Urghh… something on my wall again! The last time I was perplexed to this level, it was a lizard. I wrote about that creepy experience in a blogspot on this website last year, a link of which I’ll give at the end of this post.

           So this time, it was not a lizard. It was a duo. It was worse.

           These days, I’m bit of a night owl and after dinner, walk into my room for study. On my right is a wall which has the tubelight, which is a spot of attraction for everything that loves light. The curtains are sometimes not good watchmen and one thing or other finds its way into the room, haunting me out of my wits.

           The first one was a wasp.

           You don’t usually see these wasp things buzzing about here and there in the night, but this one wasp somehow found entry into my room during the daytime. The thing with lesser intelligent life forms is that they know their way in but never their way out. The same is the trouble with an eager-to-go-home fly which keeps banging itself into a glass window, some butterfly, some moth etc. Speaking of moth, that is our second character, but first let’s return to the wasp.

           The wasp thought the tubelight was heaven, and so it went to crash into it. But it couldn’t enter into the white, foggy realm that the tubelight was, and so it kept buzzing about, as if in a trance. Fifteen minutes later, it was tired and landed beneath the light and then hid behind it in a small crack. Thankfully, there was no hungry lizard around like last year.

           Enter the second character Mr Moth.

           The moth came out of nowhere without warning – the being of God must have been wandering outside among the trees, trying to reach the night’s biggest source of light: the moon; but upon failing when it must have decided to return to its wife empty handed, it must have got a glimpse of something white and glowing from outside my window. And lo and behold! it was inside to join the wasp’s party.

           The thing about moths is that they are less scary than a wasp when they are on rest, sitting, but when they are flying, their engines makes noise like an angry truck, and you are fooled that wasp is more innocent that the moth. Where the wasp is scary, the wasp is disgusting. The wasp has a class; the moth is a wanderer of the street.

           Anyway, when the moth arrived, I thought it would be friends with the wasp, but I was falsified. For some time, it seemed there had erupted a little fight between the two. The wasp was buzzing, the moth was buzzing, and then both were buzzing together, as if abusing each other. A minute later, as if they had come to an agreement, the wasp retracted to its previous place, the crack, and the moth settled near the tubelight.

           Every now and then, one of them would rise and hover about the light and then settle at a different place. Distracted I was, now and then, but it was fine.

           On other days when I had no visitors, I would remain awake till 12 or 1 and then would find my eyes yearning to be closed. Thanks to my guests and the fear they kept burning in me, I remained working till 2.30 in the morning. When I realized a minute more should be too late and would make it difficult to wake up the next day, I shut my books and turned off the fan. For a while, I was confused whether to switch off the light or not, but then I ended up whispering “Nox”.

           The next day, before I had woken up, the moth entered the other room and figured its way out from some open window. The wasp decided to stay some more days. It would vanish during the day and would suddenly appear from somewhere at night. Gradually, I got used to it and then it never hovered from one place to other with the intention of frightening me: I befriended it, sort of. One day, I couldn’t find it anywhere. It must have either figured its way out, just like the moth, or it must have died of hunger and made food for some lizard.

           I realized some fear is good, and though it brings down productivity a little, it increases our alertness and we are then ready to work some more.

           But … uh … now I’ll try to check all windows are closed and all curtains are drawn before turning on the tubelight … enough of wasps and moths…

           Read my Lessons from a Lizard here.

At the random old man, randomly I gawk,
As in the mellow, twilight street I walk -
Slow pace,
Seasoned face,
But - apace, apace.

"O poor soul," sigh, escapes from my breast.
"He'll take a long time, to reach his nest."
Poor man,
Not he can
Get some car or van?

Nod I and hurry until, a minute later I stop;
Then enter for the groceries, the intended shop.
Make my purchase,
In night's glaze,
When outside I gaze:

Cover my eyes from headlights, of a passing car;
When I look, spot the old man, who has come so far.
Slow still pace,
Seasoned face,
Still - apace, apace.

He looks at me, stops, then is in dark consumed.
I look at him, smile, then journey is resumed.
Knows he best,
In this quest,
He will reach his nest.

     Escape is not freedom. Freedom is different. Escape, more often than not, feels like some sort of betrayal, something like a criminal act with some degree of satisfaction and happiness. And escape also feels like it has a time limit attached to it: that escape is not forever. Maybe this is just a false impression, maybe the word has been made to feel like this.

      But then we have this better word: freedom. Freedom is an optimistic word. I have learnt that even two synonymous words have some difference between them, most of the times, and they might vary in any respect: in degree, in feel, in context etc.

     For a spent student, a day’s off from school is escape. But a permanent removal from that school is his real freedom: how long he enjoys that freedom is a different question. For a human being, most form of entertainments act like windows to escape, be it music, dance, painting, or simply playing computer games. The sense of freedom we get from them is usually short-lived and we return to the same tiring field of “unfreedom” after the inebriety wears off.

