The True Letter

“Bhai!” (Brother; no blood-relation, but what we feel about people is stronger than a blood-call)

I always love hearing his voice.

Hey, how are you, I asked.

“All good man. I am sorry.”

Huh? Why?

“I haven’t replied to your letter” [A physical letter, written on paper, paid for with postage, to be delivered by a postman]

That’s alright. I have received one from you.

“I know, but I never replied to your reply to that. I want to reply. I want you to know that.”

She had written a letter to me once. On an unruled Inland Letter. There was a lot of space in between the lines she wrote. Maybe she was helping me read in-between the lines. I wasn’t as smart then, also, I thought I was in love. I just saw the empty space between the actual lines, beautiful handwriting, and well, you know what. She also wrote of how she had good intentions to write to me, but, she reminded me that, “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.” I thought I’d re-quote this to my brother. Thought better of it.

That’s fine. I know you will reply. Soon.

“I don’t understand why I don’t write. I have the stationery. I have the will.”

You are, perhaps too focused on writing a proper letter.


You don’t need to write a full letter, you know. Just write a big ‘HI’ on the letter and post it?



Rest of the conversation was of various other things. And while I did give him an answer for his last question, I wondered, what was the “Meaning?” What does a letter mean? To me?

Doing an about-turn and looking within yourself is a difficult thing to do. We rarely do it. It follows, that we have lost (or are losing) the art of looking within. That evening, I turned.

It’s just so nice to receive a personal letter. A small little envelope, with your name inscribed on it in, fat, thin, curvy, thick, elegant, scribbly handwriting. It’s your name. Then follows your address. Whoever sent you the letter knows exactly where you are. The letter comes home. We aren’t having a conversation while I am commuting or when I am down on the street for a late afternoon for a chai and a cigarette. [Statutory Warning: Smoking is injurious to health].

A letter comes to where you are. Home. And then you open the letter. It may be a single page, or pages and pages stuffed in that reluctant envelope, ready to burst at the seams. It’s never the same as having the letter-writer in front of you, but it is the closest. I know, many folks think voice is the closest, but I think otherwise. Written words are. See, letter writing (pen and paper) is not the same as typing on a keyboard. Our thoughts are racing, our pen-in-our-hand cannot keep up. So, we often slow down out thoughts. If you have ever received a multi-page letter, you will know what I am talking of.

The first paragraph is exquisite. Your friend has sat down to write the letter, slowed down the thought process, and the best of her handwriting shows up. One page down. Now the excitement of I-have-so-many-things-to-share-with-you, takes over. Scribbly text takes over. Spelling mistakes. Scratches. She sees her own handwriting. Slows down. It repeats. Somewhere, the weight of the paper comes into consideration. No more pages! But I have so much more to say. A-ha! Margins! Let’s flout that one rule we learnt in school.

There’s more character to a letter than any other form of communication. Except of course, when we are having coffee together, at the same table.

To write a good letter, we need to be in denial, however; in these times. We have to deny ourselves an instant response. We have to let go, of a response, if that is what it takes. There is sheer pleasure in writing a letter. We have to move away form the instant gratification of the double-blue-tick-mark of WhatsApp and learn to yearn for a postal delivery. For something tangible. For something that’s forever.


Take your time, Bhai. Send me that letter when you can. What matters not is that it’s a postcard or an overstuffed envelope for which I have to pay extra postage. What matters is that I get it. You know it, there’s a joy in receiving letters. You have experienced it.

Spread the joy.


A Delayed Schizophrenia

Oh it’s been a long time.

The above sentence was all that I had prepared for this post. Rest of it, whatever follows, I did not plan for.

