Sunday, June 27, 2010

Unnoticed Tourniquets

It wasn’t an ordinary day, indeed. As I sank into a seat somewhere below the sky, as it had always served one or any other person, I was made aware, once again, of many an omen that suggested something divine, something supernaturally natural.

Out of the hectic ghostly life where we have intentionally or unknowingly become the evils of each other, pulling each other for a damn ‘me and mine’, I happened to realize how insignificant we have considered things as. My cell phone buzzed once a sudden.
I simply didn't care.
I can produce my own leisure time just to indulge in what I enjoy doing and that was what I was doing – observing each petty detail around me which, without having an air of importance, could actually mean something. But, the hush and rush around is always there to obstruct my way. In no time, I was surrounded by grubby figures.

“Bhok lagyo, paisa dinus na,” begged all the voices over and over again.

I handed over the only coin in my pocket to one of those hands. And I smiled.
Closer came the others with a more intense look. Was I scared? I don’t know. But, there was something I didn’t fail to notice, an indefinable hope sparkling in those eyes and my ears did their job too; I could hear coins jingling in their pockets, assuring myself they weren’t desperate. It didn’t take me even a second to realize how God has set ways for everyone, children of only six or seven and look how they can convince you by their innocence! There’s a power God has fueled in those poor creatures and I like to call it divine.

I headed off from the seat and wandered along the streets, at times smiling on account of what I deduced from expressions of people passing by. Everybody else worrying about their stuff and I was worrying about why others worried about everything.

A tall, slim figured lady, with her loosely curled hair playing over her shoulders, attracted my attention as I wondered how looks conceal age. Her appearance visibly spoke for her that she was a French woman. Most of all, it was her accent that confirmed my assumption. Her eyes looked lost and her lips as if about to utter it.

“Excuse me, which road…uh…way…go…uh…leads to Tamail?” she stammered.
“On your right,” I instantly replied and consciously translated, “Thamel est sur votre droite.”

Her expression, like a vivid sparkle across her face, conveyed how delighted she was to hear somebody reply her in French.
“Merci bien” she thanked.
“Avec plaisir, madame.”
“A co-incidence, perhaps that the befuddled French lady, fortunately happened to find no one else save a person, who knows few basics of French language, to ask for direction,” I said to myself, “Or simply, God’s way of helping her.”
It was noon by then; I could feel the sun being harsher by every passing moment. I decided I should probably settle somewhere for the day instead of walking all day. Just a feet or two away, an old lady with a heavy looking rucksack was trying to get to the other side of the road and helping her was a little kid covered in dirt and torn clothes, her grand-child most probably. The kid was not a good guide, I must say. Dense wrinkles took distinct shapes round her eyes every few seconds – she was straining her eyes too hard just to know old age had taken over her, and the little lad by her side would take a step forward, motion her for the same and in no time, he would pull her back along with himself; he looked totally confused. I could judge that wasn’t going to work out, but before I could take few quick strides to help them, the lad had already decided to make the journey.

The next moment, I heard the child cry, “Aama…”

She mumbled something none, not even herself, would be able to figure out. Maybe she meant to curse her eyes, the old age. And maybe also the one who she has worshipped her entire life. But, it was just a slip of feet on one of the potholes of the road.

“A necessary accident to save them from worse,” I thought for had they taken a few steps more, they would have inevitably been crushed by the continuous number of motorbikes being roughly driven by reckless teenagers racing with one another for a damn show-off, whose speed appeared so out of limit that I couldn’t even capture the colour of the bikes.

“Another co-incidence, huh?” I smiled at the sky.

With the sun glittering as warmly as it could and hunger kicking me inside, my muscles refused to carry me any longer. So, I got in a micro to get back home. It wasn’t any of the planned systematic days of my life, yet I couldn’t help love the flow of events, all owing to the great realization of the day. Obviously, I was constantly smiling.

