Freedom

I trace the patterns
of the agarbathi smoke.
Its fragrance mingles
with that of the
garland around his frame.

I sit there,
while he lies in front of me.
Both still,
covered in white
from head to toe.

Cold and stiff,
even in death he remains.
That frightening frown
between his brows,
frozen now forever.

Women come in,
embrace me and wail.
(As thought they were the bereaved ones!)

My glass bangles are smashed,
the vermilion on my forehead
wiped off,
by each of them,
Again and again and again.

And everytime,
The broken clinking glass pieces,
bring to my ears soothing harmony.
And my white saree,
Dares to unleash its trapped spectral hues.

For after forty long years,
I am alive and free.

Talaaq

Our union, they said,
Was made in heaven.
Yet, three quick words
And we were strangers,
Again.

Decisive Drift

So we met
At an unexpected moment
With silence in between.

An odd blink of recognition
A hesitant step

And you pass by…

Strangers resolving confusion.

SAVE WATER

http://www.slideshare.net/jbrenman/thirst

Its a nice aesthetic ppt... but more importantly, it speaks of a problem that needs urgent attention.

Please care to have a look and spread the awareness. After all, as someone said "we do not inherit the earth from our fathers but borrow it from our children".

Sacrifice… murder.

I saw a dog die. I saw a train crushing the life out of him. The rumble of the mighty engine drowned the tiny squeak which was the last thing he did – a cry for help? I saw him die while I stood there helpless. I don’t like dogs. But, painful tears instinctively stung my eyes while I stood there, frozen.

That dog was a small thing, white, with a black snout. He had innocent, big eyes very similar to Gypsy’s (Romy’s dog) eyes.

At first, I saw him merrily run around on the tracks unaware of the train around the corner. When he saw it advance slowly towards him, he scurried for the platform. But the gap between the tracks and the platform was too high for his tiny legs to conquer. He couldn’t manage the leap. He tried running further ahead. Turning around he saw the train close on him. And then, he didn’t move. The terror of imminent death showed in his eyes. A second later, I saw the train occupy the spot he was standing on. He was gone.

Why did he die? Why? I think I know the answer… and if that’s the right answer, then, I can’t help but thank God for his death. Darn it.

Friday Night - holy day,unholy night?!

Friday night, I stayed over at Micki’s pg. It wasn’t an unplanned decision and it happened at my insistence.
Micki is a great pal. I adore her. I had stayed the night at her pg with Rash once before and I liked the experience in parts. For this particular sleepover, I had carried my clothes and other essentials to college because the plan was to go to her place directly after college. Ergo, I ended up tugging along an unbearably heavy bag everywhere I went. In college, we asked an uninformed Ni to accompany us for the intended nocturnal plans. After a little persuasion, she assented.
I have abstained from alcohol all my life and I strongly intended to do so till I died. I detest it but I find that I have no strong reasons behind this strong aversion. Do I avoid alcohol because my faith tells me to? Is it because mama’s always told me its bad to drink? Is it because I have always thought that an inebriated condition induces men directly or indirectly on the path to violence? Is it because when I was a kid, I’d see men from slums buying cheap, desi, bad-smelling alcohol and then beat up their wives in public view? Is it because the man who stood behind the counter in these shady looking arracks always glanced at me in a manner that made me feel shamefully feminine? I couldn’t help associate drinking as a morally wrong behaviour. I still can’t figure out why. I can neither stand the sight of Vijay Mallya nor the towering UB buildings near my school and I don’t know why.
I initially tried persuading my very close friends, who took to drinking after we entered college life, to quit. I refused to go pubbing and clubbing. No no, those are bad bad places. So, when people excitedly proposed the POA for the evening and the night, I found myself saying yes! It was the way they said it. I repeat, they are very dear friends. And the excitement in their voices was innocently touching. Also and mainly, I wanted to know what the big deal behind getting high was. I could argue about it and against it only after I had tried it. Like Sahana Das says, “Try things and then say you don’t want to do it”. Logical conclusion.

