An Apology

As life passes us by, we meet several people and through our experiences with them consisting of interactions and conversations; we do end up hurting some of them in some way or the other. The intent is to never irk anyone, to cause unbearable pain and angst, however, there are manifestations of the mind that convolute our actions, behaviours, attitudes resulting in causing grief, hurt, pain, suffering to people. When we look back and look at those people from their viewpoints, and the clarity in context of how what we might have said, or done, would've affected them, a sordid realisation hits us. One would rather maintain a dignified silence than talk unnecessarily, in an effort to make random chats we never know how the other person is construing words being spewed aridly.
In order to correct this, and everything between that, it's time to make an apology. An apology to all those who have been hurt, affected negatively, faced the heat of an affront, been at the receiving end of a rudeness, meanness. This apology is nothing but an effort and an exercise to make them feel better in whatever manner it works. However, a mere apology may not be able to exonerate us and absolve their pain and sufferings. Yet, an apology goes out in the universe to all those who have reeked in hurt because of an attitudinal aberration, a nasty line, an obnoxious comment, an angry retort. Well, the devil may argue that the damage has been done, because words are irrevocable.

Irrespective, the apology stands it's ground strong, steady and consistent. May the pain be lessened because the carrier had no inkling that it would shatter the peace of the receiver.

" ILLAT, ZILLAT AUR KILLAT"

These three words hold a world of meanings and experiences in them. Let me try and flesh out these expressions.
"ILLAT", an Urdu word, means illness, literally. However, I would like to thrash it out a bit more. A disease that spells death could also translate into a meaning of "ILLAT". There are scores of people with various such death-stricken ailments and when they are battling against their "ILLAT", they are heavily inclined to ask questions which fall into the realm of Spirituality. Some of these questions rattle them so hard that the "ILLAT" takes a backseat and these questions become the real "ILLAT". Confounding as it may sound, the truth in these sentences is soul-tickling. So coming to the issue of what draws a person towards Spirituality, God and such inexplicable phenomenon; is the truth that most suffering people turn towards the heavens to satiate their quest. A quest that is triggered by their ailment. The questions that swarm in their minds are "What have I done to deserve this?" "I led a pious, clean, healthy life, yet, the orchestrator, has given me this disease that cripples me for life and moreover cripples life."  "Do I deserve this wrath of Nature?". One is susceptible to blame anything that one doesn't understand or has been unable to understand for his/her state of being. "Is it fair?."

"ZILLAT": utmost humiliation. This could be related to "ILLAT", in context of sufferings that are caused because of the "ILLAT" and in some cases none at all. Pain/angst/insults/offenses  directed at a human being which cause him or her to seek an intervention from forces which are beyond understanding. The humiliations sometimes stem from inflicting pain on one self arising from extreme forces of guilt and self pity. These guilts and reams of self pity that one thrashes oneself  with, are beyond  the realm of humiliations caused by others. In the end when one is pushed against the wall, the wall of inexplicable pain and agony mixed with guilt and tears of suffering, questions rise up like tumultuous waves in a turbulent sea. The sea reflects the conscience which has never been so enraged and so stirred ever. Questions again which are similar to the questions of "ILLAT" are reinforced because of "ZILLAT". As bewildering and convoluted as it may sound those who bear these revelations every waking moment seem to differ. This entire traversing of thoughts makes them seek God or any semblance of such a creation that satiates their insatiable appetite of understanding life and beyond.

"KILLAT" lack of resources. Despite the will, the spirit, the sheer, brutal insensitive tormenting fact that one does not have the means to help those who are afflicted and sometimes oneself leads them towards self deprecation and the brevity of their lives corrodes their souls coupled with "ZILLAT"; "KILLAT" is nothing but a conduit to self destruction. A destruction that one blames on destiny; on fate and on not being able to do enough to fight a battle already lost in the mind.

These thoughts are extremely erratic, yet somehow, in their randomness there is a pattern; a theory that brings me closer towards a semblance of understanding of the inexplicable nature of  God or any other sobriquet, that one has given to Life; or known or understood.

Brain-less endeavor!

