#30 I Challenge You to Bring A Change.

Too many human beings are departing from this universe without finding the Real Self. The world has no purpose, no value, no beginning and no end. All meaning is created by human beings. I have never followed any leader or saint. To follow others is queer. Everyone has different experiences. I follow my own life, instead. I say everything is a part of circle and life has no meaning, we will bury on the ground where we all came from. It is better to live life on our own decisions and judgments.

We are searching job securities and preparing for short term happiness. Indirectly, we live our life like we have thousand years to live. We are satisfying ourself with what life is giving to us, running on super-highways and not thinking to walk down our own road. We are afraid to do mistakes, always afraid of trying something new. Living on the advices of others. Living on the experiences of others. We do not believe in our abilities and preparing back up plans one after another. We are waiting for the right time to come whereas deep inside we all know that right time will never come. A big life can be created by combining small moments of greatness.

 To live a beautiful is our birth right. We all are bestowed with some special qualities that are in need to be manifested. A giant lies within us. The flawless treasures and pearls are waiting for us. To get something extra from life a man must work something extraordinary in life. The tree of future is deep rooted in our present. Every day is a new day to create a new life. Every day is a new day to dream something big. The only way to live a life is to live now and become better than yesterday.

           

Action Plans

1.      Build World Class Habits: “Successful people are successful because they form the habits of doing those things that failures don’t like to do.”- Albert Gray

2.      Make Plans: “Tremendous life comes by setting tremendous goals and achieving them tremendously.”- Nakul Grover

3.      Be optimistic: “You cannot live a positive life with a negative mind.”- Anonymous  

4.      Change yourself: “I sleep 6 hours a day. I don’t gossip. I don’t argue until I face any arrogant. I work on my weaknesses 6 hours a day. I don’t take my life seriously. I do meditation. I am controlling my mind. I am doing better than yesterday”- Nakul Grover

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#29 How I achieve my goals and play my biggest game?

I was always a stubborn child. I had no control over my desires. If I wanted doing something I directly asked my parents. If they refused or stopped me, I did it alone. My parents and friends have always tried to stop me doing the things I wanted to do. They said whatsoever I was thinking has no meaning to life and I was doing a great mistake. So I said, ‘Hell with your advices. Let me do mistakes.’ Fortunately, I proved myself every time after getting failed twice or thrice.

The biggest favor I did on my life is by stopping wrong people poking their nose in my business. But I allow girls to say and do whatsoever they wanted to do with me. Girls have also been a motivation for me to write about love. I found all girls are positive as I have never shared my worries with them. I don’t talk with every girl. They are chatter-box. If you try to stop them from speaking, they might turn face from you. And once any woman started ignoring you, you cannot make her to come back in your life.

At one moment of my life, I found good surrounding myself with haters. Sometimes haters motivated me and sometimes they made me feel low. And soon, I understand I cannot do anything when I’m highly motivated and depressed. Wrong people are only energy drainers. The only thing that matters is how long you are playing your game. Self-discipline is the art that everyone needs to learn. Getting up every day and doing again and over again the same things makes a man perfect. I prohibited wrong people to enter my life with their free advices and started reading books. I made books my friend and walk down my own road.

Now, I stay away from naysayers, blamers, complainers. I make excuses when they call me to spend a little time with them. I do not take advices from elders too. They are also negative. I make goals, set limits and do best to achieve them. Every morning, I ask myself to play the biggest game of my life. I keep on reminding myself the things which will help me in improving my life and becoming a better person. 
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#28 Muslims, Hindus and Christians, Your Religion is Non-sense

Two years ago, I found my interest in religion. I took Holy Bible, Guru Granth Sahib and Holy Quran for reading. I accept that I haven’t read them till the last, but I understood what they all are about. Then I moved to spirituality and started reading Swami Vivekananda and Swami Ramakrishna. These two spiritual giants were followers of Hinduism and studied Vedanta. I found Swami Vivekananda more logical then Swami Ramakrishna. Then I read Ramdas, Osho, Sri M, Swami Nityananda and other philosophers of Hinduism. I learnt a lot of new information from them.

            People who are the followers of the ready-made religion are not living in reality. They are imagining a person who really not exists and doing kirtans-bhajans in sangat. Doing kirtans, dancing on that music, chanting the names of Rama and Krishna is madness. Muslims follow Mohmmad who flew in heaven with his flying horse. The flying horse was lucky, he got a lottery to heaven. Christians follow Jesus who really didn’t die on a cross but in Kashmir, India. Buddhism and Jainism are derived for Hinduism and yet resist the philosophies of Hinduism.  Words by Guru Nanak are similar to the words that in Holy Bible.

            Religion is not without but starts from within. The philosophy of inside world is very difficult to understand. Buddha did find himself but then there are a lot of other things that resist me to follow him. I believe in one God and that is formless.  I learnt about this God from my school. My teachers who were followers of Vishnu, Mahesh and Brahma told me that God is one. And this God of mine is an energy that is spread all over the world. This god is deaf who can’t hear your bhajans. But he is not blind and can see your prayers and works. This God works like a mirror for human being. Whatsoever human beings throw in the world, the energy does its work of throwing their Karmas back upon them.

