Bags heavy, legs strained, face sleepy, I landed on Ludhiana soil. It was around 10 at night, and shops were closed. Though it was spring time, I had some sweat on my face, perhaps a result of sitting in the bus for 8 hours (with only one stoppage in the way which lasted twenty minutes), a bus that was filled with passengers at all times.


The moon of Ludhiana resembled the moon of Delhi, three-hundred kilometres away, only a little clearer than that. A little, because both the cities share the common fault of being two of the most polluted cities across the globe.


Off from the bus, I ran a quick glimpse over my belongings – the bag that lay on the road, the bag that was hung on my shoulders – then patted my pockets for mobile phone and wallet – then my face for the mask. This took only a moment, and then the bus started to carry on its journey. On its own way. At the exact moment, as if having felt my momentary satisfaction.


Started at 2 in the afternoon, I had expected to reach earlier than this. But roads didn’t like the proposal. So I was late, was already sleepy. I crossed the road (traffic was thin), and found an auto-rickshaw waiting for passengers like me. Exchange of a word with the autowallah, and then I was on its seat.


The engine was on, but he wouldn’t drive for some time: he would wait for more passengers. In two minutes, one passenger came, and took the seat beside me.


But the autowallah would still not go. Another came in five minutes, and took a seat in front of mine. The autowallah sat on his driving seat, his hands on the handle. But foot not on the gas pedal. Still not ready. Still not wanting to move. His head turned as backward as possible, searching for more passengers, searching nearby, searching in the distance, on this side of the road and that side of the road.


My initial emotion was annoyance. What was he waiting for. Weren’t we three enough, so late in the day, with one of us already sleepy? Maybe a tad of this annoyance reflected on my face, but no one paid attention. Fellow passengers in their mobile phones, the autowallah in his quest.


Conflict of interest in an area of forty square feet.


Two minutes later, disappointed, he pressed the pedal and decided to start. Fifteen minutes later, I was at home, reunited with my family in person. After two weeks of my first of the many periodic separations from it.


But that image remains fresh in the mind: me annoyed, and the autowallah still looking around. Every time I go back to the image, I am more convinced than the last time that no person would have searched for more passengers with three already seated inside, at 10 pm in the night, unless it was such a need.


Unless it was such a need.




It is a normal return from college to my first floor room in Hudson Lane. I put down my bag on the bed, and just as I am about to sit, I find a little feather on the bed.


A feather on my bed? Really strange. I remember properly locking the door of the room before leaving in the morning, and there was nothing else suspicious to be found. Everything untouched, just as I had left, just as it had been there in the morning as I had shut the door – except for the little feather.


I try to survey around it a little, before I decide to pick it up. Yes, it’s a feather, nothing fake about it, but everything strange that can be. Yes, it’s the feather of a bird, but the window was closed, and there’s no other entrance to the room.


If I have to supply a reason to this, I can practically. Perhaps it stuck to my clothes when I was out before this morning, and remained there. Perhaps it left my clothes this morning to rest on the bed, and I had missed seeing it. Perhaps it was flying randomly in the air, carried by the wind like a pollen grain, and had entered clandestinely the moment I had opened the door at some time today or yesterday.


But I don’t feel the need to. The need to supply a logical reason to how the feather chose to enter. It’s a trivial question.


A more pressing question is what to do now, once it is here. Should I brush it away? Should I just ignore, and do what I was about to do? Why is it here even, in the first place?


I sit down, but before that I pick it up. I scan it, then rotate it in my hand, and scan it again from the other side. Who does it belong to? – A sparrow, a crow? Perhaps a pegion.


The feather carries a story, and I can feel it more and more as I see, caught in a trance. It was born and nourished in a family of feathers. Its world was a flying world, and it grew there like a tree. A world that sometimes was at rest, and sometimes in flight. Sometimes it was calm and peaceful and dark, and at other times, quite windy and swift and blue.


And then some day it got uprooted, separated from the other ones, and it found it was in a new world now. A world that was larger but highly mind-boggling.


And then it landed here, on the flat-purple world that my bedsheet is. And now, for the first time, it is seeing eyes – my eyes. It’s a meeting. The eyes are themselves a world, but shielded, distant, but attractive. There’s a fear of being dropped again into a high and mind-boggling world.


Everything depends on the hand that is holding the feather. Possibly everything. What remains mysterious is whether the hand is afraid too.



Tomorrow I sit for my last exam of first semester examinations. That will mark the completion of the first sixth part of my stay in the college. These really were one of the fastest six months of my life – fast, true, but not devoid of anything that should happen in the ample period that six months is.


Well, that seems like a change that I can see. In the recent years of my life, although time seems to have been flying past, fast as anything, yet too much has been happening at the same time. Too much to be able to take a step back and make a proper record. Each day is worth a story, each experience worthy to be retold, but either there is no time to do so, or words not so proper in order that the thing can be described in a way that it deserves.


At times like this when I have sat down to look back, or times when I can’t decide what else to do but to recall, I return to the bits, traces, breadcrumbs, little trails that I have been leaving behind. At times they feel too grand to be contained, and at other times too trivial to be made public. But everytime, there is so much to describe, and yet words run out before one has written anything.


I can’t count how many times I have pulled up a Word document to write something, to record a happening, to word down some thoughts – and suddenly – a blackout. On rare occassions, I have been able to overcome the blackout and manage to pen down, while mostly, I press Alt + F4 and take the exit. As an aspiring writer, that is something I need to overcome.


And then I remember having periods of life – months at a stretch at times, when words have come so naturally that I have filled hundreds of pages with stories, hundreds of pages of diaries. The last time that happened was in the beginning of last year when I was working on an ambitious project, and then for a brief period when my board exams were postponed.


Since then, I have mostly struggled to write. I have been suffocating with lack of ideas, lack of inspiring prompts – or, on a personal level, a lack of properly channelled effort from my side.