[Insert long pause while staring at the WordPress editor, wondering what I am doing here, given that I have nothing to say. Actually, nothing to write. I do have a lot to say]


Being good. Let’s talk of that. Being good is so easy, these days. Especially in these days and times. We all are so “aware” of everything that is going on in the world (well, “world” is a sort of exaggeration). World means neighbourhood, actually. We just imagine that the neighbourhood is the world, and are satisfied by that definition. We have quick responses. Most of them witty, topical, and always instant. Not very long ago, it took a lot of effort to dissent. It was, what I would call, a long struggle. These days, not so much. To be angry required effort. Today, all it requires is that you share it on Facebook, forward it to all your WhatsApp group, or create  Twitter thread that has life-span of minutes. In the collective outrage of all the issues in this world, your outrage doesn’t count for much. Outrage today is worth only tonight’s sleep. I tweeted, I shared, I forwarded.


20 years of anything, has to count for something. Its quality notwithstanding, the quantity itself is worth celebrating. Happy 20 years, yo!


Given that I had nothing to say when I started this post, I should self-congratulate.


Best friends seldom ask questions. They just intuit it. Sort of a divination, so to speak. It is actually a Q&A session between them, but nothing is asked, nothing spoken. The evening is spent in songs, beer, and tier-3 jokes. But there’s a parallel conversation. I don’t know how girls do it; boys don’t speak. They just, well, intuit.


Leave notes. Write letters. Scribble somewhere. Keep the notes safe from natural elements. When you are gone, someone will cherish them. I cherished them. Notes from someone who is long gone. I hope that it will be the same for me. I can hope. I miss you, dear friend.


Our lives are our own. There is no race. There is no life in a race. There is no race in life.

Happy Republic Day

Happy Republic Day, to all fellow Indians.

This day that year, we got our own Constitution. It is the Supreme Guide. That Supreme Guide provides us ways and means to amend the Supreme Guide itself, if we think that the Supreme Guide is not helping, or lacking. Laws of society have been codified for thousands of years. In all the thousands of years, they have changed according to how society has changed.

“It’s a stupid law. I won’t follow it.”

I have heard the above statement often. It’s a gift that we live in a democratic society. I agree that many of the rules and laws are archaic, stupid, even, and they are not applicable given how society has evolved. I feel, however, violating law because you do not agree with it, is not the right way to protest. Frankly, it is counter-intuitive. Given that we have a dynamic constitution, we can change the law. But therein lies the inherent problem. We do not want to struggle to get the relevant laws in place. I often do not celebrate the freedom struggle anniversaries; mostly because I feel that I have failed those who got us independence. I do not know, how we got set in comfort of the “static quality” of independence.

Independence is always work-in-progress. Our Freedom Fighters were lucky, if I may say so with due respect, to able to point a finger at someone and say – I want to be independent of you. And they struggled, and we are now a free country. That was 1947. Three years before we became a Republic. We are now in 2018. And 1947 and 1950 have to dance together: an independent republic.


Mine is a big country. As a democracy, all are allowed to do and say what they want. So, it is difficult to understand the idea of India. With all the voices in the ten directions. And all the voices are allowed. I understand, how we may come across as a confused nation.

But, come, watch us celebrate a festival. Any festival. We promise you, you will be more confused than you were before.

Happy Republic Day to all my fellow Indians.

Love is Wabi-sabi

It’s easy to fall in love. An irresponsible chemical reaction is all it takes, and we say – I love you. Of course, there is no guarantee that the same irresponsible chemical reaction has occurred in the you of the “I love you.” Given the voluminous literature of romantic tragedy, it is safe to say that one chemical reaction does not cause another as desired. That’s the first problem.

Overcome that, and you have two irresponsible chemical reactions happening simultaneously. Bliss! We have an I love you and we also have an I love you, too. Such a lovely feeling that is, everything seems so bright, vibrant, sweet, and in place. Yes, it’s great.

Then, millions of years of training takes over. This and that. Black and white. Good and bad. Like and dislike. Almost all of evolutionary classification starts its slow game. It begins with small requests. The requests then come in earnest. And a few shades later become demands. Now you realise the irresponsibility of that chemical reaction; it over-rode all this classification that’s now playing the game. What begins, is the process of fashioning a personality of your choice and liking. A small iron chisel, lovingly thumped by a wooden mallet, finely carving out a sculptor’s imagination on a life.

