10 years from now : What would it take to sit across a table and confess ?
I had a thing for you. You’d made your choice; so I made mine.
I was infected. I loved you too much then, to let you go.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Moral Gumption
Dead Giveaway
She had intended to scissor out all superfluity but there was an explosion of rancid irony. A spurt of loquacity gushed forth, rendering her assailable. The only redeeming feature perhaps was, that she was not present in person, or her humiliation would have been "total". Her face would have then been vulnerable to scrutiny - it could have threatened to divulge everything, sometimes unintentionally and more often, comically.
Fie on 'Us'
There are no free lunches in the world - We pay a price for everything.
But why is that some people pay, more than their due? As blind as we've always been,we fail to realize,its because 'They' want to enrich our lives in more ways than one.
How many times have we heard people quote 'Ghalib' and especially when they seem to have just no hope; only despair? Umpteen times! But again, how many of us actually know what went into making 'Ghalib' the most forlorn lover and the most wretched man who ever trod this earth? Why is that every inch of ground he walked upon, has become so hallowed?
Because it was Ghalib who knew what sorrow was, if anyone did. The death of his father and after that his guardian uncle when he was still a child, of his seven children one after another, of his dearly-loved brother, and still more dearly-loved adopted son in young age, the scourge of poverty and constant danger of debtor's jail, non-recognition of merit and vulgar vilification over literary controversies, the torture and disgrace of gambler's prison, the pain and suffering of half a dozen diseases and, above all, bitter domestic life. what could be more miserable for a sensitive mind like Ghalib's. But Ghalib did not succumb to his miseries not in his poetry at any rate. In fact, he turned his grief into poetry.
Need I say anything more?
Just one more thing - We are over-privileged. Lets not crib and be irreverent towards 'HIM'. Lets not be 'that beloved' of Ghalib, who with a mirror in her hand,remained transfixed in her place, intoxicated with her own beauty. We have just one Ghalib and lets just keep it that way.
I end this by dedicating his own quote to him -
"Yeh masaail-e-tasavvuf yeh tera bayaan Ghalib;
tujhe hum vali samajhte jo na(h) bada(h)khvar hota"
(These maxims of mysticism and your sublime oration
Ghalib;
We would have taken you for a saint had you not been a
wine-drinker)
But why is that some people pay, more than their due? As blind as we've always been,we fail to realize,its because 'They' want to enrich our lives in more ways than one.
How many times have we heard people quote 'Ghalib' and especially when they seem to have just no hope; only despair? Umpteen times! But again, how many of us actually know what went into making 'Ghalib' the most forlorn lover and the most wretched man who ever trod this earth? Why is that every inch of ground he walked upon, has become so hallowed?
Because it was Ghalib who knew what sorrow was, if anyone did. The death of his father and after that his guardian uncle when he was still a child, of his seven children one after another, of his dearly-loved brother, and still more dearly-loved adopted son in young age, the scourge of poverty and constant danger of debtor's jail, non-recognition of merit and vulgar vilification over literary controversies, the torture and disgrace of gambler's prison, the pain and suffering of half a dozen diseases and, above all, bitter domestic life. what could be more miserable for a sensitive mind like Ghalib's. But Ghalib did not succumb to his miseries not in his poetry at any rate. In fact, he turned his grief into poetry.
Need I say anything more?
Just one more thing - We are over-privileged. Lets not crib and be irreverent towards 'HIM'. Lets not be 'that beloved' of Ghalib, who with a mirror in her hand,remained transfixed in her place, intoxicated with her own beauty. We have just one Ghalib and lets just keep it that way.
I end this by dedicating his own quote to him -
"Yeh masaail-e-tasavvuf yeh tera bayaan Ghalib;
tujhe hum vali samajhte jo na(h) bada(h)khvar hota"
(These maxims of mysticism and your sublime oration
Ghalib;
We would have taken you for a saint had you not been a
wine-drinker)
Go Blotto
I positively resent intellectual truths which make demands
upon the mind, without being verifiable in immediate
experience. Like they say, even axioms are not axioms until
they are proved upon our pulses.
What is it then that makes us do, all that we do? Our emotions
are not isolated responses; they are conditioned as much from
within as without. 'Acquired' knowledge thus becomes the main
casus belli and life becomes nothing but a prolonged anathema.
Are we so hamstrung that we have to reach out for a blueprint
each time? Whatever happened to 'independent' learning? Why
cant we draw our own conclusions? Why cant we be an
experimentalist in our own right? Is there an inflexible rule
that we must adhere to, whereby it becomes imperative that we
reproduce everything verbatim?
We must begin to accept things and people as they are and not
intellectualize them into something else. Submission to people
as they are, without trying to indoctrinate or improve them -
could be instrumental in kissing away a lot of your anguish.
Stop hankering after concrete logic all the time. Do not lust
after fact and reason. Instead, sit back and luxuriate in your
new- found sense of doubt and ambiguity.
The worthwhileness of life does not lie in ensuring
continuity. The ethereal truth of life actually resides in the
"ephemeral". It is the transience that’s most exquisite.
When has "beauty" been known to survive the ravages of time?
Bask in the glory of the "moment" and let it pass, for there
is no pause in the progression of time.
upon the mind, without being verifiable in immediate
experience. Like they say, even axioms are not axioms until
they are proved upon our pulses.
What is it then that makes us do, all that we do? Our emotions
are not isolated responses; they are conditioned as much from
within as without. 'Acquired' knowledge thus becomes the main
casus belli and life becomes nothing but a prolonged anathema.
Are we so hamstrung that we have to reach out for a blueprint
each time? Whatever happened to 'independent' learning? Why
cant we draw our own conclusions? Why cant we be an
experimentalist in our own right? Is there an inflexible rule
that we must adhere to, whereby it becomes imperative that we
reproduce everything verbatim?
We must begin to accept things and people as they are and not
intellectualize them into something else. Submission to people
as they are, without trying to indoctrinate or improve them -
could be instrumental in kissing away a lot of your anguish.
Stop hankering after concrete logic all the time. Do not lust
after fact and reason. Instead, sit back and luxuriate in your
new- found sense of doubt and ambiguity.
The worthwhileness of life does not lie in ensuring
continuity. The ethereal truth of life actually resides in the
"ephemeral". It is the transience that’s most exquisite.
When has "beauty" been known to survive the ravages of time?
Bask in the glory of the "moment" and let it pass, for there
is no pause in the progression of time.
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