Analysing the reasons for that, I think these have been months when each month has had something happening. Exams being cancelled, result being declared, university forms being released, cutoffs being announced, admissions being concluded, colleges being started, colleges being started offline, exams…


Another muscle that I think I need to develop in light of this is to embrace change in a good way, and still find time to stay true to who I am and who I want to be. To still find time to write. Maybe one of the rants that start like this abrupt article will ripen into a story that satisfies me like those that have in the past.




Cool stuff I discovered


     - Physical Things
          1. Laptop – a productivity tool
          2. Wearing mask while working to be productive
          3. Sanitiser to feel active
          4. Five-minute Hourglass to practice five minute rule

     - YouTube channels
          1. What If
          2. Being Honest
          3. Elizabeth Filips
          4. Sheen Gurrib
          5. Thomas Frank
          6. Muniba Mazari
          7. Yes Theory
          8. RC Waldun
          9. The Deshbhakt
          10. Newsthink
          11. Kurzgezagt
          12. Macro Room

          13. Veritasium
          14. Vsauce
          15. Soch by Mohak Mangal
          16. Tom Scott
          17. Aperture
          18. Jaspreet Singh
          19. Vishavdeep Singh Kirtan Academy
          20. TechAltar
          21. Newsthink
          22. Omeleto
          23. SantwinderSinghWaraich
     - Blogs/Newsletters/Websites
      1. NaNoWriMo
      2. Conceptually
      3. Medium
      4. Austin Kleon
      5. Ali Abdaal
      6. Wait But Why
      7. Slow growth
      8. Sikhnet Daily Hukamnama
      9. Slow Growth
      10. Seth's Blog
      11. The Hindu
      12. The New Yorker
      13. Kristen Keiffer
      14. PointInCase

   - Books
      1. A Million Miles in a Thousand Years
      2. Show your work
      3. Metamorphosis
      4. Everything Happens For a Reason— and other lies I have loved
      5. Himalayan Blunder
      6. Start with Why
      7. Ramaz te Rahass
      8. Old Man and the Sea
      9. The Little Prince
      10. Of thee I sing
      11. 1984
      12. Animal Farm
      13. Hamlet
      14. Jeevan Kani
      15. Numbers don't lie
      16. Scoop
      17. Purple Cow
      18. Productivity Superhero
      21. The Prophet
      22. Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin

   - Apps
      1. Mailchimp
      2. Monday.com
      3. Revue
      4. Google Keep
      5. Iriun Webcam
      6. Live Kirtan
      7. BBC News
      8. Instagram
      9. Rythm Free
      10. ReadEra


Creations


   - Stuff I created (that I can claim)
      1. Lockdown Mine
      2. Stories with Books
      3. Stephanian Diaries
      4. Jang di Sair
      5. Roshni diyaan raatan
      6. Khyaalan diyan Khabraan
      7. Story of Sajjan
      8. Rana Bhabor English Translation
      9. Vismaad Katha
      10. Agitation Anecdotes
      11. Mystified One Night
      12. Eighteen Years on Earth
      13. Macbeth &#38 Me - articles
      14. Macbeth &#38 Me - videos

   - Group stuff
      1. ABC
      2. LPG
      3. Riveting Readers
      4. Andin Kirtan
      5. Omaha
      6. Sehaj Gun


Reflective Questions



1. If you had to teach one thing you learnt this year (that would improve one’s quality of life) what would that be?
Judicious use of internet – not just to consume but also to create. There are so many possibilities for one to be organised and do something with his life, that not going for something of the like seems uncanny. An example would be Zoom. This year, I was a part of many online reading clubs. Books like The Prophet couldn’t have been finished if I had started to read them alone, let alone understand various dimensions. Distance is no more a challenge. You can connect with anyone, befriend anyone, and go about your adventure. If given to choose two things in this list, I would add Canva and web-designing. Both are so cool and powerful tools and empower you so much. You can do anything with Canva and a website.

2. What kept you up at night with excitement this year? Was it worth it? Would you want to do more of it?
1984 by George Orwell. I remember already having read almost two-third or three-fourth of it those days. My board exams were nearby, and making myself a night owl for that period, I had a routine of keeping awake till 2 or 3 pm in midnight.

One such night, I felt bored and picked up the book. Winston and Julia were caught by the very man they trusted of all the people in the world, turning out to be a party insider. Separated, they were taken to cells, and interrogated horribly. Attempts were made to kill the “enmity” instead of the “enemy” - so much epic stuff, simply put. I had decided to pause at the end of some chapter, but each ended with some strong cliffhanger. One epitome of this was the one which ended in “Room 101”.

I ended up devouring the entire book that night, and stayed put till 3.30 am in the morning. Was it worth it? Absolutely yes. Will I want to do more of it? Of course - but 1984 was a book of its own kind.

As a side-note, I would like to briefly mention that my liking for 1984 doesn’t just come from its story part, but from the its beautiful and horrific philosophy, which steals one of many restful sleeps. Day in and day out, you are being faced eye-to-eye with the myriad ideas of the book. I myself could not get the book out of my mind unless I had put all my thoughts in this personal diary called Stars Hide Your Fires.

3. How did you have fun differently in 2021?
Were I to name this year, I would call it the Year of Interactions. I built so many contacts this year, met so many new people online and IRL. Each new person brings a new dimension to your life. Unless someone becomes too dependent on you, or you on him, in most cases a new name in your phonebook comes with some additional value. So the winning source for me this year were not books, neither YouTube, nor an anime, nor an outstation trip, but from knowing new people.

4. How did you suffer differently in 2021?
The suffering of uncertainty. It was there all the time. First it was about board exams. Then about their cancellation/happening. Then about admission procedure/CUCET. Then about missing application deadlines. Then cutoffs. Then interviews. Then results. Then further results.

And after results and selection, uncertainty about being able to do what is expected. And then those sporadic encounters of Imposter Syndrome - uff!