Scene in the early part of the evening: Micki wanted to go to Koramangla and retrieve her laptop on which we thought we’d watch all the seasons of Friends. I had watched a Friends marathon once earlier and needless to say, I had loved it. Micki had the Friends CDs but her laptop was at Sameer’s place. So, at around five-ish we left Vasanthnagar to travel to another corner of Bangalore and that was an exhausting task to accomplish ahem… behind Micki on her bike. Agreed that I travel almost 50 kms up and down from coll everyday, but that I do in the BMTC bus! (It is the ideal place to catch up with my long-lost sleep; so, the journey doesn’t turn out to be quite as demanding as it should be.) But, the thought of facing the notorious Bangalore traffic jams at the rush hours, on a two-wheeler, with Micki riding like a bolt of lightning, maneuvering through the TINY crevices between polished cars and big buses and overtaking other motorcyclists with ruthless precision while I hold on to seemingly precious life with my feet swaying carelessly near the rapidly rotating tyres even as the wind does a good job at transforming the mass of cropped hair on my head into an unparalleled mirror image of Sai Baba’s hair-do and just as my back screams with pain at being held up without a back rest (I tell you, there should be a back rest mounted on two wheelers) for so long…(phew!)… frightened me out of my wits. But, Micki needed company and she made that childishly pleading face and I agreed, leaving Ni behind to happily gape at the entertaining idiot box, munch on yummy pizza slices and (whats more!) sleep at the pg! We also thought we’d check up at pvr in forum on our way back and see if we could book tickets for Harry Potter for the Monday morning show. Bah! All these girls, I tell you, acting like lunatics behind that bespectacled, scarred boy and his gang of friends and foes so much so that they force, cajole and bully a small, defenceless girl like me into throwing valuable green paper at ticket counters and bunking classes to crane up a tiny neck at 70mm illusory scenes!
Look, I like him, ok… but strictly in books, not in cinema halls.

Scene in the late part of the evening: STUCK IN BLOODY, HONKY, POLLUTY TRAFFIC JAMS!

Scene in the ‘early’ part of the night: Gorging down Chicken Fried Rice, Veg Noodles and Chicken Manchurian Gravy at the newly opened The Paramount in Vasanthnagar for just 50 bucks!! Hmmm… Contented Burp!
[This was after we conquered the roads, nearly missing injuring ourselves and after we stood in queues for those damned tickets only to find them reserved for shows till Tuesday. I admit, I secretly rejoiced at this unexpected piece of news only to frown again when Micki called up Ni and the others and decided on Wednesday as the day for Harry’s darshan! (BUNKING TWO CONSECUTIVE PERIODS OF PSYCHO! BAH! ALL THESE GIRLS, I TELL YOU…)]
The sumptuous dinner was followed by a trip to the liquor shop by my friends while I made my way to the pg. A short while later, they returned with two cigarettes, a Smirnoff bottle of green apple flavoured vodka and a bottle of sprite. I found myself getting excited. I examined the bottle minutely. It was the first time I had held an alcoholic drink in my hands. It was a clear liquid! So different from the pale yellowish hue that stains beer or the erm…other drinks. Aren’t all varieties of alcohol coloured that way?
It smelled of apple. That didn’t seem harmful. Apple was good for health, right? An apple a day keeps the doctor away?
All of us then climbed upstairs to Micki’s terrace (ah! The terrace! I love terraces!) after which quite a bit of vodka was poured into two large mugs. A lil bit of sprite and we were ready. However, one of us wanted clear shots. (Am I using the write terminology here? Aren’t they called vodka shots or wait, are they tequila shots?) Well; so, she just guzzled down unadulterated vodka while I hesitantly sipped vodka-sprite. It tasted nice. I felt warm. I felt heat flowing down my throat and spread around my chest. I don’t think I went high though I have no clue what it feels like when ppl go high. I was conscious of my surroundings but I felt a dull headache arising from nowhere. I fell silent while the others chattered continuously. We danced! But, I was still quiet. I thought. I felt like calling them and talking to them. It was well past midnight. I stopped myself from reaching my cell. I didn’t want to wake them up. They’d be asleep or worse, studying.
Encouraged by the act of drinking, a friend asked for plain vodka and gulped it down in one sip. I saw her face contort and after taking control of whatever she wanted and had to take control of, she said, “Khadz, try it. You have to try it!” So, I tried a little bit of it. And it was so glaringly different from the vodka-sprite. It was bitter, pungently smooth and it pierced my mouth with a fierce alacrity. I was suddenly aware of the pores on my tongue… there are pores on the human tongue, right?? I felt that hot liquid burn down my food pipe and reach the pit of my stomach. I felt scorched.
And all of a sudden, I felt violated. I felt innocence deserting me. I know for sure that if I were raped, I wouldn’t feel as sullied as I felt when I took that last sip of vodka from my mug. Odd, I didn’t feel this way when I took the first sip of the vodka-sprite. It dawned on me then that I had crossed the line I had vowed never to trudge. I had betrayed the beliefs that I had tried thrusting at friends. I lost that, which I had thought, made me different from others. Natural hypocrisy? Or, rigid faith??
When Micki cried, “We’re having fun!!” I smiled and agreed. I felt strangely liberated. Freed from the burden I had carried for so long. I hate it when contradictory emotions hit me simultaneously and this was one of those many occasions. Enveloped in these thoughts, I fell silent. Ideas washed over me with the speed of light. The wind blew hard into our faces while we sat on top of the tank. I wasn’t high or was I? I still wanted to call them. But, I didn’t. Thank god, I didn’t.
Some of us lit cigarettes and let out puffs with a contented sigh. I had tried alcohol. I wanted to try this. I asked them and they were happily surprised. “Try everything before time slips away.” Hmm… profound! They passed the tobacco rolled in white paper with the words Wills Silk Smooth (or something to that effect) written on it. I brought it to my lips and saw the other end aglow. Black and orange. They directed me - “Do not wet it.” Ok. “Draw in a breath.” Ok. Cold and minty taste. I liked it. “Exhale.” Ok. A cloud of white smoke. “Hey, I didn’t cough!” I felt elated. On the way to being a criminal… I had drunk and smoked! The cigarette was passed around. Two whole cigarettes reduced to ash.

