Winter, December & Everything Else

One, two, and three; all too soon, a hundred million words reduced to mere pretence; a few sentences, spoken once in a while.

Too much, too soon. Maybe I should have waited, given myself some time before diving headlong into what now appears to be an utter, absolute mess.

But it's done now and there's no going back to where we began. Nothing is the same anymore. And in spite of everything, I cannot deny the fact that you still occupy my thoughts as I sip my morning coffee, feet resting on the cold, dewy grass; eyes trying to see through the veil of mist in front of me; feeling the sun's mild warmth on my back. And I still manage to let my face betray the tiniest hint of a smile.

One of the prettiest places I've ever been to.

Up down up down up down up CRASH BANG BOOM

A break would be very much appreciated, thank you.

Part of me expected everything to just fall apart, but it didn't. Or maybe it did, while I was busy stressing over what didn't happen, and what could've happened and a million other small, insignificant things, and I didn't notice. I didn't fall into a deep abyss, and neither did I spend a few months spiralling downwards into depression. Maybe I'd known all along that this was the best thing that could possibly happen.

I'm proud of us.

We've come of age. When the wills of ordinary people can force a whole government to pass a piece of legislation, we know we've achieved something.

Here's to a better future. :)

I'm writing for the sake of writing. Not because I have a story to tell, or a point to make. I'm writing for the sake of writing. I'm putting pen to paper so that words flow out in torrents; I do not care if they don't form coherent sentences.

I'm writing, but I'm not following my thoughts as they spiral and twist inside my brain. I'm letting them out as they are. I'm not bothering to arrange them in various sequences, I'm setting them free.

I'm still writing, but I'm writing for the sake of writing, because I want to feel the rather selfish exultation of being able to string letters into words.

I'm done writing, and I now exist in a void where millions of words once stood.

Sixty-four years. Every year, on August 15th, we're taught to hoist the flag, sing our national anthem, and feel the familiar surge of patriotism, or what we think is patriotism, well up inside us and then, we pour it out, talking about how far we've come, and what a great nation we are, because it's Independence Day; we're supposed to be celebrating, not mourning.

This year, this sixty-fourth August 15th, things are different.

We're still Indians, but we're no longer the same people who stood and watched as successive governments struggled for power, leaving the nation to fend for itself.

We're Indians, but we have questions, questions that the establishment is too embarrassed to answer, questions that could topple a whole government.

We're Indians, but we're not fooled by the cash and freebies they hand out in exchange for a vote or two, we want progress on the issues that matter. We want to know how our money is being spent. We want to know why we have massive security failures time and again. We want to know what they're doing for our billion-strong nation.

We're Indians, and we no longer believe that the lines that divide us according to community, caste, race, or religion can stoke the flame of violence, and cause us to behave like five-year-olds.

We're Indians, and we believe in freedom and democracy. Not the freedoms that are supposedly guaranteed to us in the Fundamental Rights, but real freedom. We want to know how on earth could someone organizing a peaceful protest be arrested. We want to know why books and films are routinely banned, artists and writers exiled. Whatever happened to freedom of speech and expression?

We're Indians, and we're not afraid to think, to question, to take action, to speak out against the injustice we're meted out on a daily basis. We're different people now.

We're Indians, and we're going to undo all the wrong that has been done to us over the past sixty-four years.

No, hard work does NOT pay off

Especially if you happen to live in a country like India. Somehow, we defy pretty much everything that could be considered normal (again, 'normal' is a relative term - what might seem normal to you probably won't seem normal to me, but I digress). No amount of genuine effort and brilliant achievements can match the horrible nexus of money-corruption-political influence that we seem to harbour in such abundance. No, hard work does not pay off. What does pay off is having a substantial amount of wealth, knowing the 'right' people, or the perfect combination of both.

We jump into this mess, knowing fully well that the odds are clearly not in our favour, and come out of it completely broken. We know that the only force we can rely on is luck, and more often than not, it chooses to elude us. We're forced to accept the truth - however disheartening it may be.

And that is how fortune smiles on people who don't deserve it and millions of dreams are shattered forever - and there's nothing that me, you, or anyone else can do about it.

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Thank you, Furree Katt, for posting this!

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A few thin lines here and there, inconspicuous, overlooked by most. With the passage of time, they deepen, albeit slowly, so slowly that one can't really tell. Then the telltale signs appear, and the once-thin lines morph into deep fissures, disfiguring the surfaces that were once smooth as silk. Even then, not once do you feel they could break your very existence.

And that is precisely what happens.

I can't write any more. Or even talk. Because when I try to do either, the words I go to great lengths to find simply melt away. And I'm left behind, lashing out blindly, trying to chase words that won't wait for me to catch up. Ideas clutter my head, thoughts float about, but the words continue to elude me.

Circles

So we sit there by the water's edge, watching the stream run its course, the hurried flow of the water, breaking here and there on the sharp, jagged rocks. And suddenly, from nowhere, there's a hint of colour; we cheer as we witness the colourful circles ripple and change hues, from red to orange to blue, working their way through all the seven colours of the rainbow. They dance in tandem with the ripples, almost beckoning us to forget all else and jump into the depths of the stream. Do we? No, because you hold me back and say, stop.

You'd always tell me to stop. But I cannot bend to the will of another. I cannot remain static and unfeeling. I shift and change, just like those many-hued circles in the water that we saw the other day. They are me.