All’s Well; The Owl

One night, I was day-dreaming about being an owl. Not being an owl, actually, but looking like one. It was so late in the night, it was almost early morning. I don’t mean to say, ‘somewhere in the world, it was early morning’, but there, just right there, where I lay, it was so late in the night, it was almost early morning. You never know. (Neither do I)

It was like when once a friend said, “I am middle-aged.” I asked, “How do you know? Unless you know your exact life-span, you can never know when you are middle-aged!” I know the convention for using the term middle-age — I just think it is illogical.

Let me tell you of another conversation I had (and you may recall it, because I wrote about it, “some” time ago). Like Black and White. Whatever scale you assign for the colour range between black and white, both black and white are such tiny specks on that range, the range is almost completely grey.

It’s all sense-making. Late-night, early morning, young-age, middle-age, and old-age. Black and White. Day or night, human or animal, inside or outside. There is no sharp line that separates these pair of opposites, but a band or a scale.

Centuries of us all living together have forced us to make sense to and of each other. Irrespective of the language we employ, sense-making is the true semantic we deal in. When we made sense, things have been somewhat calm; when we didn’t make sense, we went to war; or created a Twitter handle. I prefer the Twitter handle. At least lives aren’t lost. Mostly.

Going to war is also sense-making; somewhat aggressive, but war is a means to make the other person see sense. War is akin to an actor on stage with a monologue. Who actually makes sense, however, depends on who wins the war.

I don’t know how you see it, but I believe we experience more than sense-making, naturally, i.e. when we are left to our own: not having to transmit the same experience, we aren’t limited and coerced to step-up or step down our experience to make sense – to someone else.

The experience is real even without the devices of language and expression. This experience is possible only when we leave the factory of shared constructs. And there’s nothing necessarily grand or glorious about these experiences (though, some may be), But perhaps you will agree with me my dear reader, what makes them grand and glorious, irrespective, is that they are our own.

Perhaps, you will indulge me further, by risking your “agreement” further, that these experiences matter more than sense-making. (I do not yet ask for the indulgence; only the consideration). The question that follows is how would you ask another to cherish these experiences without sense-making?

It’s just another random Thursday in my life, somewhere between late night and early morning. I am thinking: Owl: I almost look like an owl. Almost. Long way to go.

All’s well.


Optional Appendix

I recall a legend from my childhood. [I’ve over simplified it for this post; link for proper narration at the end]

/Digress Begin

Hiranyakashipu, a demon, once performed penance to Brahma (a God) to acquire immortality. PS: Demon wanted immortality to take revenge against Vishnu (another God). Brahma, though pleased with the austerity and penance, refused immortality (Bro-code). So, Hiranyakashipu chose the next best thing: a proper specification of how Hiranyakashipu could never die. He asked that he never meet his death (and this is just a representative list):

  • not in day, nor in night
  • not inside a house, nor outside
  • not on ground, not in the sky
  • not by a weapon
  • not by your creation
  • not by human or animal
… and the list goes on.
To cut a long story short, he wreaked havoc on the world after he got this boon, and the Gods kept going over the spec, wondering how to vanquish him. Then an avataar of Vishnu – Narsimha (Man-Lion), killed him.
A half-human, half-lion, who wasn’t a creation of Brahma, lifted him up, between earth and sky, on the threshold of a house, tore his entrails with claws, at twilight.
As mentioned, an oversimplistic story-telling. Hiranyakashipu was sense-making. In asking for the boon, he ignored possible experiences, and went with what was common grammar between him and Brahma. It did not include Vishnu’s experiences.

Detailed Story: Hiranyakashipu

/Digress End

A Dream, or Perhaps, Not

It was incomplete, but it was beautiful. That dream that was as true as I inhaled and exhaled.

Eyes wide awake, watching the reality around me; there’s a soft blur now, but the dream was sharp and real, when my eyes were closed and I, for a while though it may be, was in a different world. I was outside of me; seeing myself — it was a happy instance; which in this world it can never be.


Yet, it was my world, and its reality was pure; like the crisp sunshine of these southern winter mornings that I feel on my bare neck, under the netted shadows of old trees. It was not another world for sure. It was a time: either experienced and forgotten, or one that was soon due. But one thing was sure.

It was a happy one.

We all know it; for that sweet smile that wakes from a dream, cannot be suppressed; even when aware and awake. It is an empty sense of a foiled recollection; but we know deep down why we smile.

In our innocence, we call it a dream.

Instead of Writing …

Instead of writing, may be I should draw something. Hmm. Here’s a box.

A Box

Why? I do not know. I just felt like a box. A box is nice especially when it encloses a gift. It’s not such a good thing when it encloses us. Some may say that a box is not good; it limits. Others may say that a box is good; it defines. Be what it may be, a box is just a box. It has no agenda. It seeks nothing. It’s a box and it continues being a box.

A box may make us happy or sad, but the box itself doesn’t feel anything. I like boxes. After I take out the things that come in these boxes, I never throw the boxes away.

