before washing her thoroughly and ravishing the beauty for one last time. I pack up the closets, settle all dues online and prepare to move out within two days.

Two weeks later, I start this journal which will eventually become a memoir for you to read. I am at my new temple of worship now. The only loyalty I owe is to the deed which saves me from nihilism and chaos and I do not want any distraction in my path. This place gives me more freedom to pursue my destiny and looks ideal from first impressions. What about my mind and its delusions? I will sort them away soon enough.

During almost a decade of my journey down this glorious path, this is the closest I came to being discovered despite the dozens of bodies I saved from wicked souls. That day at the hospital, I was not really scared of getting caught. I do not fear the punishment or the offense – they cannot move me. But I was truly worried about the degradation and disgrace that my higher goals would be subjected to. People would never understand what I live for. They would call it gore, murder and cannibalism. How can I ever make them understand that the destiny I pursue is the ultimate glory, a worship which transcends their trivialities?

No, I cannot let them label this – this. I would not let them condemn it on their terms. If everything I ever did and plan to do should be known by another being, it better be my words. And so in the coming chapters, I will try to put into language that which cannot be expressed. It is going to be difficult. What I experience when I am at the alter of worship that is a human body, doing the creators own work, cannot be explained or analysed away. No, I will simply tell you what I do and how I do it and you will understand hopefully. Maybe there will be a torch bearer in the future inspired by what I have to say.

But whatever may be the consequence, I have decided to bare everything down here without reservations. But I will only start after spending some time in ecstasy with my new love that lies in the dark room.

(End of prologue to “The Body Worship Journal”)

The Miserable Music

I do listen to quite a bit of Opeth and so you must understand that it isn't by choice that I sometimes come across as a miserable guy.

It sometimes is true that there is an ocean of sorrow in you and you are ok with it. Sometimes there is no sorrow, just a melancholy. A vacuum. Or maybe that is just delusional, how do we know for sure.

Anyways, point is - there is something to this kind of music. Or any art form really. But music of a certain quality can communicate somethings with such vivid clarity that practical worldly language just can't come close to that experience. Sadness - the kind that lies deep inside the heart and doesn't really depend of any actual cause to exist is one such thing. It is there along with the whole package of being a human at this point in time and here. So you leave your context and experience it. You don't try to understand that feeling. You leave the expectations outside the door - expectations such as to imagine that this whole write up would lead to anything at all. Nah, I didn't really bother this time haha.

Anyways. You listen to a Burden by Opeth. Or a Raven by Steven Wilson. You listen to it and you chill. You don't try to understand that sorrow. You live it with your whole existence.

The shelf

Go home son

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
They hate it when you look so so clever, oh so clever
They loved you when you needed to move on, ah it's gone

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
So far it's a futile endeavor, lost it forever

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Always wanted to be a believer, believer
(you) have a nest but you are a freebird, can't stop

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Wicked world, no place for a brave heart

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Spoke too much you turned out a rambler
Stake too much and you are gambler

Go home son you lost it forever, lost it forever
Broke that bridge as soon as you crossed her
Forgot the river you used to feed on

Go home son you lost it forever..
You.. lost it forever..

.....................

Step 1 : Write some lines - check.
Step 2: Set it to a tune and chords - WIP

Abondoning (on a prompt)

I don’t remember specific events and I hardly remember anything when I try too hard. But I have something called nostalgia about certain phases of time and I depend on these nostalgia to tell me how to feel about certain parts of my life.

For example, that excitement when it was time to get going to play cricket in those hot summer afternoons. Or the threat posed by a next day exam. Or more recently, the solitude offered by lonely walks on South Goan beaches with nothing more than a pint of Kings beer in my mind. Or the warm comfort of my woman on dark nights on the same beaches and the same old Kings in my mind.

Or back in greener days, that beautiful girl who waited to get on the bus with me, and then stood on the ladies side, ah well. I don’t remember the stories that well which is a shame because my stories tend to be very happening.

But I remember this one time when I came back from the city I worked in, to hometown to visit my parents uninformed. My brother and I took a video of my mom’s reaction. Priceless. The joy in her eyes and voice was only equalled by the pain she endured a few years back when that young son ventured out into an unknown world. A world she did not trust to keep her son safe, to feed him well and take care of him.

But for me, it was adventure time back then. Again, I don’t remember the specific stories of the first time I moved out into the new city because I visited family every couple of months without fail. But everytime I had to go back after a visit, there were tear drops in mom’s eyes. Fighting hard to stay in and failing everytime, even after a couple of years of coming and goings. My brother who is a rock has never been spotted with anything close to an emotion, but my dad and myself have had our vulnerable moments in those sad departure times moved by mom’s intolerable sorrow.