Good and bad are reverse and obverse of a same coin. I believe Jesus, Mohammad, Guru Nanak, Buddha had lived on this earth and they did find themselves. They tried their best to spread peace and brotherhood on the earth. But people are spreading non-sense all around. Quran says kill all the infidels, Jews do not accept theories of Jesus and fight with Christians, Sikh are busy in making Khalistan by undergoing amrit-chakna, a sort of baptism, which symbolised a member of Khalsa.

I do not indulge in religious debate nor I stop people to follow what they are doing, but I always put my points before people without afraid. Jesus, Buddha, Mohmmad, Guru Nanak all were human beings. I accept the good things written in the holy books and shape my life according to it. Books have always been to find the Real Me. I found Mahatma Gandhi and Khushwant Singh a better human being. Now, shall I make another religion and give it a name Gandhistan or Khushwantstan? 

            My religion is to share my knowledge with others and to do what I love. Where the youth is busy fighting on the matter of freedom of speech, I meditate on myself. I’ve never accept any good from the youth of our country. They are non-sense and active in spreading rubbish. I love reading books but I never follow any leader or writer. I am a follower of my own life. My own life is my religion. I write what is true and what I experience without giving to damn people.  

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#27 My Clear Conscience

Middle man who struggles in his early life always gets enough to keep his body and soul together. It is good to be a middle man, but not as good as to live a happy and peaceful life. A beautiful life comes in either discovering the gifts dwelling in you or by learning how to be satisfied. As us human beings have a congenital disease of desires, we can never we be satisfied with our self.  We always want a little more. It is not at all bad to desire more. Desires and dreams are good. At whatever stage we are now is only because of our thoughts and desires of past. What you desire and think today, you will surely get it tomorrow. I think, to live a beautiful life a man should always keep on searching the true meaning behind his life.

            I feel good as a writer. I talk honestly with people, I share my knowledge with them, I inspire them and sometimes, I make them feel lonely with my old writing style. But frankly, I always try to help them as much as I can through my writings. I always feel better when I reflect upon the words of Mahatma Gandhi:

Vaishnavjan toh tainey kaheeye, jo peerh paraayee jaaney ray

(I know him as a man of God, who feels another’s pain)

            I try to help everyone, but if someone breaks my trust I don’t feel afraid while abandoning him. I accept I too had broken many trusts and hearts. I regret it doing so and always do my best to avoid hurting anyone.  

            Another thing to make your life colorful is in learning how to entertain yourself. I impressed dozens of people with my ability to make quick humor. Now, people who know me very well laugh even when I pass a fart. Farting on the correct time, in the right situation is also an art. I feel pity for the people who entertain themselves by watching videos on YouTube. Those people have a low sense of humor. There is no need to search humor on television or online. Humor is everywhere if we see it with laughing hearts. I found man has a great sense of humor while woman has a great sense of rumor.

            Whole my life I did what I liked, without caring what people might think and how they might react. That is another way to live a good life, without giving damn to the people. It reminds me of a quote by Rumy: Sing like the birds sing, not worrying about who hears or what they think.

            Yesterday, I was a child, running on the streets behind the kites spinning and gliding in the sky and now, I don’t know when I passed twenty-one years of my life. The only apt couplet comes in mind is of Mirza Ghalib:

Rau mein hai rakhsh-e-umar kahaan dekhiye thhamey

Naey haath bag par hai na paa hai rakaab mein.

(Life travels at a galloping pace; I know not where it will stop;

The reins are not in my hands, nor my feet in the stirrups.)

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#26 Cricket Match in Abode Valley— part 1

Aadi, the captain of our team, brought a red color ball from the marwadi’s shop for the sum of thirty rupees and practiced bowling rigorously on the street of Photeri. He took a challenge from the hostel boys, previous day. He didn’t sleep and made strategies whole night. He hated losing the match. His mind was as quick as his fingers in reversing the ball and game at last minute. Where as his roommate, Rohit, who was a Rajput, and a buddhu, as all his friends call him, failed to learn any skill from Aadi. Rohit was the twelfth player of our team and always sat behind the boundary line to receive and throw the ball back in the match.

            They both called the team in morning one hour before the match. Coming from different places, half-awaked, we all assembled outside an apartment called Abode Valley. We ordered about ten cups of tea from a near by shop and sat outside on the stools. Where Aadi was busy telling game plan to us, a few were engaged in puffing out the clouds of smoke from cigarettes and the rest in gazing the two beautiful girls eating steam kachoris on a rickety stall at a distance.

            It was difficult to say who was prettier. The girl clad in a sky top with long sleeves and floral Pyjama had a cute smile, and the other girl draped in bird printed top and short was much lovely. All I know is that they were beautiful enough to carry out hearts from our mouths.

Everyone felt some special love for the giggling girls. Raghib Khan, who was my friend and a classmate, couldn’t help showing his paan-striking mouth. Rohit, the buddhu boy suddenly brushed his finger on his head. No sooner the girls paid the bill and left the place, small face Rajnish and the buddhu boy tottered behind them. No one stopped them. Everyone knew they will be back as soon as the girls shoo them away. From the last three years, not even the akas and maids found anything cute in them.