“I love you, if only you would [insert desired change]”

Nayak Nayika. c. 11th CE. Hinjalgarh (Mandsaur). State Museum, Bhopal, MP, India

Nayak Nayika. c. 11th CE. Hinjalgarh (Mandsaur). State Museum, Bhopal, MP, India

Begets the question then; are we to trust the native irresponsible chemical reaction that tripped us and threw us in love? What are we to do when we feel betrayed by this instinctive chemical reaction? We could accept that the reaction was wrong; a mistake and walk away. Mostly, it seems, we insist that the reaction was almost right and start changing what we once loved; what was once pure. Iron chisel. Wooden mallet. Lover becomes sculptor. With no time to love.

Relentlessly sculpting, he makes a great work of art. Just like the sculptor has imagined it. It’s perfect. It’s shiny. It’s sophisticated. It’s unreal. It’s unattainable. It’s not human.

To partly accept, is to not accept. Love is pure Wabi-sabi

All’s Well. Actually.

I must say this was the best day of my life. Without me asking for it, folks were wanting me to be closer to me. For geographical reasons I could not be close to be my second family. And I wish you all the best; you know who you are.

All’s well, actually. I wonder, why, and how I have anything to complain.

Short story: No complaints.

End of an Exile: 14 Years

Fourteen years is usually a standard for an exile in ancient Indian texts. So, exile is the first word that comes to mind when fourteen years have passed. Of course exile doesn’t apply in the context of this post – it is actually the fourteenth-anniversary of this blog. Yes, fourteen years. Not a round number like ten of fifteen, just a number, somewhere in the middle.

I don’t know if I have enough to show for it, I mean I have less than 1400 posts, not even a 100 for every year. Once upon a time it made a lot of difference to me – to write regularly, nicely. Over time, it didn’t seem as important. The urge to write was always there, the bloggable thoughts continued. Just writing them seemed unimportant. What’s one thought lost among the millions that never saw the bytes of a blog? More thoughts got added to those millions.

1132: Jantar Mantar

Recently, after a long and an interesting conversation, which I may add is pretty rare these days, I discovered that a lot of what was going in that conversation had occurred before and it was in this blog, somewhere. Present-me felt thankful to the Past-me. Thank you for expressing all that out here. This experience has also got me reading my blog all over again. It’s not just nostalgia, there’s a wonderful sense of getting to know a person. For me, more so, because I know the person more than these posts describe.

There’s not much to say about this anniversary, just that it is overwhelming to think it, even. I just look forward to do more justice and send lesser thoughts the way of the firing squad in the days and years to come. Not every thought may be popular or interesting, even, but it is worth in itself. For its be-ing.

That’s worth fighting for.


Thank you all who have visited all these years, I am truly grateful for your visit, acknowledgement, and your thoughts.

The Persistent Witness

I refused to even look at him. Those piercing eyes. That gaze that could see through, and within me. I’ve known him for a long time. He has been a constant companion. An intimate companion, I may add. More than anyone else. As I say this, I feel, I may be misrepresenting. He is not “out” there. Not outside of me. He is within. I do not know when, but I stopped listening to him. Stopped talking to him.

Towards the Sky

He is my witness. But, I don’t want him to see. I have become so good at hiding it from others. How do I make him not see? I’ll drop thick drapes between us. I’ll hide in rooms, behind locked doors. Big locks. Magnetic. Electronic. Yet, he is here, right in front of me.

I see my reflection in the mirror and I wonder if it is mine. I am me, he is reflection. Then, there is no escaping. When I dine alone, when I drive alone, there’s that presence. His. Chatterbox. Talks of all that I do not care to listen, or even hear.

Yackity yackity yack. Yada yada yada. And for good measure; blah, blah, blah!

But, welcome back old friend, even if I have no use for you anymore. I will not turn you away.

Just stay out of my mind and away from my mirror.