Prashant's Solace

One fine day a child was put forth to the mercy of mortals on the 1st of Jan 1986! This is his take on a new world around him.  "Here I was treading into a different world and you have no idea of the magnitude of 'different'; A place they called school, about which I was made to feel excited as if being taken to Disneyland. How another was it... oh… no adult could ever imagine! Nervous, anxious, choked whatever you call the feeling, I would simply describe it as being ‘on the verge of tears’. The build-up leading to the D-day (first day at school) was cleverly planned. I was beaming with a false sense of pride developed from reciting stupid somethings, in an alien but sweet language, to every single visitor at home. But all these rituals had an ulterior motive! I was going to find out for the first time that, apart from my cousins and other kids in my building, there are innumerable 3 or 4 year olds' in the world. Apparently, they too were tricked into comin

A push, my child is your creator, This very push can be your predator. Know what power it holds? A push in courage makes destiny, in veil rears vanity, Devoid of care, troubles soul innocent for eternity; A push of hope can envision a trivial mind, One with belittling words destroy character in grind; It gladdens a life with thoughts heavenly and sweet, Or erode dreams, like trampling beasts in fleet. Also know that, A push makes worthy stand strong, For money and power are just get along, And talent more often than not, Too proud a virtue for most lot. Don’t care I, whether you have these, Certainly no concern, maybe bit, if you please. You see, Ago, my father pushed a simpleton me to survive, That push created utopia, now which is our hive. Believe you too in its power, Push you to bloom bud, be a loved flower. I hope out there waiting, is a beautiful life’s dawn, I push you in hope dear, a push you will thrive on!

                  Siddhi and Neil were having lunch in a lavish hotel on a hot Saturday in Allahabad, India. It was May afternoon when the sun was at its merciless best across the span of the country. But it was a happy day for the Prasad siblings. Neil was in India for his marriage and the brother sister duo were out shopping in the upmarket Civil Lines neighbourhood of the city. They decided to break for lunch. These days were a departure from the routine calm and lazy afternoons at the Prasad household. It was filled with commotion and tension in the run up to the D-day. This was a far-cry from the usual silence which the Prasad's were used to, until Neil went abroad. He had moved to Brazil for work and had come home on this short trip after three long years. During the course of their meal they had had an argument. “It is high time you realize Siddhi that if you don’t study the future is perilous for you,” said Neil. “Please, can we talk of somethin

[Yes, you read the title right! What follows is the story of most Indian girls, sadly if you ask me but true nevertheless in most cases. When we were school going age our teachers asked us to write all sorts of autobiographies; of a pen, a book, tree, desk or a bench. It is my firm belief that if our teachers would have asked us to write one of the opposite sex, things could have been better for each one of us; For one, if we could think like a blackboard or a chalk, we could have done well knowing the grossly misunderstood opposite sex, and two, given the hypocrisy and apathy that breeds all around, a little empathy of another human would enlighten rotten minds to reason our living.] Here it goes; autobiography of a girl written by a boy… I was born in a middle class family in one of the many small cities that dot the confused Indian landscape. A landscape filled with contradictions of what represents our culture and what is foreign to u

 This is a tale of an emerging I-land, Where S for society is negligibly silent.                               Organs with ideals loud, in it were big three,               And very unlike the alphabet, it all began with C; Noble in initials, C took I to some gain, Many say now evident, it intents not the same;               Boisterous B began unlike, religion its fundamental,               Short not sweet its reigns, looks for strong revival; Parading all virtuous, swaying gazes along comes A, "Lets promise I to glory," says, "C and B can only decay";                Misery sea stepping feet, I-landers simply look on,                Can any hold the surges, least survival be forgone; Step up, say I, I-landers, its we who make state, Just not C, B or A, A to Z build the alphabet;               Master if we language, that makes I for all,               No wave too strong to flood, eternally we can stand tall!          

                                    Musings of ... shall I say, an 'ordinary Indian life'? Life works in mysterious ways. There are times when principles guide you into a particular action and reasonably so. But then again there comes a moral dilemma of relations. People. Humans who are related to oneself in a love hate relationship create a unique situation. Times when we forego all that we want to stand for or are willing to stand for, just to nurture that bond.  There will be a time when shadows that lead our path will fall behind. Relations left out to face themselves lost over time and space.                                                                                                                                 Photo by René DeAnda on Unsplash This strange predicament is underlined in the cultural milieu that is India, atleast the way I have known it. Here people live, cultures flourish not guided by strong individuality, not even by reason bu

It started with a fantasy! Fantasy to play with the spoken word, just as my parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts seemed to do. But somehow the second I opened my mouth it was funny to everyone. To be entertained by a comedian is one thing; but to laugh at sounds emanating from a little mouth is actually stupid, if you were to ask that kid. It felt strange at times and sometimes delightful.  Thus began my association with vocabulary. A child, trying to articulate something that made sense and everybody around seemed to be enjoying my struggle. The most funny part; its been years down the road, but the story does not seem to end! I am still struggling with the words and my tries seem absurd. Once, during my school days, I was writing a piece about trees visible from my classroom window, in my essay notebook. But somehow, right words seemed to elude my writing.  To make matters worse, the boy sitting next, Ahmad, saw that I was writing something in a free perio

I write to you as a man, a fellow subspecies; with definitely the same organs, hormones and body processes and perhaps same emotions and attitude towards many things. I am an Indian male, maybe living all the frustrations that also surround you; job-wise, relationship-wise and of course 'national state of affairs' wise. What I fail to associate with is, the heinousness that pervades your faculties which makes you commit this act. In fact, I feel there is yet a word to be developed in the English language that could aptly describe your state of mind in those moments of madness. I am a being  just like you, but at the same time very unlike you. You see, human beings have an ability called empathy which makes them stand out from the rest of living pack. But no amount of it can ever make me understand yourself and maybe I am happy for that. People all over the world undergo brutalities. Maybe I am too naive even to begin to understand the sentient of, say, the Pa

Hey... I always wanted to do this with an air of convenience. The words should just flow out from my mind to the edit box. I was waiting for the time this happened. The longer I wait the more I realized there is no such time. Things have to come forth in two ways... 1. By perfecting the art after a number of attempts trying to make it better which is actually starting right now. 2. To actually be so convinced, passionate and eager to write and share that a write up is just a fall out of the process of expression. Turns out, I am neither deft at playing with vocabulary nor too passionate and convinced about my opinions and beliefs that I produce a work qualified as worth attention. Thus, lack of a well maintained lexicon was supposed to be compensated by the will to tell a story. A story; comprising fictional creations of my mind, my views, my take on the circus. But when one knows just about as much as to get humbled by the grand scheme of things one turns ou

The agony of creation always starts with a disaster. Again, expressed in the limited knowledge that I possess. I most humbly was to submit in my first post the reason I don't indulge in the pleasurable experience of writing.  A well crafted (or so I thought) post was ready to be inflicted maybe on the world. Almost done and it failed to get saved. Entire work lost with an excruciating ease of a person dying in a second with no apparent reason. Now I don't want to relive the pain by elaborating on the matter of the post or recounting the large blog that I had created about how and what of my state of being. So regretfully... I submit; what happened simply best describes my dilemma, confusion and also my tryst with writing. Keep looking for this space if at all words do flow out through a very narrow channel that is my 'mind-hand-platform' course. And of course, the cruel affair that is the scheme of things that matter to get it to the world. Very sorry...