Saturday, December 25, 2010

beasts are dumb

I wake up to hear your meow, oh my cat where are you? You were my alarm in the mornings and even at odd times of day, my comfort when I tended to cry, my responsibility, my sense of achievement. You were my proud, telling me how humane I was… I used to think that you needed me, now I understand that it was me who was really needy. I miss you when I enter the hostel, when there is no one waiting for me; no one runs behind me, no one to jump on my jeans… no one waits for me to bring the milk… no one is there to attack and spill the biscuits on table. Trust me, I don’t eat biscuits, they’re still here waiting only for you. And there are two lizards in my room; I know they can act as tasty dishes for you. Ok I permit; you can jump on my computer, walk on the keyboard, and climb the window and make things fall as you fall down. Ok you can sleep on my bed, enter my cupboard, and make the floor of my room laden with your fallen fur. You can drink the water from toilet and then insert your head in my bucket, and make my roommate angry on me for your presence. You can lick my plates and glasses, and if it’s an emergency you can use the underside of my cot as a piece of dirty land…. But please please come back…

See how mad I’ve gone … I’m writing to you when I know that you can’t read. You can’t understand even if I yell on you. You can’t understand my words… you’re not a human; you’re quadruped, a beast, just a cat. I shouldn’t be involved in you to this extent, to talk with animals I’m not a child. I still remember how you used to act when I used to act as if I would beat you. I still remember your voice. I still confuse every white object in darkness with you… where are you?

Did you know who you were for me? Have you ever thought that the person you were playing as if she was your feline sibling was facing most catastrophic typhoons in her life? Could you understand the transformations taking place in my life? Were you aware that you were the only living company of me, during most lonely days of my life…? How could you, when even I wasn’t aware of your importance till now… till when I wait for you, and don’t get you, till when I understand that I’ve lost you?
Was your behavior mere a reflection of love of reward of food and that of security… or was it a result of some care for me? I don’t care about your purpose, as whatever its purpose might be, your behavior was a reward to me. I needed you to believe in me, to be taken care of by me, to think of me as your safety. I liked to see you happy… I pray you should be happy wherever you might be. I loved you as any parent would love her dependent baby… and she loves to see the baby growing independent of herself. But she craves to see the baby… you don’t come to me, don’t follow me, don’t trust me, but… but at least once please show your face to me.

See how forlorn I’ve become, I want to call you, but can’t, as you don’t have any mobile phone… I want to write to you but don’t know your address… to read my email you’ll never come to the internet… And you continue to trouble me in my memories and in dreams waking me up and making me nostalgic… my Billu, my Moti, my Sonya, my dear Khawadya , my Boku do this favor to your non feline mom, if you have that sixth sense, sense her worrying heart and at least to convey your well being please come back…

Monday, November 29, 2010

picture of a mad 2

Madness can be beautiful… when it’s not causeless, and the beauty of it depends on the beauty of the cause that maddens… a beautiful desire, a beautiful person, a beautiful dream or a beautiful dream world; they change the mind, mutate it… grab your saneness, rule your senses and lend you as a forlorn to wander in the world searching a dream world, breaking all the rules of a normal person… you search your dream even when you look into the mirror, alas! You can’t even understand that you’re no more a wise person, a person you were before that small accident… and people call you as insane or as a mad… but… but oh poor haunted soul, have you ever noticed that… that your madness has added lots of grace to your face? Trust me; this madness is the most effective beautifying treatment (Though it can cost you your life… but who cares about life in the midst of this madness?). Yeah, madness can be beautiful…

Saturday, November 20, 2010

When a human ages…

Swollen legs
And shrunken eyes
Can you believe…
I was a king in my times?

Senses severed,
Joints tortured,
Fighting with arthritis
And I can’t remember things
Can you believe…
I was a ruler of minds?

Struggling for my aims,
Living in my dreams,
Loving, teasing, playing and winning
… Losing my heart,
Can you believe…
I was very smart?

Now the heart is damaged,
And my pride injured,
The king of then,
Is now no more!
Now I’m a loser,
Time did this slaughter
… And I got sacrificed
Can you believe…
The power I have enjoyed?

Once a divine beauty,
I’ve lost my vanity
I have no powers,
No aims, no dreams,
I do survive, but…
With no hopes!
I’ve lost everything
This is time’s victory,
But… but you have to believe,
I still… still have a story!!!

Friday, October 29, 2010

autobiography of a mad...

Am I mad to dream what I dream, people say your dreams should be feasible… a microbe can’t dream to be as huge as a dino, a thorny desert plant can’t look beautiful, a poison can’t dream to save lives… how can an intern dream to be a good scientist, or a doctor, or a healer? How can I dream a heavenly hospital, when I practice at a place where people with their saliva of chewed tobacco, and also urine, within a weak transform a new posh building into a hellhole… or when the freshness of morning in hospital is stolen by smoke of cigarette of the patient, or relative or the compounder or professor doctor? How can I expect doctors to take care of patients, who themselves don’t respect their health? How can I convince the patients to take care of their health, when they’re illiterate, and when surviving for today is their major problem? How can I dream fine diagnosing techniques and healing machines, when even basic norms are not properly followed…?

Am I mad to think all this, when almost everyone wants their self development… when to this almost everyone agrees or ignores, when nearly every medico is engaged in mugging up the bookish lines or copying for the medical entrance, when almost every scientist is running behind hot grants or publications, when making money, enjoying luxury is almost everyone’s goal, when almost everyone hates something new, or odd or anything that challenges the established situation? How can I dare to not to take part in this rat race, when innocence has been graved by formalities, and showiness, and desires to get more? How can I dream a smiling lovely world, when in fact the world is studded with sadness, revenge, lack of knowledge, poverty, violence and negligence?

But smile is also there, and there are hopes, there are some people burning their souls to help others… there is at least some goodness in heart of an almost worst person, I just want to eliminate the bad things, no matter if the world calls me a mad person. I know, the dinosaurs are extinct today, but microbes still persist… it steals your eyes when a desert cactus flowers, almost every life saving drug in emergency is otherwise a poison… anyone can dream anything, and can bring the dream into reality with her perseverance… I can dream my dream world, no matter even if there’s heaven and hell’s difference between the real and ideal. I can breathe for my dream world, and work for it, no matter how close I will be able to take this world to my dream world till I’m in this world. constructing heaven using hell as the raw material is a challenging task, it’s exciting, it gives me adrenaline rush… and most importantly a purpose to survive. I’ll prefer dying for my heavenly dreams to lying happily in arms of some angel in some ready- made heaven… and strangely I’ll be happier. I may really be a mad person…

Thursday, October 28, 2010

selfish care...

I’m trying to stop thinking since last few days; and trying to think nothing except me and myself. I want to do something, and earn something in my life… why should I bother about the lives which are not the part of my life? Why should I think what’ll happen to others, when I don’t know answer of that question about myself? Why should I think of rest of the world, which isn’t a part of my own world? Why should I dream about the whole world, when the world is not even aware of my presence? Why should I crave for the smile of those, who don’t even bother about my tears? I feel bad sometimes; I too shed tears, living on the edge of depression sometimes I too sink in ocean of being alone… but I can’t express, neither they’re keen to know about my pain; they respond only to my smiling face, then why… why about their feelings I should bother? They come to me, when they need happiness and forget my presence in their happiness. They come to me, to recharge their souls, where should I go, when my soul gets deprived of energy?

Can’t I be a machine? Can’t I be heartless… a ruthless soldier, defeating innocence for success? I want success, victory in every field of life, and the salute those distant shining stars get. I want to be distant like a star; people don’t respect my easy access… they think it’s my duty to die for them, and consider that I can’t have any personal problem. They think thinking about my pleasure is my crime. Can’t I pursue pleasure like the wild, and think about me, myself and my own private mind?

But my private mind is this world. It thinks nothing if it doesn’t think of others. It becomes forlorn for their pleasure… tells them to do anything to me, but after doing it they should be happier. Then my dreams come of happy world, I can’t separate my world from my dream world. Bringing that dream world into life becomes my purpose of life… if I don’t live in my dreams then I won’t survive. I don’t help people because I’m an angel, or because I’m a fool; I do it as their pleasure is my gain. I gain pleasure from making them to smile, oh sorrowful souls come; I welcome you when you need… as your satisfaction is my lifeline. I can never sacrifice my pleasure, as sacrificing my pleasure gives me more pleasure.

… But how joyous it would have been, if at least few of them had considered about my mind… but still I thank them, as they only have made me self efficient.

Monday, October 11, 2010

reality kills

It’s not easy to write your heart when the heart itself is not ready to dictate its heart… sometimes in life, or many times if you’re the chosen one, your poor heart encounters situations that its tender feelings it has to stop. The mind wishes to stop the heart, to end its beatings… mechanical yet painful. I wish if I had no heart… alas, I’ve it, and it’s merciless like that of any other’s.

I’m an intern, a blood sucker, doing bloody business of taking, marking and sending blood to laboratory studies… I do it, I try to do it mindlessly, without getting involved in the owners of that blood… but can’t. I can’t as usual separate my thoughts from the sufferings of my patients.

Here I see the poverty. Poverty of patients of money, and that of health, and that of knowledge, and poverty of doctors and the staff of sympathy and of the sense of care they should possess as health care workers, and my poverty of maybe guts or of the authority to stand up and to change the situation at once. I can’t even think of any solution to change the situation.