Scene in the late part of the night: The Friends CDs untouched, we lay peacefully cuddled up in bed.

Obscenely obsessed-book buff

I did not like One Hundred Years of Solitude. I partially liked The Fountainhead. I turned to Sidney Sheldon after reading Gabriel Garcia Marquez and I could only find faults in his novels. I have The Inheritance of Loss sitting unread at the back of my closet. A lifetime falls short for all the books I wish to read. I want Heart of Darkness even though I hated Lord Jim. I want Frankenstein. I need Prince. I need books. I can’t survive without them. They’ve become my best companions. I need books. With memberships in two libraries and friends willing to lend books, I still feel that I need more books. I want to surround myself with those musty pages until I suffocate. I want to encase myself between the printed leaves till I hate the very sight of books. I am high on books. I am addicted to them. They are the only legitimate way I can avoid the world. They are a gateway into another one. An escape from the hypocrisy called life. I need books. They keep me busy. They keep me from thinking. I read. I observe the figure of every word. Each word is different. Just like an individual. I need books. I hate libraries. I feel faint when I am in one. I need books.

baffling... frightening... plagiarized?

The concept of reality and appearances had been significant to me in a very superficial level. I had never given much thought to it until my first ever philosophy class. That was when I started to question the very meaning of the word ‘reality’. It occurred to me then how much I had taken this concept for granted. It tormented me to find that all that I had believed to be real wasn’t actually real! What was reality then? Was there anything that was real? Or, was it just us who took things to be real simply to avoid complicating matters? Was reality only that which was perceived by our five senses? Were the things that existed beyond our capacity to perceive them real?

Ever since I was a child, I have been fascinated by dreams. So much so, that when I was a kid and I’d wake up after a good 12 hour long sleep, I’d find it extremely difficult to differentiate between the ‘real’ world and the one I dreamt about… I saw the same people in my dreams that existed in ‘reality’. Hasn’t anyone else wondered that the world that we step into when we sleep might be the real world and the one that we wake up might actually be a dream! In the same strain of thought, hasn’t anyone else been petrified to think that the person that we love the most in the world might actually be a figment of your imagination! What is it then that defines the real world and differentiates it from a dream or an imaginary world?

We as human beings misconstrue reality with appearances mainly because our bodies are fashioned to ignore this differentiation. The lenses in our eyes double the size of everything that we see. Hence, that which appears to be 5 feet tall is actually in reality only 2 ½ feet tall! Thus, we take this appearance to be real. The only way that we can know anything about the world around us is through our senses. But, in such cases our senses do not help in unearthing this reality either because our senses other than that of sight can’t tell us anything about the dimensions of the object that we touch, smell, taste or hear.

The idea of reality is also extremely subjective. What is real to me may not be real to someone who’s blind. For example, if I see a shirt that appears to be pink in colour, the same shirt may not be pink to a blind person. He can only believe it to be pink when I tell him. In the same manner, reality seems to be different for children and adults.

