Aham Brahmasmi

When a client keeps me waiting for what seems like an eternity – and then walks in pretending as if nothing is wrong – I just want to go “ Tumhaare liye maine chhe minute rakkhe theh – teen minute tumhaare bolne k liye, teen minute mere bolne k liyein. Tum apna teen minute gawa chukein ho. Ab sirf suno! ”

Memory, you cursed fool! You bring a slow smile to my face only to follow it up with a lightning stab of sorrow, you appear as an oasis on the horizon of my mind's desert only to entice me into chasing a fugitive mirage, you waltz in light all that once was and dangle in shadow all that could-have-been, you make me live a hundred blessed lives only to die a thousand haunted deaths. Memory, you inseparable and indomitable, you doom and deliverance, you cursed fool!

Although I did know about Jon Snow being stabbed by those who he considered to be his own men (thanks to multiple status updates of people in general and Rini’s announcement on my timeline in particular), I must confess I was taken aback by the unexpected abruptness of it. Martin, take a bow . You know how to steal away the ground from beneath people’s feet!

I'm celebrating Yoga Day too. Been lying on my bed, playing dead since morning. Shob-aashon , shavasana , the corpse pose – whatever you wish to call it – it rocks!

You see the tattoo on the underside of his left forearm, the one that urges him to always give a better account of himself even if he fails forever. You hear him saying “ Well, you know, my dream was to play Roland Garros, not to win it, not to reach the final... ”, a man unassuming enough to be honest to all and sundry. You see how hard he fights his opponents, how fiercely he battles his inner insecurities. You see how a first round casualty at last year's French Open comes storming back to win the trophy this year. Stanislas Wawrinka, you deserve every bit of the love the world gives you! And then some more.

“ Mujhse hi aaj mujhko mila de, dekhoon aadaton mein tu hai ki nahi… Harr saans se poonchh k batah de – inke faaslon mein tu hai ki nahi. ” Are you still there, I ask myself sometimes. In the dark cobwebbed corners of my mind, knee-deep in half-remembered memories, I sometimes ask myself if you’re still there. During dusty auto-rickshaw rides along potholed by-lanes, when a sudden whiff of a flowery perfume takes me years back and I raise my hand to see if a few loose strands of hair are once more softly blowing in my face, I ask myself if you’re still there. Just before taking off the maroon kurta , checking the breast pocket for a pair of minus-powered glasses that were never mine, I ask myself if you’re still there. Beneath snatches of poetry littered across the sky of an ever defiant chimera, at the corner where yesterday’s neverland meets tomorrow’s never-to-be-land, bathed in the dying light on today, perhaps I will always ask myself – tu hai ki nahi .

Loneliness is like a quilt, you know. Sometime or the other, for one reason or another, the world turns cold, and seeking to escape from the frigidity you shelter under the reassuring warmth of the quilt. You tell yourself that this is solitude, not loneliness, and that the most telling difference between the two, indeed the only difference that matters, is that while the former is inarguably self-imposed the latter is decidedly a forced exile. You convince yourself that it is good to spend time with oneself, away from the madding crowd as it were, and that you’ll emerge from this brief interlude a stronger & more accepting person. That’s where you’re mistaken. This soothing benefactor who you think has given you warmth, this solitude is none other than loneliness in disguise, the diabolic wolf sharpening its claws while you marvel at the softness of the merino in its innocuous clothing. The greatest trick the Devil ever pulled was to convince the world that he didn’t exist. Be...