The Magic of Floyd

They say familiarity with an inconvenient situation dilutes the inconvenience to the point of near-tolerance.
“And ‘they’ all suck!”
I could hear my thoughts gushing through the frustration-eaten patience-gates. Yes. I had said it loud. The hot female’s sporadic glances visibly ended with one last ugly stare. ‘Their’ equation always worked in the reverse for me. The previous train-waits played themselves as ghostly apparitions in chronological order-each more horrendous than its predecessor. A fine globule of irked perspiration slithered down my cheek, tickled my chin and began bracing up for the big dive downhill.
It was a bad day.
Not saying “happy journey” to my girlfriend and breaking up with her( you could say she deserved it, but it still kinda sucks), missing the first train, getting my pocket picked-all seemed happy and gregarious experiences in the face of the present ordeal. From a distance, the train trumpeted gleefully and my respectable regards were lost in the din. I got in the wrong coach, and underwent psychic dissection at the hands of many a ‘polite’ people. Wading through the legions of bloodthirsty ‘3-tier-aristrocrats’, the epic expedition ended. The hot female had the same section of the compartment and the same ugly stare.
‘Screw you bitch. Screw you all...’, my mind groped for something justifiably sinister, ‘…masquerading despotic dunderheads.’
It was a bad day- and I was doing the least I should have done. My tired hand thumped on my pocket. It felt something. And out came, my balcony-mate’s Ipod. Without remorse or ecstasy, I thrust the earphones into my ears, and got it started…………………………………………………..
It was surreal, as if I had entered my own dream-matrix. The music was strange. Was it melodious? Definitely. Could have I said, what was coming, in the next second of the track? No. But… yes, it was unpredictably melodious. And I floated through an ethereal medium, while my head felt like a feather.
I opened my eyes. A kid was wrestling his dad, on the opposite berth. ‘… Daddy what’d you leave behind for me?’ I laughed deliriously.
‘Come on boy, have a cigar…’ It was a summon. And I obliged( yeah I think Goldflake is ‘cigar’ enough for me) The hot female was babbling something while thick piles of smoke were curling around her everywhere.
Boy! I was on a roll! I was in ‘interstellar overdrive’ mode! And then the ‘Mother’ of all magic alighted.
A delicate dose of intoxication journeyed thorough my veins, and the subsequent high was unbelievable. The frivolities had been laid to rest… Finally I was ‘comfortably numb’!!!

Hope Love and Despair

Hope-that unfathomable ocean of bliss that our heart chokes itself into, that evanescence, the dream of which, buoys the destitute in many an abyss, which whispers faith into the mind of a dying to cheat fate, and also that which had kept Rashid walking. Who was he? And when would he stop?
Those were questions that did not matter. Not even to him. His throat felt like a dead bird's gizzard flaming in perpetual heat. His parsed lips were a starker incarnation of lifelessness than the starker ones in the grave. His soul-robbed, life-quenched body betrayed glimpses of energy.
Energy, each quart of which he ardently pumped to his precarious steps. A snake of footprints, that would be last tinctures of this frailty trailed from him to somewhere inconceivably far. The Thar had taken more than a toll. It did not smack its hideous dry lips just because another prey would yield up his exorcised life. But it did so with all the more devilry because when the spiked sun-cursed chains would finally perforate his fading soul his hope would also be butchered. And the hungry desert would want this. Because this hope was obstinacy personified. In the wake of the dark hand of fate knocking at his door Rashid was hell-bent on one thing- he would not keep the bag down. What was in it? But this mattered to him. More than anything else. He was tottering to a side now and then on the brink of bumping into a rock the next moment- but he wouldn't keep the bag down. The few cacti that had shot up as mocking witnesses to this slow and sure hunt seemed to taunt Rashid. Rashid cursed them summoned Allah which seemed to stir up some of the staling ruddy drops and he walked on. Bone scorching heat and blood freezing cold had taken their full turns to snub him. But he wouldn't give up. What prize did he believe he would discover if he reached his elusive destination. Was it a treasure? For reasons untold he believed it was nothing less than that. But the scales infinitesimally in Rashid's favour could be tipped any instant. But he saw something. What was that? It made him rejuvenate his burning throat with false vigour, and give out a cry of pleasure which could also have been a cry of despair. As he reached a spot, one distinctly lower than the surroundings, he placed the bag on the sands with a thud. 'O great flower! Are you hurt?', he murmured to his stricken self and unpacked it. In the midst of this scar-on-earth place, a girl rolled over. Her skin and flesh had partly degenerated, and she was rotting. But one could say she must have been heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Some moments later, Rashid's last scrapes of energy were sipped into creating a small, depression there. The figure was laid with the utmost care as if it were some fragile element of artwork that must never be scathed. Rashid's face lit up. But this time it was true hope...
As I had defined hope- it is again, that feeling which makes a corpse of a lovely girl breathe into her lover's ears, 'Let my body be buried where the Kaaba of our village was once located', even if it was assumed impossible by fate...

