They are all heroes...

• The son who looks after his blind mother.
• The prostitute who fights for her freedom from the pimp.
• The unpublished writer trying to write the masterpiece.
• The unknown soldier standing guard at Siachen.
• The temp employee who quits the job.
• The boss who fired a worker.
• The man who stopped the motor of the world.
• Paulo Coelho when he wrote the Alchemist.
• Ayn Rand after she escaped from the Soviet Union.
• The taxi driver who returns a wallet left behind by a customer.

They all feel they are heroes through heroism, courage, chance, coincidence, love, and even self-pity.

All feel so, except, Sheldon B Kopp and me. We believe that we are just two struggling human beings. But, we vouch for the fact: Love is all there is!

Love, and words like freedom

Freedom, he said and marched.
A skinny, old fakir,
Followed by a peaceful mob,
Broke the rule
For a pinch of salt.

Dream, I have a dream…
Millions listened to the King.
Black or white.

With passion, an airplane flew
For 16 seconds.
But the flight
Turned the century.

With hope, a young girl wrote
The most memorable diary
Of our times.

Hatred. For six million Jews.
“Are we waiting for another Gandhi?”
Ask the survivors of the Holocaust.

Love, I wrote your name
On the window pane
On a cold, wintry night.

And even the window cried…

Tears on a flame

When you feel down,
Or lonely,
Look around you.

You’ll see me
In your shadow,
In your teardrop,
In your rear-view mirror.

You’ll see me
In your yantra,
In your vilvam.

When you cry,
I burn.
When you smile,
I cry.

If you know why,
Tell me now
For I rather cry
Than burn.

You can touch my teardrops
But not my flames.

The flame of the love that
Consumes you and me.

You on me
Just like tears on a flame.

The five books I’ll take to heaven

Well, Ranga, taking five books to heaven is tough. Both, literally and figuratively.

But since you have assigned this task, and it a nice mind exercise on a jobless day, I might as well do it!

Before I choose the five books, I’ll take to heaven, I’ll tell that I have chosen these five books purely on the basis of emotion. How well they touched me. not on the basis of the author’s reputation, style of writing, or any other external polls or popular choice.

Also, in this list, there are no first among equals. That would be asking whether I value my right eye more than my left eye.

1. We, The Living

Though, not the best book by Ayn Rand as per my own confession, this book is on my list purely because I fell in love with Kira. She has always been the closest I came to romancing a character. And she just added imagery to my painter girl vision. And I loved her death. And her smile to all that could have been possible.

Also, this was as autobiographical a work Ayn Rand ever wrote. And, she is a motherfucker of a writer. No writer has ever made my adrenalin rush and blood boil as she did.

2. If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him

This has been the single-most important book in my life. In a way, it changed the way I looked at Zen, life, and Hinduism. Sheldon B Kopp through this book narrates nine tales in a way that it shakes you.

This psychotherapist has helped me heal my wounds and worries through this book. I’ll forever be indebted to him. He doesn’t need to write another book.

3. Lust For Life

Vincent van Gogh. Irving Stone captures his life in this beautiful novel. Painstaking effort has paid of well. I don’t understand van Gogh even now. I don’t understand what Impressionism is still. I don’t appreciate a style of painting more than another. But this book made me bond with a creative spirit like none other. I relate to van Gogh’s aspirations and pain only because I read Lust for Life. And he’s been an inspiration ever since. And that I think makes Irving Stone happy and satisfied. His job has been well done.

4. Conversations with God I, II, and III

Neale Donald Walsch has written what no man ever wrote before. Conversations with God. That title hits. Suggested to me by one of India’s leading behavior scientist, KK Mehta, I devoured the three part volume in three nights flat! And yes, the book does come to you when you really need it. When the student is ready, the teacher appears. And this book has been a good teacher. It restored my faith in my god the way I thought. Beautiful book. A must read for all children during their growing up years.

5. One

Richard Bach weaves this beautiful story of possibilities and paths his life would have undertaken if he hadn’t taken the decisions he did. Man, flashback redefined. This book shows how you can make an idea into a book.

Few of his other books came close to the list and so did Paulo Coelho’s books such as The Alchemist, Eleven Minutes, By the River Piedra, I Sat Down and Wept, (it would be blasphemy if I did not mention these close runners-up). But the point is by the time, I read Paulo Coelho and later works of Richard Bach, the ideas and concepts were all familiar. I too thought on similar lines; sometimes even wrote on similar lines. So the magic did not astound as much as it would have had I read them earlier in life.