The Abode Valley was a planned palatial apartment consisted of three swimming pools, each one divided by blocks, a line of flats. The gardens were embodied by flowers and small play grounds with swings. The sound of loud music could be heard from a few flats. The air suffused with lust and love indicated that most of the flats were acquired by college students. It was difficult to count how many beautiful flowers were deflowered in the passion of love and sex. A few youngsters feel guilt, but for most this passion grows sweeter with the passing time. After a long time, when the grown up youth would recollect the memories of their college days then they would savour only the reminiscences of old but still fresh and sweet love. No one wants to forget the lips touching the smooth texture of the skin, the coolness of the feet, the fragrance of the warm bodies, the sharp tingles of fingertips, the gentle mourns, the love searching eyes. These sweet memories only depart from one’s life with the freedom by itself, with the death.

When we reached the field, we saw the opposite team already practicing their. We arranged the bricks to sit near a small tree. Lifting a box full of cold drinks and chips, Rajnish and Rohit arrived.

Part 2 (writing.. )

#25 The Lonely Song

 My dear readers told me that my writings make them feel lonely and advised me to write something on love and romance.’ Love stories are what making writers to earn fame and money,’ said one of my friends. ‘Change your style. You look like a depress writer,’ opined another friend. The only compliment I got from a lovely girl a few days ago: ‘I know you are not professional, but your writing is good. I love reading your stories.’

            Truly, I do not know what makes my readers happy or lonely. I write what I experienced and learnt from my life. My experiences helped me to write a book too. A lot of people are confused that how can I debut as a Self-help writer in India. There is no market for a Self-help writer. But I am happier being a writer who doesn’t know anything, and writing his autobiography in small pieces. I know, it is my weakness. But I can’t help. 

            Whenever I sit for writing, two things come before me: the longings for dreams and hopes, and the memories of beautiful girls. I write about them, sometimes truth and sometimes imaginary. Now, I think I’ve left all the delightful girls and my youth in search of something better. Where boys are busy in making love with their girls, I am talking with trees and leaves. When I get tired talking with them, I remain silent. I forbid my mind thinking anything and feel the sweetness of breeze. The cool winds coming from a large tree always tries to tell me something. I don’t know further, but I could say there is something around us which is watching our every deed.

I don’t enjoy watching movies and television so I spend my day either in wandering the streets around my house or sleeping with my old books in my small room. I love collecting books, but I don’t feel like reading them— a big weakness as a writer. I remember the time when I used to read two or three books a week. It was hard work. And I hate hard work.

            I recall somewhere reading, ‘Solitude is bliss.’ But no one ever told that sometimes solitude becomes loneliness. When loneliness assails me, I try my best to keep myself busy. Sometimes I play old songs on my mouth organ and sometimes I just lie down and stare at the rotating fan. Once, I got out of my room and took a local train, but the crowd streaming in and out on every station annoyed me and I never thought about travelling again.

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#24 Story of Me and My small room

In search of peace I left the rented palatial apartment in the beginning of my third year of graduation and moved to this small room. I sold all my old belongings except my red printed curtains before coming here. I’ve no idea what made me to bring these curtains here but I feel good to see it absorbing water droplets leaking from the aged air-conditioner hung above it. My air-conditioner is different from all other air-conditioners manufactured on this earth. It seldom works and often disappoints me with long electricity bills.  

            Kitchen is as small as an ATM machine room— one at a time— and always lit by a small light. If you examine my kitchen, you would find a few steel glasses and plates, a gas-chulha and a cylinder. The only rusted window of my room looked the walls of the neighbouring buildings, so there is no showering of sunrays.  I always keep the window shut to impede mosquitos entering the room. I sleep on floor over a matrix surrounded by books of old authors and saints. The old fan is quiet good in this cool weather, as it remains off whole day. My study table, chair, bag, and suitcases are acquired by my books. How amazing it is that you could even talk to dead people through their books.

    I sleep around 12 at night and wake up around 6 in the morning. But in holidays, I continue to sleep till eight or nine. After breakfast, I read books and when my mind refuses to concentrate, I waste my time staring at the fan or table. Nowadays, I am wasting my time on my cell phone. Cell phone has always made my mood sulky. I hate cell phones.

            My cook is on leave. It has been more than ten days since I ate my meals properly and on time. I’m having tea and samosa in lunch and breakfast, and at night I ask any of my friends to make a few chapatis for me. Samosa and Kachoris have ruined my digestive system. To amuse myself I laugh and shout before farting, ‘Puud Maaro’ (Kill the fart).

            I love collecting books, but I am too lazy to read it. I don’t have patience to read novels. Moreover, I don’t like modern authors who always talks about love birds. I love reading short stories. I enjoy reading stories about kids on bicycles, a little girl climbing up the mountain with her favourite colourful umbrella, a father with his son roaming around the green valleys, bhoots in old house, and childhood days.

            Apart from reading and writing, I play mouth organ in evening. On the top of my lungs I sing a song of Bob Dylan which left a deep impression on me:

‘How many roads must a man walk down… before you call him a man…?

The answer is blowing in the wind.’

Email: grovernakul142@gmail.com

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#23 My Christmas day

I woke up eight in the morning. After drinking a glass of water stirred with honey, I sat for learning English grammar. It was about nine when I felt a little cold. I peered out through the window and perceived sun was shimmering upon the streets. I took my book, reader and pen, and climbed up the stairs.