We got used to all that in sometime but there were times when we argued. Mom and me, we are polar opposites. We fight over everything from my collarless tees to her Gods. And if one of our departures came between an unresolved bitter argument, that was disaster of the worst kind. That was me turning my back when she needed me to stay and work out a compromise. That was abondonment for a moment there. The pain was too much. I felt like a murderer stabbing a heart and there was no end to the suffering it seemed.

But that was short term really. All the arguments in the world were rendered trivial with first signs of those magical tears and all that was left was to get done with our suffering and abondoning together.

Why do you only call me when you are high?

What to do. It is when the lights are off that I open up. When the sobriety loses it, the dance begins.

The music flows and my heart glows. My heart, its not a stone then, it flows.

I let it go and there it goes. The joy and color is real.

The raw energy of that life in me, it searches for a life to hang with. And you know how few little lives are left worth saving.

And so I call you, one of the few I know are worth fighting. It so happens, I only ever call you when I am high.

And then you walk away

It is that, isn't it.

Finding balance in places where there is an utter lack ot it.

Where you know you are gonna drown
So you drown well.

It is that isn't it

You do well, everything you have to do
And you take the pain and laugh with it, my friend.

You laugh at everything and you do it well
You laugh with yourself and the other

It is that isn't it

It is that happiness isn't it, thats hiding deep within. That which hides in open sight. That raw thing called life.

So then, you take the pain and imbalance, take the joys, the balances, and you look at it. Look at the life in it all. Find the raw happiness thats not hiding now.

You take it all and throw it away. Then, you  walk away.

Buddhaban

"No" - His father's no was as hard a stop as Saleem had ever seen. Equal with the will of those icy mountains he called home. Just like Abba, the mountains were always cruel. At 10 years old, he had some way to go before he understood that they both meant good.

His grandfather, Dada, was looking on as his mother, Ammu, lit the firewood in the clay hole and placed a milk bowl on it for the visitors. Dada knew that these were the moments that could change everything about them. Not just the child, it was about the Khandaan, the bloodline, his ancestry coming down from hundreds of years.

...

They have always been shepherds, grazing goats in the high mountain passes of the beautiful Parvati valley in the summers and migrating back to lower villages of Tosh, Pulga and Kulga during the winters. The valley was sometimes kind and sometimes cruel, but it was home. 

The Parvati gave them everything they needed to live a good life. And a river ran through it. The Parvati river that flowed right through the heart of the valley was ever refreshing and always has had nourishing fish to offer. The green pastures were heaven for the cattle and the forests had rare herbs. The forest also gave them the firewood which was the only fuel they used - key for survival during the winters when the snow was knee deep and cold made its way right through to the bones.

The winter months were just about that - survival. And so, they ventured into higher mountains during warm seasons leading the cattle into the grasslands. The sheep was the only wealth the family ever really possessed, they put their money where their mouths were -  the sheep’s mouths. Though the Muslim community was a minority, it was a significant minority, very much part of the valley life. The family, much respected through the ages, had built their summer shacks on one of the higher flatlands in the region.

This place, called Buddhaban, was practically the highest of meadows in the region. It was also at the furthest end of the valley, far away and high above Tosh, the last of the valley villages. Spiti, another charming Himachal valley to the east that touched the Chinese border, was just a days' trek away, maybe two. But the trekking paths went around some really big peaks and glaciers, through mountain passes that were safe only for a few months in the year.

...

As far as Saleem could remember, he had been going about his wanderings and small thrills without much care for all that his Abba and Dada tried to teach him. He loved herding the sheep and staring at the birds and the clouds on those lower Himalayan mountain meadows. His favorite times of the day were the mornings when his Ammu gave him glasses full of sweet goat milk, and the evenings when he sat around the fireplace with his Abba and uncles. He also loved running along the slopes with his elder brother Karim when they had to fetch something from the lower villages. His relationship with his brother was the closest he had or would go on to have - it was just that they had only each other for company and nothing to compare to. Everyone else in the Buddhaban dwelling, including their cousins, were way elder or younger than them. All the twenty-or-so people from the three families living together there were pretty much one family and had cattle as the main livelihood. That has been the way of things for decades now.

It was not all well for the family though, nor was it for valley people in recent years. The old times were changing. It was a boon for the Parvati people that the valley became the go-to hippie destination in the Himachal for all the prosperity that it had brought. At the same time, it was threatening. At the stake was their way of living itself.