Understanding my mother

When we talked yesterday, I realized from what you said that my mother will be the only person on earth who will live up to my tantrums.

She is the only person who will still do everything to keep me happy. For better or for worse. Even though I may not be the best person at the time of my stupid, invalid, stubborn, out-of-my-head tantrums.

She is the only person who will cry with me when I cry. She will be the only person to stand by me even though she won’t understand a thing I say.

What makes this bond so strong? Her hug. Her kiss. No matter how ugly I look. No matter how many of her dreams have I broken, and thrown away to the wind. Whether she has a right to dream for me is another matter altogether.

A mother-child relationship is one of the purest relationships ever designed. It is unconditional. Unconditional as in it is purely a selfless extension of self.

I know my mother is not the best mother on earth though she does come close. She is not at all perfect. She, in fact, is not even the kind of woman I would like to marry. But she has few qualities that make her stand apart.

She could have, if she wanted, changed the world. But she has managed to change me. Mould me in some ways into what I am now. She never insisted that I should be religious or visit temples. She gave me that freedom of choice with regard to food, religion, and dress at an age when most parents will shove down their beliefs on their kids.

I did my Jr. KG and Sr. KG in BKS School! Ugghh!! Yuck! It was she who secured my admission into St Augustine’s High, when my dad was busy working for the chutiya samajam! She must have struggled, stood in queues, and mumbled in her then bad Hindi-English mix! But somehow she did it for me.

And my schooling has been an inspiration. I got the best all-round education in this country. And met Br John Anthony Keane who induced my love for poetry and literature. “I would love reading The Solitary Reaper than watching Jurassic Park!” his words still ring in my ears whenever I feel my poetry is not being heard.

My mother had starved so that I can eat well enough. There were times when she ate only rice so that I can have the sambar and uperri. I have walked miles to call a doctor to get my mother cured. I still will.

Amma, I love you. I miss you when I am lonely, cold, and a chut of a man. I know I have not been the best son…

But just hug me once again. Because this son of yours has chosen the unbeaten path: the path of the love that consumes.

Your son loves a woman you would not love in an instant. That woman is your son’s life, amma. She is my only god. She is the only one I bow to. Not you, amma.

Content writer!

I am trying to be content with my self and my life.

Because the variety and number of dreams that I have is so fucking staggering... that I could only fulfill them, if I was a Vijay Mallya or Gautam Singhania.

All I am trying to do, right now, is understand what all I want in life. It is a crossroad that I am on. The turn I take decides where I land up. Problem is the river cannot flow back unless the next cycle comes up. The road cannot be retraced. I have to walk ahead.

When I look at my heroes, I feel small. I have somewhere come to realize that I don't have the talent that my heroes had. I am being disillusioned with my dreams of being a great writer. I am just a good writer, and there are enough good writers in the world. Just check out the number of people who blog... who write good poetry. I am not unique. Like Pablo Neruda, like Bob Dylan, like Rumi...

I think I have to focus my energies to one direction and stop thinking that I am one multi-faceted genius... I am no Leonardo, no Einstein... no Keats. I am just a jack of all trades, master of none. In other words, a better version of my father.

I am just another ordinary human being. I can't inspire people; I can't be a leader either. I just have to live the life of a mediocre human being. Nothing wrong with that.

Just that I'll continue to keep writing. And I'll see where I end up. Just that I won't be shattered anymore.

So right now, I'll try to save up enough money to start my own cafe... my Renaissance cafe where painters, poets, artists and craftsmen will meet, brainstorm, and exhibit work. That looks feasible. That looks possible. Just have to hope that another abhilash somewhere does not think of the same concept and start it before I do!!! After I fucking finish my house loan. And other responsibilities.

I hope that I do work as a teacher somewhere sometime. I wish I do work as a waiter in a Barista cafe sometime... I wish I can backpack across the world sometime... I wish... all my dreams come true.

But they may not.

And therefore, all I wish is that I live through this life with as much grace and courage as possible. Simple life. Not spectacular. Nothing grand.

What will happen if I stop writing?

I have been thinking about this for a long time. I got into literature and writing way back in school. In college, the love for literature increased. I nurtured it. Read a lot. Thought I too can write. Thus, started my journey into writing.

It’s been a good ten years since I first picked a pen to pen something original. It’s been a fantastic journey. It’s made me what I am now. I loved. I got hurt. It took its toll. I observed people; thought I had answers to most of the problems of the world. Went through motions of being snobbish, being intellectual. Thought I knew it all.

Then, I saw my heroes. They were light years ahead of me. They were humble. Writing came effortlessly to them. It’s like Mohanlal was born to act; Bob Dylan was born to write poetry. It’s a different matter altogether that he sung them too.