I’m very inexperienced, I know I don’t know many things… but I know from books and from my dreams that this’ not a health service that can be called as ideal, not even close to the good one. Even an illiterate would tell that the fridge in ward is meant to keep drugs and blood and blood samples and not for bottles of alcoholic beverages…
I see pain every day, surgeries, ulcers, wounds, sutures, weakness, forlornness, fear, trust, suspicion… and the rage, the disgust, fear and avoidance… I dwindle to float in this ocean of varied emotions. And I can’t do a thing to stabilize the condition, even if I sacrifice everything. I see traumas, accidents, lost body parts, amputated limbs, head injuries; I see coma and death killing the caring ones. I can’t stop drunken driving, can’t seize the violence, and can’t make those damaged parts once again to work. I see, see and feel and get numbed. I want to scream, but can’t as I’m a doctor, and I should love silence. I’ve learned to cry to weep to moan and to shout in silence. I’ve learned to die silently… and I do it every moment of my strange life.

I fear; I really fear that my life will end in this useless way, in this hell, and I’ll die and wander as a ghost that too here in this hellish government hospital… or I feel that I already have died and have been posted to this modern hell. I crave for making some change, to make at least Earth if not heaven from this hell… but can’t make even a slightest change.

Where are my dreams, I call them mutely, try to search for them blindly… and grope with my numb fingers to figure out the reality making my fingers to bleed, telling my deaf ears that my dreams are more impossible than the complete impossibility itself. I feel regret that still I live, but still I live because I don’t want to feel regret after I die… I still hold some hope, some breaths telling me that something will happen… some day and I’ll see my dreams becoming alive. I want to see my dreams alive… or I want to give up being alive.

Friday, September 24, 2010

Patched person

Something happens and shatters the heart… and the soul gets wounded. We survive and collect the pieces hoping to patch up the injured mind. They fit in each other, as we suture them… but they never form a person who we were before getting injured… leaving us like a patched piece of cloth.
…but remember, at least sometimes the patched piece is better than the original.

diary as an intern

I write, I dare to write… indicating the height of my shamelessness, when in fact I should keep taciturnity. Who gave me right to write about my laid up acts, when I don’t stop them… when I’m too weak to stop them? Is there any benefit in vomiting out my pains in the form of this typed moaning, when I fail always to reduce the pains of others? Do I have any right to attempt to reduce my own sorrows… when I, like a blind, deaf, and senseless stone, evidence grieves of innocence? I don’t know… but I think the answer is no, and still I do it… as an attempt to keep my all time loser life from getting lost in a failed death.

Here, in my hospital, everyday, I evidence rape of humanity… and do nothing. In contrary sometimes I assist in the raping to the rapists… no! It’s my virtues, those are getting raped… traumatized, mutilated… exposed to high grade violence. And I like a victim; forlorn… weak, unable… survive, and try to come out of one shock only to get shocked once again at the next moment, only to get victimized for one more time. I survive, to find some hope, to find some meaning in my meaningless mundane guilty life, to search some purity in my dirty world, where my dream world seems to be a dream of a drunkard, dreaming a heaven while lying motionless in a ditch containing sewage water.

I see patients coming with injuries gifted by human violence, I see victims of fights coming with bruised cheeks, broken lips, fallen teeth… I see wives with hemotympanum due to the slaps from their life partner husbands… I see innocent train travelers with ear injuries because of stones hurled by some nasty unknown humans… I see patients who’re in hospital only because of careless family members. I want to stop the violence… want to halt the negligence. But do nothing other than observation. And I see doctors who look as patients as valueless dirty nasty insects. I see major rules of hygiene getting violated; I see false clinical notes being written and drugs being prescribed without proper examination. And to sensitize them I do nothing… when in fact I too am supposed to be a ‘doctor in my dreams… or to offer some healing’.

But sometimes I do succeed in making them to smile, my advice works sometimes, I feel that I can do at least some little changes in those painful lives… I feel I will succeed at least to some extent to make this world a better place to survive… and that’s why, and that’s how I dare and manage to continue this life of mine without any life.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

ideal vs reality

How easy it would be… if I were not a doctor. Life would be worth living, I could help in the living of others… I would call myself as a human, and not a demon. If I were not a doctor, then I would consider it’s a deity who offers treatment to the ill… no matter how expensive the deity is. I would consider then, I know at least something about health… and I would be eligible to help others.

But I’m a doctor… alas! I work as an intern in a government hospital… alas! And I know now that every trust people possess for a doctor is nearly always ‘the myth’. And almost every doctor has to be a robot… to work in a government hospital.

Professionalism is different from this rat race of money making and of avoiding troubles… they work here because they’ve to work, because it’s compulsory… and they work as factory workers who love to strictly follow the worker’s laws of maximum work and maximum work hours… if patients think of doctors as government workers, then the doctors say, they must act as government servants… and not as humans.

This leads to carelessness, malpractices, negative attitude towards the patients… they look at each and every patient as a pile of file work… and not as a chance of getting some blessings. They never work for the smiles; they work for getting their completion signed, to get the money, to get the degree… to get higher authority… I don’t know where in this list the satisfaction stands… whether it stands?

Why does this occur… why we lose touch with humanity when we become adult humans? Is this natural only… or is this something pathological… something like a social psychological epidemic, of which we’re still unaware.

I’m inadequate at this stage to find out the cause of this tragic happening… I can do nothing except guessing, and moaning and suppressing my own screams… and hoping that at one day or another, the pool of my unuttered cries will flow out, and wash away all the negativity form this world…

Till then I’ve to survive.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

intern diary

With my eyes open, I see the pain… with eyes closed, I feel the pain. I’m not on land, but immersed in an ocean of pain… my heart is nothing but a moan of pain.
In my final year, ulcer was a ‘Short case’, or a short note for four marks. It didn’t deserve more than ten pages in my notes book, or more than two pages in my standard surgery text book. It was painful at that time, now it’s a synonym of pain. It’s debilitating, distracting stimulus that elicits moans… my heart was moaning when I was doing the dressings. There was pus, or blood or mixture of both… and the eyes were oozing pains.

And I’m in a government hospital, cheep, where the table on which the patients sit for getting their wounds covered with dressing, is always covered with the discharge from the wounds of the patients sitting on it before that patient, and with the foam formed by reaction of hydrogen peroxide with the naked tissues. The room smells as if it has been painted with pus… thankfully flies are absent.
The injured, ill, infected patients form a queue for that table, with noses open, and their eyes, and their ears to the screams of others. And one after another they reach that dirty table and we do the dressing, without changing the gloves… sometimes the pads get dirty, sometimes the solution… all it depends on the luck of the patient. For each and every patient we’ve to use the same scissors.

I try my best avoid contamination, but what to do… I’m just a human. And I live in a primitive era, which is far away from my dreamed future.

And I hear, this dressing helps some patients to get completely cured… no matter what quantity of time the patient has to spend as debilitated… it’s not fixed and ranges between days, weeks, months… or infinity… where amputation serves as a solution.
I want a solution… something that’ll heal these wounds immediately, without causing this disturbance… I beg the destiny to give me strength and luck enough to find it, or to send some angels who’ll build that magical thing, and construct my imagined world… without any suffering. In exchange it’s free to erase me permanently from my dream world.

.. now at least I can try to make my government hospital hygienic one… though not pain, it’ll reduce the chance of infection.

Monday, September 6, 2010


Sometimes my life seems to be a fast action movie, sometimes a heartbreaking tragedy, sometimes a horror show… and many times a tasteless, blank, boring unending program without any climax. Valleys are there and banal unyielding, unfertile land laden with boring rocks… but no peaks, I feel sometimes. Though I try hard, I can’t stop feeling bad. I know it’s acute, and as usual won’t last for more than few hours or days… but my heart will continue to ask, what is that I lack… skills, intelligence, luck, good luck, some magic, or some breakthrough incidence? … Or is it mere patience?
I try to console myself… but fail to digest my failures, like dark comedies, telling stories of my all efforts going into fuss. I feel pain in chest, some breathlessness, lack of hopes… the failures knock the doors of my deep seated depression and it comes out to haunt my success deprived brain. I don’t cry, as I’ve become an expert to hide my un- oozed tears behind fake smiles.

Why anyything I think doesn’t happen? Why my life doesn’t take any twist? Why some lottery, some shower of fortune, like that happens in some people’s lives transforming their lives from iron into gold… never happen in that of mine? I know, mistakes were bound to happen as I was still in learning a stage… but what if the mistakes killing my project were not made by me? And what if I know with guarantee that someone has deliberately curded my experiment?