     So we land at this simple distinction between the two: if it is ephemeral and time-bound, it is an escape, and it is permanent, it might be freedom.

     What things, then, can count as freedom? Going to an amusement park? Living in the countryside? A chat with close friends on a deep night beside cracking fire? Or writing heart out in a diary? What is real freedom?

      That question comes as tricky because most of the things you think about initially easily fall in the category of “escapes”. Escapes are necessary, they are okay, but they are not enough. We need freedom. We want something that is permanent.

      This raises another philosophical question: if we, as humans, are not permanent, how can we aspire for something that is of some permanence? This must mean one of the two things: either there is no “freedom” in this world at all, or we happen to be permanent somehow. The latter appears more relevant when you are ready to consider the possibility of a life after life, a living universe, and the immortality of a spirit.

      What is freedom, then? I think I don’t know. The answer is something to be figured out by ourselves, and the answer might be unique for everyone. Some religious people will consider the idea of God as liberating and hence freeing, in the form of salvation, and others, who are spiritual without openly accepting the idea of a God, will talk of being one with the soul of universe as being free. The atheists will perhaps advocate for the former argument: that there is no absolute freedom, and everything is some degree of escape.

     Surprisingly, all of them might not realize, perhaps, that in some form they are already free: otherwise how would have the world allowed three different and contradictory belief systems to exist alongside? What is freedom, I ask again, because I do not understand!

      I realized we use a lot of metaphors and similes. We compare God to a tree and say that both give kindly and never demand anything in return. Sometimes we compare life to a race. Sometimes we say that words are like gunshots: once fired, they have got to hit somewhere. We even compare one man with other, sometimes. Simply put: we understand things better when we compare them with things we already understand well.

      I thought of this fun activity from these observations: Let’s try to compare LIFE to random things out there and see if things make sense. If it does, it can lead to various Conclusion:s: for example, the same thing can be compared to two different things to draw paradoxical results, which means even a comparison that fits perfectly and makes perfect sense may still be incorrect.

      Well, still it is fun, so let’s try this out. Here’s a list of 20 random and crazy things I tried to compare life with. Watch me as I make complete sense sometimes, and at other times, make nonsensical comparisons and still appear right.

      Feel free to jump across any item in the list if you feel like.

1. Life is a tomato
2. Life is a coconut
3. Life is a pen
4. Life is an earthworm
5. Life is a speck of dust
6. Life is a sandwich
7. Life is a fan
8. Life is a cat
9. Life is pajamas
10. Life is a guitar
11. Life is a spiral binding
12. Life is an N-95 mask
13. Life is a watch
14. Life is a Mathematics workbook
15. Life is Burj Khalifa
16. Life is a page of coding in a program
17. Life is a mosquito
18. Life is integration (as in Math)
19. Life is pink
20. Life is a cute-but-painful-because-wrongly-trimmed-because-you-were-not-careful-enough-while-using-the-nail-cutter toenail

1. Life is a tomato

Because from outside, it looks dry but there is that juice inside which is not too far away: all you need is to dig a little into the soft flesh and the juice will come out itself.

Conclusion:: Life is easy and juicy and you can easily pin its juice out of it.

2. Life is a coconut

Because both are hard outside but tasty and soft inside. Life is a bit of a challenge because cracking the outer shell is a thing. It takes a strong person to crack life to its soft core and enjoy its flavor.

Conclusion:: Life can be easy, if you work hard to make it one.

3. Life is a pen

Because like a pen, it has limited ink and what you want to write has to be written with that limited ink you have, because if you waste time scribbling stupid lines and shapes, you’ll have that ink dry up and then you won’t be able to refill.

Conclusion:: Life is easy but it is limited and that’s why it is hard.

4. Life is an earthworm

Because we are buried deep down inside the earth and wait for showers to bring us out. The rain might be someone’s blessings, a near-death experience, or simply God’s intervention. Rain is anything that brings us out of the earth to enjoy the sky and the sunshine.

Conclusion:: Life is easy but you have to find a trigger to that, which is hard.

5. Life is a speck of dust

Because it is nothing and yet an essential part of the world, and essential yet a non-consequential cell in the body of a larger organism.

Conclusion:: Life is meaningless and important at the same time.

6. Life is a sandwich

Because it has many layers. Some stuff life with so many things that the sandwich becomes difficult to eat and digest. Others do stuff life but with limited but healthy and tasty things.

Conclusion:: Life is good it it is better in quality and is healthy.

7. Life is a fan

Because it has to rotate and madden its head up to satisfy other and give some contribution to the surroundings. Life is a fan also because to work you need electricity … energy.

Conclusion:: Life is hard but mildly worthwhile.

8. Life is a cat

Because life is always afraid of a devil – a dog – a death and hence needs to walk with caution, silently, and sometimes make high jumps. And yes … you are also offered milk sometimes.

Conclusion:: Life is hard because it lives in the fear of death.