It’s been ten years. Reading all my favorite “inspirational” books has made me realize one thing: the hard truth I never wanted to face. I don’t have it in me to be one among my heroes. I don’t have the genius or the talent to write that one line which will set hearts on fire or send an entire crowd into frenzy.

That line may come anytime or it may never come at all. I will join the thousands of wannabe writers who wrote well. Like thousands of musicians who end up playing in orchestras across the world for they were never able to compose a tune that will melt your hearts. Like all the wannabe cricketers who never made it big because they were just good players. Not geniuses; not great; not talented enough.

I am at crossroads in life once again. Do I continue to write for the love of writing? Do I write dreaming that someday someone will publish what I write? Do I write anything that comes my way? Children’s books?

What about my incomplete first novel? What about the remaining concepts that I have? What about the concepts I have for movies? What about my dream about working in a Barista café at least for six months? What about my dream of being a behavior scientist? What about me owning and running my own Renaissance café? What about all that I think is inside me?

After 25 years of romanticism, idealism, and love, I have come to realize that I am just a good guy. Good at writing. Good at dreaming. Good with ideas. But being good is not good enough.

I don’t have the willpower to fight my laziness. Lack of effort is surely there.

If I stop writing, no sky will fall, no river will stop, no love will cry. Because nobody loves a jack of all trades, master of none. If I stop writing, I’ll never be published.

Which I anyways don’t see happening again. No, I wouldn’t want to be published as a children’s book author. And see that nobody reads them. I don’t want to go through that pain again.

Besides, they are not who I want to write for.

So what will happen if I stopped writing?

The sun will rise again. The sun will set. Life will go on. Just that I’ll no more be the man I am. Doesn’t matter anyways.

The most important decision I made…

The most important decision I made… I asked this question to many people. They had pretty good answers.

• Watching Casablanca with her.
• Watching Godfather.
• Reading.
• Reading Kafka.
• Going back to my native place.
• Quitting my first job.
• Leaving my first boyfriend.
• My first kiss decided my life.
• My first intercourse.
• My visit to the Pyramids, Egypt.
• My first train journey for my first interview.
• Believing in God.
• Saving a boy’s life while he was drowning.
• Losing my faith.
• Losing my virginity.
• Reading Karl Marx.
• My first enlightenment.
• Coming to India.
• Getting into Buddhism.
• Taking care of my grandparents.
• Reading Ayn Rand.
• Getting a dog for myself.
• A walk in the rain.
• Playing for my country for the first time.
• Playing cricket.
• Marrying the man I loved.
• Saying no to my boss.
• Watching Schindler’s List.
• Saying yes to my boss.
• Reading poetry.
• The university I got into.
• Getting out of my goddamn village.
• My first divorce.
• My second divorce.
• Telling my boss what I thought about him.
• Fighting for the environment.
• My first exhibition.
• Proposing love to her.
• The first signature campaign I conducted.
• Joining the army.
• Writing poetry.
• Escaping from the USSR.
• The school I joined.
• Every time I vote.
• Selling my first painting.
• My first walk though I don’t remember it.
• My national anthem.
• My last confession.
• My first visit to a temple.
• Deciding to live as a writer; my marriage, both decisions very early in life.
• My confession to my best friend.
• At 90, a man said, “the woman who I married.”

You know you are in Chennai when…

• You see Kollam drawn in front of all Brahmin households.
• 
  
• You see sad, tilting, green buses making way to their destinations.
• 
  
• You see more Enfield Bullets on the road.
• 
  
• You go to the only multiplex in town to watch a movie.
• 
  
• You feel hot and humid at the same time like never before.
• 
  
• You know that there is only a single arterial road in the entire city.
• 
  
• You see people worship moviestars.
• 
  
• You don’t have access to Star Movies and HBO.
• 
  
• You see more wine shops than you have ever seen before in life.
• 
  
• You see wine shops near temples and temples near wine shops.
• 
  
• You see wine shops, which have grills protecting the shopkeeper and the liquor from its customers.

I...

Awake with your name on my lips.
Sleep with you in my dreams.

See you in a different light with every costume you wear.
See you in flowers blossoming in blue, moonlit nights.

Pray to you when you wear a sari
Pray to myself when you wear only a sari.

Feel only you when I make love.
Feel only you when I am proud.

Write for you.
Write for truth.

Worship you even as you worship Him.
Bow to you as the arrow bends before taking flight.

Take your name to live.
Take your name to smile.

I will take your name before I die.