5. What things did you stop caring about in 2021?
My grades in class. That is true. My not being on the first position in my class in class 12 didn’t disappoint me, for good or for bad I can’t say. But for one thing, grades suddenly lost importance. Yes, sometimes they are reflective of learning abilities, but then - sometimes. But now I think I’ll start caring again, for a good reason. I got admission in my college due to grades. They motivate you to do hard work, and are an achievable visible carrot tied up to a stick suspended from your head. The race is bad, but the act of running just because there was some trophy is good.

The bare-minimum questions:



1. When have you felt proud of yourself in 2020? What were you doing?
Upon seeing my name in list when the result of St Stephen’s College’s waitlist was announced. I was returning from Amritsar at that time. Might sound cliché, but it was hard believe.

2. What new habits did you create in 2021?
1. Taking book notes on Notion, and also regularly saving new learnings in it
2. Making a blog for everything
3. Noting down the idea of a poem, even if it is incomplete
4. Doing kirtan alone regularly for spiritual upliftment
3. What new thing did you spend a lot of money on in 2021?
1. Buying notebooks, highlighters, books and other stationary
2. But also a lot of money on fast food this year

3. What did you rediscover pleasure in 2021?
1. Writing poetry (especially in Punjabi)
2. Writing down personal anecdotes
3. Diary entries
4. Elocution
5. Trips and tours
6. Solving a Rubik’s Cube
7. Playing Chess
8. Not using YouTube too much







A few days ago, papa had the chance of visiting a village. A village of the likes of most villages of Punjab. But like most villages of Punjab, it did have its unique features: the people, the tree-species, the professions, the specialisation of that village.


An interesting incident happened with him there, the story of which he narrated to some friends and me.


Some people there narrated to him about the tale of a village which, some centuries ago, consisted of only madmen. No one in that village – not even a single soul – was sane. People talked in gibberish,  fought with each other day in and day out, and there was no iota of logic whatsoever anywhere. People of other villages desisted passing through this infamous village.


But then one day, a spiritual master visited this village with his followers. This divine soul was touched by the predicament of the villagers and the fate of the village, and he decided to do something about it.


The master and his followers chanted spiritual hymns that day in the village, and their melodies reached the ears of all the insane villagers, and a healing effect was cast.


But it was not as rosy as it seems.


That day, centuries ago, a sort of pact was signed. The entire village but one person would be healed of the generations-long madness. It would be another sane village on earth, but one single soul out of the entire village population would always remain mentally challenged. When that one person would die, the predicament would be passed on to someone else.


But this was the part of the deed. Either the entire village would remain mad, or all of their madness would be suffered by one to keep them all prosperous.


As those people narrated the tale of this village to papa, they explained how even today, just one person in that village was mentally challenged. He belonged to a wealthy and prosperous family which made him wear expensive clothes, provided great food and things to keep him busy. But he didn’t like it all, and often ran away from his home, tore those clothes until he was in tatters, would go and get dirty in wet soil, eat by picking leftovers from ground. No, he didn’t fight with anyone, nor yelled, unless anyone messed with him. It was a popular belief that if a villager would meet him in the beginning of a day, his day would become lucky. People often came to pay their obesience to this man for he was believed to be suffering the malady of the whole village over himself as part of the pact.


It’s impossible to check the authenticity of this story today. Someone going in search of historical evidences might return empty-handed, or with folk tales that he might find difficult to believe.


But just leave the authenticity factor aside, and imagine such a village, such a world – where a few have to remain suffering for lifetime to keep others happy!


Coincidentally, a couple of days after I heard this story from my father, a professor from college narrated this similar story called “The Ones who walk away from Omelas”. You’ll find a striking resemblance between the one which I have narrated, and between the story penned by Ursula K. Le Guin. Our sources might be different, but we look at the same worldly reality.


Damn! I’ll never look at the suffering the same way ever again!


Crash!!!
A tree fell
A part broke
A long screeech
A long stroke


Blood escaped the vein
Heart skipped a beat
An eye fluttered
A tongue stuttered.


Sky bent low
Clouds stepped down
To have a closer look


Vrooom!!!
On the next lane
Something, someone,
Passed by
In perfect normalcy.




When Bhai Vir Singh went to Kashmir, he wrote a book full of poems about it. Bhai Vir Singh is a high standard; from me, you can expect at least one blogpost.


There is something about Kashmir and its people that’s truly spellbinding – from the overall surroundings there to the sweet language they have, to their slant-roofed houses.


Our stay in Kashmir was at the house of an acquaintance. We were a team of 15, including one toddler. The family who hosted us and had this massive and beautiful house with cherry trees and a farm of its own, provided us with two halls, one each for gents and ladies.


One of the most memorable times at Kashmir was the time of Rehraas Sahib, a sudden memory of which gave me the idea of this blogpost, especially its title: “rest that is not sleep”.


We reached their house around evening and it was already time for Rehraas. We perched on the carpeted floor in a circle, sort of, some of us leaning against walls, some slightly bending forwards, some with phones in hands. Some had blankets spread on laps as it was cold, though the month was of June.


And comfort pervaded all around. All the chaos in the world came to a rest as we all recited one couplet each, turn by turn. It was a kind of rest, a kind of comfort unheard of, unspoken of, unknown of.


And this rest, this comfort, unlike most rests and comforts, didn’t put me to sleep. In my room back in Ludhiana, when I am too comfortable, when there is a pillow to support my back and I have no pressing works, I start feeling sleepy, and my limbs feel a new kind of ache – while it’s still a feeling of comfort.


But here, this comfort was different – it didn’t put me to sleep. My eyes wide open, observing everything from that little speck of dust under the curtain, to that grain of biscuit someone dropped unknowingly, to that toe of the toddler that was so immature and innocent – I observed everything, being very much alive and full of sense – more sense of myself than I had ever – and I savoured this comfort for the entire 50 minute period (including the discussion on our favourite quotes from Rehraas).