Drug De-addiction

I was seventeen. The glass-shards encrusted fence, the tattered back-door of the house that needed nothing more than a nervous push to creak it open, the warm innocuous bed that the housemaid complained of having a “funny smell”,  were dim reminiscences of my Harry Houdini like escape. I was more than three hundred meters away from my house, from my ever-nagging mother, from the snide taunts of my father who picked on everything from my Metallica T-shirt to my ever-falling grades, and from I-make-my-papa-proud brother who outshone me in every field my family devoutly revered. No, being able to play Master of Puppets on the guitar was just “cheap roadside antics” that deserved to find itself in the league of snake-charmers. The black sheep of the family was free. I was breathing hard. “Baby boy still not used to the darkness..” “I am a first-timer.” A blow that was very loathingly similar to my father’s came down upon me like a hammer. Drenched in cold sweat, I looked back. “First-timers don’t talk…” And after a few more sermons Arjun finally gave me what I had come for. The needle was thick, slow and painful. “As you have ingested the manna you stand inducted into the League of Lucifers.” I saw Arjun’s face dissolve into the darkness. And also the others’. “Guys…” The League of Lucifers laughed a mirthless laugh.

The unfathomable euphoria, the devilish rush of excitement, mauling the languor in one’s life, is nothing less than sip from the Holy Grail. But it is a sip of not the elixir, however, but of venom, life-quenching venom. As more and more League of Lucifers come into being, the ever present menace of drug-addiction claws deeper into the social fabric. Whether be it a refuge from perennial family interference or desperation to prove oneself among peers, many a future-citizens are getting sucked into the abysmal black hole. Hence a major step has been taken not only by NGOs but also by bodies like WHO to combat this menace, which goes by the name of drug de-addiction.

The complicated problem that drug addiction is, its magnitude is further amplified by the variety of narcotic and pshycotropic drugs in the drug-trade. Gone are the days when one government health official meeting a year would suffice, to curb heroin abuse fuelled by the latest hard rock hit. The problems are at a far greater level than being solvable by a  “find them-cure them” model. This has become a war. A war that needs no less than the best employable strategies, to take down the enemy-our own misled self and the society’s “narcoterrorists”.

A basic strategy that is nothing more than the musings of foolhardy planners is to ban the sale of the drugs responsible for the menace, or as they say “rooting it out”. Banning the sale of drug items would contribute as much to drug de-addiction as would outlawing high-rise buildings and the sale of rope to suicide cases. Much of the damage is caused by the immaculate network of drug-dealers, who are much more organized than the law expects them to be. They are the like the little imps in our world who always pass for amateur minds out to make a quick-buck, but each of which nibbles at our society with a unity and planning that has risked the very lives of our youth. It is such meticulous organization that has kept this dirty business thriving.

A very important weapon or rather the base on which other offensives can be planned against this cancer is the law of the land. The very stringent “Narcotic Drugs and Pshycotropic Substances Act 1985” provides for a minimum of 10 years rigorous imprisonment and a fine of one-lakh which can go upto three lacs. Moreover, the courts have been empowered to fine more than that, citing the necessary reasons in their judgements. It was amended in 1988 to impose punishment for financing illicit-traffic. But there has to be a caution on the indiscriminate implementation of the law. The man retailing the drug-material is more than often guided by the Deuce of poverty and need or he himself has come into the fold of the calamity he perpetrates. If such people are spotted, and they usually are, sending them to the gallows to pacify public resentment is like pruning the grass and sparing the roots. A considerable degree of detective intelligence must be employed in the area, to trace the “drug-lords” from the pawns and subject them to the strictest penury.