My heart fails to find out any solution… then it weeps, asks why… why I crash always… why everywhere I fail to show my talent… is there something called talent in me? Or am I a crude uncultured jungle beast, far away from skills of being delicate? I can be delicate and I was, I know… and was far away from being careless. My heart was trapped in my research work; it could never allow silly mistakes… then why? Why should I evidence my dreams getting shattered because of someone else’s carelessness?
But I have to evidence it, to feel it, and as usual to survive it. A born loser, of winning something, I feel, I’ve no right… but I wasn’t a loser as a kid, I was… leave it… I’m not an aged worrier who survives on memories of past victories. But… but why can’t my life story be like those whose debut becomes a big success? Leave it… we should work for satisfaction not for success. But what’s the use of hard work, if it results in such heartbreak? Won’t anyone’s heart break if s/he has to tolerate abortion of their dreams in ninth month that too because of someone else’s mistake…
If I’ve to lose every time, then what’s the use of taking part in battles? Today I lost a big battle against the destiny who only had offered me a chance to show my bravery. It turned out that most important RNA samples in my dream project were denatured, calling for ‘the end’ of my project, thanks to a careless fellow who added wrong concentration of chemicals in it... I couldn’t do it as, as a project student I was deprived of the rights to handle them…. He’ll live peacefully, I know… what about me, as I’ve to go back to my working place with those heart breaking photographs of broken RNAs… or with some unplanned project summary concentrating on the less important samples which escaped his ruthlessness?

I close my eyes, and daydreams arrive of completing my beloved project… I wish I could once again start my project, with authority enough to not to allow anyone else to poke her/ his running nose and to spoil my project as it has spoiled now… spoiling my belief that if you work from the bottom of your heart, destiny gets pleased from the bottom of her heart… but my destiny seems to have no heart. Heartless, it loves to bring my each and every effort to a terrible and miserable end.

I want some magic that’ll convert my dreams into happenings… or some energy to keep me alive, and strong enough to digest these unexpected disasters, and carry the aborted dreams to the eternity up to a point of time when they will breathe alive, independent of mine. Can dead dreams breathe once again… but who says my dreams are dead? They just can’t die, even though I can die in between while working for them.
And I die many times like I died now.

With this very big failure welcoming me in the field of research with garland of pricking poisonous thorns, I still feel obsessed with the idea of being a scientist. In fact I wish I would a PhD student here, at this time… only to work tenfold for at least ten times on that lovely project of mine! The research slapped me at the entrance only of that field, and still I felt blessed, I remembered with that painful hit that even Sachin Tendulkar’s international batting career had begun with a duck… it might be my mere good luck that I failed now, like once I had failed in my final year’s final exam, and had encountered an angel leading me to the entrance of my dream field.

… But still I can’t stop my heart from craving for examining whether what I had thought was correct. Oh destiny, I don’t know you’re good or bad, ruthless or just taking exams, you’re surprising, like a puzzle…. may you be coldblooded to whatever extent, let me inform you, my work has not yet stopped… just it has been postponed, and I’ll be a part of it, no matter as a researcher or as a subject, as a human or as a rodent, while living intact… or as a dead!

Sunday, August 29, 2010

a battle wid words

Words parade themselves as language of humans,
Constructions of sounds sounding mind of everyone
Ask us to salute the power they possess
They say without them we’re just beasts.
I got angry on this beasty comment
Got fussed to see the smugness of those ink droplets

I warned the words you’re not so clever,
Not honest… not helpful always…
Don’t think yourselves as kings and queens of hearts
You’re our servants, helping to translate our thoughts

The heart can beat without any word
…And eyes mutely shed tears.
Same thing happens with enchanting smiles
The mouth shuts up and breaths tell stories…

Words smiled to this rage of mine
Told me that they’re gifts to humankind
They spoke out, “we’re little angels
Don’t fight us, for we’re to help,
Wanting your heart to get expressed as a page
We crave to wipe out your pains, and to shower fountains of happiness

Sometimes we’re wet, sometimes dry
Or like a cooling breeze, spreading fragrance in the sky
You people compress us under burden of your feelings
We always want to wipe your tears
You only wash us away, with flood of your emotions

We get lost in torrents of your thoughts
The sorrow makes us moan, and extreme joy to fly
We want you to help to get mysteries of heart solved
But oh dear, what can we do, if in the conflict we too are involved?
You don’t hesitate to use us as weapons
Leaving bodies intact and bleeding souls…
We feel it’s better to hide than stabbing hearts
You do the slaughter, how can we be the murderers?”

Then I got guilty for my comments,
Like those angelic sounds I too became wordless

d game of virtues

I killed my non- violence; cut throat of my innocence, of the tiny humane kid in me who loved animals, whose mind wasn’t aware of the darkness of death, and was taking every essential step to survive… I wanted to study brain, to do a project to understand something about our understanding. I did it, trained my rat team; they loved me like what my cat does, unaware of the fact that I happened to be the to be slayer, to end their tiny trained life. Do I deserve to be called as a human?
Humans are animals, I know. And animals kill others when they need it; I don’t know whether that is this painful to them. They kill for their protection; they kill for food, to show dominance… or to win over a potential mate, to propagate their own genes… some are even cannibal, they just do it without understanding. I knew what I was doing, without their knowing, suppressing my strong desire to allow them to continue their innocent life, feeling as if I was doing a crime.

I had to know, to study… and to do it I knew there was no other option. People look at animals as sources of calorie, fats, proteins, fat soluble vitamins… is it odd if I had to look at them as sources of information, as a hidden treasure of knowledge… or a key to understand a host of brain functions. But what if they are lives, animals… mammals with neocortex like us? …But this’ the thing that makes them ideal subjects for this work. And I wanted to do it in exchange of everything of mine… on that dissection table; I sacrificed my virtues only for keeping my virtues alive.
That might be a sin, I agree… but I’m not afraid of hell’s sufferings. But it really hurts to kill someone who trusts you, no matter the trusting party happens to be a rodent.

One day or other, I hope we’ll make some machine that will study the behavior and brain activities, without causing any harm to the owner of the brain. Till then I’ve to act as a rat assassin.

My study gave me a chance to peep into the heart of rats… and it’s not different from that of cats… and that of humans. It craves to get relaxed in some safe secure arms.

saluting solitude

A lone bird, I tweet alone, shout alone… and when happy I whistle also while alone. Confined in my closed isolated room, I enjoy some lonely smiles, or weep my lonesome tears, whatever I may do, I feel, who’s there to care. While surrounded by a crowd also, alas, I continue to feel alone. I hide myself from the caring ones, least my mask shall fall like a waterfall bathing them in my tears. There’s molten lava kept under pressure in the heart of this cool thick stone. I don’t want my keens to get burnt in that. There is more sorrow in my heart than the life it has… and I feel it’s not good to share something as painful as my moaning mind.

Loneliness since centuries has been the mother of fine thoughts and great arts... where the pains stimulate creative mind. I have learned to enjoy the troubles it gives… but truly speaking at least sometimes this isolation hurts a lot.

Friday, August 20, 2010

d art of dissection

I see art in every work I do, as delicacy is the soul of art… dissecting a semisolid structure like fresh brain of an immature rat, that too to expose and separate hidden structures like the hippocampus, amygdala, and striatum requires the same inventive attitude as that of painting the moods of mind and arranging words those penetrate the mind…

Thursday, August 19, 2010

set of questions

Have you ever experienced those set backs
Which teach you something, and never come back?

Have some incidence made you to cry
The effect of which transformed your life?

Have you ever felt the pleasing pains,
And tolerated losses without complaints?

Have you ever got the joy of losing,
Your everything, really for nothing?

Have you ever craved for something,
What people say is not even a trivial thing?

Have you ever become too forlorn,
To give up the things; and acting like a mad?

Have you ever bathed in showers of joy,
Which makes you to forget the boundaries of life?

Have you ever fallen in love with your dream,
Got life’s everything, yet lost your life?

It’s ecstatic to die for your dream,
Even though the dream itself is not rewarding…

Saturday, August 7, 2010

my life

The doors of my mind are always closed; even any rat- tat- tat s not allowed crossing it. and my face is always covered with a thick mask of my usual public face with a cool deceiving smile, stimulating other’s minds. Outward stimuli can’t affect my inside, no matter how harsh or pleasing they are. And inside there is something violent going on, something like the wildfire, or hurricane, or a volcano… no peace at all… for me, these are not catastrophes, these are parts of my life hidden in depths of mine. When they’ll come out, I don’t know… I don’t know whether they’ll ever come out.

A person with a volcano sleeping inside, I never feel strong enough, energetic enough, having enough speed to catch the peace of achieving my aim. I crave for the strength in my dreams, but never give up; I just can’t, enslaved by the fire in my heart.

Will I get some solace, some rain, some cold, some warmth… evoking a smile coming from the depths of my mind? Whether at least at some point of my life, will I feel satisfied? Whether at least for a moment will I be able to enjoy this gift of human life?

