Written Traces

Hey, sorry about last time. I was having a mental breakdown, and, as you probably know, it is better to rant on paper than aloud.  Of late, I'm losing track of time as well as of days and dates.  These days, it is not about what day it is but more like what it feels like to be.  Today, for instance, feels like a Saturday.  This is because today I feel like writing. Most of my writing is done on Saturdays. Why?  I don't know for sure, but it's been a long-standing coincidence. Or maybe because the mind quickly develops rituals of its own.  Anyway, coming back to writing.  As I was saying, most of my thoughts are penned on Saturdays. Be it in the form of a journal entry, a piece of prose, or a poem.  This made me think about something I learned while pursuing my master's in English Literature.  Literature has always been referred to as the artistic and creative expression in established forms of writing such as prose, poetry, novels, plays, and...

Life is not easy.  Life is difficult. Life is challenging. Life is relentless. Life is a battlefield, and you are the crippled warrior.  You don't stand a chance.  The only thing you can do is either fight with your dignity intact or surrender, smothering your own self-respect. My bad luck is that I chose the former.  People are fake in brief encounters.  People are selfish in the long run.  Tonight, I struggle to find anything worthwhile in the people I have encountered throughout my life. I'm writing this in a moment of profound frustration. Perhaps time will soften these words, but tonight, this is what the world feels like. For years, I have been instrumental in the success and upliftment of those I considered my own. My assistance is genuine, without any expectation of personal gain, only because I believe that when my time of need arrives, they will remember me. Instead they remind me, in ways subtle and obvious, that I am not worthy of their kindness...

I know it is not usual for you to hear from me so soon.  Twice in a week?  I must be on fire. But lately, nothing seems to keep me engaged for longer than an hour, and my thoughts drift quickly from one thing to another. When it comes to my thoughts and the endless debates that go on in my mind without resolution, I tend to write in search of clarity. Recently, I realised something about myself: I can go for days without talking to anyone and remain completely unbothered. What surprised me wasn't that I could go days without talking because I have done that for years. What surprised me was realising how little it affected me. At first, the silence was meant to teach someone a lesson. The problem was that it had no effect on me. I have spent nearly half of my life on my own. I come from a family where both my parents held respectable positions in their respective fields, and naturally, their work demanded much of their time. On top of that, I have been dealing with health issue...

Hey!  Four months, no see? Just kidding.  I have been out and about for a while, and when I finally came back and settled in, I just got too lazy, or should I say creatively unmotivated, to journal.  The last time we caught up was in February, and honestly, I have been a bit under the weather for the past couple of months. Speaking of which, I recently went through my life's second operation, and it was for the most ridiculous reason.  Before that, let me ask you a question, "Have you ever paid the price of doing something right ?" Because that's where my story begins. I have, quite literally, become the victim of maintaining basic oral hygiene. Like most people trying to maintain good oral hygiene, I brushed my teeth diligently. Unfortunately, I took that commitment a little too seriously.  Brushing your teeth is good, but things took an awry turn when I brushed too hard, especially with a hand as steady as Ross Geller's marriages. (I'm assuming you have watc...

Author’s Note: There are places we reach because someone we love knows the way. When they are gone, the road remains, but the certainty doesn’t. I don't remember the road that leads to a particular destination. As someone who takes the seat of a passenger, my only job is to sit back and pass the time it takes to reach from source to destination. That being said, I take immense pleasure in giving my absolute surrender to the hands of my father, who takes the wheel to get me to the destination we both shared. It is always at the destination of TTPS, where my father served, and the source is Puri. Yet not once did I bother to memorise the road. I remember only a few landmarks, a few habitual stoppages where we would pause along the way. Nothing more. The rest of the journey was spent in the comfort of being driven. The reason I am being so elaborate is that I don't remember whether it is after the passing of my father or before, but I used to have a very particular nightmare. Kind...