But this form of de-addiction helps us fight drug-addiction at the macro level. The more intricate problem lies with the victims, and the candidate-victims of this malice. A lot of damage has already been effected calling for a lot of action in the regard. The action is de-addiction for the ones already victimized. An organized layout of de-addiction centres, across the length and breadth of the country can undo the wrought damage. The Ministry of Health and Family Welfare strengthened the program laying special emphasis on the North-Eastern states. In addition to the five drug de-addiction centres at New Delhi, Pondicherry, and Chandigarh, a new one was opened at NIMHANS Bangalore. The decision to acquire 10 acres of land at the CGO complex, Ghaziabad to construct a drug de-addiction center is a significant decision. But the government has largely turned a Nelson’s ear to the this problem. There has not been, till date, a single government initiated statistical survey to find out the number of afflicted populace. This speaks volumes of the level of organization of the counter-offensive measures, Much work still remains to be done for the proper training of the workers and officials posted at the already established de-addiction centers-training not only to hone the very instrumental medical skills but also training pertaining to counseling skills. Separate centers must be set-up to encourage the affected person to come for succor because it is not exactly a image-refurbishing act join a drug de-addiction centre, and it takes almost extraordinary courage to do so.

The other aspect of de-addiction is the insulation of the budding generation, to keep them from falling prey to this disease. It does not make sense to open up more de-addiction centers if there is something wrong with the place from where it all starts-the home. Out of kids resorting to drugs, a humungunous number of them know the full consequences of it, but want attention. Nuclear families with both the parents working isolate the child. A child is not an accessory and he won’t unconditionally obey or love his parents. If he is not talked to by his busy-father, if his mother doesn’t come up to him and ask why he looks down on a day, if they don’t remember his birthday and send an expensive present bought by one of their secretaries, he will and shall take refuge with the Devil. There is also the problem of incessant exposure to celebrities who indulge in “cool-activities”. It is not practical to shut a kid up in a dungeon on the pretext of giving him an utopian world. Rather than monitoring the influx of sights and sounds by hiring private detectives or reverting to any such crack-headed methods in the book, its much wiser to tell them that all that Pitt eats need not be edible, and the cool stuff that Cobain does need not wring cool-results.

The last and a very important aspect of the epic war, is tackling ignorance. Narcoterrorists have more purpose than just money to get more League of Lucifers. Poor, uneducated and hence vulnerable kids are used to get “nice-things” from “uncle” and end up being the retailer pawns. The problem of drug-addiction is at large in the have-nots community. The dissemination of basic information about how bad the stuff is, by holding public  demonstrations and awareness programmes  would strangulate the vile intentions of the merchants of doom.

Drug addiction is a pshyco-socio-medico problem. De-addiction measures must be taken earnestly and effectively to win the war. Let us not have a bunch of nameless NGOs as lone rangers in this battle for a second independence. Though not exactly in its infancy, getting rid of it would look like nibbing a venomous mesmerizing flower in the bud. And considering the nice little bag of problems that India has, it wouldn’t be a bad deal.

The Transition

I live on my mortal life. Yet, a truth haunts me. They say existence is a river and realities are its tributaries. But my incessant visions, and tormenting nightmares cast upon a shadow, in the darkness of which, I see the end of this river, as I had seen it then. The world and I have snubbed my thoughts as figments of a lunatic’s imagination, and my experience as a dream. But I did see the truth in ‘the transition’… ‘Staying up late?’ Debra leaned against the doorframe with that familiarly mischievous smile. I knew what she meant. ‘Not today Deb. Those things need time to charge up’, said I pointing to the energy cells then making a low whirring noise. ‘And I ain’t waiting till tomorrow. I am going for it today’ ‘And make history?’ ‘Umm… let’s see…’ ‘And forget me?’ ‘Oh, no! I …’ That had bought her enough time to edge near me and place a finger on my lips. ‘Let’s see if you pull it off or end up short-circuiting all the instruments with you-know-what. Good-night.’ Thus she left me abruptly, and my mind concentrated after the puny diversion. In a couple of hours, the chamber was ready. The cell’s whirring noise was now an ominous burr. It had all been too easy to seem perfect. But I knew that my excitement would do me in, and in a couple of minutes, I found myself crawling into the chamber after some indispensible tests. As I closed my eyes, expecting the timer to go off any moment, I fancied my desires coming true. ‘Professor Wilson proves existence of near death experiences after grueling research. He is also an expert in ESP and…’ I don’t know whether my thoughts snapped up or I just don’t remember what I had thought. After a rush of pain surging through my body, I felt that I was drifting masslessly in darkness with increasing speed. A sort of impregnable barricade shot up from nowhere and I knew it when the subsequent collision sent me reeling in a spiral. I shrieked in that vacuum but the dizziness continued to surmount me. ‘Ah! Mistakes, follies! The beings ought to have made the quote as ‘To err is CON’ rather than put their own name there. ‘ ‘Where on earth am I…’ I could feel my voice echoing out and not coming from my own throat. The faint red ambience spoke of a towering presence. ‘The base language is mortifying. Yet, we must honor the being who treads the place. So, it’s not earth to clear the clouds of doubt.’ ‘What is this… and what…’ ‘You were being taken to just another er... your language lacks the word for this, call it visioned reality-any one of our numerous visions that help us reach closer to perfecting our own world.’ I could not feel the facial muscles stretch in an expression of surprise in that reality. ‘So is this a farce? Is it all…’ ‘We can’t make you forget all this. So off you go.’ ‘Subject’s parameters normal’, were the words which made themselves heard upon an unbelieving ear. My eyes opened to a place which looked akin to the place where it all started from. A girl bent over me. ‘Seems ok.’ A glass lid went up and the scientist in me thought that this was a worse option than making it open from the sides. So I did remember everything. I silently looked at all. ‘Why’s this starin’ so goofy?’ ‘Buddy had a hard time.’ The girl spoke up, ‘Sorry I was late Mr.Will. I am Deb.’ My heart skipped a beat. ‘Deblina Beaumont. ESP specialist and near-death researcher. What you just experienced was a simulation of dreams of a man in his last minutes. So don’t worry. It was all pure fake…’ But only if she knew…