I will, I think, when I’ll see my dreams alive, maybe fifty, hundred, thousand years from now, when there will be showers of joy, when everyone will smile, when everyone will be satisfied, when every heart will be pure, when every disease will get cured, when everyone will get what they wish to have, when everyone will wish good for others, when heaven will reside on my Earth…

Till then I’ll keep on burning my life. I’ve been a burning life since ages, and you’ll find me in burns of every heart, even after my death, attempting feebly to give them some solace hoping that it’ll help me to smile.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

nightmare n dream

It was the same nightmare once again; I don’t know to me what it wants to tell. I got up, disregarding the darkness occupying my room. It was 2.30 am, only three hours had passed since I had surrendered to sleep, and the goddess of sleep had showed me the same movie of horror, humans were acting as ghosts there, named terrorists, and fear and terror were ruling my dream world. I was the same, restless, hyper wanting to eliminate the terror. I saw their faces, with horrid expressions, felt their acts, and the screams tears moans of persons like me and you. There were bomb blasts, and bullets, and deaths. Violence was damaging my world, revenge was raping humanity. I was not scared, but was far beyond that, numbed, I was trying my best to save as many people as I could… then I reached my hospital, the same where I learn, and saw terrorists were sitting there also with aprons and stethoscopes, and guns in their hands. I peeped into the prescription given to a patient, it was poisonous chlorine gas, I yelled on the terror doctor, and once again looked to the prescription, it was changed now, it was a cancer chemotherapeutic agent, and concentrated dose of radiation… did the patient need it? Someone called me told me that I had to retake my gynecology exam… I searched, but there was no exam hall, it was the same desert where terrorists were getting trained, I knew that place, I had visited it many times, in my nightmares. Whatever was happening, it was far beyond my comprehension. I had to save those teenage boys and girls from getting converted into live demons, should I kill their master, I thought, and was about to do so, when I opened my eyes, to sense that it wasn’t true… or was it?

I don’t want this to happen, though in reality it is happening. I don’t want the cruelty, the revenge take toll of this Earth’s happiness, our happiness. Instead of those horrid expressions and wicked laughter on those faces, I want to see innocent smiles. I want love to rule this world, and not the hatred. Instead of those money making machines in hospitals, I want to see real doctors. I want to make the treatments tolerable and effective like the magic stick in my good dreams. I want to make our human life happier. And that’s why I don’t want to sleep… least that nightmare shall wake me up!

Sunday, July 18, 2010


I’m sick somewhere in my soul, and the treatment I don’t know. I’m a dynamite, about to blow, but when I’ll explode even I don’t know. My every laughter even slightest smile, or even the grimace and teardrops try to express my mind, but poor they always fail in doing that. Hurricanes and tsunamis occur in my head, when I try to give it some rest. I wish to keep working all the time, as work is the only thing that rests my mind. I see faces when I face the clouds, and feel clouds covering every real face. I wish to wipe them out and let every face shine with clarity and purity of their mind. I’m a soul thirsty of some peace; a pinch of happiness will pacify my sufferings, I feel. Even my happiness bothers me, how can I dare to be happy when I’ve to do something…

Am I a worrier, loving purposeless battlefields, or a soldier protecting vague boundaries? Why I always feel incomplete, why every moment tells, ‘you’ve to do something’? What’s the thing that bites me always, why like others I can’t enjoy my presence? Why I always feel guilty of my unavailability to my loved ones, yet why can’t I devote myself to them? Am I a little thing hoping to alter the world or simply a mad person being grandiose or paranoid? I’ve tried to find answers to these questions, and still they mock me, standing before me like posers.

I think I should consult a psychiatrist for my uneasiness, but fear that I’ll think there, that most psychiatry treatments are still vague. Will those sedative drugs really calm me, or will that forced sleep convert my dreams into nightmares? Mind is the thing yet to be discovered, our knowledge of our thinking organ is yet obscure. Many minds get polluted, because of lack of care. Should we blame those unlucky creatures, for their cruel crimes? I truly loathe those brutal beasts, yet I see humans behind their dead faces. Can we heal those love deprived souls, alas; love isn’t a tablet that we can sell in stores, nor isn’t it a surgery… it’s a stimulus that alters mind’s synaptic structure, and where to find that angelic structure delivering this to them in sufficient strength is a poser. I search a magic stick to find the answer, and when I’ll find it, I think I’ll be able to pay off at least some part of the huge burden of the debt of unending love, I’ve received from my loved ones. And then my indisposition will reduce, at least to some extent.

For now, I’ve some little questions, and their answers: will I be a good scientist? I don’t know. Will I heal others? I really don’t know. Will I be a good person? I can try to be. Currently, am I a good person? And the answer is ‘certainly no’.

Friday, July 16, 2010

Addictions of Soul

Addictions are bad, no matter how good they are… they enslave your brain, affect your thinking, functions, dreams, relations, your whole life, and the life of persons related to you, that too negatively. You become forlorn; dependent… can’t even stand without aids of your killer. It enmeshes you, and you become happy even though you’re tied. You forget the relations, emotions, and your verve. The culprit becomes your ambition, your purpose of survival, and may be the purpose of your death. And you become happy to hug even death for you master. The closer you go, yet closer you want to go. You keep on increasing the dose, more… more… more… and finally it gets incorporated in every nanometer of your soul. Yet you never develop tolerance… you keep on finding pleasure in even a trace of it, and craving for just an illusion of it.

Addictions of nicotine, caffeine, alcohol or even heroine, morphine playing with chemicals of brain fall short to these addictions of soul. Drugs may cause death when not taken in required dose or if taken in ‘required’ dose… but they do develop tolerance. Rehabs can help you to become addiction free for these drugs, meditations and behavior therapies, drugs developing aversion work there, but alas, they too are helpless when applied to treat the addicted soul. Here the addiction rules your brain and your soul, and no drugs can de addict you unless you’re dead.

These are the passions of life taking you to death, or leave you nowhere, and of no one. These are the passions for arts- living in a dream word, or the passions for science- building a dream world, or the passions of helping others- making them to smile while sacrificing your happy moments, to protect others endangering your own life, to care others by becoming careless for yourself, to heal others while leaving your own wounds untreated, or to fall in love with someone who always offers neglect… and they give you an unending happiness, making you addicted. They don’t give anything other than the joy of life, or a sense of divine satisfaction… but to survive what other things are needed?

They won’t transform you much, just will make you haunted, and people will call you a ‘mad’ or ‘a ruthless mad’, and you do will act ruthless, and you do will become a mad…

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

my sin

Playing in my arms, my cat was mewing blissfully, and the crow resting on a branch of tree outside my window, was calling me for its regular breakfast- a biscuit. My grandma in her ninety’s was craving to ‘see’ me, as she hadn’t done that since one year. My parents were calling me home for at least the weekend, and my brother had been postponing the feast of Pav- Bhaaji constantly since last two weeks, waiting for my arrival…I was harsh, ruthless, immersed in my joy- my work… in my room. And then I left the room also, when needed; deserting my cat for whom also it had become a home…

The cat might be missing that comfort, who’ll care it if it falls ill? The crow would have got de-conditioned by now for the reflex it had got, after shouting before that closed window for many times, fruitlessly. My grandma has many granddaughters, but to whom she would express her love she has for me? And my family might be feeling unlucky as they have to love, and have to crave for, and have to care a big hard yet delicate stone…

“You shan’t form bonds of love with animals, if you can’t carry them for lifetime…” my mom says to me. She says to me that I’m responsible for the pain of the cat, what it gets because of my absence. I’m responsible for the pains I give to my loved ones… being like a heartless machine, I shouldn’t have loved others, and shouldn’t have made others to love me. Why did I form bonds, if I had to be ‘free’? But I swear, I never love anyone expecting their love in exchange, and I never love anyone after deciding that I shall love this person… it happens on its own, how, when, even I don’t know or remember.

I love everyone, everyone is mine… but I belong to no one. They do many things for me, but for them, I do nearly nothing, except that of making their souls to worry for me. I’m selfish, I feel many times. I put my work before my duties. Do I have more feelings for my work than for my loved ones? I have tried to find out, but found no instrument that could measure my feelings of love.

Even though I’m not a person running behind a fine career; and I never wish to have heaps of money, and never have I craved for physical comforts, I do crave for my dreams… I want to make this world happier. I want to make human life easier, planet Earth safer. I want everyone to enjoy the comfort, everyone to get showered with the feeling of love, to make every person to love every other person…

But I myself do fail to express my love to my loved ones. I love them, I love them a lot, but still I hurt them. I hurt myself, because I never express or I always fail to express my feelings for them. I fail to show that like others, I too am a human. This isn’t a characteristic of a good person, I know. I know I’m not enough to please my loved ones; I’m weak, selfish… a bad person, devil or maybe be sinful. But I never expect what they say ‘haven’ after death, instead I want the hell. And I guess, there also I’ll crave to make heaven from that hell.

Friday, July 2, 2010

childhood of violence

I’ve experienced death winning over life, horror movies happening in life, suicide of morals and murders of humanity. I’ve seen selfishness taking control of judgments, and corruptions spoiling societies… these things aren’t new to me. but still… still there are some more horrible things I can’t forget those I’ve seen… and my visit to remand home here was one of these heart breaking incidents.