I am confounded again. Sometimes I wonder, doesn’t the brain get tired, trying to astonish me with revelations and understandings. The kid on the street doesn’t have the time to think and pontificate like my brain does. His brain just chugs along smoothly, without any stumbling thinking chunks. This again brings the question to my mind,

‘Do those who are comfortable and have enough to satiate their beings have the luxury to go on these intellectual spiritual expeditions?’.

It is so childlike, the kid’s antics in the rains, isn’t he a kid, so why will it not be childlike; because this kid on the street lost his innocence, his sensitivity, his plain curiosity and his spirit to battle life with a child’s determination; yet he has zero regrets, on the contrary, he wants to collect his bearings and leave Bombay, a city that he holds responsible for his state, not realizing that it could be anyway. Though, after his anger has boiled down, he says, “Shaher ki koi galti nahin, na zindagi ki hai, bas galti hai”

His sentence lingers in my over active brain trying to assimilate the sub-texts.

God, quit this brain-less endeavor!

Spiritual Quest?

Why are we here? What is our purpose? Our meaning to exist, is there any?

And more such questions rankle my being. Answers are elusive. Days are running by. Nights are endless. Time is short. What will be, will be? How?

Grab each moment and shake it up and what does one get after the shaking. More questions. Answers will come when the time is right. What is the right time?

Accept life as is. Adapt to nature, to people, cultures; no one will adapt to you.

Get your strength from acceptance and just writing it down it doesn't make it easy one bit.

Keep chugging along the path. Rehearsing and traversing the long and winding lane, where mystery of life keeps unfolding but one has to burn and burn till the end hits you.

Ennui

The power of boredom is such that it can force creativity to come out in a weird manner.

The following contents will try to capture one such outburst.

Courier companies have a strange way of functioning. I called up one such company to inquire whether they send or receive a certain item. Their immediate answer was in the negative. People who answer calls plonked in their chairs at call centres are not too forthright to give information and even if they are, the responses are usually , “No sir, We don’t know, sorry you have got the wrong information etc.etc.” The moment you tell them that the same product with a definite Consignment number has been dispatched from another city; they quickly change their stance, wake up from their laziness and agree to you.

Banality of it all is befuddling.

Yet, I empathise with their jobs and sometimes wonder how many times do they really smile before answering the calls or the most important training lesson is forgotten the moment training is over.

Yes, this post is a result of boredom and laziness.

Make posts while boredom shines.. Now, really!

A Rude Awakening

He woke up to a rude reality. It took him a long time to understand that he would never be able to see his perspective and he should quit the false hope that someday he would. Truth was all consuming yet it had a strength to it.

Past has a strange way of catching up and words that had a resonance of times gone by; hit you hard. Detachment is difficult to practise. A word from someone who has some significance in your life will rankle you, however a word from a complete stranger wouldn't affect you a bit. The power of emotions and attachment is overbearing at times. To distance yourself from the emotional baggage is sometimes the only way to preserve your sanity.

Let insanities roll in a quagmire of feelings and come out, hopefully sane.  

Heavy sword of Expectations

A life sans expectations is quite an unbelievable scenario. As human beings, it becomes inevitable to want something or the other from life.

"Why are people not like the way I want them to be?"
"This job is not getting me that extra kick, I want it to give me that spunk."
"Why can't people just leave me alone"
"Wish he could change his attitude."
"His nature could be altered."
"Why are people so callous?"
"My business should give me 30% return by the end of 2013."
so on and so forth...

These are a handful of thoughts laced with expecting: situations, people and life to be like how we would want them to be. Truth being, people, situations and problems will never ever change; we would have to learn to adapt. To wear a cloak of insulation; insulation against getting affected by what people say, events that are beyond our control and anything that displaces sanity.

How does one follow these words? Tough, of course. As time passes, we would like to believe,  we shall too pass through what it offers and what it doesn't.

There is no foolproof guarantee for anything except death.
We do not want to die but are not keen on living either.

Life becomes what we maketh it to be.

I cannot pretend to recount all that he told me, but I gleaned from what he said that he was the genius who presided over the contretemps of mankind, and whose business it was to bring about the odd accidents which are continually astonishing the skeptic. - The Angel of the odd by Edgar Allan Poe