Other ideas such as knowledge, belief and faith are also linked to the concept of reality and they are also disputed when the very notion of reality is questioned. For example, in the 18^th century, during the Victorian era in England, many scientific discoveries were made which shook the very foundation of society. The people had till then believed that they were the descendants of Adam and Eve. But, Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution refuted this belief. The faith of the people was questioned. Reality then, accompanied with knowledge stood in opposition to faith and belief. But, the question is that if something is proved scientifically, then does that thing become reality?

Appearances also play an important role in our perceiving colours. For instance, a yellow bag appears green if I place a green screen in front of the source of light. Does that bag actually become green then? If a colour blind man sees the bag, will the reality change then? What is the real colour of the bag then? Even the brightness of the bag is dependant on the point of view it is seen from. The bag will look bright from its front if the source of light is placed at its front. But when the source of light is shifted to the back, then the brightness increases at the back and reduces in the front. Thus, is the bag bright at all?

Thus, it emerges that reality as it has seemed to me till date was actually just an appearance. It is disconcerting to find that reality then is accessible only through something else - a sort of a middleman – and if I don’t get access to that middleman, then reality is lost! Reality is a concept that I merely thought about earlier, but now it is a concept that I struggle to comprehend. We live our lives, day after day, in what we call the real world. But, what if, as in The Matrix, reality is fiction? The truth can be a frightening thing, especially when the nature of the truth is unknown. When it comes to our perception of everyday activities, it seems to be so real. The truth is that we don’t know what’s out there or how things will turn out nor do we know how they began.

Its a beautiful day!

I was happy today… very happy! Today was a beautiful day. It had no special significance in my life apart from the fact that it was a simply beautiful day today. The weather was lovely. The sky was bright and cloudy at the same time, so typically Bangalore-like! Alliance was not so crowded today. The breeze was flying gently. The trees at Alliance made a heavenly canopy… shielding me partly from the gift that the sky was willing to shower on me in the form of crystal clear drops of pristine water! I loved every moment of my existence today. I loved it. I wish he was here today. With me… under that lush canopy… when the sky turned scarlet in the evening… when the quail lent her voice to nature’s symphony… when my heart just brimmed with unadulterated joy… I wish you were here coz I was happy today… very happy!

Mr. MR!! Cheers to You!

An unfathomable restlessness within,
An overpowering urge to verbalize
The serenity that was sought after,
Suddenly abhorred and despised.

Let me hear your voice,
The one sound so eager
Am I to hear,
The one sound that quells all qualms
The one sound revered next only to God’s.

A distressing gloom confines my heart
A melancholy emanating from abstinence
That is uncalled for and punishing!

Speak to me… a word…
a sigh… the breath of life
delivered to me.

If beauty came to me

My seniors made a documentary movie this year on advertisements and the impact they have on our lives. They collected statistics and surveyed countless girls from our college on how they perceive beauty. I don't quite remember the figures but it was evident that a huge section of those interviewed didn't quite feel good about the way they looked.
I fall into that category as well. I detest the way I appear. I've never been comfortable with the way I look and its done more damage to me than can be expressed. I have spent 16 years of my 20 years of existence in an all girls environment. However, its just been the last 2 years that I have consciously been aware of my looks. College and its side-effects.
beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder?? yeah right! Ugly ducklings turn into majestic swans only in stories...
Well,I really wish everyone could watch that film... everyone. It was a very well made film. Very thought provoking... the message was put across in the lightest way possible. But, it didn't stop me from thinking again... if i was only beautiful...

thats my 1and!

http://www.ibnlive.com/blogs/suhasinihaidar/218/33277/the-face-of-fear.html

do read this post on the cnn-ibn b1og. its by suhasini haider. its abt the gujarat riots... those gruesome murders that were thought1ess1y committed in the 1and from where i originate... how can such hatred exist?

aargh!! hate this feeling within

How I wish I could just kill myself.

Stories about students from my college committing suicide abound... it really doesn't matter how many and how much of those stories, is a figment of someone's dark imagination... all that matters to me is that they had the courage and gumption to take that final step. they weren't cowards!! its difficult to kill yourself... extremely difficult. but they manged to do it. they definitely will miss out on all those beautiful moments and experiences that Future was waiting to bestow on them... and that's a pity. but those moments are so rare, and life definitely would have been unbearable. also, death and the mystery attached to it, together, make such a compelling idea...
whats the use of living a life filled with regrets and unhappiness? how i wish i could just die.
how I wish my blog had stuff that wasn't so melancholic in nature.