At the entry, directly before the gate there was a prison mimicking a crowded cage. And there were the kids, small boys of innocent ages…. But the innocence had been wiped out of their faces by strokes of their fates; and their bodies were reflecting the wounds and scars and roughness gifted to them by the harshness of life they had experienced. They weren’t crying, there wasn’t a trace of sadness, but there were vague laughter indicating either their emptiness or cruelty like that of the Joker in movie Batman. Like adult prisoners these juniors were also having specific dull uniforms… but they were also torn flashing the fresh bleeding wounds underneath them, maybe these were products of their recent fights. And there were flies, hovering around their wounds, faces and the bodies, but the bodies of the kids were careless about them. Inside the cage there was their well-categorized society with at least two gangs, and bosses, and servants and slaves…

The histories of the little criminals were also like them, violent and hopeless… a 14 yr. had killed a man and another 10 yr. old boy was there for raping an infant. Drug addiction, thefts, and fights were the common crimes over there and some were there only because they were products of criminals and some were runaways from their so called homes. The family histories of many of them were not known, as they were reluctant to talk, they only language they knew had nothing but commands for their fellow prisoners…

Outside the cage, where criminals were not allowed, the environment wasn’t much different. There were criminals whose only crime was that they were born, and were still alive… they were orphans or semi orphans or children of parents who couldn’t raise them. They weren’t living in a cage… it was something more fearsome. It was a big hall, dark, and underground, like a vault with old windows unable to be opened. Their torn bedsits forming their beds were covering the nakedness of the floor with partially broken, uneven tiles. And big rusted iron trunks with or without locks were forming their cupboards. Their properties? Half of red Lifebuoy soaps preserved and used carefully, or unused- as they used to get such one piece of soap once in four months, and a dirty bottle filled at various levels in different trunks with equally dirty oil, it was the coconut oil they were supposed to use for their scalps, broken comb one for each trunk, torn dirty towels, and clothes matching the towels, the trunks of girls had one more thing in addition to these, it was slice of Shikakai soap given to them to ‘clean’ their long hair, once in fifteen days. And the ‘rich’ ones had either a pen or a pencil, or an extra slate.

I couldn’t get a chance to see their food, but it same for the caged and non- caged ghosts of kids. They were just living, some were attending schools nearby, and some used to beg at the school time, for an extra chocolate.

There were no parents, no relatives, the hall had only kids of different ages, and the guards there were the only adults present. Official care was there, daily morning prayers, play and exercise hours for the little ones, and occasional visits by politicians giving them ‘sweets’ or stale ‘fruits’. But there wasn’t what we call ‘love’… I searched for it… but couldn’t see it. The dreadful thing I saw while searching it was that some out of prison boys were the slaves of the caged bosses, bringing Gutkha and tobacco packets for their rulers.

I don’t know whether, and I can’t find out, whether their brains can digest something tender or complicated like ‘love’. Their brains seemed to be deprived from this stimulus since… or maybe since before their birth.

I was there, crying for my own fate… thick skinned, hard minded medico of first year, a person who was used to dissect dead bodies of humans and playing with real human bones… but still dead bodies of those living childhood less children, made my tear glands to secret some drops of tear. I was there only for two hours. I wanted to learn about them more, to study the reasons of violence, but never got permission or a positive response. The only thing I could do and I still do it continuously, is to slow down my bike while passing from the road before the gate and to look at the cage and the cage birds and their slaves, as it lands in my road to hostel… they also have a television in that cage, which almost always shows violent fights of WWF…
Four and half years have passed since my visit to that place… but nothing seems to be changed, the cage, the kids and their condition, the violent television, and my helpless nature, and also my deep painful yet useless feeling to change this.

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

the ornament of the mind

They were earrings; golden, beautiful, shaped in the form of round baskets, intended to increase the beauty of two ears, no matter how the ears actually were. My mother had bought them for me, few years ago, when I was of age not to be able to differentiate between gold and brass or any other metal. And my ears were like me, meant to hear the soul of others; they could never bear such golden pressure. Waiting in the cupboard, tired, bored, the rings were craving to hang down from someone’s ears, still not daring to approach those of mine.

And now I told to sell them, refusing their generous help to improve the look of my hearing organs. I was called ruthless, cruel, a person lacking sense of beauty, stonehearted stone. They were not the rings, they were feelings, they said. And I felt it ruthless to keep money engaged in those shiny objects. The design, the shape, the attractive nature, and the expensiveness of the rings always fall short to explain the depth of feelings in my drawings and in my words building poems from my heartbeats; nor can they reach the height of knowledge, I wish to achieve.

Isn’t it inhumane to parade your insensitivity in form of that unused stored beautiful property, when there are people craving for their basic needs, when there are hospitals running out of facilities and when there are many researches pending because of lack of funding? I always feel that the quantity of numbness of anyone’s heart is directly proportional to the quantity of ornaments laden on her body.

For me, tons of gold and kilograms of diamonds are just impotent to give the pleasure that I get from extracting a true smile from a crying face. I might be an ugly stone hearted person for those rings, and for those who judge beauty in terms of shining… but my ugly heart always crave to bring beauty in the ugly corners of the society.

It’s not like that I’m blind to beauty and deaf to emotions, in fact I find beauty in bare old sunken ears, and sense unexpressed hidden treasure of emotions. No ornaments are essential to remind me of the love of my loved ones.

It’s not like that I loathe ornaments, I also wear them many times, but my ornaments are not golden. They’re invisible, something like an aura, an incomprehensible sensation. I like to wear courage, pleasure, and at least mask of optimism… my dedication, craving for knowledge decorate me, offer some beauty to me, no matter to what extent I am ugly. My desire to change the world, to make it happy… to build a fountain of smiles is more valuable to me than those earrings with golden feelings.

I want to build heaven on planet Earth… do you know, in heaven, gold is worth equal to that of the rocks and stones?

Tuesday, June 22, 2010

meeting the past

I was in 25th year of my life, of the age having maximum strength in human life… but wandering in forests of hopelessness. I was tied, frustrated, feeling alone and devastated, living a life of a failed student, a new member of an odd batch, a dull fellow… my vision was blurred to the extent of blindness, I couldn’t read, couldn’t comprehend. The words I had depicted on the walls and the roof of my room which were supposed to stimulate me, were now mocking me, challenging me to bear their sight… but I couldn’t… I didn’t want to look at them, I didn’t want to continue… didn’t want to survive. My dreams were appearing to be frauds of my brain… or they might be mere hallucinations of an oxygen deprived dying brain. I was deprived of success, since ages… I was deprived of hopes of success. And I was tired to this regular struggle to keep myself alive… I didn’t want it. I wanted to suicide, to show my dying brain the heaven of death, the aura, the greenery, what eyes see when near death. I was weak, with my hopes suffering from total flaccidity… and my dreams were rigid, hard but not moving, alas, they were also paralyzed.

My consciousness got reduced to take me somewhere near the stupor… and I felt like falling in abyss of my past. And there I encountered her, mere a teenager, unaware of her future… lacking the power of 25, lacking the information… but full of enthusiasm, willpower, a wish to break all boundaries, to create new records… a carelessness, readiness to accept the consequences, willingness either to reach the top or fall in valley, the confidence, a fire to fire back any attack… and there was me, old, experienced, ‘adult’, thick, numb, staring her and envying her like a granny. I wanted to tell her not to be this reckless, to stop the speeding… to look for the ditches, to seize the dimpled smile and to offer some wrinkles of wisdom, of the worry for the future and her horrid presence.

But she refused, as expected; she said she had to build her future with the stones in her presence. Her future was me, I knew… I tried to convey her, “hey immature girl, look at me, for I’m the consequence of your behavior. Look at my grades, and the failures… and the dark circles around my eyes due to unstopped tears. I’m not alive, neither I’m dead. I have the strength but can’t use it… I have the dreams, but can’t make them alive…”

And she neared me to touch my cheek, “oh I can’t believe that I’m going to be this big fat grandma at 25. I know experiences are bound to offer maturity, but premature aging is what you now call as a doctor- ‘pathological’. Look at me, I’m nothing except a struggler, still I made you to feel jealous of mine. I won’t change my behavior, for you’re the consequence, I can see through the time, unlike you my vision isn’t opaque… I can see the consequence of yours. You’re so close to my goal; I’ll never call you a failure. Letdowns are bound to happen; I don’t want you to lose the vigor… I’ll offer a push, if you try to stop in between. You’ve the strength of knowledge, and I have the speed, imagine what’ll happen if both are combined. If you lack confidence, let you be, just borrow the sense of recklessness from me… Look for me, I’m always alive in your memory, and if your old memory fails… search me in the pages of your ‘teenage diary’.”

Sunday, June 13, 2010

Hidden page in a medico’s diary

Look at me, I’m a doctor to be, a medico studying MBBS in Govt. institute… look at me, I wear the apron, no matter how the environment is hot, and hang the stetho around my neck, as a garland for victory in the entrance exam… no matter it’s functioning or not. This looks gracious, I know… I know it has no other use. My ears are not yet trained to differentiate the heart sounds; I hear them even when the stetho is switched off. Tell the kids not to be scared of me; I won’t give injection, as I can’t hold the syringe. I confuse in subcut and intra-dermal, all I do is intramuscular. Never have I tried my hand in intravenous. Out of vein IV is a main problem here.

Look at me and my genius, I know nothing, still people call me a scholar. Look at me and my ambitious nature, except proper studies I do anything to be a topper. I repeat the parrot’s fission to score in the exams, if that fails I don’t hesitate to use cheats and frauds. I lure the post graduates, hang out with anyone, use my ‘X or Y’ factor, and attend and arrange ‘wet’ parties… only to know the questions before the exams, and to be favored in the oral exams. ‘Morals’ is a word not present in my dictionary… all I value is marks.

Look at me and my capacity to understand, I write FQs on lung cancer… but like my pathology professor, I too am a heavy smoker. Atherosclerosis, liver cirrhosis are present in the ‘markings’, but alcohol and fatty foods are the things I crave for. I don’t follow any of the physician’s principals, except the one saying, “never accept your fault.”

