amidst helplessness

i am posting this with a therapeutic cause in mind.i believe that for me writing is the only and ultimate way i can solve my problems.instead of venting my shortcomings,anger,and frustration on someone i choose to articulate them here.consider these black letters the questions to my answers.

It is indeed a universally accepted idea, and obviously such an acceptance thrives from the shrewd regulation which one does to feel comfortable, that good times soon follow the bad ones. Autobiographies, biographies, memoirs, history, literature, sports and day to day events bear witness to it. ‘Hard times will pass on’ is indeed one of the most overtly used, cheaply understood, and widely acclaimed themes of our human existence, and its history.

With a proportion lesser than that of the sand particle by the shore of any sea, I am not here to refute these claims. All these should be true, and like my uncle srini I too cannot stress more than this. If not, why would all of us succumb to this delusion of things sorting amongst themselves? But the state which I am passing makes me feel, and I believe that this is true, that some things in life do not sort out; they are there not to change. No matter whatsoever happens there are a few people who, and the relationship which they inhabit in which, are so imperfectly managed that calling them an ill matched pair would be nothing but a misnomer. And when one is drawn amidst this kind of a relationship all alone, to face it every day and get depressed without any fault of his or hers is a bonus which demands an overtime of 8 hours a day!

It seems that life for me has ran amuck and instead of being blessed by what I want, not money or material things, I am always offered in bountiful things and situations which are simply not worth encountering. The facts that I have got nowhere for my higher studies, and that I am technically an unemployed person can be handled with a sensible approach. But added to these shortcomings, which indeed test me and my character, certain situations make me totally helpless. And the gross ineffectuality which I experience in these renders me frustrated. Perhaps the people who indulge in this kind of a foolish and totally dishonest relationship should realize that amidst them there is one person who is an objective observer and for whom the kind of environment they are generating can encapsulate me in a hazardous cocoon where I can suffocate to a state of perpetual depression and senselessness.

But the irony is that even though I know that such selfish people, who only flatter their false ego and lead a life plundered by dishonest compromises, will never realize what my concerns are. I will still wish they could.

a walk we had

the traffic is not so loud,

the sky is covered in cloud.

the rain is just an excuse

to make you of some use.

don’t be scared little big umbry

you won’t b seared, it’s not sunny!

can’t you ‘see’ the wind blow?

the tension is also at a low.

this i’ll always say without fail.

remember how we got back on the trail?

so come let’s make this evening too

before they come back and confine us in the zoo!

oh how is this?

the memory of a forgotten kiss!

old i am for sure

but at heart still pure.

who says i’ll walk alone tonight?

you’ll be there by my sight.

i remember those walks also

in the mud and across the snow.

creak you do as my bones

make it fast before life mourns.

on retrospection

It has been quite a long time now. Not that I was busy, I can’t be that much dishonest, but rather I was wayward: so much so that it has made me a Mr. No One for the time being.

It sometimes becomes absolutely necessary to get personal with oneself, dig within one’s consciousness, and then ask ‘Have I been up to that level where I could have avoided what had occurred?’ Well, this is not really a question of performance index or the quotient of perfection; rather it is all about taking responsibility, realizing that in life I am accountable to at least myself, and my own conscience, if not to others. In short I can deceive the whole world, and that’s what I have been doing perhaps, but I cannot cheat myself. I am not really regretting, but I am reviewing: time and tide wait for none, this I seemed to have forgotten. My friends who have seen me at the varsity can indeed agree what kind of an arrogant buffoon I have been. The porous and parasitic armour of my false ego, which ironically has robbed me of my own vitality in the futile effort to insulate me from the anxiety of the rat race, has now rendered me unworthy of any standing. I am unemployed, jobless, and possibly frustrated; without any academic interest to pursue I have made myself a kind of an old elephant-the one that can neither be moved out nor be asked to leave. There goes a saying in Bangla that the fruit is never a burden for the tree; but add to that fruit an ego, it thinks itself to be a burden.

There are too many perhaps-s and too many also-s in life, possibly these would come to me too, benefit me too. But there is a void to be lived with, a vacuum to be respired, and a cornered ego and a punctured pride to be dealt with.

Like a needle in a trance of opposed magnetisms,
knowing not whither shall it fly.