Prashant's Solace

(Based on a True Story) She, the human-she, was visiting and the hill-fort was on agenda for the day, along with a group of friends. This was on earth. The sky had another her, with him, destined to be on the same hill-fort.  The weather those days was cloudy and sultry, calling for heavy showers. The Deccan skies of the subcontinent, saw a couple glide in on a weary day. The absence of breeze didn't help. Sighting a watershed seemed a distant dream. The search for the same was going off-path. Being off-path here could mean death. The about-to-rain skies looked like a sure shelter to the weather-beaten faces. She signalled him to stop. A cannon on top of a hill came in sight, surrounded by greens and a stone floor. It wasn't an ideal place, but looked welcoming. Water pond at the base of a curved precipice leading down from there sealed the deal. Coming closer, she saw there was hardly any water in it. It smelled of plastic and piss. But survival triumphs all considerations. He

The air picked them up on their drive. Driven across the sea were those tiny drops now. Condensed cold in the deep Pacific dropped them into the water. Drops dropped unceremoniously, unnoticed. Thousands of miles away, or maybe close to them on the South American mass, some students were learning about the same phenomenon. One of them was him.  The drops glided on with their family as a container ship went by. Somehow, though they got crushed under it on the open seas. Got pushed hard and down on a soft and flexible floor. Many years later, a whale almost gulped them. But somehow it didn’t. Then stillness of the expanse followed for an indeterminable age. Lifeless as ever on water, in water. One day they rose. Rose on being beaten by an angry Sun. They collided with their counterparts from the Indian Ocean. In the massive comingling that followed they crossed over to the latter. There, the drops were gulped by a drowning Filipino. After twisting and turning uncomfortably in the hea

No new post is worthy of being posted. They warned me of this. Writing, especially for the sake of writing is bad choice.  But, I went ahead anyway.  "How much of a flimsy idiot are you?" I stay transfixed. I have no reply to the following. What stuns me is not the argument they put forth, but the lack of answer/reply on my part. I know there is a reply in me somewhere. A good one. But it doesn't surface. Why am I writing a post? Who cares? Even if they do, how does it matter? In fact, I have been sloppy with my writing many a times, so why wouldn't anybody else be with their reading? That too, when they might not even be readers.   "Now, let us explain", explained these friends. "If    someone does open the link to your post (assuming someone actually does!), they will see the length of the post. Length might be a good thing, but definitely not in this case. A glance at the page is motivation enough to move ahead to a different picture, the next video

Image Courtesy: https://www.hippopx.com/   Abandonment, true to its nature, stays. There is a sense of depression. Compulsive thinking is killing. Less of activity and more of thinking. Scenarios and scenarios. Visualizations of the impossible. Killer demand of the present and reality stay unaffected. He manifests unwarranted comparisons and constant delusions. Health worries which never was a worry before. Lack of a social life for want of a socially compatible environment furthers incompatibility. Resistance and resistance to take the right call and make the right move. The worst; being let down, neglected, unwanted, unloved and unacknowledged. The past only makes it bitter. A bitter past which was no better than its past, led to a worse present which definitely looked promising for the worst future. This paradox should have made the present standing a worthy position by default. But it never feels so! Mistakes and unhealthy attachments grew. Momentary bonds grew, providing l

Here, I would simply like to quote some reflections of a character from Khushwant Singh's famous work, 'Train to Pakistan.' (Source:  https://archive.org/details/TrainToPakistan_201805 ) In a world where things being the way they are, one is often asked to comment on everything, especially, if one is a writer. And my mind goes back to this brilliant introspection of Iqbal Singh, one of the characters in this book.  Khushwant Singh's sardonic words through this figure are so relevant to these times. Words, which were first published in 1956, and may have been conceived way before that in that truly beautiful mind!  "Should he go out, face the mob and tell them in clear ringing tones that this was wrong—immoral? Walk right up to them with his eyes fixing the armed crowd in a frame—without flinching, without turning, like the heroes on the screen who become bigger and bigger as they walk right into the camera. Then with dignity fall under a volley of blows, or prefera