Look at me and my idealism, unlike the weak ‘normal’ creatures, I never flow away in emotions. As an ideal doctor, I’m apathetic to the pains of the patient, for me ‘It’s’ just a written case for exam. I have to suppress my laughter in ICU, and attend the labor ward with popcorns in my hand.

Look at me, I’m a to be doctor… and Beware of me, I’m tomorrow’s practitioner.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010

just a... dream world

It was a hospital… yes a hospital, and that too of here, with everything right from the nurses, medicos, proper doctors, and of course patients and relatives. Nurses had their regular uniform, with no change, and doctors were wearing the same unwashed dirty Aprons…

I thought I was having one more nightmare… something like my live life, something I’m used to observe… I thought the nurse would now shout at that old patient… the doctor would tell the relatives of that old stroke patient to carry him to home for it was useless to keep him in the hospital as the stroke was irreversible. The blind girl would receive few mocking laughs… and that accident patient in the causality room would lose battle with life… the poor grandma would pray the doctors to save her money and the doctors would deny saying that MRI facility isn’t available as it was a government hospital… the angio fibroma boy would lose his life because of excessive bleeding during the surgery, and that diabetes uncle would get infected after the amputation operation…

I was preparing my heart… but it gave a painful sprain like contraction instead of the usual moan, when I saw the nurse’s smile… Nurses can smile! The stroke patient had got the treatment and left the hospital walking, talking and laughing; the blind girl had her own functioning beautiful eyes… poor grandma was still there but was smiling while holding the reports of the MRI in her hands, the MRI machine here was functioning, and there was another instrument… more advanced! The accident patient had got all his organs repaired with cultured organs from his own tissues… and the angiofibroma had got treatment with nano robots… without surgery. The diabetes uncle was happy with his brand new leg, and control of diabetes… … I needed to admit myself in the ‘Cardiac Care Unit’ to avoid an heart attack due to powerful fountains of joy…Oh my goodness… there was something like Cardiac Care Unit here, in this government hospital, with nano instruments to take care of narrowed blood vessels, tissue cultures synthesizing heart valves, part of heart walls and even complete hearts, with the patient’s own genetic composition… I tried to see the date; might be it was a day in future… but couldn’t see the year! I thought to go to the Obs- Gyn department and to see the conditions of females there…

… but the voice of ambulance started becoming shriller and shriller… as if a mosquito was singing… no there were many, I killed one of them with a slap on my cheek… and got my dream aborted. I had to wake up, to study… I was to have my Obs- Gyn exam. I had to pass, so that I could make my dream true…

But I really wanted to live in that dream… permanently! The mosquitoes shouldn’t have waked me up; hey did I notice there wasn’t a trace of these mosquitoes in my dream world?

Monday, June 7, 2010

A lost worrier

Once I saw a worrier, lost but surviving for hopes
The pain was visible as were the wounds,
I dared to ask her the cause of her mourns…
It was the loss, she told me in her words,
“Followers become criticizers,
And loved ones emit hatred…
Pride and honor flow away with the blood
It’s all related to win or loss in life’s battlefield.

It’s hard… hard to be confident
As confidence, like fair weather friends, requires a piece of achievement.
The blood, the wounds, the pain is valueless…
…If it’s not accompanied by success.
The loser is always alone,
As the crowd follows the victor…
The sacrifices, the wills, the daring is rubbish,
…If it hasn’t lead to a triumph.

Tears may be there…if the emotions are intact
Or there maybe eyelids …trying to cover the dryness of the mind
There may be a grimace, advocating the pains…
…Or a fake decoration with the loser’s smile.
Smile, tears or may it be a grimace…
For it there is no one to look at.
No one to hold hands, no one to convoy
No one to assure, no one who relies

The loser is friendless… with all humiliations
Garlands of mockery are ready to welcome
The loser is a subject of making fun
…Or a lesson teaching not to challenge the situation.
Collection of misery, host of grieves, a live disappointment
A loser is a disgusting thing to look at…
A cursed person, a live omen, feeling of sadness,
…a loser is something that evokes aversions.

But may it be a winner or a loser
…A worrier is always a worrier
Losing in one battlefield doesn’t end the war
Anything can happen in arena of life
One battle ends to welcome another
Losses occur only to test the capacity of the soldier
History salutes them who become winners after a loss
Also there are losses losing battle with the loser…”

Saturday, June 5, 2010

it was a... dream

I was driving on a lonely highway as it was four o’clock in the morning; my big neuro lab was waiting; neurons in culture dishes were whispering, and the newborn brain imaging machine was trying to control its heartbeats for today it was going to be tested for the first time… my heart was also racing with record breaking speed; I remembered last time when it had broken all past records, when I had tested my equipment to change destined synaptic connections in live animals without any genetic alterations… and now it was racing again with some more speed; I thought I should slow down, least I should meet with some accident. Speeding on such rough road wasn’t a safe thing; but since when my road had become this bumpy? The roughness increased with arrival of huge mountain like stones and there were thorns welcoming me with their painful pricks… this wasn’t the road I wanted to go… this wasn’t the destiny I had planned to meet… I had lost my path, there was no one except the darkness and stones and thorn pricks…

I lost my balance, and started falling in a dark disgusting valley, opening directly into the hell… I shouted and got my sleep broken, only to find myself sitting before my lifeless computer, beating my hailstone like head, hoping for birth of some little spark… if not fire. I was a fire… in the past; I remember. Is it extinguished… or mere hidden, fearing to get smothered due to lack of any stimulating factor? I miss myself, for my life has become a wet piece of wood emitting tears of smoke in an attempt to get the fire… I need sun; I need some warmth, some air; I’m tired to get entrapped in these clouds. These dirty, dark, shapeless clouds like stigmas are staining my life… masking my soul, eclipsing my hopes… and choking my dreams. I crave for fresh air… I need a breather, an escape… just one… one chance to prove myself.

But I’m a prisoner in an honored jail; and the walls of this jail are thick, and it has a big ruthless lock with no key… and is unbreakable; I’ve broken myself in attempting to break free from this, several times, and have nurtured many wounds; sour, infected, bleeding… they are far away from getting healed. And there are scars, contractures, kids of some milder wounds which have got wrongly healed, ready to restrict my every movement… to weaken my every effort. As if I’m surviving with a big weakness, as if I’m an old debilitated paralysis patient seeking joy in memories of the past… not daring to think about the hopeless dark future… something like the dark disgusting valley in that dream, leading me directly to the hell…

And I want to convert that hell and others into heavens… I don’t care even if my life becomes a live hell while working on my heavenly dreams. And that’s why I need an escape. I want to use my wings, want to spread them to their full and fly in the sky of my dreams… I need freedom. I just need a chance to break free from this rusted golden cage… or unnatural strength to shatter it, or my lost fire to melt it, heat it to its evaporation point. I can’t…. I really can’t sustain to be confined…

Thursday, May 13, 2010

The game of life...

Hurricanes come sometimes, disturbing our lives; sometimes life seems like a particle of dust aimlessly following a storm… or a piece of detached dried orphan leaf, destined to get destroyed. Sometimes efforts give pains only and no rewards, legs get tired after following an aim, and the aim seems to be a mere mirage. Floods come sometimes and wash away all of our hopes… sometimes killing draughts occur, deserting our minds. Disasters come to test our patience sometimes; sometimes life seems like an endless voyage through the ocean of disasters. Expectations get killed sometimes; sometimes frauds occur without any expectations. Sometimes life itself seems as a fraud… or a failure; sometimes we doubt whether we are alive and why…

But… everything above has a positive side. Hurricanes teach us to fly like a weightless particle or to stand the pressure, detachment teaches freedom to the leafy life. Mirages show us the things, that are not existent and waiting for us to come into existence… floods, draughts, deserts give us the reason to survive, to save others from those sufferings. Disasters are the milestones on the way of success, more we cross them; more we get close to our aims… or are garlands of victory, more valuable than expensive diamond sets. Killers of expectations teach us true love, which is defined as ‘that what is done without any expectation’… and warns us what they’ll feel if we kill the expectations of our loved ones. Life is like a thriller movie, more the danger, more is the adrenalin rush… more the suspense, more we miss our heartbeats.

Now tell me… is life a loss, a lost game? Or is it a plain luck that we’re still ‘not out’ in our life’s game? We’re alive, means we still have a chance to win... and sometimes losing also is a fun.

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Story of my heart and the dreams it had entrapped

Never had I expected one more failure
To my ill heart it was an aggravating factor
It stopped beating, entrapping my dreams
I shouted for them, but heart was obstinate…
I wanted to stab it, to cut it open
But the hard hit injured my soul…
With a hardened heart and wounded soul
I started wandering to pacify my pain

Flowers asked me to have some scent…
I refused; to me thorns were more pleasant.
Clouds came to lure me for rains of hopes…
I knew no hopes, my eyes were raining.
My verve was flowing with the flood of emotions
My emotions were nothing but a sense of faced negations

Then wind came to blow my mind…
Punctured with my feelings; it was resistant
Gentle sunrays wanted to caress me…
I was too inflamed; warmth raised a wildfire
My thoughts were burning my frozen life
My emotions were ice cool, apathetic was my mind

Birds were chirping, calling me to have some fun…
I thought like my fate, of me they were making fun
Moon arrived then, with his dark girlfriend…
I envied it, it had many twinkling friends.
I was alone, trapped in myself
My shouts were inaudible, even to ears of mine

Tired was the nature, and so were the nocturnal beasts
I was stubborn, stuck to my fate’s darkness.
Not afraid of the reptiles and wandering hunters,
I wanted to taste the poison, or sharpness of paws and canines
Shouting owls had now replaced the chirpers
And like my thoughts, trees were making dance of ghosts
I was the ghost, desiring to kill me…
No other servant of death was ready to overtake me.

