diary

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’.

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…

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.

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.