            My dear readers usually think that I am an introvert and read books whole day long. It is a grievous error. I believe I am an extrovert. I’ve so many old and new friends that I never feel alone. I become introvert when I see people messing all around and doing nothing more than creating problems. I read books when I have nothing good to do. My biggest weakness, like other modern writers, I speak a lot and read less.

            When I was solving a worksheet of pronoun, my mother came and put a green kite before me. I gazed my mother. She smiled and informed the kite came from somewhere behind. I looked at the blameless sky. At least a dozen kites already hung in the sky.

I remembered father gifting me a spool and a couple of kites on my birthday. Early in the morning, every year on my birthday, he took me to the kite’s shop and asked the shopkeeper to give a hard, shiny and the best string. He didn’t know anything about the kites but he had always rejected a few kites to pretend as if he was once a great kite fighter. I’ve spent all my childhood birthdays in cutting kites rather than cakes. It is after admitting to college I come to know that the students still love cutting cakes.

The kite fighter in me born again as I saw yellow, black, red and blue kites spun and glided in the sky. I rushed down to fetch my spool holder. I tied the string with the kite and then jerked it twice. The kite spun, tossed and then flew away with the wind.

After an hour or two, my childhood friends, Rashtra and Abhimanyu, arrived at my rooftop. I feel Rashtra’s parents are patriots, so they derived his name from rashtra-pati or rashtra-geet. Abhimanyu, a tall figure, handlebar moustache boy, gazed at my English Grammar book, twirled his moustaches and said, ‘No matter how big writer you may become, but for us, you will always remain our ustaad.’ After that, we laughed, rebuked and shared school memories with each other.

Towards midday, we mounted on the Bullet motorcycle and made our way to market. Neither any girl nor any boy left behind on our way, we didn’t wish a merry Christmas. Even Rikshawalas gave a reassuring smile to us. All this while, we talked and made plan about partying at night. We thought we all old friends would meet up and go to Sacred Heart School, the only place where Santa Claus existed, to see girls. The gifts giving Pere Noel (Father Christmas) had always successfully called lovely girls to Sacred Heart School. Unsurprisingly, later, this plan also became an illusion as just as our old plans.

            I spent rest of my Christmas day loitering on the streets, fighting with friends, buzzing around the houses of lovely girls, standing at the burger shop, killing time in the cinema hall. At night, as I returned to home, mother roared at me for coming late at home. Father was asleep. After dinner, I took a novel by Khushwant Singh and soon, sleep came over me.

            All in all, the Christmas day was same like the other days. December 25 is just an announcement about the beginning of the winter vacations. Going to a club, drinking and partying hard, flirting with girls and becoming a center of attraction is a delusion for most of Indians. At the end of the day, whether it’s a new year or a Christmas party, Indians satisfy themselves with daal, roti and sometimes chawal as their dinner.

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#22 On Way to Her School

It was a premature morning. The sun was rising behind the hills. The cock was awoke and prepared itself cry out its alarm. The birds chirped about the sky, the women waddled about the house and the milkman serviced about the streets. Kalu, son of baniya who ran a grocery store, came out from his house and hurried off in the direction of maidaan to play cricket. All through his way, he practiced cricket while throwing imaginary balls in the air.

            ‘Are you going to the central library?’ said Julee, pulling my hem of the shirt.

            ‘Yes! Don’t you want me to go?’ I asked bending a little towards her.

            Julee brushed her nose with the black tie she wore over a blue school uniform. She was a bespectacled, little, fat girl and lived in an old house behind the maidaan with her family. Her school was about two kilometers apart from her house, near the central library, next to orphanage. As she was stout, she hated covering the distance by walk. Whenever she saw any familiar face lingering by maidaan she asked him to drop her to school. She wished she too had a bicycle like her friends, Tina and Alisha. Once, she asked for a bicycle on her birthday, but the poor parents refused to gift her. Julee cried for two whole days and then her daily-routine went on.    

            ‘You can go but after dropping me to school.’

            ‘All right!’ I said and put her bag on the back of the bicycle. She jumped on the front stick of the bicycle and crossed her legs. I paddled and took a straight path towards her school.

            ‘Where is your motorcycle?’ she asked while looking at Kalu who was running behind the bowl over the maidaan. As Kalu came near a large peepal tree, he made a powerful dive on to the ground and caught the ball. Bowler and fielders cheered up. The wah-wah of Kalu spread across the field.

‘It is with father,’ I said. ‘He’s gone to office. Don’t you like my bicycle? I know how difficult it is to sit upon the stick, but the ride on bicycle has its own fun.’

No response. She gazed the boys playing in the maidaan till we passed by a large building and the little lads disappeared behind. She took her tie and swept her nose once again.

‘Kalu is your classmate, right?’

‘Yes! He is an awaraa chokra. He seldom comes to school.’ she coughed as we came by Ramesh’s stall who was busy frying hot chilies.

‘How could you say him a loafer?’

‘My mother says so. Kalu doesn’t need to go school. His father owns a shop, so he could sit on it.’ Julee said. ‘My father is a milkman and girls don’t sell milk. So I don’t have any choice rather than going school.’

She stopped to retrieve her breath, ‘Moreover, I can’t ride father’s bicycle because I am a bachhi. And I think father would never buy a small bicycle for me.’