9. Life is pajamas

Because it is not for oneself but for others, because pajamas worn by no one do not fulfil their purpose. But even when they are worn, pajamas have to do with – er – smells.

Conclusion:: Life is meant to be lived for others.

10. Life is a guitar

Because it is all about producing music, that’s it. It is about enjoying, about rocking, about singing a song, about finding a rhythm, learning to play and learning to match the notes being played.

Conclusion:: Life is awesome and fun, but only if lived in a certain way. You cannot play guitar life a flute, by breathing into it. A guitar has to be played like a guitar.

11. Life is a spiral binding

Because it is twisted, it is like a roller coaster’s track and it is all about keeping something tied up. Life has to find the right holes to fit in and then live for the rest of the time in those same holes. But that is very boring.

Conclusion:: Life is monotonous because it is about finding one’s purpose and then spending rest of the life with it.

12. Life is an N-95 mask

Because it is meant to stop the spread of a disease: hatred, violence, assaults, thefts etc. Once all the diseases are curbed, life, like mask, should be removed.

Conclusion:: When all the problems of the world have ended, human beings should jump off from a cliff and die together.

13. Life is a watch

Because watches and life both tend to tick away. Since watches have a maker, life must have one too.

Conclusion:: Life is meaningful. It is about meeting the maker before meeting the maker.

14. Life is a Mathematics workbook

Because it has a lot of problems and it needs no one less than a mathematician to solve them.

Concluison: Life is damn hard and you need to be an expert to be able to solve it.

15. Life is Burj Khalifa

Because it is very high and still does not ouch the sky. Life is constructed over years of hard work and construction, only to sustain people living and working it in.

Conclusion:: Life is about working hard until the day you can give inside you a room to bacteria, fungi, worms and viruses, and on your head a lot of lice.

16. Life is a page of coding in a program

Because both start with “K” and are five-letter words and both can go insanely erratic sometimes.

Conclusion:: Life is difficult because once you miss some necessary stroke, you go wrong and spend rest of your time figuring out what went wrong.

17. Life is a mosquito

Because both are small and cannot survive without blood. And we know that a mosquito cannot live without an earthly atmosphere.

Conclusion:: Life on Mars is impossible.

18. Life is integration (as in Math)

Because when you start, you think is is just the inverse of differentiation and hence should be nominally easy, but as you go you realise it can draw you nuts as anything.

Conclusion:: Life is hard and should not be underestimated because an easy life is an illusion.

19. Life is pink

Because many-a-times it is very soothing. But if the pink colour gets too dark, it might be unpleasant to eyes. And yes, pink colour has many shades, and life is no different.

Conclusion:: Life is a pig.

20. Life is a cute-but-painful-because-wrongly-trimmed-because-you-were-not-careful-enough-while-using-the-nail-cutter toenail

Because … you know what I mean.

Conclusion:: Life is fun and cute but it can make you insane if you do not give it proper care.

Oh, and a bonus one, since you have made it this far:

21. Life is a blogpost

Because it is fun, because it is possible only when you’re online, because it easier with some knowledge of html, and we know that some blogposts can be quite interesting.

Conclusion:: Life is fun, but only if you have 60 minutes every other day to type in a post.

God -
Your creation leaves me flabbergasted
With an effect upon me, that's ever lasted.
How is it that on one Earth,
North and South poles both exist?
The feeling that there is some reason behind it all
A feeling that I can't resist.

How is it that the skies above,
Which are blue and orange, and full of love,
Are source of both sunlight and rain,
I wonder and wonder again and again.

How is it that your boys and girls,
Are both sharp spikes and lusty pearls,
I wonder so often how can,
Both black and white exist inside a man.

Therefore I wonder how did you craft it,
God, your creation leaves me flabbergasted,
God - your creation leaves me flabbergasted.

      Of late, I’m obsessed with poems. Well, why of late – oh, I’m obsessed with them ever since I opened my eyes. Language is no barrier – I can cherish poetry as much in English and Hindi as in Punjabi. One might ask why I write usually in Punjabi, then. There might be a reason unclear to me, but I like sticking to one clear explanation: something as pure as poetry comes more naturally and at its best when the medium is a mother tongue. That’s it and that’s all: no other explanation.

      Poems, like paintings, are beautiful. I like to think that a painting has an internal beauty, such that when you see it in color or when you see it in black and white, or even when you see it in some other tint, it’ll look just the same piece of beauty. Similar are poems: Language is just like the paper that carries the painting. The poem is independent, and in that independence lies an intrinsic magnificence.

       I remember that fine day when in a workshop, I heard an elder girl expressed her wonder about poets and poems. She said it was wonderful that one could express some beautiful idea in a fashion that it has some rhyme, some rhythm, which multiplies the beauty factor.

      The idea was new to me then, and now, years later, I still find it wonderful.