My dreams were buried, somewhere in forest of my mind
And they were scared, not of the forest but of my dreamless mind
I was scared of unknown things, of the future or past memories
Scared to an extent, I wasn’t afraid of halting to survive.
I requested the darkness, the hunters and killers to let me to die
… But no one dared to face my mind’s fire.
I spit on the moon and stoned the stars,
Nothing happened… they were far apart

I kept on weeping with my dried eyes,
Now there was no water, like the desert of my mind
Blindfolded to any happiness,
My eyes were unable to penetrate the darkness
Ears were engaged in cries of wolves,
Mute was the whistle of rustling leaves

I didn’t want any angel to come,
To touch my heart and wipe out all pains
Never did I expect some magic to happen
To convert the night into a beautiful dawn
…But the dawn was destined to arrive,
It was my luck that I continued to survive…
I got everything the angel and the magic,
My heart opened up to release the seized dreams…

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Sometimes I envy easy animal lives

Sometimes I envy easy animal lives
Their simplicity and lack of desires
They do what the nature tells
Don’t bother if their attempt fails
Never think of failures and successes
Just go on doing what life demands
Not trapped in morals and principles
They take life as it comes
Never have the things called goals
They aim only for their basic needs

My needs in contrast are unending
For my goals I keep my life on pending
I forget the basic needs to reach my aims
My aims aim all of my happiness
Success is something taking me to my goals
And failures push me some steps away from them
Away from my goals, I crave for them
I burn my life for the things I desire

Nature signals the animals to make some changes
I resist the nature, I hate changes
The nature hates me in this way
From normality I get pushed away and away
For me the pyramid of needs is also reversed
I don’t want food but the happiness of the universe
For me everything is very complex
I spend years in considering pros and cons of them
Shooting for my goals is also not easy
Fear of failure is ready to kill me

Animals get happy with simplest achievements
For me, things except my goals are not achievements
For I’ve a part of brain called neocortex
And my limbic system is enslaved by it
So are my centers for breathing, living and sleep
In other words I’ve got haunted by my goals
My heart beats my goals and lungs respire to them
Eyes search for them and ears hear them
My goals are the only songs I utter
The only fragrance I smell and the only joy I enjoy

My goals are ruthless, they keep on calling me
And I like a haunted child keep on following them
Even when I know, they push me in valleys of depression
Or make me to get lost in deserts of loneliness
There I forget myself and search fulfillment in them
As if I’ve learned to get happiness from troubles

I can’t decide what’s good and what’s bad
The benefits of the beasty life are profound
It’ll open me a treasure of happiness
My life will be fulfilled with all achievements
But I want nothing except my aims
I give up the joy and embrace the pains
The pains soothe me which I take for my aims
My life is affected, it can’t be normalized

But sometimes the pains do become unbearable
And I can’t stop envying those easy animal lives

Monday, April 19, 2010

Frozen in time

Jailed, trapped in a secluded place… away from my dreams, away from my hopes away from myself, I try to breathe here, and try to meet myself, but fail always as I failed in my exams. Every situation, every person, everything seems to be the examiner to put me on test one or another… and like a lost worrier, enslaved and commanded to play war, I keep on fighting with the situation with my lost soul. Deaf, I can’t hear my heart beats… are they there? Blind, I can’t see my future… is it there? Or is there mere mute darkness, endless like my pains?

And here I search ways to keep myself alive, to survive to the moment of escape, to the point of freedom, to fill my dreams in my arms… but blind, deaf and also anaesthetized… I feel nothing. I doubt whether I have the thing called mind, there is something mutilated, blunted like a blunted weapon that has lost its sharpness facing tons of rust. Rusted because it was not in use; it’s still not in use, as I tolerate the injustice mutely, fearing to face more of it… and I face more of it… often.

And I worry, about my finished future… about my charred hopes and dries tears. Tears come out sometimes, and I expect to feel their warmness, at least they will thaw my frozen soul… but alas the tears are also cold, dumb like my emotions. Already surrendered, I beg them for escape, and they laugh at me in return. How can they be so ruthless? Heartless examination and the exam takers, they themselves lack heart why should they bother for that of others? They crush my heart; mercilessly make me numb by giving intolerable pains… still I live, expecting some magic to happen.

And I believe in magic… I still dare to believe something, when my life is an orchestra of unbelievable happenings, and shocks… endless, coming one after another or all at the same time. I wish, I pray… I beg to the deities, and ask for some sense in life, but never get it. And I sit finally kneeling in the darkness of my trapped mind. Waiting… waiting, hoping for some hopes to come to sensitize…

Then I get tired, and anger comes to rule my soulless lifeless life. I burn down the darkness and shout to make some sound. I get my rusted weapon to hit it on their head… I hit it on the walls to get free, and kick the wall, punch it to the moment of exhaustion. Then I drop down wounded like a mad, like a tired schizophrenic being ordered by some sound. And then the hopes come to bandage my wounds, to heal my soul… and I go to sleep to get lost in the arms of my dreams…

But my dreams shake me, to make me awake. I open my eyes but don’t believe in the scene. The rust of my mind has gone, so is the darkness. I see, I feel, I sense the dawn in my life. I see my life, right there with me, smiling and calling me. My dreams introduce me with my life, and make me worthy to survive. Oh sweet dreams, creators of my hopes, that’s the reason why you’re worthy of my life.

Wednesday, April 14, 2010

...let’s heal the world

Boundaries are ruthless, signs of our negligence. They’re for the politicians or for the religious divas, not for humans not for us. Science doesn’t follow boundaries of any region, religion, and even that o gender, so is the scientist’s work. The arts, the feelings, humanity and the expressions, everything is immune to the harshness of these borders… then why shouldn’t all of us? None of us have created the boundaries, then why should all of us follow them?

They’ve been created by some populations in the past, temporally (or in the time map) far far away from us and they divide us from the persons from our own era, whom we can see, feel and even touch; separated from us only by physical distance or that of emotional.

And we can’t erase them, at least now, at this moment. Alas, we can’t get up and take a big eraser and eliminate everything hindering the flow of our emotions. We can’t erase boundaries from the Earth… but we can erase them from our heart. We can get a big, beautiful universal or global heart, like the universal set in sets mathematics which incorporates everything but is a part of none.

Some will accept us, some won’t we shouldn’t bother, as all are our people. And we shouldn’t bother to dedicate our works, our attempts, and our sacrifices, to our people who share this universe with us. We shouldn’t allow these ruthless boundaries to entrap us and bar the waves of excitement, enthusiasm, and joy reaching to our hearts from all over the universe. Come on, let’s be universal; let’s eliminate the enmity, the hatred and create a healthy world. Come on, let’s heal the world.

Monday, April 12, 2010

A human who knows why to survive…

Tolerating, breathing but not ceasing to stay alive
I had got bored with the inertia of my life
The things used to happen in their own way
This made me search, why on this Earth I should stay

I used to stay staring the walls
Had nothing to do with life’s rise and falls
Buried in a ditch covered with transparent land
I always stared, but never could say hi to the stars in my piece of sky

I wanted to explode, to break free
But was diffused, I used to feel
Tired of waiting, but bothering to make a start
Once upon a time I had thought to go and see my heart
But the mirror of my life was shattered
And every piece reflected a tortured image of my mind

I had to find who I was and why
Like a tree, wishing to break the Earth
And reach the demanding my piece of sky
But finding self of mine was a poser even staying where I was; was much easier
I seemed a purpose difficult to understand
Not just a thing that occupies a small piece of land

My causeless thoughts also had a cause
And pause less breaths also had a pause
I had paused to my life to stay alive
And had caused my life to forget the meaning of being alive

When I found the meaning and the lost world of my life
I broke the cocoon and became free to fly
Widened was my piece of sky
And the stars were now mere parts of mine

Now I’m a star not confined to the sky
I’m a human who knows why to survive

I’m a piece of art expressing every heart
Or a beating that beats in every heart
I’m a tear of god’s pain and that of yours
I’ve to flow, never to stay in place…

I’m soothing as I flow
Give me your pain and all of your sorrow
And I’ll give you nothing but a smile
I want you to be happy, healthy and agile…

I’m a merchant to exchange happiness for grieves
A miracle to construct heavens in your dreams
I’m a shock to sensitize, a purpose to provide purpose to all purposeless lives
I’m a soul that wanders, and helps others to find their homes
Or I’m a ray of light that reflects every part of your mind
A burning fire that pacifies…

I’m a mystery unsolved since ages
And a history of all great sacrifices
A feeling of greatness hidden in depths of your heart
But I’ve been cloaked; just let me come out…

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Strange experiences as a stranger

I created this blog, few months ago to write my experiences as an intern, that’s what I was supposed to be since this February. But it didn’t happen at that time, and still it’s not happening. My internship is getting postponed constantly… as if it’s something special, as if it’s my wildest dream or as if it’s not supposed to be a normal happening.

