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!

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.

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?

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’.”