Dewy tear, wistful memory and disgraceful fall

You’re the dewy tear on a rosy cheek
You’re the blurred image in a tormenting dream
You’re the lingering grief behind my smile
You’re the inherent agony in a muted scream.

You’re the wistful memory left by an evanescent moment,
You’re the bad poem written in a crumpled paper ball
You’re the ray of light shrouded by wisps of cloud
You’re the sweet reason behind my disgraceful fall.

Just vanish into oblivion ’coz
You’re the one I hate to love
You’re the one I hate to think about
You’re the one I keep thinking about.

The above poem was written in Lemn Sissay’s spoken word workshop. It follows the rhyme sequence abcb. I tried to keep to it but strayed away from a set rhythm. The poem, as he said, was to be written keeping in mind the one person we immensely loved. I didn’t do that… The title, however, is in accordance to what he asked us to do, which was simply to pick out three phrases from the poem.

My take on it: It’s a hideous poem composed in a beautiful workshop.

Mirror mirror, on the wall….

A silver edged, oval mirror stares me in the face. It too has a face which seems very familiar to me. I gape at that face because I see that which I cannot see anywhere. I see a searching loneliness, an all-consuming fire. I see all that is considered to be bad by society. I see a picture of flaring jealousy and disparaging envy. I see that which I hate to see. I see that which I fear to see because I see the truth. I see me.

(GE classes help! The above piece was what I penned down when I was irritated into thinking about what a mirror reflects when I look into it…)

Dear Indian Constitution,

Today is the 26^th of Jan. It is the year 2007. You turn 58 today!

Happy birthday, Indian Constitution! Here’s wishing you a great day and a fantabulous year ahead. May you grow from strength to strength… or rather, may you acquire the strength that is your birthright.

Your birthday is being celebrated with great pomp and show throughout the nation. Even school kids and college adults have been given a holiday in your honour. All the other adults who behave like kids anyway, have taken offence at this. They too have conveniently taken an off from work. Some have taken it upon themselves and have decided to throw you a birthday bash! They plan to go to movies, coffee shops and party hard!! Revel, rejoice and paint the town saffron, white and green! I’m sure you’ll love that, won’t you?

Others, like my pappa, sit back and switch on the idiot box! And lo and behold, who do we see encapsulated in that much-desired frame, but your present warden – Dr. Abdul Kalam!! See, he’s wishing you by reading out birthday greetings that have been written by his speech writer, in front of the camera! Awww… how sweet!! And look he’s invited Uncle Putin to rajghat especially to bless you!! How thoughtful of him!!

Lil IC, you haven’t been a good child… you know that, don’t you? Its not your fault actually. Your parents – Dr. Ambedkar and his team, who conceived you and brought you into the world in 1950 - didn’t do a good job. They left many loopholes in your system… they handicapped you!

And what’s worse, some people in khadi kurtas and their accomplices in three - piece -suits are abusing you! But you can’t do anything to stop them, can you? You don’t want to do anything to stop them.

But, do something! Plz! For those, who depend on you for their lives.
Grow up soon and make them proud!

Happy birthday!!

Virtual reality

Dreams! I am fascinated by them. Have always been. In fact, when I was a kid, (not that I am not now, I meant chronologically) I found it extremely difficult to differentiate between the ‘real’ world and the one I dreamt about. Needless to say, I did sometimes dream those stereotypical children’s dreams; those about beautiful things in illusive environments (you know, those that are the result of the stuff that is perennially stuffed into children’s brains). But often, I dreamt about people, ‘real’ people who I encountered everyday, and that’s when I woke up and thought that I was still dreaming. I remember asking mama then, if I was in a dream and if she was in my dream. It happened so often… it was so beautiful.

Hasn’t anyone wondered if the world that we step into when we dream might just be the ‘real’ world, and the one we find ourselves in when we wake up might actually be a dream! How do you know that the world you are in right now is the real one? It might be a nightmare that shall pass when you open your eyes. In fact, this mundane thing that everyone calls life might be a dream. And again, this fearful thing that everyone calls death, might actually be a bridge to the real world. Haven’t you ever thought that the person you love might just be a figment of your imagination – a dream! That of course, is a scary thought and maybe no one wants to think scary things.