Boxes come in a few colours. But, most boxes are brown. A dull uniform brown. I think, boxes should be made in many, many colours. Boxes don’t feel anything. So it won’t matter to them, what colour they are. But colourful boxes will make those who make boxes, happy. As well as those who receive these colourful boxes. Boxes travel a lot.

Boxes are cool.

A Vintage Moment

Not this one. This is just a moment in time; now.

Window Frame

In due course, it will be a vintage moment. When something wonderful was thought of and created, even if it was just in the tightly confined vast mindspace unlimited possibility.

Hello 2017

There’s an uncanny silence to the way this year has started. Not freaky or weird, just odd, perhaps. Not that I was expecting some big-bang event, yet that sense of a New year isn’t apparent.

Puducherry Boatman

Puducherry (Pondicherry), India. It was a good morning

One step that we take, crossing a milestone, is the same as the thousand steps we took to reach the milestone. The step itself, or the milestone mean nothing. It is the sense of that step that becomes celebratory.

It is that sense which is worthy of being cherished.

2016 Schizophrenia

2016 started, just a few minutes in, with me falling down and hurting myself. Tore my jeans. Badly bruised my knee, and other various events. While agreeing with a friend on something, I punched her hand. The next day, I was reminded, it works differently for different genders. Apparently, equality of the sexes is not black and white. I made a mental note: Guy friends and gal friends: Two different things. DO NOT PUNCH GIRLS ON THEIR HANDS.


Money is one thing. Satisfaction is another. For a while, you can convince yourself that money is everything. Eventually, you will realise that satisfaction is important. I Left. Finding reasons not to do things is proof that you do not want to do things.


Friends are the most important thing in life. Your life needs to revolve around them. Mostly. Actually, you are the most important thing in (your) life. Ask, if friends will come along; if they do not, walk alone. Not all of your friends have the time or inclination.


I fell on the stairs in that badly designed staircase of that stupid pub. I carry the reminder on my shin.


Things will change. You will get cheated. It’s not people, who always cheat you. Sometimes, systems do. And it may seem that it is people. One person in the system is not the system. Being cheated, while it is not the best experience, is a means for you to become wise.


Loneliness and being alone are two very different things. When you know the difference, all is well. In 2016, I mixed them in a bad concoction. I put both of them in one jar and mixed them vigorously, hoping I’d have one thing to deal with.

145838: Men Drinking Tea


In 2016, I lost many friends. So much, that I am bereft of most friends. Either my friends were being stupid, or I was. Or they didn’t understand me. It was my doing, mostly. I do not seek to regain them. I ask not for forgiveness. I curse myself for the reasons that I lost them. I was lost, and in that loss, I crossed lines, and in crossing those lines, I lost much.


Reading above, it is easy to say that my 2017-self is (or could be) wiser. I would think so too. One more year in this life; however, I am not seeking wisdom. I am seeking happiness. I am seeking freedom.

from anger. from negativity. from cynicism. from bias.

I do not know that I can. But my 2017 will be all about it.


Happy New Year to all of You!

It Has Been 13 Years


I have blogged for 13 years. Not that it means much, when you think of the posts that I have published. Many folks have published more post is less than half the time that I have blogged.

But then, what is the metric to measure?

In terms of blogging, this has probably been the worst year of the 13. In terms of number of posts. But I have given up on trying to better the stats. 2016 has been a bad year.

I wonder why we attribute characters to years. 2016, a bad year. 2015 a good year and such. The year has no power to determine our lives.

I have read my posts the last two years and most of them are shite. Earlier, I was willing to talk of what I felt. I’ve mentioned of things that were bloggable. And I blogged them. And I wrote well. Of things that were bloggable. Years don’t have a positive or a negative sense. It is all our doing. And in 2016 I made adventurous mistakes. Plural. In making them, I learnt of expressing expression, talking of love, and, at times, not talking of love. To find myself, I had to lose myself.  I discovered that not all friends are friends. Some of them are more than friends. I learnt that you can’t always be honest about your feelings. Mostly, because you often do not know exactly what you feel. I learnt that love is worth fighting for. That true love, is not obvious. You will discover it only as you falter.

163201: The Beer Glass

Will 2017 be any different?

What’s one year after the other? Each year is only of more learning. There is no good year and a bad year. They are just years. Unemotional dates traversing a calendar. It’s us who push and pull emotions every day. Of loss and love. Of holding on and letting go.

To understand our limits, we have to exceed them; cross them. And we may hurt people around us. It is exploration for us, but it hurts them, when we expand; for curiosity. We may find our boundaries; or our boundaries may get handed to us; either way, we will know.


I have nothing to say about blogging other than it is cathartic. In time, I have discovered, we write for no one, but us; even if we write for others. Our posts are independent mirrors that reflect the times of specific feelings; posts, in our blog, are shards of our blog, the shards a composite of a mirror of self.

I’ll perhaps post more, this coming year. But, I do not promise.


Thank you, you all who have liked and commented on my posts. You are not forgotten. That small icon of you all, below the post, is the merry string of your love. It makes me happy.