      But now I know that poems, like paintings, are but gifts of nature: it is like that apple which falls on your head of its own when you sit under an apple tree: and mind you, it does not always take a Newton to figure out what effect it is. Newton’s explanation was a poem of sorts: isn’t this beautiful that every big thing in the world pulls every small thing towards it? Except that Newton’s poem was in free verse, and it was loved best by scientists.

      I have some poets as my all-time favorites (like Bhai Veer Singh and Satinder Sartaaj) though I’ve discovered a newfound admiration in Robert Frost, John Keats and William Blake.

      I think I’m a “poemaholic”. To me, poems come almost daily, and sometimes I cannot stop them: sometimes I have to write when the idea – that world should not miss this poem – summons heavily. The journey of a poet, I think, is only to make himself more welcoming to beautiful poems.

      And finally, you realize life is a poem too. You try to make some sense of it, weave into it a good, delightful story, fit some rhyme here and there so that one can sing and dance, inscribe somewhere a lesson and before you put a full stop, you take a reread to see if things are good to go.

      Except, in case of life’s poem, you cannot change what is written.

PS: My Punjabi poems can be read here.

See! A light appears, from the sky above
And flies here and there, as though a bird;
And are we caught, oh by Jove!
Then do look above, as if some nerd.

Noses we sniff, ears we flutter,
Smell is smelled, sound some is heard,
We cannot speak, tongue caught in stutter,
Let alone a sentence, not even a word.

Eyes, see, are wide; hands, look, are ope;
Steps we prepare, and waists we gird,
As if is in, our hearts some hope,
As if some sight, saw eye a third.

But such the light, such and the wonder,
When – how – to act, to us not occurred,
Is this a lightning, devoid of a thunder?
Or of nature, miracle unheard?

No, couldn’t touch, too high, it was,
Were left gazing, that’s how we erred.
Gone ‘tis now, and oh alas!
All our questions, left unanswered.

    Article Written for Essay Writing Comepeition by Gujranwala Guru Nanak Insitute of Management and Technology (GNIMT), Ludhiana, in April 2020.

 We all want light.

In the innards of our hearts,
We prize it the most.
The light that irradiates the roofs,
In the middle of the winters;
Or when the dark clouds,
Have been the rulers for long.
We all do prize it, and try to catch it,
When we are children,
Gawking at the golden specks of dust,
Floating in a streak of it.
When we can’t touch the light,
And can’t hold the light,
And can’t hear the light,
We say it does not exist.
We smother the lamps, saying,
‘Hey, light is a false thing!’
That light does not exist.

And that is where dark steps in.
It blackens everything, except for the lamps –
But uh-oh!
We had ourselves smothered the lamps,
Long ago,
Saying that light was false,
Because it couldn’t be touched!
Couldn’t be held!
Couldn’t be heard!

Hence standing in the dark,
And then walking in it,
We collide with a thousand things.
The things which are invisible, or
Rather hidden by the claws of dark.
When we stumble into them,
And kneel with a lot of pain,
We think these things are a part of dark –
We can touch the thing we collide with,
We can hold the thing that makes us fall,
And even we can hear to it when it bangs into us.
And it makes us think they are a part of dark,
Or that they are dark.
We think dark can be touched, can be held, can be heard,
We think it is the real thing.
We forget the light,
Forget the golden particles in it,
Forget how it had lighted our roofs,
In the difficult times of utmost black.
We believe dark to be the real thing,
Because it can be touched, held and heard.

Now God knows how long this delusion,
Like the dark itself,
Is going to haunt our brains,
And haunt our lives,
And how long we are going to live with it, in it,
Day in and day out.
God knows.

Published 5 January 2021:

Turban on my Head, Mask on my Nose

If you had to teach one thing you learnt this year (that would improve one’s quality of life) what would that be?
The art of planning and management. Around the beginning of this year, on a really excited note, I made a few educational videos for YouTube. The first one was explaining what political science was, the second about “functions” as in Math, one on a “Sandwich Theorem” and another that I couldn’t complete, about the proof of this beautiful identity, lim┬(x→0)⁡〖sinx/x〗=1. One thing I realized after I had made these videos was that every time, I had worked without a good full-fledged script, with just some hazy idea as if I would make a trending sensation with one spontaneous shot. Fast forward six months, and I had to make a 77-second video for a competition, talking about my passion. This time, I started with a script and it was many times better (and I also won a prize for that!).

During the lockdown, I participated in one educational daily Zoom classes, and occasionally I got some topic to talk on. Initially my preparation was thin and research meagre. But with time, this same idea got resounded.

How did you have fun differently in 2020?
Binge watching YouTube. I loved exploring new content and watching many great videos, sometimes many at a time.

What things did you stop caring about in 2020?
Playing (like a child). This and the last can be marked as the years when I stopped playing with the feeling that I was still a child. I became more inclined towards work and more conscious than ever of my goals. And as I also turned 18 this year, coming of age, I officially shed “childhood”.