A similar experience ensued in Ludhiana once, and this time again, I was doing Rehraas; with this three-years-younger friend from Anandpur Sahib, on Zoom, while the door to my room was barred with no movement outside. A harmonium lay next to me which I had just played for “Har jug jug bhagat upaaya…”. At the end of Rehraas, this friend and I (while our videos were on), pumped our fists and punched the air high above while shouting the traditional warcries, “Bole so nihaal … sat sri akaal” and “deg teg fateh, panth ki jeet”. He began to laugh in some kind of ecstasy, followed by me laughing at his laughter.


That was a different kind of comfort too.


Kashmir or Ludhiana, you can have rest that is not sleep, provided some factors are met – factors I am trying to figure out, factors that are nevertheless not in my control.






In an open group discussion today, the topic steered to the question of rituals, whether rituals are good or bad, and one of the senior members came up with this beautiful equation:


Spirit + Ritual = Spiritual


This post is a result of a burst of overjoy at the idea of both this equation and the clarity of this wooly concept.


As for myself, I have usually seen the word “ritual” in a negative light – something that always involves blind faith and ignorance, and as something that should be avoided and resisted whenever possible.


But today I am reconsidering this – are “rituals” really bad?


Or – let’s ask a completely different question: are all rituals bad?


Ritual – that’s a ceremony or an action that is done according to some prescribed order, following rules that are pre-made. These rituals might be social, cultural, religious, political – or even personal. Marriage is a social, cultural as well as a religious ritual. Celebration of a festival might be cultural or religious. An oath-taking ceremony – or the famous “halwa ceremony” in the Indian Parliament – are political rituals.


And then there are personal rituals. For a long time, I wrote a daily diary regularly without fail – that was a personal ritual. Waking up at a certain time in the morning is part of our daily ritual. Brushing your teeth, going to school or work, reading some pages of a book every night – all are personal rituals.


Call it a habit or a ritual – the spirit remains the same. Habits practiced by a larger group are rituals and rituals practiced by an individual are habits.


Flip the word and your perception of the idea suddenly changes: to me, ritual always carried this negative vibe, while habit sounds quite healthy!


Clearly, rituals also come in two varieties: there are healthy and unhealthy rituals.


A festival is a healthy ritual if it does more good than bad: if it strengthens the social fabric, it’s a healthy ritual; if it spreads pollution or encourages extravagance, it might be unhealthy.


And finally, there are spiritual rituals. In the recent times, a surge was seen in the idea of mindfulness, and many YouTubers and writers spoke on this. Influenced, many people added in their “daily rituals” a 10- or a 15-minute slot for mindfulness. Unmistakably, it’s a healthy ritual – for it gives us time in a fast-pacing world to pause and reflect on ourselves and our world. If practiced regularly and with “spirit”, one might be spiritually awakened!


But!


But if this 10-minute period becomes a spiritless, devoid-of-purpose “ritual” – a ritual captured in inverted commas – you will become just that – captured: it will be more of an obligation than an activity to enrich you spiritually.


There seems to be a secret behind the stability in nature: sun and seasons appear to be following a ritual of returning again and again at a particular time of the day and year. Earth’s revolution around the sun and rotation around itself are rituals, pretty much. A wheel’s rotation, a body’s in-built clock, growing up and dying – all are rituals in their own right.


Nature is in order, running according to patterns - as per its own rituals.


There’s a lot of scope for exploring this subject even more, but let’s attempt to close this discussion with this: instead of asking the wrong question “Are rituals good or bad”, let’s ask the better and more thought-out question: “How much of rituals is ok?”


That, now, is a question worth a discussion!







You meet words like you meet people. Away from home, all of a sudden, sometimes accidently. Some words enter your life when you make effort – like you trying to make effort to make new friends at a new place. Some words meet you around the corners of streets, purchasing vegetables from the same vendors which you visit on weekends.


We all have our prized stories of learning certain words. Some are funny, some are painful, some are even embarrassing. But all those stories, all those funny, painful, embarrassing occurrences, earn you words as if they were friends. You treasure those words, use them with fondness, and they become your best weapons. Words – those little building blocks of language – language that is common to us, but at the same time everyone’s unique tool chest.


Here I share six words that I cherish the most among my treasury, and how they introduced themselves to me.


1. Diligence.


I first met the word “Diligence” at Punjabi University, Patiala in the summer of 2019. I was visiting the campus with someone, and we happenned to stop by a professor who knew the person I was accompanying. We sat in her office for half an hour. I was introduced to the professor as a boy who had completed a work assigned to me well in time. Her remark was a two-word sentence, but full of conviction, “Hmm, diligence!” I befriended the word there and then. It has travelled with me all these years, and if someone asks today one virtue a student must possess, I will jump up, “Hmm, diligence!”


2. Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis


Nicknamed as P-45, I met this word at school. Schoolboys usually boast of such unique knowledge, which is otherwise not too useful in the everyday course of life, be it the longest word in the English language, or the name of the oldest religion. At one time, you were a highly respected guy in the class if you could pronounce the full word, or spell it correctly. A biology teacher once gave us an assignment of presenting a PowerPoint presentation on any virus in the world. The only rule was the time limit of 10 minutes. A friend actually took the pain to research P-45, and made a ppt with the first slide containing a string of 45 letters:


PNEUMONOULTRAMICROSCOPICSILICOVOLCANOCONIOSIS


He ended up convincing us that it was actually not such a rare disease, and there were really more cases of P-45 in the world than the number of letters it had.


3. Enthusiasm.


To be honest, my first greeting to enthusiasm wasn’t too enthusiastic. At HVM Convent School, there used to be a ten-minute free period after the school ended, in which all classes were dispersed one by one. This was a highly precious time – you could get up from your seat and walk to anyone’s place and talk to anyone – all this while the teacher was still in the class. There were debates, there was shouting, and there was clamour. On occasions, teachers posted on duty in corridors, came to class to gossip with class the in-charges.


One such day, some friends and I played a game, sort of, in which we had to ask each other tricky questions. At such an age, our vocabularies were quite insufficient, so asking the meaning of a new word was a valid riddle. One friend asked the meaning of “enthusiastically”. Replying to faces who had no clue, he explained it as a mixture of “joy” and “excitement” and “interest”. I didn’t like the word, of course, because it was long – it looked so sophisticated, and had a strange, cold aura about it. But it didn’t take long to get familiar with it. It took time to build enthusiasm for enthusiasm, but there are friends who become friends because you see them too much, that you can't restrain befriending them.