“Hey!” Somebody pat on my back. Looking over my shoulders, I found one of my friends back from the school days, smiling at me as if it was the greatest joys of his life, No wonder it actually was a pure joy, especially when we hardly have time to give a ring to our long time out of sight friends and family, as if nothing else counts as much as “my work, my schedule, my mood…”
Memories revived, we had a good talk, a good laugh not for so long though. Because we had our own destinations. He offered to pay my fare, I insisted I would. But, he was fast.
“Shit!” I sighed, as my hands inside my empty pocket searched in vain. By that time, he had already gotten off; however I managed to wave a normal good-bye.
“Gosh! I’ve been roaming around without a damn coin!”
“Thank God, he paid my fare too.”
“Oh, yeah, THANK GOD! That was even more angelic.”
One more reason to smile. Never had I been so content about everything.
“Took a day off for good,” I said to myself, “But, the classes today?” An evanescent worry passed across my head.
“Perhaps you’ve made your not-so divine looking but, actually divine arrangements for that too, haven’t you?”
No one replied but, I could sense Him winking His eyes.

Wednesday, June 23, 2010

Of Being Crazy, of Being Real

There are times in life when you see yourself as your own enemy, when the light of the day seems vague compared to the clarity in your mind about your apparent abnormalities, when you, with a dart of shame, realize you could do more than just being a crazy thinker. But the gruff analysis of oneself only makes you crazier.
Yes, I keep thinking about a simple joke pals crack and create a tragic tale out of the laughter, I keep twisting the questions and derive a suspicious tone out of it, I keep replaying the past scenes and amalgamate the dialogues to construct a dialogue for me to mutter in the next conversation, and I keep lurching away from the crowd and yet blame the crowd itself. So I dub myself crazy. I painfully wriggle in the whirlwind of realizations and resolve to be, well, to act, practical; to brush off my abnormalities.
So there are more lulls than interactions in every conversation just because I don't want myself to think it my way. Crazier. Then I over react, I write depressive lines, I declare I hate myself. Even more crazier. Come on, what happened to that self-evaluation-is-a-refining-process thing? I can't see my orchestra composing better, melodious tunes.
May be my way of thinking isn't much of optimism and simplicity, may be it's way past being practical, may be it wreaks many moments of my life and may be that's wrong but, broaden my understanding, it does, help me reach to better conclusions it does and despite creating endless questions and fuzzy answers, inspire me to a greener pasture of interpretation it does. Heaps of perplexities and depressions it does pile, but I can't deny that there's LIFE in it, there's way of understanding LIFE in it.
"People die of thinking as they die of any other disease," one my favorite sayings I've heard so far, keeps screaming out itself in my mind and my response, supposed to be supporting how its trying to decatalyse my thinking, antagonistically reproduces another set of thoughts and there, I'm one step closer to my death! I smile at the hilarious approach to such a solemn adage and walk in circles of my convoluted thoughts again.
Here again, I'm panting because I've made my thoughts run so hard. Crazy or not, 'guess I can't quit it. And most importantly, now I know - I think, in fact, I over-think because I like thinking; because it's being me.

Tuesday, June 22, 2010


It was just a plastic bag, a discarded and dumped plastic bag; a poor kid in the street was playing with. He was trying to make it fly and whether or not it agreed to fly, the immanent joy sparkling in his eyes was as remarkable as the sun. The spectacle was, however, not a mere smile inducer but a deep penetrator, a messenger saying how happiness is actually like a free bird unlike how it is generally made complicated.

There are vivid pictures in my mind of me playing with toys, as a kid. Back then, every new shining toy brought an excitement of its own but only an ephemeral one, with an underlying promise to be replaced by a new desperation. Whims always took a greater height in no time, and so do they now, for almost everyone I assume. The glittery toy is always on a next level and hence, satisfactions remain to be a distant dream.

What intrigues me is of all great people in the world, how come a boy of six or seven know the true secrets of life? A bottle of chardonnay or a trip to Las Vegas doesn't necessarily assure you the happiness you yearn for. The key to happiness is not how much you spend on it but how much of yourself you can naturally indulge in it.