Julee grumped under her breaths and felt sad. She took her tie and began rolling and unrolling it. Sinking in her cycle-world, she looked straight. She too wanted to go to school on bicycle like her classmates, Tina and Alisha.

‘Bicycle is not so good. In fact, it is worthless,’ I said. ‘In summer, it is difficult to ride under the blazing sun. And in winters, you can’t think how hard it is to paddle in mist. Walking is better than cycling. While cycling, you can’t ride it without your hands supporting the handles. But, while walking, you can shelter your head with your hands from sunrays in summers, and in winters you can rub it together to keep your body warm. I am going to sell this bicycle. I don’t like it anymore.’

The little girl was still heartbroken.

‘Arey Janaab! Where are you going?’ shouted the old tailor, Master Ali, standing at the brink of his small shop. He was the oldest being in the village and knew almost everyone. He called everyone Janaab, even to the women. A round cap on the head and an unruffled plain white beard resembled him molwi sahaab of the masjid. The son of Master Ali had left him behind in the village and moved to the city, and never returned to see him. Master Ali was suffering from night blindness. He would open the shop early morning and towards early evening it would be close. No one knew what he would do after the dusk would fall.  

I halted my bicycle at his shop. The old Ali held the Julee’s chin and asked ‘Janaab! What happened? Janaab, why are you so gloomy?’

Julee didn’t reply and gently fell her head down.

‘Janaab, don’t you want to go school? Janaab, if you don’t like going school, you could come to my shop. I would teach you tailoring without any cost,’ said Master Ali. ‘Good children become better and then migrate to cities, leaving their parents behind, Janaab.

‘Master, it is not like what you are thinking. She loves going school. She is sad because she wants a new bicycle,’ I intervened.

‘Oh! Janaab in that case you must go to school and learn something to earn some money. Janaab, good children become better and could buy a bicycle too,’ Master Ali passed a smile. Julee played with her tie and kept quite. ‘Janaab, Don’t worry. I’ve something for you. Wait a moment, Janaab!’

Julee lifted her head for the first time. Skeptically, she waited. Master Ali called out for Shanu and asked him to bring Puchu. Shanu, the washerman’s son, was a ten years old boy and worked for Master Ali. 

The sweet, little boy came out from a small room with a parrot perching on his head. Suddenly, a smile came across Julle’s face. The smile was not for the parrot but for Shanu instead, for she remembered Shanu offering his bicycle to her every Sunday. As Shanu came by us, Puchu cried out gazing at Julee, ‘Janaab… Janaab… Why are you so happy?’

Everyone laughed and the stout girl was happy again.

‘Do you like parrots?’ asked the little Shanu draped in dirty clothes.

            ‘Yes, I like…’

            Before Julee continued, Master Ali said, ‘Janaab, you could play with Puchu whenever you come here. Puchu is very shararti. He is nalayak and would never leave me and fly away, Janaab.’

            ‘All right Master!’ said Julee with a smile stuck to her lips.

            ‘Master Ali! Now, we shall leave. Otherwise, she will get late for her school.’ I said.

            ‘Okay Janaab!’ said Ali. ‘But don’t forget to visit Puchu again.’ Master Ali kissed the Puchu like a grandfather loving his grandson.

            Shanu and Julee passed a soft smile to each other. I paddled and didn’t stop until we reached her school. Julee was happy, and all through our way from Master Ali’s shop to school, she played with her fingers and tie, and sang the Christmas song.

            ‘Now go to your classroom and study well,’ said I.

She jumped off the bicycle and shouldered her bag. ‘All right. But you don’t sell your bicycle,’ she beamed. ‘Till I grow as tall as you and buy it from you.’

            Julee turned around and merrily ran towards the ground where students were assembled to sing out their morning prayers.

            I gazed her till she disappeared in the swarm of students. I paddled once again and moved in the direction of library.

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#21 The Girl in Gol Bazaar, Ganganagar — Part 2

Thank you for liking the part-1. Here I continue my story:

Among them, there was a lovely girl who was my batch-mate, four years ago. I remembered seeing boys fighting with each other for her. One of the boys even took a brick and smashed it on another.

Her face reminded me of the Hilaire Belloc’s lines that Khushwant Singh used for Indira Gandhi:

Her face was like the king’s command

When all the swords are drawn

I passed by her, remain unnoticed, and continued my way to Gol Bazaar. As I turned left from the Gandhi Chowk, I reached the street where in every shop books were sold. At the end of the road, there was a restaurant and on its left side, a police station stood.

I had never been to police station, but my friends who had visited there a few times, told me about the kotwali. When I asked, what police did with them? They laughed and said, ‘Sale madarchod hai sab k sab. Pattey maartey hai, pattey!’ (All are motherfuckers. They give lashes of the whip!)      

I parked my bike and jumped off my motorcycle. I walked to a book store which displayed the books of old Indian author R.K Narayan in its showcase. No sooner I began scanning the novels placed in the shelf, a girl came and stood beside me.

She looked at me and asked while pointing towards a book by Khaled Hosseini, ‘Bhaiya! Is this a good book to read?’

She was a plain-eye, charming girl who had no idea that I was not the Bhaiya of shop. It was wrong to blame her. No girl could find anything less than a Bhaiya in a boy who has an untidy beard on the face and draped in old jackets and dirty track-pyjamas.