Two Worlds

Time flows fast they say, and when it has done so, the trail it leaves behind, like a jet's aerosol in the stratosphere, shows you all the little things, little junctures in your life, where you might have acted differently to have an altogether different fate.And also, where does this jet stop? More importantly, when should it call it a day? What is life's summit?...
That day was promising to be one of the most uneventful, insipid days of my life. I took the most extreme caution not to let my Zodiac suit get anchored to any unwarning protrusion, which would provoke me to jerk and tear it off. I was clumsily led to into the compartment by my people, who themselves profusely cursed the ordeal. I was travelling in a train after a long, long time, and now it seemed to me a casual insult to do so. 'No flights don't mean you travel in a shithole Mr.Kumar ', Mr.Arkwardt snorted as he slid my Safari briefcase under the berth. 'Well you must go to the roots someday;gives you a good feeling', I smirked. I sighed, and opened the book kept beside me. Out on the cover was the picture of a man, in his forties with neatly groomed hair, tortoise-shell frame glasses wearing a more informal look than was used to be received from him. Well, there could have been a mirror on the cover to get the same effect then. I looked at the title of the autobiography and smiled. ' No, not algorithms! ', that I had chosen over 'The Algorithm of My Life'. I flipped over a few pages. Some people around me probably had noticed me by then and were whispering in short 'Oh! Really?' and 'Oh! My god!' s. That page contained a memory, from my graduation days, and my thoughts were drifting fast.. that day..........
'O really? U made it?'
'At your majesty's service!'
She giggled and said, 'Hey stop it! I don't like that', which told me she liked every bit of it .
I gruffened my voice as usual and asked, 'And how's life?'
She shot back, 'Wow! You sounded like him for a moment!'
'Like whom? Michael Douglas?'
'No you idiot. Like Amrit, remember...'
'That despo! Yeah I do! That buddy bungled his career big time when he tried to noose my lady and got noosed instead. Where is that moron now?'
'I think somewhere here in Orissa with Comp. SCience.'
'Perhaps you could ask him something about the parasite algo....'
'Don't kid me yaar. Your stuff is hell arcane, and you are a genius to play around with it...'
'Oh!', I said as if I was bissfully ignorant of it.
'So what about our date?'........
I flipped it close, leaned back and took a deep breath. I hadn't heard from her for years may be more than one and a half decade. But now I was an achiever, and I had lived my dream and relished every pint....
My thoughts were rudely interjected with a busy looking TTE bustling into the scene. Inadvertently, I moved my hand into the pocket, but he seemed to be looking for something else. He looked up the berths and looked down as if looking at the sail of a great ship about to be hit by a storm. He looked towards one end of the aisle and shouted, 'Yes,come!' I braced up expecting the worst company to be reconciled to me. Two people, a man and a woman appeared with a couple of suitcases. Both seemed to make more noise than the entire darned train, silly-sallying about absolutely immaterial aspects. I grunted and looked away. Both thumped on a heap opposite to me and continued their mumble-bumble. I turned my face to give both of the classless fellows a piece of my mind. But then I saw it… that which had tickled my thoughts when I was cracking the hardest of nuts, that whose flame once lit my life and had slowly faded when I had let it go for something else which now seemed to me an epitome of darkness. Though time had done its work and given its dents, I could see it. Sumi sat before me, donning a mere confused look. ‘I am sorry…’, she began. My lips opened and trembled, and my throat produced a sort of laugh, that could well have been at myself. The man’s face lit up. ‘Why, its him? Its…’
‘Kumar, Sanjay Kumar’ ‘Wait!’,she said and that wonderous captivating expression didn’t die out till, ‘Oh yes! Its you! Good heavens, look at you! You look like a judge or something…’, she went on while I sat gaping at the mocking sisters of fate, while my past played itself like an apparition on the backdrop of her austere countenance. ‘Hello, Mr.Amrit…’ ‘Despo!’, she quipped. Amrit looked questioningly to which she said ‘Nothing!’. She mimed her fingers zipping up her lips and added ‘Between old friends! You know Sanju, we could never have afforded the AC- 3 tier thing. Its so damn expensive. But this nutter…’, she said poking Amrit, while he looked mock-innocent as if it wasn’t his fault. And they continued their immaterial but pristinely romantic conversation. I couldn’t help but see the time that had flown, the decisions that I had adhered to, and the wrought results. I owned everything that my mind ever craved for and a languor had set in life. But then a vast ocean seemed to have gulped my magnificent castles while I stood as the marooned prince who had gone on a treasure hunt, abandoning his heart and soul… When that journey ended, we parted as two different entities: one living a modest life, replete with all the trifling pleasures that fills up life’s vessel with immeasurable ecstasy and another who lived the life of a king, but never experienced or comprehended anything more than flickering monitors and ergonomic keyboards…