What I like better is that the little lad didn't take the plastic bag back home but let it rest on a piece of land it fell upon after he'd derived as many smiles as he'd wanted from it. That inspires a new optimist in me. In my own battles of life, many I've conquered and many times I've been conquered. But, now I know it doesn't really matter how much credits you have in store to show to the world what you've achieved; true riches lie in the feelings of joy, spirits of hope and will you have flourished inside you against the compulsions to get depressed over failures and deficiencies.

So no more am I going to elongate my wish-to-have list but make the most of my what-I-have list. I am going to be happy!

Sunday, June 13, 2010


There I was, soaked in the mayhem of my conflicting thoughts, strolling down the street and rummaging a meaningful point to stop at.

Kathmandu, as always, looked busy, and all I wanted at the moment was a magical wand that could make them shut up – the gossiping girls behind me, the babbling going-to-be-politicians ahead of me, the unnecessarily loud announcements of a lucky draw from a corner and the competitive horns so abundantly spread in air. The loudest of them all was, of course, inside my own little box in my head. And I could tell it wasn’t going to be spellbound by any magic or any distractions; because it had so stubbornly occupied my core I could bet demagnetizing my voices inside was as tough as bottling up feelings.

No, it hadn’t been a fair day. Not at all. Sleepless nights for the last few weeks and all day long all I get is some freaky response? A mere glimpse and an “ok”? I’d been giving all of me for that stupid problem, had been trying to be as much helpful as I could. As if it was some kind of do-or-die thing. And I’d counted on it to pay back, counted on people to be a little thoughtful before jumping into any conclusion. Some part of me said that it didn’t actually matter, because in the end of the day it is no one else but you who has to evaluate yourself and since you know what you’ve gone through, things will end up fairly. The next me grumbled that things are never as simple as that. You just can’t color things with your favorite color even if you own them. Your choices, you evaluations, your verdict apply only to yourself. And then there’s this unavoidable aspect of reality: whether you agree or not, the rest of the world judges you too. And why shouldn’t it matter when their judgments can bring changes to your life? A simultaneous and apparently diplomatic voice was crying to be heard too. It moaned what all of that internal chaos was for when it was all over, so over. Well, because it bugged me to be feeling like I was chanting some soliloquy with no one to answer my endless questions, no one to reason my unremitting complaints. The voices wouldn’t cease to go against one another and I doubted I had a single set of ears.

They said it was no big deal. I had handled an issue. I was done with my part of the job. And if people weren’t free enough to reach the depths of your true involvement, you still hadn’t lost anything. No big deal. But what about all the discouragement it showered on me? What about the reluctance to start a new course, just because there was always something called “luck” with a gravity of its own? What about the things I missed because I was so engrossed with that one thing? I had neglected all the other planets and stars to focus on the sun and the sun had left without a warning. How could I reassemble my solar system?

I sound so melodramatic. That’s what they say. They complain why I am so complaining. Hey, hey, everybody’s appreciation is not what I’m fighting for. But a little more consideration isn’t much of a big expectation, is it?

And here I am, still thinking about it. Call it ‘an over-thinking-disorder’, a phrase termed by few of my pals. All of those few just chuckled at my words, with an expression I haven’t succeeded translating yet. It was something like a mockery, a blurry sympathy, disagreement or a mixture of all of them.

So, of all people, counselors and psychiatrists, I choose no one but take to writing it in a scrap of paper. And because it doesn’t speak back or produce any expression I wouldn’t want to face, I give it no fragmented or edited version but a complete truth. It gives me back silence and my personal assumption that its silence speaks for its willing acceptance, at least, makes me smile at the end of the day – the plain reason why I write. Exactly why I write. And I know, unlike all those minds blinded by suspicious surveillance, it will again accept that the set of words ‘Why I write’ is not a plagiarism but a coincidence, won’t you?