I looked for the owner of shop who was on the ladder, searching for a book I ordered. Before I could call the shopkeeper, she enquired again, ‘Bhaiya, this one!’

Her eyes twinkled and face shone. She had a sweet, gentle voice that brought out all the love in a man.

I resisted my urge to tell her the truth and said, ‘The kite runner by Khaled Hosseini.’ I began to show-off my knowledge for books, ‘It is a New York times bestseller and International bestseller. This is the story of two brothers, Amir and Hassan, placed in Afghanistan. A good read. Khaled Hosseini is the author of two more best selling novels, A Thousand Splendid Suns and The Mountains Echoed. Like this book, the stories of these two novels are also placed in Afghanistan. By the way, what genre you want to read?’

‘Actually I am planning to go abroad, so my teacher suggested me to read books to improve my verbal skills.’ She said and tucked her hair behind the ears.

A cool breeze played on her ears and brought the strands of hair before her eyes. No sooner, she pushed it aside, again a chill, fresh wind whispered in her ears, and once again she struggled with her hairs.

‘Okay, then I must suggest you to read Indian authors first. You could read The Shadow Lines by Amitav Ghosh or The Midnight’s Children by Salman Rushdie. Arundhati Roy has also an eloquent style of writing. My advise, start with simpler, thinner books. It would be a good idea to start with children’s book. Yes! For a grown up, it may be a problem to get interested in children’s world. In that case, I would suggest RK Narayan’s and Khushwant Singh’s books. The language is simple. And the context is Indian, which involves you in the story. If you do not have patience to read novels, read short stories by Ruskin Bond.’

She smiled and her surprise-looking-eyes complimented my knowledge. Her eyes reminded me of Sakhi, my childhood friend. Sakhi, the girl next door, liked playing hide and seek. She always chose to hide behind her house’s wall, for she was afraid of bhoots and bori vale bhai’s. After getting caught, she made her eyes as though she hid in a place where no one ever could find her. Sakhi left with her family a long time ago and the low wall she loved was still there. Mr Chandlal painted it thrice after purchasing the house.

The sunrays penetrated the fog and glistened down upon her face. Her nose ring twinkled. The effect of beautiful-she doubled. But the sun failed to stand before the chilling winters. She kept her hands rubbing with each other. And carelessly, I brushed my thick, curly hair, hoping not to look like the Bhaiya.

‘Bhaiya! I read 2 or 3 novels before. I’ve no idea what to read. I would be thankful if you would suggest me something good and helpful.’ she said.

I stopped adjusting my hairs, for now I was hence-proved-bhaiya for her. I took a few books of Ruskin Bond and Jhumpa Lahiri from the shelf and thumped them on the counter. I explained her about the writings and the places where the story set in.

‘How is School days?’ she said picking up a book by Ruskin Bond.

I too was hearing the name of the book for the first time. Not missing any chance before her, I began telling her about my own school days. I told her how children irritate the tall, fat principal and make him shout over the top of his lungs; how the seniors bunk the classes and play volleyball, and again raise the blood pressure of principal. I also told her about the art on toilet’s wall, the rides on the small shaking-train, the crush of students on pretty young teachers, the annual-fests, the first crush of a boy named Parth on her classmate, Shiny, the bougainvillea and beery trees, the kabbadi match between boys and girls and the lewd boys peeping in the skirt of girls, the omnibus, the first kiss of Parth and Shiny on their first school trip, the astonished boys and the jealous news-spreading girls.

‘And a lot more,’ said I, finishing my stories. All this while, she looked at me as like as a little girl listens attentively and merrily to her granny narrating the fairy tales.

She was too surprised to say anything. I could see her eyes seeking more about The School Days. ‘But, I think The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri is better than this,’ I said in a fear of getting caught.

‘You mean, I should read that book which had the hands of a couple as its cover,’ she said pointing towards The Lowland, kept at an arm’s length.

‘Yes, it’s a nice read,’ I fetched the book and gave it to her.

While she was scanning its cover, reading the blurb and flipping the pages, a loud noise thundered on the street. The shopkeepers and customers hurried outside to know the cause. At a distance, the parked vehicles were laid down and two bulls, black and brown, were fighting near it. The brown bull swung his head and hit his horns in the black’s. The black, fat bull staggered back and fall over the cycles and motorcycles. Shouting and cursing, the shopkeepers tried to stop them. The angry black bull seems to be not interested in anyone’s talk. He stood all at once and proceeded towards brown with a shrill. The two bulls locked their heads in a fierce struggle. They sway together about the place, hitting each other on the walls. The fight stopped after full five minutes. They were exhausted and stood back. The shopkeepers hit the bulls until they disappeared from the location.

The area was devastated, cycles over cycles, motorcycles over motorcycles, everything over everything. People trotted to their vehicles; so did I. Together, we arranged the parking again. It took whole ten minutes to do so. My motorcycle was less damaged than others. A few scratches were only visible.

As I returned to the shop, the young girl was not there. On asking from the seller, he told that she left the shop five minutes ago. On further enquiry, I came to know she purchased School Days by Ruskin Bond.

I brought a book of English Grammar by Chetananand Singh for my book shelf and made my way back to home. 