The bare-minimum questions:

When have you felt proud of yourself in 2020? What were you doing?
At my result of class XI. There was a brief function organized in one of school auditoriums, and although I had secured the fourth place in my class, I was called with honor on stage, and our coordinator mentioned me in special words. That was something that made me feel proud.

What new habits did you create in 2020? Which ones would you want to keep?
- The habit of learning and taking notes from new stuff. Like I did with notes from books, my Gyan Golak and the notebook I call L&F (Learnings & Findings)
- Blogging
- Video journaling
- Leaving good footprints time to time (like Hava diyan baatan)
- Collecting stories (this blog)
- Learning new skills (like video-editing)
- Watching YouTube for recreation

I’d like to carry forward all of them.

What new thing did you spend a lot of time on in 2020?
Learning things. But also on the anime, Death Note (and it was really, really great).

What did you rediscover pleasure in 2020?
Studying, as of late. And writing.

          The Punjab Agricultural University “Kisaan Mela” – or a Farmer Fair – is organized twice in every year, and the mela is as interesting and fun for a curious visitant as it is for a kisaan. Hopping around the big festival – really one of its kind – you are expected to catch sights of tractors, combines, some other exciting farm machinery, in addition to food- and books-stalls.

          In 2019’s second of such melas, I was there at a books-stall for some volunteer work, and it was my second time there. Before I came back home, I was sure to catch a curious experience, giving a first-hand go-through of some lesson I had gathered years ago from a book.

          I got posted at a small stall in an otherwise busy way. In front of us was a tent pitched by some sort of veterinary doctors, beside some fertilizer- and manure-experts. At our place, customers were sporadic, but a much as usual.

          While gazing around the surroundings and remarking farmer stuff I was completely unfamiliar with, I noticed a man pacing towards our stall in some hurry. I sat up, alert, and when he stopped on the other side of the table that featured books, I stood up out of politeness. The man had in his hands some stuff he had bought – packets, cans and little plastic bottles. I took note of the fact that he had either failed or forgotten to get a carry bag from anywhere.

          I found it awkward, momentarily, when he looked me in the face instead of at the books unlike a general customer. And in hurried words, he asked if he could get a carry bag. That was the only thing he ever spoke.

          I blinked, and then quickly pulled a bag out and gave it to him. Damn, I thought as he was putting his things into that bag, missed a customer. For once, I felt the pain in the fact that I was giving him a bag for free and he hadn’t even given a look the books.

          ‘Uncle ji, kitaaban vi dekh lo…’ I asked almost reflexly. Please also see these books. Just asked.

          He tented his eyebrows and stared at me for a second. And then all of a sudden, I heard a ‘Hmm,’ and he was picking book after book and inspecting. He seemed to have liked a book with a light brown cover, and he handed it to me. I realized with a shudder what he was asking for, and pulled out another bag and pushed the book into its mouth. He stared at another book, as if with suspicion, and handed it to me. Book after book after book – and he had given me books worth several hundred rupees (even when they were at discounted prices), and he was a man who had come to just ask for a carry bag!

          He didn’t utter a word, and gestured when he thought he had bought enough. I spoke to him the amount, he handed me the money and in the very same hurry with which he had come, went away and vanished somewhere into the crowd.

          And I was left marveling. Yes, sure, I remembered the line from Randy Pausch’s The Last Lecture: “Sometimes, all you have to do is ask.”

           The past Saturday, I made out my eighteen revolutions around the sun. That is, I just turned into an adult. Being an adolescent before that, I had always looked forward to this moment – a day that would gift me all the privileges of someone who has come of age.

           However, the most remarkable thing about that day was something else: another gift I got on this occasion.

           When I was in seventh grade, I had got a copy of The Alchemist, by the renowned spiritual author, Paulo Coelho. Just like all those who read this masterpiece of literature and storytelling, I was left mesmerized by the story of the shepherd boy who dreams of finding a treasure in the pyramids of Egypt and just with this dream in mind, and with the counsels of an “alchemist”, reaches the terminus, only to find that his treasure lies at the place where he had dreamed about it! The book and its beautiful story carries this cherished message that one can find his treasure at his doorstep.

           So, by the bye, I basked in the story, and in the years to come, delighted in reading the unparalleled book multiple times.

           Before long, I also read off many other books by the same spectacular author, Manual of the Warrior of Light and Winner Stands Alone among others. Every idea of these books resonated with me, and as years passed by, I loved the author more and more.

           Returning to the present, I recollect the day it was my birthday. Akin to every morning, I picked up the newspaper, leaved through the sheets, skimming through headlines and pictures, and around the middle of it, I recalled it was a Saturday and there would be a page devoted to books and reviews.

           The surprise lay right at this very page.

           When I reached the middle, the right-hand-side page, like any other Saturday, featured many books … with one book occupying most of the middle. I read the title, “The way of the bow”, which was followed by an excerpt from the respective book. In the middle of the bottom stood a little picture of a book with a pleasant green cover. It read: The Archer, Paulo Coelho.