4. Intuition.


I was always confused about intuition because of the “tuition” in it. I continued to associate it with schooling and education for a long time.


Once upon a time, I was preparing a presentation on “Moral Values”. I bumped into this word yet again while surfing, and finally decided to look it up in the dictionary (sometimes you are so scared of or annoyed by a word that you don’t want to look it up in a dictionary!). A bit of exploration and I reached some website which described intuition as something like this: “You have a hidden, wiser voice inside you. Sometimes it is muffled, yes, but it’s always there. Sometimes an answer comes to you from this voice – and you are surprised by how it came. That part, that familiar voice – that is intuition.”


Suddenly, I had an intuitive understanding of intuition and added it to my vocabulary. Now I happen to use it a lot.


5. Opportunity Cost.


The fifth one is a term, not a word per se. As a student of Economics throughout my high school, I have been bumping into this word quite often. But it was like that boy in your school you see quite often, also know his name, but do not understand that much. He’s quite nice, but you’re just afraid to talk to him, or be near him, as there’s some mystery about him. All seem to be rubbing well with it, except you. I always knew opportunity cost as “Value of the next best alternative foregone”, and my teacher always explained it with this example:


“A farmer chooses to plant wheat; the opportunity cost is rice plantation that he could have done with the same money.”


I couldn’t, despite explanation, figure out for a long time that if the farmer already has chosen the “most profitable” wheat to be grown, how does a calculation of the “next best alternative” come to serve any value?


And then I accidentaly - thankfully - struck into a Seth Godin blogpost with the same title. When you are sitting and spending your time on YouTube, it comes with an opportunity cost – you could have been working on some pending project. This suddenly called to mind the understanding that the “next best alternative” might actually be better than the task we are choosing to do. Maybe wheat is not still the best option, and by growing wheat what “best” thing you are crossing out – be it one rung higher or lower in value – is the opportunity cost. That little piece of knowledge, which cleared the understanding between the word and me, closed the deal. As expected, I was wreathed in smiles. Thanks, Seth Godin :)


6. Eg and ie.


Two expressions, but let’s keep them under one head. I handshaked with these much before my peers did. GK books were a part of the curriculum since junior classes, but mostly no one took them too seriously (in many cases, not even the GK teachers!). That was mostly because these books just talked about raw facts – say, ten tallest mountains in the world with their heights, ten famous sports players in the words - without any context. No doubt, despite this, they were interesting to read, but not so riveting that you sat to memorise the details.


One such book contained a chapter on abbreviations. Eg and ie sat there like two little cute twins. They sat innocently among those pages, unaware of the atrocities in the world, oblivious to the the wonders of science and technology, and looked at me with glossy eyes. I first read their Latin full forms – exampli gratia and id est. I showed it to my benchmates, but they found this tasteless. But the abbreviations stayed at the back of my mind. I had a fun time quizzing my classmates in all schools I went to (I got to study in 3 different schools in 5 years, and 5 in 12) about the full forms of these two. Eg, when I asked a group of boys about this, they were surprised that these carried actual full forms, and when I told them, they were all inops facies – clueless faces, i.e.





Obedience for the leader is one of the defining roles of a good team. A pilot sits in the cockpit of a plane and sets direction for the plane. The plane does not decide its own direction. The plane obeys the pilot, and hence a smooth flight is achieved.


Given that the pilot is a right person and knows how to fly a plane, and that the plane follows his directions, they are destined to reach the destination together.


The farm unions and the farmers play the role of a pilot and a plane respectively. If farm unions and their leaders began paying heed to the tongue of every individual, there would be chaos and no strategic direction would be set. And if all individual protestors began to make their own decisions, there would be many but minuscule sparks instead of big, planned fireworks.


Singhu, it seemed, was already conversant with this model. I myself was fortunate to hear first-hand a real example of this.


On the second day of our visit, a big event followed: the Karnal cane charge. Farmers were allegedly beaten by armed policemen, and fatalities and injuries were reported. Despite this brutal attack, numbers and numbers of farmers kept sitting at the blocked toll plaza.


I eavesdropped on two farmers conversing with each other about this. An interesting detail I caught from this discussion was that the farmers were still there, the reason being that they had received no official statement asking them to leave the site, from farm leaders. They said they would get up only when some leader would tell them to do so, no matter the medium: Facebook, some messenger, some written order, or some appeal from a stage. Unless that came, they would continue the protest where they had been told to do.


This spirit of order and obedience is one of the key factors of the success of this agitation so far.





I remember waking up twice during the night. Though there were mosquitoes too, but I was feeling cold, thanks to the fans combined with the cooler combined with the cold weather that night. I was too lazy in my sleep to go and get something to cover myself with, and hence spent a part of the night shivering.


But apart from that, it was an easy night. I woke up next morning, fresh and satisfied, around 4.30 am. My other two companions were still sleeping, and I had woken up just like that, without an alarm. Sometimes your excitement is the alarm enough to get you up. Later I would learn that when the first alarm had gone off, one of us had turned off all the subsequent alarms.


Woken up alone in that big hall, I felt slightly weird. I could not make too much noise, lest I should disturb many sleeps, and so I decided to take a stroll and see if there were any toilets nearby.


Outside the hall-like massive tent, I found a different scene: I was not the first one to wake up on Singhu. People were going here and people were going there, some with towels on their arms, others with toothbrushes in their mouths, some of them talking quietly, others reciting their morning prayers. Some Hindu hymns were playing on the main stage – I recognised them as I had learned one in my primary school.


Two random old men passed by me – I stopped them and asked if they knew of any bathrooms nearby. They said they were already going that way, and I could accompany them.