I hoped Ruskin Bond wrote School Days better than my-narrated-school-days.

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# 20 The Girl in Gol Bazaar, Ganganagar— Part 1

Dawn crept quietly over the sleeping Ganganagar. I saw father waddling about the house, rubbing his hands under the nipping blanket of winter. Though he was covered up with an overcoat over a couple of warm shirts, he was quivering and looked somewhat frail.

            I climbed down my bed and walked to verandah. I saw mother asleep in her bed. Before she woke up, father would manage the dirty clothes in buckets, fold up the bed-sheet and blankets, keep motorcycles outside the house, bring milk from diary and newspaper from vendor, clean the rooms, and oil his hairs. As far as I could remember, from last twenty years, he had spent his morning in managing the house and readying himself for rest of his day.

            As he opened the main door, a cool breeze entered the house. The roads were enclosed up with the fog and the street lights were still shimmering. Old father shivered and closed the door.

He gasped and said, ‘Beta bahut thand hai bahar. Rajai mein vapas jaa’ (Son, It’s freezing outside. Get back into the quilt.)

I nodded. Trembling, he returned to his room and shut the door behind. Lights off.

I climbed up my bed again and picked up a book of Mahatma Gandhi. I saw an image of Gandhiji in white dhoti and bared chest. How Gandhiji had managed himself in winters? He might have spent his winter days living in southern-India. I shut the book, pulled the quilt and drifted off.

When I woke up, mother and father were handsomely dressed up. I saw them running about the house. It was obvious they were getting late to their jobs. Mother came to me and scolded, ‘Khada hoja! Late hogi mein’ (Stand up! I am late.)’

Confusingly, I said, ‘Now what I would do to drop you on time?’

‘Chaa pee-laey’ (Drink your tea).

‘Ley! Haun mere chaa pean naal ki hojuga?’ (Now, what would happen if I take the tea?)

I laughed.

‘Mar- zaa kiteh jaa key.’ (Go and die somewhere!).

I guffawed. No one can understand Punjabi-mothers. Everyday, they ask their children to die and yet, can’t live without them even for a minute.

 As I see off my parents, I was alone in the house. It had been two days since I read the book. Those two days, we (my old friend and I) explored my city, Sri- Ganganagar, buzzed around the houses of girls we were in love with. My friend shared me about his life in Delhi. He also told me that he was getting married in a year or two. I remembered him laughing while saying, ‘Teri shaadi mein to mein apne munnon k sath ayunga.’ (In your marriage, I would come along with my children.)

I took a book of Ruskin Bond and read a couple of short-stories. It was the fifth time I read the same stories. And again I felt sadness enveloping me. I took out my rejected manuscripts from publishers and observed my writings. Those were ridiculous. I felt ashamed of myself. I killed my 5 hours in watching television and in celebrating my weakness. Sometimes it feels good while doing nothing more than eating, sleeping and farting.

I got out of my bed in the afternoon and decided to bring a new book from the Gol-bazaar (main-market) to improve my grammar. I had half-a-dozen books of grammar already in my book-shelf unopened and still, I wanted one more. I knew I would not read this book too, but no one could resist my love for collecting books for my book-shelf. My book-shelf was a small box which was once used by mother to keep cooking oil. I was expecting mother would gift me a book-shelf on my birthday. If she would refuse, I would not ask from father.

In the beginning of every month, father used to pay the bills of house with his salary and then he remained with two or three thousand rupees as his pocket money. He compromised all his cravings of luxury life with our happiness by admitting us (Sister and I) in the affluent colleges. He bought good clothes for us every year and draped himself with old ones. He thought about us whole day long and had always failed to share his emotions with us. Whenever we offered him to come with us to buy something new, he had always refused our invitations

We are proud of him.

As I sat astride on my motorcycle, I began moving my way to Gol Bazaar. The afternoon sun failed to clean the streets engulfed in the fog. Roads were silent. Street dogs were rarely seen. A crew of sweepers was sitting at the corner of a street, warming his hands over the fire. As I passed durga-mandir, I observed the market which was always stuffed up with crowd was silent now.

When I reached Nehru-park, I saw a group of girls standing outside the Guru Nanak College. They were clad in white salwar suit with a pink duppatta around the neck. Some of them were in colorful caps and some were covered up with mufflers. All of them had notebooks in the hands and college-bags dangling on the shoulders. Their laughing face was a proof that roses could bloom in any season.

Among them, there was a lovely girl who was my batch-mate, four years ago. I remembered seeing boys fighting with each other for her. One of the boys even took a brick and smashed it on another.

Her face reminded me of the Hilaire Belloc’s lines that Khushwant Singh used for Indira Gandhi:

Her face was like the king’s command

When all the swords are drawn

Part 2 ...Read my next blog (#25 The Girl in Gol Bazaar- Part 2)
Thank you

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#19 The world around me is tolerant and not flooded with water.

After deciding to end up writing blogs I realized, for me, it is difficult to sit jobless. The problem with me is I could not bear boredom. Like every day shower, writing has become a part of my daily ritual. So here I am again writing about my experiences of life.