           Joy knowing no bounds, I jumped from my seat and clapped hands to my mouth.

           Excerpt from a new book by the author who was one of my favorites, and that too on my birthday! This surely was like a piece from heaven.

           I fondly read the excerpt, really loved it, and saved a clipping of it in a folder of things that gave me happiness – for certainly it was something that had made my birthday memorable.

           Whether this was a coincidence or part of a bigger plan, who knows. What I know, for sure, is that this memory is going to go far with me as one of my most memorable days in life, and whenever I am going to have a backlash of this day, I am going to giggle and beam with my best smile.

          This anecdote is from 2019, around this time of October-November. On Second October last year, I had got the first phone of my life, a second-hand Galaxy A6, combined with a new SIM card. There was that air of novelty about my own mobile number, my own WhatsApp, et cetera.

          And so there was also this little fascination about setting up a profile picture that was charming, reflective of my personality, and also professional at the same time. My choice had already been made.

          Around the beginning of winters last year, I had got an opportunity to present a small speech on a local television channel. When it was premiered in the respective program, I fondly took screenshots of my performance. One of those included a photo in which I was smiling, with my blue-turbaned head held slightly high, something I had wanted.

          Now, around this same time, there had been a Model UN at my school, in which I had got a job in the “International Press” as a journalist. Donned in a black turban, a black hoodie, when I was about to leave for school for Day one of MUN, my father had got a picture of mine clicked (it was a new dress).

          Anyhow, when it came to set my profile picture, I took the first picture and posted it. Papa wasn’t too pleased with it, least with that photo. Instead, he said, he would have liked if my choice had been the second photo. Ironically, that second photo was something I was not very impressed with. My face looked in that photo something else, and the overall personality, for me, wasn’t too attractive. Therefore, a stubborn me kept holding my stand and didn’t change that picture.

          That evening, mother called me to kitchen, saying she wanted to talk about something. When I reached, I found her baking rotis. She was smiling wisely. No preambles, no lectures, she quietly called me nearer and said, with that smile intact:

          ‘When a small act of yours that doesn’t cause much difference to you, gives happiness to others in some way, you should have no reason not to do it.’

          It was a big blow, that one sentence, and it kept me thinking for a long time. Yes, surely, what profile photo I set would never make much difference; but if my act of changing the photo with blue turban to the photo with black turban gave happiness to someone, I should do it immediately.

          I came back from the kitchen, picked up the phone, changed the picture and showed it to papa, beaming. He smiled back too.

          I won a smile that day.

          The Creator goes on creating new creation every day. We humans, miniature creators, as a whole, do the same at our own miniature level. Other species do not possess this ability, at least presently, and hence are deemed less developed than us.

          But when we count the amount of breakthroughs and findings of human species in comparison to the so-many human beings that have ever been and are alive, this number seems quite meagre.

          A woman or man with a wealth of words describes some enlightening experience, and when he shares it with his comrades, they relish from that too – their cravings for that experience perhaps grow, or perhaps they take new ideas from it.

          One basic answer to why humans record high intelligence is that they have the ability to learn from their experiences, record them and then pass them on to the posterity, which then builds on them and make new findings ahead.

          Not that only a select proportion of people from a population experience, find and learn new things: we all do. But we often do not go a step ahead to share them with our neighbors. If we do, our voice does find ears that need it and do find takeaways.

           There is no end to lessons and novel things in this world despite the fact Kelvin in his time had stated that only two physics problems in the world remained unsolved (both of which were solved by Einstein later). Newfangled reflections keeping striking us. At other times, creativity comes for a bit of help. And to be absolutely sure, creativity knows no bounds.

           I should always keep stepping in new waters to find new experiences. Because without wonder, it is impossible to realize the Creator.

          A great number of people living on earth have come across that quote which says readers live more than one lives during lifetime, in contrast to those who don’t read living only one. We can, in fact, expand the meanings of this quote beyond the domains of the literal “reading” – to the “words” of music, the “strokes” of a painting, and the “digits” of a science. So wherever I say read, I mean much more than just reading from paper or screen.

          When you have read the biographies of a dozen great lives, and have “lived” with the characters of a great novel, and have “watched” an influential role in a great movie, your mind starts performing an imperceptible magic: it starts impregnating a new ideology of life: of how life should be lived and what should be done and what should not. Picking all the morals and values and ideas from those infinite sources, it gives birth to a new character, and really growing into that character becomes your calling, your purpose in life.

          I remember watching a movie character who had a thick attachment with his land, which by the bye was disputed, and that character’s whole life revolved just around that piece of land which, seen from a larger perspective, happened to be very small. He had fights with his cousins, there were murders, deceptions, revenges, and at the end that character was killed by his own son for that same piece of property.

          In short, that man wasted his so precious life for a commonplace piece of land.

