Monday, September 28, 2009

A Monologue

I have been fighting with myself since ages unknown. What for, you may ask me but unfortunately I have no reason per se. It’s just that I am on fighting terms with myself and with people other than me. Every new day is in fact a commencement of a new fight. A new terror which stealthily creeps into my soul and storms the very existence of this stuff of ‘flesh and blood’ to which people call by a name ‘Nicky.’

I am what I am. I will never change. At least, never when they want me to. Why should I? Do they change for me? No! Nobody does anything wished or liked by me, then why should I be whipped time and again for their norms and etiquettes.

They say I speak foul. Yes, I do. I do so when I am enraged. When I am out of my senses and when I am not able to grasp to the reality. Reality, whose? Mine! Who drives me crazy? Who drives me to such a point that I fail to recognize my own voice? What happens that I cry in such a manner that at a certain point of time I am scared to look into the mirror because my eyes frightens me.

What drives me to pull my hair as if I am a loon pelted very often by stones while treading the stubble paths of my life. Yes, I am being pelted. Once. Twice. Thrice. Many a times! One day they had sharp edged traditions and the other day they had those heavy rocks of social norms. And, the best of all these weaponry is the emotional backdrop that keeps pricking you every time you think you are relaxed and have nothing to fume over. Suddenly a needle comes from nowhere and pricks at your bottom, in your sides, on your arms.

Do I ask anything except-live and let me live?

Why I am a scapegoat? Why me? If any vengeance has to be unleashed then I am the best target. Why the hell no one reacts to what happens to me? Everyone is so busy sorting out their lives. I seriously, have no qualms. I am very much fine with what people want to do with their life and themselves. I have issues, only when they question me, when they stop me, when they force me to something I hate from the depths of my heart.

I hate relations and relatives; they have never given me peace. And, what doesn’t let me smile, I hate. I hate myself most when I am not happy. It’s so unbearable to live with myself when I am out of happy. How to tell? I have no words to explain , how much I am scared of myself.

They say, I am happy when I am not with them. Yes, I am happy when I am not with them. Actually, I am happy when I am with strangers. Strangers and strangeness provides me solace which no other company lends to my soul.

I crave for solitude when the solitude and loneliness is what all I have with me…Last night, lying down on the floor (I have spondylitis so I sleep on floor with no pillow) I couldn’t get sleep which I usually am not getting since long still I have always been trying to sleep and will keep doing so. I wondered, lying thus, how many of them need me. Or anyone can ever need me? Does my absence makes any difference to them?

Sometimes I feel like running. Run till the end of the earth.

ü I want to live but how can I when I am so much perplexed.

ü What to do and what not to do

Saturday, September 26, 2009

A Random Post

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People come and go by. They keep coming. They always go. Some stay back. Some do not even bother to look back. One is being adored the other being abhorred. One being loved and the other being hated to the brink of raving madness…
Met many, known few. Seen many, felt few.
To few these eyes know, to some more these ears understand, and to one this soul responds.
Life is a mosaic of patterns stitched here stuck there and of these all, one patch is me. Me- with no impressive name and no significant aim in life yet, I exist somewhere in the myriad folds of this beautiful pattern of umpteen beings with same flesh and blood and yet different names to call with.
The other day I was walking down on the Tolstoy Marg, carrying books which I borrowed from British Council, happened to saw a non-significant beggar girl in a dirty red ghaghra playing amongst her group of beggar kids. Do her smiles make any difference in someone’s life? Does anybody sing of her? Is there any worth of her life? One day, who knows, she will die in anonymity in some accident or by some diseased death. Will there be someone to cry for her, shed some tears? Only kids, if she gets married… but, will she get married? Whom she will marry? And, if she does, then they both will beg to eke out their living…
We think over existentialist phenomenon, do these roadside people, beggars too think on same lines? I think no. I mean how could they, as in their entire thought process is directed towards getting hold of some money and food to gobble on. Such rhetoric on life, existence, meaning and purpose of human life, and so on are only for minds that are fed properly. We are fed and clothed so we have enough time to ponder over such rhetoric. These big talks, and fluffy issues creep way into your life when you have shelter, food, and clothing and have enough to shell off your pockets whenever required to meet your basic demands.
For a chap sitting and smoking on footpath, nothing actually matters-he, actually knows, what it is to have carpe diem. What it is to live in present. He revels in the pleasure of the moment because he is the only one who has been taught harsh lessons of life- accept the small pleasures of life with open arms lest you never know life is such an uncertain phenomenon which never showers you with smiles every day.
Future is a dream yet to be realized, past is the time irretrievable, and present is the time we all have with us. So, make sure you live this present at its best so that you can realize your dreams in a best possible manner.
I, at times think what Genie does when she is not eating or barking. She too must have brain as ours except that gift of language. She may think what kind of ridiculous people we humans are- worrying day and night, measuring and weighing our propensities for surviving, when the fact is that there is this deep slumber waiting to be fulfilled or say resumed back for us. Isn’t it?
Why worry? Why think at all? Why we must know the answers to the deepest and mysterious secrets of human nature and the nature itself?
We live a phony life that has to be lived as we are here, meant to do this stuff called ‘living’ just like that.
I think I am tired and need rest.