I am very happy with my decision of avoiding newspapers and news channels. Media has always proved to be negative. All they need is a breaking news. Reporters can be compared to bhadvas (pimp) who are always in search of Nayaa maal to telecast their circumstances nationally. You would speak a single unmindful sentence and your virginity would be devoted to the nation. Then, from youth to senior citizen, from chayevala to paan vaal, from ghar vaali to bahar vaali would be excited to savor your fucking up session.

Where the people are intolerant and trying to pull the pants down of each other, I am sitting in my small room, living peacefully with my books. The green valleys, the chirruping birds, the old authors (a few died ones), the hymns of Guru Nanak, the old country songs, the smiling and laughing kids, the omnibus, the Gajal of Jagjeet Singh, the paper boats, the memories of past girls, the rhythmic rains could never be intolerant for me.

I think no man could stop himself to sink in the memories of past days after hearing Jagjeet Singh’s song: Tum jo itna muskura rahe ho, kya gum hai jisko chupa rahe ho. A life of a man is always swings between three things: First, concern for livelihood; second, the memories of girls and women he made love with; and at last, reminiscences of his gone days. A beautiful night with myriads of stars, a full brimmed glass of whiskey and an old song is all a man need to resurface the deep emotions in his heart.

Nowadays, due to heavy rain in Chennai and flood in my University, I could see a lot of lovely college girls moving from their hostels to palatial apartments for temporary residence. The laughing innocent faces, plain eyes and soft cheeks have always made my journey of life beautiful. All I know about the girls is they want love. You just make her smile, play with her hairs, pinch her nose, peck her cheeks and hold her hands, and she would come along with you whole heartedly. Do not hurt her, just love her.

I know, a few must be thinking, it is better for me to go out and save people stuck in flood, rather than writing rubbish. Do not worry! I have prayed God to save the altruist and let the egoist drown. He listens to the prayers we do. Try it.

Well, I think I have to stop here. I do have a lot of content to read. I am also working on Word power made easy by Norman Lewis, suggested by my friend Vivek Chaudhary who is a scholar. We talked at length about national issues with each other too. When I asked him the secret behind his sharp knowledge, he responded with a smile, ‘Always think, there is someone doing better than you.’ It is just a blessing to have a few friends who are hungry, unstoppable and working to become better every day.



I hope my book 'Superhuman In You' will help you as it is helping others.

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#18 Ending up blogging and leaving behind a few life lessons... :)

It has been a month since my laptop is not working; nor do I have enough money to mend it. I wait for my friends to sleep so that I could use any of their laptops. Even after getting a pc, I am unable to think what to write because I feel uncomfortable while writing on a laptop other than mine. I do not know what I am going to write in this blog. But I make sure I write something:

            It is a cool night pouring outside my building where I am living in a small rented room. Street dogs are still afraid of roaming the streets after the crackers-night, Diwali. The one person who is genuinely glad to see the dogs frightened is the old woman who uses to work as a servant of the building since the time unmemorable. I call her Akka, elder sister. She sleeps on the ground floor, near the main door. At night, you could see her barking on the dogs for waking her up from sleep. It seems that like human beings, dogs also love annoying others for no reason.

Anyway, my examinations are starting within a few days, so this may be my last blog of 2015. Meanwhile, you could read my new book titled ‘Superhuman in You,’ coming soon. I always try to write something that would help people to have a better life. While you read my book, you would come to know the truths that you know already. Books do not teach us anything. It just does the work of bringing the hidden knowledge, dwelling within us, to our conscious state. Experience is everything. Take risks, do mistakes, see failures, learn from it and move on in life.

Teachers, gurus, leaders and books can never teach us anything. They only do the work of bringing truth in front of us. Everything is lying within us; we just have to keep seeking the truths through the scriptures or teachers or whatever.

I have never felt myself as a writer. In fact, I feel I could never write a good fiction during my lifetime. It is because I am not interested in entertaining people. Comedy nights with Kapil could entertain more Indians than any book could ever do.

I think everyone is a born writer, even you. What you all need is to learn how to put down your thoughts on a blank paper. You do not want to be perfect for the things you love to do. Write something, write from anywhere to anywhere, even try to write rubbish. The discipline will prove worthwhile. Try to write things what other people do not know. Do not afraid to speak and always be honest. Do not shirk your responsibility towards reading. Make reading your addiction. The more you read the better you write.

            Another thing I learnt is that if you want to achieve something in life, you must have to do struggle. In everyone’s life a time would come when he starts doubting himself. Disappointments would make him cry. The body would suffer; emotions would tear him apart from his inner self. Life would become like a pendulum that oscillates between sorrows and failures, but, anyhow you have to survive it. Remember, the hard times will never come to stay, it will always come to pass.

            At last, I would say, try to do the things what others are not doing. Make a habit of doing something different. If you do what others are doing, then you would end up living a life what else are living. 

            A poem from Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore inspires me to go for the things I love. He wrote this poem in the regret for living a life half-filled.  

The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.

I have spent my days in stringing and unstringing my instrument.

The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set;

Only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.

The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by....

... I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet.

Commentary by Sudhir Krishnan

Each one of us has a purpose in our life that we have come to fulfil. That purpose is the song in our heart that we have come here to sing. We spend so much time trying to understand what it is. Yet like the bud, many of us have to open up to it yet.

Blessed are those whose inner light has been lit. For they are truly singing the song they came here to sing.

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