          Having watched that movie, my mind made a stiff belief that attachments when go beyond a frontier, turn toxic and start consuming life out of us. And it became a value of my life, a part of the character of my brain: not getting too attached to something, especially a piece of land.

          So a small watch taught me what my aimed character should not have.

          Talking of another example, when I read about Dumbledore from Harry Potter, his calm nature, his wisdom, modesty, devotion and truth, were received by my mind on chariots, as values that my final character should have for sure.

          Many religious leaders and prophets have travelled a lot – a lot; spreading their message and simultaneously knowing the beliefs of others. Guru Nanak Dev ji travelled thousands of kilometers on foot, for knowing the values of others and spreading his own en route. This teaches us a lesson: the sources of our knowledge and experience should be more than one. True readers know they have many.

          And when those true readers have lived so many lives virtually, they have derived a character they want to bake into. If the sources they have consulted have been more positive, they die good humans, and if more negative, they pass away what we call the bad ones.

          Therefore, even if it is one source, one book, one movie, one song: remember it is going to have an impact on your existence, however fractional. As the wiser ones will say, it’s a game of not chances but choices.

           I had this insight a few years ago while ruminating for some piece of writing. There’s a difference between the two: knowing someone or something, or knowing about someone or something, and knowing that someone or something.

           When I first had this thought, I immediately began looking for some example to understand this more fully. And that example rolled in immediately.

           I was thinking about the prime minister then, and I asked myself. Do I know the prime minister? Well, first I thought certainly, I do know who he is, how does he look, and what his voice sounds like. But then I was struck by the idea that I do not know him – I just know about him. His biographic details, his sound, his looks – these are only his “abouts”. But do I know him? Well, not really.

           Today many religious leaders and keystones claim knowing God and His universe, while what they actually know is something about Him. Similarly, if some scientist makes a claim that he has known the universe or some force in it, he might not be fully correct – he might be just knowing about it. I liked this insight and this idea of “knowing” and “knowing about” and made a note of it right away. I daresay, those days, I was having showering a good many “shower” thoughts.

           Anyhow, despite having grown in age by some years, I have not begged to differ on this idea and still go by it. This idea has helped me analyze many situations and sometimes even my own actions and thoughts. And I believe if we all understand this difference, it could work as a great check for ourselves more than once.

          It was the height of the building we live in – three floors high. As father and I, and our neighbor, gazed at the long creeper which slithered along the rainwater-drainage pipe running from the rooftop to the ground, I heard a crack sound. It must be from my neck – so high ran the green “useless” plant, now having started to grow thick sort of branches, clutching the wall and destroying paint.

          ‘It will be a lot of labor chiseling that all down,’ observed father, as I started due to an ant bite between my toe and the finger beside it. The plant had been a partying place for all the ants, which, very normally these days, thanks to the plant, entered our rooms, and our bathrooms.

          ‘We must cut it from down there, and the upward part will dry away itself,’ continued father, once looking above and once down.

          ‘Sir,’ reported the neighborhood uncle, ‘Before you came here, I have given that a try multiple times. For some time, it seems to be working – you separate the plant from the roots by cutting, and over the next few days, the stem and leaves hanging along the wall die. But before soon, the undead roots give rise to a new episode of it.’

          Father nodded, as a gullible me wondered if we could just put the whole thing to fire.

          We looked at the ground, guessing where its roots would be. The ground was solid and plastered, and if we wanted to kill the roots, we would need to first compromise with it. Which was impossible. No way could any of us do something to the ground just to get rid of a plant … and some bathroom ants.

          When the neighborhood uncle had gone, father brought his tools – a thin household saw, a long stick, among others – and I brought a screwdriver. He said he would give it a try. First he would, just like that uncle, cut the whole creeper from down and then see if he could do something about the roots. That day, we didn’t have much of other works.

          It took around an hour for the performance, but finally succeeded. The so thick and so entwined stems at the base had been sawed and almost half of the plant above that had been pulled down. Now that some of the wall was visible, we could actually see the amount of damage that had been caused.

          Nevertheless, the roots were inaccessible. Owing to that disability to uproot the floor, and the setting sun, we called it a day and went to wash our hands.

          During the next few days, I noticed the effect. The remaining plant suspended from the rooftop by its own connections, had started paling down and drying. Its leaves fell, ants dwindled and the brown stem assumed the look of the parched skin of the old. The tall plant that had stood here like a ruler’s palace from so many days, from its waist to its head, was dying, with its legs already separated and done away with.

          Hence it seemed we had succeeded, for once.

          For once.

          Because yesterday when I parked my bicycle near the neighbor uncle’s bike, and was about to climb the stairs to our floor, my gaze met with the grass-like something that had started growing from the place where we had cut the plant. At that time, father came, held my shoulder, and whispered, ‘No ruin without the ruin of the roots.’