The Sport

Life is a short sport. We try and infuse sparks of fervour at our choosen moments clinging to hope that it will make this sport more cherishable. But do we ever spare a breath, and look around to see other chivalrous hope-clingers in the fray? Some never choose these as their worthwhile moments, and some just take a while... The adage of having 'no time to stand and stare' applies to no other profession better. I barely had the time to grumble about the nauseating smell that found its way from my neighbour at the local train, nor to thank the jamaal-incarnate slumboy who very hopefully enlightened me to the topsy-turvy lanes of Mumbai. Yet then, a couple of minutes had passed and I had not moved my eyes from the girl who sat right next to me and looked tired yet accustomed to the scenario. Come on dude. Make a move. ' Why can't they make this place more habitable and less like an oven? We reporters didn't come here to get fried', she looked at me and finished, 'did we?' I am very certain of the confidence I would have sported had I had this girl for an interview or a formal meeting. But my stomach wasted no time in coghing up butterflies from nought. Speak up, dumbo. 'Yeah, definitely, er, not I mean. This is terrible.' Bad begun, all undone. I wasn't used to see a lot of girls in salwars at work of late, but then, she could have got me complaining. They look so much prettier in... 'Which camp are you from?' She was looking around my shirt expecting a badge or a hanging card. 'The Hindu. Staff reporter' 'Are you that dumb? Who do you expect here to come? Chief-editor?' Bad move, mate. No ball in your court for sometime. 'Well, so how's NDTV?', I steered the topic a bit looking at the badge neatly stiched across her suit. 'Doesn't suck terribly. So its kinda okay. Hey, i'm Ishita' Your name, dude. Your name. 'Abhishek!', was all that I managed to squirt, but I wasn't sure if she had heard. 'I can't wait for the debate today. The media is already all ga-ga about it. The Stalwart Stallion Vs. The Puissant Princess. Those two veterans are sure to tear each other apart trying to convince the stockholders of their schemes...', her excited voice was drowned in the hushing noise created as people got up. I scrambled for my stationery and saw Ishita signalling her cameraman who was perched at a distance. A very authoriative looking man had strode in. Without giving any time to take in his full appearance, the co-founder and co-owner of Delicare, Sriram Nagpal started off, 'Without wasting any more time, I would like to draw the attention of my very competent board of directors and venerable stockholders to my latest scheme', and a big image flashed up on the screen behind showing a graph, at the flick of his finger. 'Which', the faces had turned towards a lady dressed in a cream coloured slax, who after the interruption gave no time to the onlookers to know that she was Mrs. Neema Nagpal, co-owner of Delicare and went on, 'is the musing of an obsolete dingbat. You see,' and with a flick of her own finger, a massive image flashed up on an adjoining screen and she hollered on, 'raising the prices of our oil corporation shares and distributing the ever-plummeting pharmaceutical shares amongst the shareholders would be the right...' 'thing to do only after every horrible resort has been utilised. I expected better, Neema.' Sriram turned away from a flaring Neema and without pausing for breath continued, 'Share prices need to go down. A poor man can't buy a share if it threatens to drill a hole in his pocket. If people shy away from our shares, we can't bail ourselves out from this messy situation...' 'which is destined to get messier if your cock-and-bull schemes get their way...', and I witnessed this titanic-clash while my fingers tore away through the pages of writing-pad. They seemed to be no less than two seasoned warlords who would settle for nothing less than the other's blood. Their duel was worth the pains I had taken to get there, it seemed. After a searing half-an-hour, the now air-conditioned hall seemed to be brimming with sparks from the battle. Both the Nagpals sat panting on two seats, and a vote was called. I did not feel any need to augment my story with any spice; it was already hot. Sriram's motion was passed witha narrow majority, whilist incorporating some of Neema's suggestions. As the reporters prepared to leave, I walked toward the secretary for my special assignment. 