Along a makeshift gurdwara, there was a little path heading towards a street parallel to the highway. There was a factory, sort of, which had been converted to a bathroom by installing a tall cuboidal box, and placing some tubs. A few men were taking bath in open.


After this memorable bathroom visit in that converted factory, I embarked again upon the highway and started heading not towards the hall-like tent but the other way. I wanted to have a glimpse of how Singhu functioned in a morning, from the waking up of man to waking up of the sun.


I reached till the KFC (where the first two incidents mentioned in this series took place), and took a return journey from there.


Another interesting thing ensued on this return journey. As I was on way, I spotted from some distance a hose supported into a massive tub to fill water in it. Water was filled to the brim, and had started spilling out. The man who had put up the hose had maybe forgotten about it. I wondered if I should do something to save water. I could spot, at least from there, no tap to which the hose was attached, or anything else that could stop the flow.


I was still wondering when a man passing by, just like me, stopped and stooped near that tub. He was a passerby, I was sure, as he seemed to be as confused as me, and was checking how he could turn off the flow of water.


I smiled ear to ear and learnt another secret of the success of this protest: care for a stranger as much as for an acquaintance.



There were three of us returning from a Langar (free community kitchen). Our afternoon meal had been delayed to around 5 pm, but now we were all satiated.


As the sun also began setting, coolness was presiding and it was altogether very pleasant. Shoulder to shoulder, we three walked through the thin crowd, heading towards the tent in which we had to stay for the night. Simultaneously we looked around at the other tents. People had started coming out, some were sitting outside their little huts and tents on chairs or manjas (charpoys).


On to our left was such a group of old men, perched on chairs and a charpoy, talking to each other and looking at the passersby. We were quite conspicuous due to our pant-shirts and that urban look you can’t avoid having easily. Those men called us and offered us to sit and talk. Kudos – that was why we were there, to talk and know more about the protest!


They told us to bring three chairs from inside of their hut, and we did that and then we were listening to them, and questioning them.


“How long have you been here?” was the first natural question.


“Nine months,” was the doubtless reply. “We need to visit our village and homes time to time, but then we are mostly here, at the protest.”


They were three people – one slightly less than the age my grandfather would have been, and two others at least twenty years elder to my father. Two of them had long, flowing milk-white beards.


Before long, a fourth old man appeared from behind the hut. He was introduced to us as a man who had never even once gone back home ever since the protest had started. “He has declared that he will either win or die, but not return home like this, ignored and defeated,” said one of them.


And this man’s face told a similar story too. He had the most wrinkles out of all of them. It had a different kind of gravity, some form of sadness but audacity. Sadness would be a wrong word – it was something different, some emotion that had no name.


One of us asked the main man, “What’s the secret of your undemolished spirits?”


There wasn’t one secret answer to this question: such things are a culmination of myriad factors. But an unrelated question fetched a nearby answer.


The question was, “How do you spend your free time?”


They replied, “Oh, we either do some sewa (voluntary service) at a langar, or we recite paath (religious recitation). At other times, we talk and discuss about new developments related to the protest.”


They – three old men, and we – three young boys – completely different from each other. But sooner or later, we would have to realize that they were on a lookout for us: old trees were in wait of seeds who would carry the gene forward, and keep the fruit alive.





As I was brushing my teeth, I took note of some interesting things, which gave me idea about how one could manage to stay on a road outside the protective walls of his house for nine months: minimalism.


To take a bath, a regular farmer needed only the bare-minimum items: a soap, some water, and clothes to change into, and that was it. If bucket and mug were not available, a man could bath by stooping under a tap or watering himself using a hose. A rope was all one needed to hang the wet clothes. Minimalism: that sounds quite like a modern term, but it is an essential part of the lives of these people who are not yet fully conversant to the dialing pad of an android phone!


Farmers' Protest taught me the’s the simplest take to life. As you are not obsessed with physical beauty, you do not require a mirror. An old man standing there, capturing everything with his eyes like me, waiting for his turn to bathe, randomly untied his turban from his head, used the wooden comb (kangha) tucked in his hair to comb them, and just like that, without needing anything, tied it again – all of this standing here, waiting subconsciously for his turn.


This lesson was really important. As aforementioned, I had come for one day but had decided to spend night here on a hunch. I didn’t have any pajamas to change into, nor a toothbrush, nor another set of clothes. The protest taught me to survive with all I had – and to be honest, it wasn’t even a tad difficult!


Minimalism is really fun, it makes life simple, but when it comes to you naturally, instinctively, it works wonders!



During my second morning at the Farmers’ protest site, I was there in a open ground near a KFC restaurant which had been transformed into a sort of massive public bathroom. Portable containers had been put up for use as toilets and urinals, and one particular nook was being used for bathing and washing purposes. At any given time during a regular morning, five to ten people were always taking bath at this place.


I needed a toothbrush. We had come to the protest thinking of a brief one-day visit, but the spirit of those who had been staying there since last nine months motivated us to stay at least one night there and witness a night at Singhu.


Therefore, I didn’t have any clothes to change, neither a toothbrush, nor toothpaste, nor a soap – nothing one might need were he to spend a night outside his home.


Someone suggested I should visit a langar and ask for either a toothpaste or daatan. A daatan is a plant product, usually a neem or kikkar, that one chews. Traditionally, when there were no toothpastes or brushes, people used daatans. Last year I got to meet a farmer, whose age was around 75, and his teeth were perhaps stronger than mine! He never used a Colgate. He just chewed a daatan every morning.


I visited the nearest langar. Early morning as it was, there was no one to be served anything, but a few sewadaars were preparing the first meal of the day. A man with a full black beard, towering height and glowing cheeks, was churning a ladle in a big utensil. Apart from him, an old man sat in a corner, skimming through the headlines of the day.


I asked him if he had daatan. He didn’t have any. It was then I noticed that I was in complete contrast to him. He was a pure rural, and I a born urban. His clothes and my clothes were metaphors of our opposite personalities. But we had a few things in common too: we were here for one purpose. And we both didn’t have a daatan.