Multitudes are ablaze inside as I navigate the day.  The song and dance of the frenzied emotions which take on the veil of calm & ease is extraordinarily stifling. The body shrivels, launches into a fit of despair and yet what the world sees is a happy individual at work with collected poise. Carrying this commotion-filled body in deceitful exterior in a relatively less chaotic weekend traffic, the holiday sees us in a café. No sooner do we reach, than my sister is already into the laptop, while I open my book casually soaking in the atmosphere. I note a couple settling down; one diagonally in front of me while a girl sitting behind me, next-but-one table.  The day is still young for the coffee shop to begin its fast chores. The blank gossip emanating from the couple's table is too blunt to affect any interest, so I too dive into my book as my sister was already in her work which is when things started happening. Enter this guy, who completes the couple behind me and as one mig

Dried watermelon seeds fell from his jeans pocket. He had worn it after a long time, a faraway time, a time before this era. The era of Covid-19. That sultry day, in the intense activity of the classroom, seeds were among the many things passed around. He did not fancy those yet indulged in some and kept the rest in the pocket. Months had passed. The virus infused a workless monotony, him being almost always in shorts and tees, no occasion meriting otherwise. Studies seemed a distant affair. Routine became a distant memory. Because time got struck in the puddle of a virus. There was nothing to distinguish one day from the other, except news, which he had stopped following after a while. All his neighbours brandished information and theories just like the news and news anchors. Each more ridiculous than the rest. For some time, he too was convinced with one of the narratives and almost had become an advocate for it. But the excitement of this theory didn’t last long to save embarr

(Dawn of a cold morning. On a relatively isolated mountain top, they are silent. A word-war ensues.) SHE: You are an apostate. ME: Who, me? Huh... For that I have to belong. SHE: That's a given. ME: To you maybe. SHE:  Kid yourself, fine. But mine is the true language of the definitions of belonging, as we have known. So I can't be wrong. You are a deserter. ME: In that case I am not exactly happy. SHE: Then come back to senses. Back to a definition. Back to a solace of belonging. ME: Tribalism isn't for me. I stretch myself beyond ephemeral human realms. SHE: How? ME: You see the sun rising over the vast civilizational invention below us. It is 0600 hours. In about an hour the sunrise would unleash multitudes who would go around pretending to be from somewhere to deal with somewhere.     (Aurangabad- Courtesy Feroz Khan - LT)                          SHE: Just like we do. Point being...? ME: I don't pretend to be f

I wanted to publish a detailed account of a dear friend's wedding. So I copiously took some notes while going through the revelries, being very much a part of them. Or so my concerned friend thought! But those painstakingly gathered observations got lost with time, people and life. Majorly disappointed, I thought of giving up on writing this self-anticipated account of a much awaited event in our little lives. I never thought my straight friend would be considerate enough to take a partner.  Not that he was a misogynist or a misogamist. On the contrary he has gone out of his way to make women feel at ease, whenever he came across one. In casual parlance, he sucked up to people (read girls), especially if he ever got to know one. Even to the discomfort of his friends like me. He had attended the most number of family marriage functions as the rest of us put together and does so still, dutifully. Although he was, as they say, never 'matrimonially inclined.' But some trickery,

I am an eternal romantic in the broadest sense of the term. Some people, places, events, situations, mannerisms and even some self-reflection exercises create an everlasting spool of thoughts out of which I weave dreams. Motivational salience makes me revisit one such beautiful dream. A forest of dreams I fashioned, where one day, rather one frosty evening, just into the twilight she walks in... ...this girl, she walks all uneasy. Uneasy and unsure. I hardly notice her presence. But in her absence, anticipation of her makes me feel many things. Nervousness, plunges and contractions create waves of expectation in stomach. But nothing now when she's here. Her presence doesn't make me smile. I hope it never does as it denies her omnipotence here. She has a warmth about her that does not exude any aura. It's just there. Reassuring as ever. There is nothing in the world, fictional or real, that could be more important than just having her by my side. If I were ever