'Sorry, you must leave. This was a deal we had made with the media for allowing...' Wasting no time, I produced an appointment letter that I knew would be shield enough to ward off the wasp. With the most loathsome look imaginable, she pointed at the door at the far end. I glided towards it, going over the questions I had in mind for each Nagpal. In my excitement, I butted in across the ajar door, without knocking and paid the price. I was shocked beyond all creases that the mind can draw as uncrossable limits. I had expected two wolves to be staring down each other's throats and had not ruled out the possibility of security personnel keeping each bound. But there, mr.Nagpal lied on the lap of a transformed Mrs.Nagpal who stroked hios head with all her long burgundy hair over his face. I knew, I had to act. 'I'm sorry. I'll join you later' But before I could retreat, 'No.no please come in! We do mind company now', and Mrs.Nagpal grinned. 'But its alright!' I questioned a very different Sriram about business policies and new schemes but all that I got was, 'Neema does this magic after every meeting', he eyed his gleaming wife naughtily, 'and I just forget everything! You seem young son, what's your name?' I was taken aback, but answered nevertheless, 'Abhishek' 'Abhishek! Duty and occupation is of primary importance, and you seem to be too dilligent to be an alien to this. But life is not about business policies and income deficits and all that twisted crap. Its also not only about scribbling when two bloodthirsty morons scream.' Mrs.Nagpal laughed aloud. 'Its just much more. Well, I ain't a guru at this, but I have realised, it all matters when choose the sportsman who you want to carry the torch with. The rest of it is the same old business which we do one way or the other. So comeon dude. Start looking around. Life is a short sport.' ***********************

'Er,' The name dude, the name. Don't blow this up. 'Ishita! Would you mind coffee sometime today?'...

Trifling philosophies...

Sorrows in life are commonplace and each of its kind is met with significant dread. Yet the greatest sorrow commands a awe that quite undermines its dignity. And this is why... Generalization of sorrow makes it much more endurable. If I flunk an exam, I feel significantly sadder than if I have some company. This stems from the basic attitude of man to seek solace in company. They say 'birds of the same feather flock together' but this context might see it as 'birds charred in the same fire condole each other'. One classic testimony to this fact, and steering to the greatest sorrow I talked about, is our attitude towards death. Its inevitable and come what may, it always arrives to vanquish the life in us in a jiffy. Many believe its inevitability is the cause of the attitude towards it. But this is not so. It is the singularly most tragic event of any life, yet because we have the entire humankind on the same boat, we live life, conveying by no means that it must end by so dreadful a manner...

Paradox

Thirsty thorns on the bank of an innocent stream,
The orb's light vied by its golden gleam,
The knight through his armour slit breathes 'fright is right',
The destitution's clown hopes that hope is at farthest of sight,
Dungeoned in the caverns of feigned revelry,
Vain vanquish against the inner self's rivalry,
The odyssey to release lease the inner consciousness counted away by the deuce's hourglass,
The self stricken by fate at industry's backlash,
The world man beholds charity's aura strewn along his tread,
Yet construes as the Reaper's death-conniving dread,
Yes the hour is such every wave of mirth snubs itself as obnox,
The spirits within not enlightened to the ghast that it dwells in a paradox....