Just when I was about to take a turn, he stopped me and said he did have toothpaste, and asked if it would do. I nodded my head and mumbled a “yes”. He paused his work and went behind the tent. During the two minutes he took there, I had a brief conversation with the old man reading newspaper. He queried about my place of residence, and what I wanted. The first man returned with a new toothpaste, and handed it to me.


As I took it from him, I told him that I would return the toothpaste in no more than two minutes.


His reply was in a perfectly natural tone, “No, no need to return. Use it and keep it there where you brush. It will help someone else.”


The reply astounded me, but I smiled and returned to my companions. They were amazed at how I had got a brand new pack of toothpaste for free. Since I didn’t have a brush, I applied some amount to my index finger and brushed my teeth.


The farmers’ protest hence taught me an important lesson about how an agitation could not be maintained without a spirit of commonwealth and sharing. Things were not to be hoarded and profited from, but to be used and passed on: and that’s exactly what I did with the toothpaste. I let it remain there on the wall near the taps. As I started walking away, I did notice some random baba ji picking it up and using it.


Glossary
Daatan – tooth-cleaning twig
Langar - a free communal kitchen
Sewadaars - voluntary workers
Baba ji – a respectful term for an old man




The clouds, the sun, the two I thought
Third a sky, knew I not.
Heat, and cold, two my choices,
Between, beyond, no other voices.
Above, below, two brief realms,
Idea a third, just overwhelms.
A spectrum but wide, the sky maintained,
Brain a binary's, ego was pained;
Looking out of the window, the sense I gained,
When the fog was swept, it rained and rained.


“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times”


It is with this clause that Charles Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities starts. It’s an iconic sentence, and the paragraph to which it belongs, is no less iconic.


Though The Tale belongs to the time of French Revolution, as back as 1789, there is something about this sentence and paragraph which holds true even today, and will continue to hold true for a long time to come. The surprising thing about the world is that two extremes often exist in the same Overton Window, and one is often aware of only one at a time. Like a wavelength existing half the time above the axis and half the time below it, our observations also move in waves. But those waves are not always so regular – for some of us, we keep looking at things below the axis for most of the time, and for others, vice versa, and for still others, perspectives keep changing.


“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”


Black and White, both colours exist simultaneously. The Universe is still expanding, and that is splendid. But the Universe might “crunch” one day, and that is frightening. But the Universe might come into existence again and expand, and that is splendid.


One moment you feel humanity is shifting to spirituality, having realised that a life of atheism lacks the most essential purpose, and that will make it more virtuous; but at the same time, you feel that new wars and crises still arise on daily basis, and force in the world still continues to exist despite centuries of destruction. One world, two extremes, existing in harmony, as if.


On one hand, you see Elon Musk and his great ideas of settling on Mars, and you get goosebumps at the imagination of a future that looks like “Future”. On the other hand, you see things like America’s decisions being affected by businessmen, prolonging wars to earn economic gains, and you are caused to bite your lip.


While this binary classification has a bit of fallacy, the general idea is that it is possible for two extremes, two superlatives to be on one wall together.


But this has been forever and will be forever. It seems to be the way of the world. The “best of times” and the “worst of time” will exist alongside.




This is going to be a short writeup.


For a lot of time now, I was worried about one thing: my age. I always wanted to remain a child forever. The carefree-ness, the absence from big responsibilities, the unconditional happiness, the sense of accomplishment in little things … I was always afraid of losing it all. Even though legally an adult from last seven months, I had been trying to deny the fact that I have grown up, and a child no more I was.


Even if I accepted the fact on rare occasions, I felt there was a latent sadness in the acceptance. Losing childhood … argh! It was a tough choice, a tough realization.


But yesterday, a brainwave changed this all. I had a new, revolutionary thought.


Let me establish the background first – that is important.


So it was a rainy weather. All these thoughts about happiness and age were running at the back of my mind. Nevertheless, it was a fun journey going to buy some milk from a nearby store. The street had puddles of water, and you had to navigate your way at every step.


To take a shortcut, you divert from the street and embark on the empty two-sided ground which joins the store (with the gap of a little road). Two or three dogs are usually lying here and there on this ground like some mops.


It was here in this ground I had this brainwave I talk of.


All before that, I had been imagining the graph of happiness as something like this:







Or something resembling this:





Or to be more visual, I will say that the mountain of childhood is the highest among all other mountains – mountain of adulthood and mountain of age etc.





But all of a sudden, I had a new realisation. I revisited my problem: my problem was that I had lost my ability to enjoy life as a child can.


This picture of tall and short mountains perplexed me.


And then came another picture, another viewpoint: what if instead of increased and decreased happiness, it was just “different kinds of happiness”? Maybe a child could be happy and an adult too could be happy, but they both were happy in different fashions? If that was the case, my attempt at pretending to be a child so that I could be happy in the same way a child is happy, will be futile, because happiness made for my age is just a different kind of happiness!


The only difference is that the mountain of childhood is different than the mountain of adulthood. They may have different kinds of grass or trees or environments, but they tower the same.


So even a sick, helpless old man can enjoy life to the fullest, only if he cares to identify what kind of happiness is life ready to offer him!




There are moments in life that can’t be recreated. Moments that just happen. Moments that delight you and make you feel that life, after all, does carry some meaning. When you smell the trees and get strokes of cool, comely wind on your face and cheeks.


As monsoon season commences every year, the first few showers are nothing less than bliss. They are relief from scorching heat, and the weather in which clouds keep the sky closed for hours on end, and sunlight comes sporadically in evenings and mornings, is just awesome and something worth living for.


It was one such evening, a few days ago, while I stood near a parapet grill. We live on the second floor, and when you stand near this balcony grill, you feel as if you are a lot closer to the clouds and the sky. Just twenty or thirty feet above the ground, and you are already almost touching the sky!