          Having just got free from school’s online classes, I sat down on my desk for the next things on my to-do-list. As I chewed on an apple and scanned the bullet points I had made after my morning rituals, I nodded at the length of them. Self-study, online searches, a couple of write-ups, a tuition … and while I was thinking, my mind also wandered to the workshop I was going to attend soon. I had got a call for the workshop yesterday regarding my confirmation, and I remembered I would also need to check on the dates of this two-day workshop.

          For a break, I clicked on the game icon on my phone’s screen, and sat back in a relaxed disposition for ten-minutes’ fun. As it started, the first thing I saw was the daily reward the game gave me. My gaze lingered two blocks ahead to the bonus reward I would get, but I would have to wait for that for two days.

          I was suddenly reminded of a trick suggested by a school friend once. I went to phone settings and set the date to the next day’s. It did not work. I did not get tomorrow’s daily reward today. I tried once more but it was useless. It strengthened the cliché lesson I had been getting since childhood: you cannot get what you will whatsoever before its destined time.

          Anyway, having played to satisfaction, I began with the works more important than mobile games, and when I next picked my head up, the sun had already gone behind the buildings visible from the window of my room.

          I gave a glimpse to my to-do list and found that my productivity had not been laudable during my day, remaining distracted from time to time. I tried reasoning out the areas I was weak in and took notes of them, and then let out a cold sigh, of gratitude, of satisfaction.

          Night fell and stars came out. I retired to the living room, typing an email I had to send by all means by tonight. As I finished it, I found some emails waiting to be checked in the inbox – it had been some time before I had visited my inbox. And there was surely an email about the workshop, with my very special ticket as an attachment. I looked at the dates and time, incidentally – September 19 and 20, 5 pm to 7 pm – and then swiped down to see today's date of which I was oblivious. September 20 flashed before my eyes.

          My heart skipped a beat. And then another beat.

          Along with those rapid beats which follow a severe mistake, dawned the realization. A regret. Of how much of a great opportunity I had missed. How much doors would the workshop have have opened up for me and my passion. How had I not realized that the day I had received the call – yesterday – had in fact been the first of the two days, and today the second!

          I knew, alas, that my wish of the clock going two days back was futile in an era of no time travel, no time machine.

          I composed myself and pacified my mind. And also made a tiny but true prayer of thanks and of strength and memory for future.

          Just when my younger sister came with father’s phone, asking me something. Taking hold of the phone from her, I inadvertently looked at the date. September 18flashed before my eyes.

          “I know something abut you, brother,” she whispered quietly in her childishly cunning way, “I know you had been playing games after your classes for more than half an hour. But I'm not sure if papa does too.”

Source: https://www.moshimoshi-nippon.jp/

          Certain roads in certain markets are bound to be full of rush throughout the day and more so after the sunset. In unplanned cities, such roads tend to grow narrower with time.

          Talking about the road concerned, not the whole of it is lighted by streetlights and out of the few which perform this task, nearly half blink non-stop like the eyes of a little child subjected unknowingly to spicy hands.

          But there is general indifference about this since people are busy in more important things; sellers in their sales and buyers in their purchases. In the narrow road, when two people on scooters come from the opposite sides, one has to stop at a nook for some moments until there is room enough for the other to pass, and in the meantime, footers have to wait. Cars do not come here; this bazaar is already quite infamous for its narrowness, which, nevertheless, has not eclipsed its utility in considerable economic activities.

          Many wholesalers order supplies at this time, since the the retailers tend to come in the morning and afternoons. But still there are sporadic visits at this time, when hardly an hour is left before the lockdown is imposed.

          The motorcycle man who all of a sudden enters out of nowhere is one such man. Upon looking at his vehicle, you can easily guesstimate he is a retail shopkeeper, come for some purchase. Tied to a support behind the rough but shiny black seat is a rope, supposedly to fasten the cartons the man is going to buy. He also carries a big cloth bag, presently hung on the left handle.

          The man stops the vehicle in front of a wholesale cosmetics store and quickly disembarks, and in no time, with the keyring in his index finger, and the cloth bag in underarm, he is inside the store.

          We see him return ten minutes later, with one of the store’s boys lugging with him a big, heavy, loaded carton. The man and the boy tie it to the seat as tightly as possible, and surprisingly, both go inside the store again.

          The man appears two minutes later with his cloth bag filled now. He lifts the stand, grips the right handle, and following a swing of leg, perches on the seat of his motorcycle. Also, he hangs the bag on the left handle. This makes the handle a bit difficult to handle but the man manages to balance it.

          As if this is not enough, the boy from the store pops out with another carton and asks the man. The man points with his eyes in front and the boy places the carton on the fuel tank, half of it resting automatically on the handle.

          The man pushes the key into the hole, rotates it and kick-starts the vehicle. He accelerates a bit and retards when he is in the middle of the road. You can guess he is unable now to rotate the handle. There is the sound of a horn from behind, and the man takes no time to realise that eventually he is in a funny situation.

          That when there is load on the handle and it is out of your handle, you will not be in a position to take your own direction.