But hasn’t anyone been tormented by the thought of what is real? Is there anything that is real? Or is it merely us who take things to be real, just to avoid complicating matters. But, isn’t it also a consolation for all those losers (I hate, detest, abhor that word, but I can’t help using it coz I myself am one) who’ve lost this battle called life, to think that this actually is purely a dream! Ah… its blissful to think that way. This is what optimism is actually! Lol… Virtual reality. (Just a lil bit of gyaan – I used this phrase in my first ever poem. It’s a phrase I love, simply because it is so real… to me.)

Deceiving Dreams

`Tis a dazzling Star, leading me,
Deep into a lacuna of fantasy,
Blinding the sight, with a divine light,
Promising a surreal reality.

A soft sound pulls me back
“Whispers of reason?” I ask.
Blocking the way, and the stellar ray,
Leaving me confounded in my track.

“O Star, where do you take me?
What is this strange territory?
A haven of dreams, where happiness beams?
A wonderland sans animosity?”

The radiant Star doesn’t speak a word,
It only smiles, but I have heard,
Its euphonious melody, in delightful harmony,
Drawing me in to its idyllic world.

Where the golden sand rests beneath my feet
And pristine waters rush in with speed.
Where nature’s Opulence, displays her magnificence
And Paradise opens her arms wide to greet!

With gratitude, I gaze at the Star,
Its brilliance focused on someone afar
I run towards the solitary figure
And just when I reach out to touch him
The Star vanishes, and dawn breaks….

writing woes :(

Once upon a time, I loved to write. That was due to the false belief that I could write. But, I can’t. I just can’t. I write horribly. This piece itself is a perfect example of how badly I write. What am I doing in a course like Comm E? I shouldn’t be here. I am guilty of stealing a much coveted seat from someone more deserving; from someone who passionately desires to write. Wait, that’s me! Guess then, I stole this seat from someone who passionately desires to write and CAN write passionately well. That’s not me. I write horribly. I lack individuality. I lack style. My writing doesn’t appeal to people and if that is the case, then why write at all? Isn’t it futile to shout yourself hoarse when your screams fall on deaf ears? Everything points to the unpalatable fact that I can’t write- my Comm. E marks, the gradual but noticeable decline in my enthusiasm and interest levels for the course in its entirety and even words elude me now unlike good old times when they tripped over each other in their haste to be told. All the folks who told me that I could write and do a good job at it… thank you for being such lovely liars! I can’t write and that’s a heart – wrenching fact. *sigh* I find writing insufferable and tedious now. Dear me! I detest writing!

Me- then and now

I was so different when I was a child. I was wild, uncontrollable, brimming with enthusiasm and the ambitious desire to own the world. In fact then, I really did think that I was the owner, the sole proprietor of the world. Oh, don’t confuse me with God. I didn’t think I was Him. I just thought that I was a very close friend of His and that He had sent me here to set things right. In fact, when I was exposed to the concept of Christ and his sacrifice, I thought I was him reborn! I aint kidding!! I earnestly felt that God was tired of sending him again in the form of a man, so He picked me and packed me down here!

And I firmly believed in that idea because whenever I came up with an original idea, mind you I was very original then, it was copied by others!! I swear! All those brilliant ideas that did wonders to our economy and surroundings were mine! They were my musings and reflections and I never whispered a word about them to any other soul. Obviously then, the tactile form of those ideas took me by great surprise! That was when it dawned on me that I was the channel through which these progressive thoughts could be transferred to others. All I had to do was to think! That’s it! And by some inexplicable process, these creative outbursts would spread to the lesser mortals!

But later I grew up and that lovely and whimsical world in which the child-me resided, was left behind. I realized to my dismay, that I didn’t own the world. And that all- consuming desire to conquer the world backfired. The world conquered me instead! I didn’t have the power to set things right. The things just kept going wrong and I couldn’t do anything about it. I changed into something better or worse, God and maybe You alone know. I discovered that I had flaws too and I sincerely tried to overcome them and become good. Well, that didn’t do me any good! Consequently I changed again, but this time I transformed into a rude monster.

The dire poverty that inspired me to believe that I could change the world doesn’t affect me today. The sight of slums which pushed the seven year old me to take an oath unto myself that I will become the prime minister of India someday is conveniently blurred by the sight of sky rise appartments today. I have become numb and am not comfortable with that. No, I am not.

I want to return to the old me because I was so different when I was a child…