Now let me describe the scene I was witnessing. Just as a side note, I had seen some clip from the movie Jurassic Park that morning, and the scenes had been replaying on the back of my mind. I wasn’t hence surprised when I saw a certain group of clouds forming a perfect, roaring T-Rex at one corner of the sky. Clouds and stars – these are two things that can give you almost any shape in the world. Some see in the same group of stars a simple, commonplace dipper, and some, amazingly, see a fierce, stood-up-on-hind-legs bear!


Anyhow, it was a T-Rex that I saw. The clouds were quite stationary that evening hence I could expect it to stay in sight for quite some time. There was a yellowish tint to all of them, as Sun was behind one of those groups. From yellow it slowly turned to orange and soon to pinkish. The change was spectacular.


As extra frosting, there was that cool wind which comes with such weather. Now wind comes in different flavours too. Sometimes it carries some heavy, unbearable smell and moisture which brings lethargy. But today it carried some scent brought from some rose-fields. No air conditioner in the world could rival its soothing coolness. The same wind rustled through the leaves of a tree at a distance, just as it combed through my sideburns. Maybe that tree was where from where it was issuing. For a split second, I felt as if I was out of my body and some beautiful cycle was in progress. My nose exhaled air that danced across to the tree the underside of whose leaves breathed it. As a return, they gave out air that was pleasant to me and was balmy and sweet. It was perfect cycle, as if we were complete in ourselves and needed no third thing in the world.


At this point, I felt as if the T-Rex smiled at the thought that in the bilateral exchange, I was forgetting the power, the medium, the expanse, space and openness, which was making the magic happen.




You will be stunned when I will tell you that the street in which we presently stand, is being seen by us for the last time. You and I are seeing it for the last time in our lives! Do you look at that old man with rough beard over there? Yes, very near to that pole. That one with the wooden cart. You did not notice him before, did you?


What if I tell you that you are looking at this man for the last time in your life? In your long life that is going to follow, you will never see him again! Doesn’t that surprise you? Yes, when I first learned that most of the people we see in our lives and can’t care less to notice, are those that we get to see only once. Isn’t it spellbinding to think that you and that rough-bearded man will continue to live on the same earth, on the same planet, for years and years to come, and your paths will never cross again!


And this street too.


There is going to come a time when you will not even remember that you were ever in this street, a street that had a pole and a faulty streetlight, gazing stunningly standing beside me. When I will come and remind you, you will wrinkle your forehead, scratch your head, suck your lip, but you won’t be able to recall. You will say you don’t know, that maybe you were, maybe you were not. It will be a history lost in the past, and no one – not even a single soul on earth – will know you were here, on these pieces of gravel, on this wearing down road, under this faulty streetlight.


In your short life that happens to have passed, you must have stood like this in many streets, looked at many people, said and heard and read countless things; but try whatever you can, you will not remember many of them.


Ah, so I seem to have made you wonder what life is about, then? As you walk with it, just like you walk with me today, you pick tonnes of sand in your hand, which unfortunately slips by, leaving behind little grains that you are able to recall as memories. What happens to what all has slipped by, from life and memory both? Is it like it never happened, because no living soul remembers it, not even you whom it was about? And even if you try and are careful from the very start, how much can you really hold in your little, frugal hands, while your fingers have spaces between them?


And what about the memories of those millions and billions of humans that have been? One day, the beautiful and prized picture of this street and that rough-bearded old man will be completely forgotten. There must have been streets in the past, and there must have been numerous old men who owned carts; but how many of them can you recall?


So let us sit down here in this street for some time. I know a shop nearby which can offer us a place to sit and a nice view of this street. We can together sit down and watch this singular picture for a while, enjoying it, savoring it, making a memory of it.




That night I realized that even one little closed room can become your whole universe and mean everything to you.


Like in the previous anecdote I wrote about, electricity was again gone. But this time I was not on the rooftop, simply because winters were picking up and it would be chilly up there.


My parents were in the kitchen, preparing dinner, and my sister somewhere near the main gate.


I lay on the bed, in a dark room. So dark, so black, that if you could see one thing, it was a shade of the door to the room, luminated slightly by the candle burning in the kitchen at some distance. Except that little glow, it was pure darkness.


For some reason, this darkness provided some warmth, as if more than simple absence of light, it was some sort of blanket. There is something about these colours: white colour seems to represent coolness, winters, and black seems to stand for warmth, heat and summers.


In such circumstances where you are enclosed in darkness, it makes really no difference whether you keep your eyes closed or open: either way, it is a black colour which you see. But even then, it is a different kind of pleasure to keep your eyes wide open and stare at the ceiling you cannot see.


And suddenly something starts to happen. All your senses seem to be thinking one same thing, which you are yet to figure out, and in this concentration, you are no longer in the room in which you lay on the bed. The ceiling is suddenly like the open arenas of outer space and you start to see planets, asteroids, black holes and galaxies hanging at little distance from you. So this is that big picture which God sees, you can’t help wondering. Looking at this like that should be boring, or that is what your mind thinks, but instead it’s calming and a pleasure of its own sort.


You want to enjoy this forever. You want to leave your body and become a silent part in this, like a little piece fits nicely in a jigsaw puzzle. It’s an ocean and you are a drop, enchanted by this all. It’s a magical experience, and you want to learn this magic too. For a split second, you want to become God who must be living somewhere around here, in a colony where you are but a visitor. Out of the blue, some word drops into your mouth and you start repeating it in a cycle. It’s akin to chewing something extraordinarily delicious.


Someone calls your name and you return back to your dark room. All the lights that the suns and moons had been giving, are out now and it’s complete darkness again, and it’s slightly haunting.


But you pledge to yourself that from tomorrow, you will not sleep. When every day all the family members would have slept, you would stay awake and wait for this experience to happen again. You would do this every night, and even in future, would prefer a dark room. This would be your nice little secret: that you didn’t sleep at night but instead went somewhere to a different realm. That would be something you would live your rest of life for!


But rare such experiences are, you do not take long to realise. But increasing frequency of such ecstatic, mystic experiences must be a sign of spirituality, experiences that fill every cell of your body with wonder.


One night – one night that was just, but I was mystified one night!