The youth had lots of opportunities to earn a living now, catering to the tourists. No longer did they have to depend solely on cattle and farming. Livelihood was not an existential problem. Markets were getting bigger and trade has been ever-growing. The development came in the form of infrastructure and better opportunities. But the culture was slowly rotting underneath.

The fabric of the society was not as pure as it once was. But like any decay, this was slow. It was too late before anyone realized that their villages were not as happy as before - harmony was waning. Opportunity brought conflict with it and groups fought for prominence. The ugly side of urbanization - plastic, over-crowding and noise - was now a fixture in the famous marketplaces. Many young men and women were getting involved in the hashish business and it was a slippery slope from there towards more hazardous drug mafias. Too many outsiders were venturing into the mountains and valley lives, and not every visitor was a good-natured trekker. The villages more often felt like tourist destinations and relations based on familiarity were slowly giving way to more practical businesses. The traditions and habits passed on from fathers to sons and mothers to daughters were slowly being intruded by external factors.

...

Even as Buddhaban was more than four hours of intense trek through the maze of a forest from the nearest village Tabu, Saleem had been seeing visitors regularly this season. His father, Abba, was not thrilled with the strangers but he always treated them graciously -  warm to the travelers and tourists alike. Everyone who ever came was surely many times richer than them. After all, the shack that the family called home and what protected them from the chilly winds at night was nothing more than a handful of huts put together as though they were was meant for a few days of camping. But the visitors knew that these people here were living a life which was both a dream and a nightmare at the same time. They had seen enough on the way to understand what it meant to even survive here. So there was an environment of mutual respect accentuated by easy smiles and longer attention spans during conversations. 

As usual, these visitors were nice folks, awestruck with everything they saw around them. The scenic beauty of Buddhaban during that season was unmatched even by Himachal’s standards, which put the tourists in especially good spirits. Abba invited them into one of the bigger huts after the greetings. After the visitors enquired about the family's lives here and after they recovered from the culture shock, Abba offered them to come into another hut that had the fireplace and kitchen, for some refreshments. 

All the while the visitors were playing along and laughing with the kids. Saleem was especially enchanted these days with the visitors’ fancy gadgets. Abba had already warned him to maintain his distance with the outsiders but Saleem was just too thrilled with everything about the modern people and their stories, so foreign to him. He flooded them with questions, trying to understand everything that so was different from him and his surroundings. This had been sensed by his parents for some time now and they were slightly worried about his feverish energy whenever one of the visitors showed him their phones. Abba had already been given the wise word by his own father, Dada. The fascination with the glitter and glamour had to die young and Abba had to be the one to enforce it.

The person with whom Saleem was most playful this time around was relatively reserved about showing him his fancy stuff. He didn't use his phone in front of the kids except for the obligatory selfies and groupies. But the time had come when Saleem became over-enthusiastic after Ammu served them milk and the elders seemed to get engaged with their conversations. As his new friend was showing him pictures of the cities beyond his imagination, he was visibly vocal and started requesting for car games. The visitor hesitated knowing well that it wasn't for him to expose the kid to such seductive stuff. Especially when his father was looking on intently.

Abba seemed to look at Saleem forever who was trying to grab more of the iPhone. After a few moments though, he has had enough. His "Saleem. Nahi." was clearly a condemnation and not a scold. The stern voice grabbed everyone's attention. They all looked at him, a bit ungrounded. Abba had fire in his eyes "Pehle bhi bola tha tujhe" - told you before as well.

Saleem hung his head down - tears down the reddish cheeks. The visitors were apologetic with their soft smiles. They only wished well. The phone slid quietly into the visitors’ pocket, not daring to come out until they were out of Buddhaban.

Saleem didn't eat that evening and he would be moody for a couple of weeks, but he would never get enticed by the bait of fancy technology again, first from the fear instilled in him that day and later from understanding and the love for his people and place. He had learned his lesson and humiliation was a necessary tool in the process. Karim, three years older, was higher up the wisdom chain. He knew his Bhaijaan would come along fine now that the storm was over. His Abba told him so.

…

That evening, there was no fire in Abba's eyes as he squatted in front of the fire along with Dada. He only had moisture in them now, for all that his sons would never have. He said, "Kya kya qurbani mangunga apne baccho se" - what all sacrifices will I ask of my children. 

"Vahi qurbani jo maine tujse maanga tha" - the same sacrifices I asked of you, Dada looked straight through the fire into his teenage days in Buddhaban.