And the cause of it is unknown, or at least I’m unaware of it. Maybe they’re choosing doctors who fit well into the system, who follow the traditional norms… who’re ideal medicos. Anything unknown foreign or unrelated like me is bound to evoke the ‘what is it’ response in them. It’s nothing but reaction to the stranger that’s what they display in my mark sheet. I fail to simulate or to mimic normal… alas, I’m not normal.

I’m a stranger here, I feel, or I feel strange here. I happen to be in a university where knowledge is contra indicated. I don’t like to repel the knowledge… and I shouldn’t repel this university for this’ the university I’ve to complete my MBBS at, and this’ the university which’s going to make me a doctor.

And this stresses me, to my breaking point… or breaks me many times. And I, like a broken wounded soul, keep on hovering around the same subjects again and again, willing to haunt this degree, this university, my college, haunted by the exam system… but not dying, immortalized because of my immortal dreams of being a scientist and do something for healing. But there isn’t a trace of human left in me, as if it has been vaporized or burnt or flee away from me. I’m just a plain living soul… or spirit, with no feelings except few hopes and extreme desire to reach my dreams. I’m nothing anything except my dreams.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Obs N Gyn

A nineteen year old girl, twelfth pass, pregnant for the first time, and visiting a private maternity home regularly for ante natal checkups landed finally in painful breast abscess ten days later she delivered her baby. It was because of retracted nipple and the maternity home doctor might have forgotten, or neglected, or was just unaware of the fact that the breasts should be checked at the first visit. She was a registered practitioner holding some diploma after her undergraduate, and she had failed to take care of her patient and had made her and her kid to suffer a lot for such a simple reason. It was simple to diagnose, simple to treat, and unfortunately so simple that she neglected.

It could be a good medico legal lawsuit to appeal against her, but the village dwelling new mother feared the court. And the culprit doctor was left unpunished, free to neglect her other patients…

This happens here, many times. The patients don’t know the roles of doctor and same is true for the doctors. In fact we doctors are trained to neglect… not in the books mentioning some strange combinations of words and numbers as laws, in fact we’re supposed to mug up those laws without knowing the meanings.

We’re trained to neglect in the exams. As undergraduate students we must know that we should examine the breasts… and we must not examine them while examining the patient lest the ‘case’ shall become complicated, lest we shall fall short of time for reading… lest we shall lose the patient compliance. We’re supposed to write ‘All is well’ in our report or case history and examination, no matter what the reality is. We must must must modify the case in order to make it simple, banal or… digestible to the examiner. Then we pass in the exams and grow up as real doctors… only to follow the ‘all is well’ tradition. We need not examine the patient thoroughly we should not… we should not trouble ourselves, to take pains to see the nipples in this ‘case’. The patients are unaware many times… and they fear the court, most of the times they don’t even know that such laws do exist.

And we make money, increase the hospital building, take more and more patients… and increase our capacity of neglecting. Because one time or other in our lives we were medicos and we can’t forget the impressions left in our minds by the exams… the things supposed to be the only purpose of our lives as medicos. We never wanted to be doctors… we wanted to be businessmen and obstetrics and gynecology is the most lasting and profit giving business… it never stops even though in the society there isn’t any illness.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

Frozen in time

Here, in Solapur an epidemic of water born diseases- cholera, gastroenteritis and also the hepatitis is going on. They need more doctors… at least to look ‘at’ the crowd of patients. My previous classmates now interns, are attending them… or are trying to avoid. My hands are tied, by the three F’s on my mark sheet, indicating that I’ve failed in one subject… for they think that I have no sufficient knowledge or skill to handle the patients of obstetrics and gynecology. I can’t act an intern till I prove it on the mark sheet. I can’t help them to look after the patients. I can’t even look at the patients.

My skills and knowledge are under revaluation; they’re verifying it by recounting my marks. And they’re doing it since more than one month. They might be employing one full person for counting one mark and in this way they might need to employ a staff of around 140 people to count marks of me alone… I guess. Don’t they think this is too much? Don’t they think they’re harming themselves along with me? Do they think… ever?

What about my two months if the marks are increased? And what about my time spent in waiting for the results of revaluation, if my marks are not increased? I might not be supposed to wait, to take it this seriously… to value my six months. Or I should think the negative, should expect that my marks won’t increase… and study, or do something to pass in next exams. I should expect to pass in the next exams… or should I not?

I’ll manage my feelings… somehow. But what if I wish to go and to serve the outburst of patients… as an intern? No, I can’t think like a doctor, for I’m not a doctor, yet. I can’t think of the patients, yet, for I myself am on a way to become one… a psychiatry patient. I wish… I carve… I die to escape from this… but nothing happens. As if I’m frozen in time. And I can’t do anything, other than the waiting. And I wait; I still wait for the results of the exams… the impotent exams unable to test my abilities and my desires… And have to fight with my mind as it gets attracted to the frustration.

My classmates keep on thinking that I’m lucky to escape the donkey work of handling the huge lines of patients and I keep on envying them for they’ve got a chance to serve the patients… no one is happy… this’ the destiny. Is it? Probably I must feel thankful of my university that I got a chance to escape the work and to get time to sit before the computer and to type this in daytime… and to spend nights without any work, without any sleep, in worrying… in craving… or in sleeping, getting lost in irrelevant bad dreams.
But what… if I’m not thankful?

Monday, March 15, 2010

healing- to survive

Life is painful, uncertain, and unpredictable… like a classical horror movie when the ghost arrives when you think it’s safest. We try hard, do our best to achieve something, we get the thing only to lose it at the next moment. Happiest moments in life turn to those of greatest grieves, haunting our memories like laughing cruel ghosts… making us to fear the happiness. Sometimes the situations are so hopeless that the word ‘hope’ seems to be rubbish or some impossible thing. We cry sometimes. Sometimes the situation is beyond crying; tons of grieves and depths of sorrow make our tear glands immune to feelings.

Does this mean we should fear it, keep on praying that the uncertainty should keep a distance from us? Or should we lose interest in life, for its uncertain? Or should we succumb to the fear and stop living or live life of some zombie, with no feelings? Many times the changes are irreversible; we can’t repair the things. Why should we continue to live, if life is continuously punishing?

But isn’t it good that we’re still alive? Why should we run to unsafe valleys of fear and depression in search of some safety or certainty? Can’t we become a little brave and use this uncertainty and grieves as the causes to remain alive? We can dedicate our uncertain lives to bring some safety in lives of others, to save lives, to try to palliate their sorrows, to heal them. We can dedicate our lives to make human life certain, safe and predictable, with good outcome. The situations are unchangeable many times but we can try to heal and to avoid them to happen in the future. Science is there to aid us, and so is the art of our heart. Let it beat, no matter with whatever quantity of pain it has, but always make it to eject happiness with its every beat.

We can make the world happy… at least we can try it.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Healing... an attempt to cure

Healing… it makes to feel better. The wounds disappear and the intactness returns… intactness, the condition of no pain, no discomfort, no chance of getting infected by some troublesome pathogen. And the part can work with full potential, taking full joy, without the fear of getting more damaged. It’s a matter of chance… takes time sometimes, sometimes it never happens, sometimes leaves permanent ugly contractures named scars… and sometimes the condition worsens to its worst.

It requires luck… plain luck I can say, or the innate things to achieve healing… or some aids to heal faster… to make the wound disappear as quickly as possible… something like care, antibiotics or dressings- the things designed to cover the wound and protect it, keeping it dry and infection free. And science is working on it, at its best, I hope.

Mind also gets wounds many times… of all ranges right from tiny scratches up to bomb blast injuries, equally painful, disabling, bleeding… worsening. But the dressings aren’t available, neither the antibiotics. We can’t visit the market to purchase a mind healing medicine. Psychoactive drugs are there… but they’re mere numbing, making the mind to ignore the wounds like what happens to the extremities of diabetics. And the wounds remain there rotting, dying forming a gangrene of mind… not healable.

The gangrenous extremity is amputated to avoid its spreading… but… but alas, we can’t amputate the mind, yet, no matter how rotten it has become. The gangrene spreads, affecting the whole of the mind and the person dies leaving a walking cast of a human behind… the human becomes a mindless zombie, with no feelings, no joy, no pain, and no regret… of doing anything. And crimes increase in an effort to get some joy… or some pain… or some feeling, but dead mind can’t feel anything.
Can we treat this? Not yet, unfortunately… Can we avoid this? Maybe if we try… mind is fragile… humiliations, setbacks, losses, deaths… heartbreaks anything… anything can wound it. And the injuries can’t be avoided. We’ve to avoid the gangrene… the death of the mind and feelings. we’ve to pay heed to the wounds, to achieve this… we’ve to wipe the wounds, clear them, to make them dry by allowing them to ooze out the pains…

Again some are lucky, they can go to the arts to express the feelings to their own souls… to pray it to secrete some healing substances… and they succeed. Some have to keep on bleeding, tolerating… to try to ignore… and some succeed in ignoring. Some survive, carrying to painful wound throughout their life and some develop gangrene. But there are some wounded souls who attempt healing of their own mind by attempting to heal the pains of others. They become the dressings for other wounded minds, they become angels… don’t remain humans. But again, becoming an angel is a matter of plain luck… an innate thing, or aids in the form of some angel’s blessing…