Grudging Acceptance

Life flowed on like the chattering river I was used to
Images of past moments, pale, and the mind pale and light.
Heavy breaths and beating hearts seldom came into play
Being free with ordinariness, quiet petals flowing along.
Then the messenger brought me the change I could never swallow
Of time, of personality, of thought altogether.
Standing still as before I was, yet my universe somehow altered.
Tears defied the strangling steel talons of disapproval
Yet the future kept darkening, forgetting its old self.
Yet now, lying in this inevitable future, no tears blotching my face,
Its the past which lies forgotten, hidden in dark, invisible chambers.
Laughing and crying as the good times evade temptation,
My hands run across the demolished walls of happy memories
And find nothing but the present, as unbelievable as the truth.

Search for a Non-Existent God

When you behold the suffering, that unreasonable punishment brought upon a person for a sin they didn't have a part in, your hands join with hope, praying for a better time for the person you love, yet the dilemma that never fails to scratch your hands is the path your prayers take. Each time my instinct commands me to pray for some particular moment to end, for I can't bear it, the dilemma showers upon me like cold snow - is there anyone hearing my prayers?

Rather than a disbeliever in a higher power or God, rather than being an atheist, I count myself as one who deems the current definition of 'God' to be senseless. The one preaching an 'omnipotent being who looks upon us all' is one I could never stop wondering about and imagining, for the Universe never seemed to point out that such a being exists.

Yet, in a worrying situation, where the anxiety makes your stomach heavy, I hope against hope that such a being exists. That there is a God somewhere who'll hear my prayers and cure everything by a click of their finger. One blink of the eye and everything reverted back to normal. I want God to exist, however much I reason against his/her existence.

And so I wonder, does wanting God to exist indicate weakness? Does it indicate my lack of ability to handle the situation, to cope with it? Or, better still, does this thought actually help me to cope with that situation?

It's something our mind always fights over -  rationality and hope, hope that is based on baseless imagination. Yet hope is what helps us get through those few seconds, however irrational it might be. Masking reality with an illusion works as well as escaping reality.

God might be an illusion, a being who proves how weak we all are in the face of hurt, in the face of a loved one dying. But it is God, regardless of his/her existence, who lets most of us to get through hard times.

And this is the reason I don't deem devotees (who don't indulge in harmful practices) as people whose mind doesn't wander, whose heart doesn't question. Whether they know it or not, they are doing a great favour to themselves, of a relatively unburdened mind. And as for me, a wanderer, someone in constant search for meaning or reason or anything that could explain everything, things would never be so simple. Exciting, sure, but not necessarily happy.

Peace.

End.

Silence breathes through like a scream ear-splitting,
Yields like the air ere a heart-wrenching storm.
Sand flies like freedom all over the hill
Breaking, wrenching, in anticipation, torn.

Yet Time disagrees, slowing its pace
The two-faced monster, is that a service it does?
The stars but betray, with a pitiful gaze
Those angels in disguise, silent for their love.

The water more recedes, singing for the wave
Keeping the heart captive, who fails to accept
The reason for the still, why Time, too, will cave
Why none would remain, the sky too bereft.

And in a flash too fast, the eyes, they close
And thought disappears, all turning to naught.
The silence which rose in my eyes as a foe
Was a friend all along, but to be forgot.

Dark is the Light

Tears of doubt fall like pearls into an infinite abyss,

An abyss I can't fathom, nor behold in my shaky hands.

A welter of dark emotions add shadow to the void,

A fleeting search for light runs my mind's errands.

The stars for so long I kept in my craving sight,

It's those I can't find in the emptiness of reality.

For ages who consoled me, brightened my teary eyes,

Have hidden beyond myself, their questioned morality.

Of fire and flame, I find an unfathomable thought,

Dance among the fumes, search for the wonderful smell

Of order and clear, and all things unimaginably far, yet dear,

Brought by the white heat of the scented, sweet hell.

The search for meaning goes on through many wanderings far,

Yet fire, it deceives, burns me in its tranquil heat,

And stars, who knows, one day might take the black

And leave me helpless, fettered in the chains of defeat.

The heavenly light, whose rays, they pass through my hands

Transparent with woeful regret, stained by the curse.

For darkness does prevail, yes darkness does prevail

When somber emotions in their shell, bind the entire Universe.

Independence Day, Truly.

Thousands of tirangas being unfurled at this moment add a tinge of saffron, green and white patriotism to the busy, blowing wind. The air is saturated with memories of the past, remembrances of our freedom fighters, and poetry of the lost souls.

At gatherings across the country, most of the addresses concern our freedom fighters, who gave their immortal blood for this country. A random marg in some far-off remote area is being named after Chandrasekhar Azad or Sarojini Naidu. Plans for a huge statue of Sardar Patel are in the making. History is flowing through our nerves with waves as strong as the Ganga.

India, a country where people revere their long-lost history more than they think of the future. Where past achievements which need to return to the country are transformed into pride for the Indians. Where the fading shadows of the past are obscuring the needs for the future.

Here we are, living in a country which boasts of rich royal history and orderly masterminds like Chanakya, and yet our Parliament can't gather its voices in unity. Where we wake up early to listen to the Prime Minister's speech in the morning speaking yet again of the Swachh Bharat Abhiyan, and still think of excuses to litter our roads. Where we speak of India's diversity and culture and yet disrespect those who can't speak English properly.

Where we attempt to gain sympathy for our unnoticed past and forget to improve the present into a majestic reincarnation of the future.

Let's ask ourselves first, what defines us as being Indian? Is it speaking poetry from the past in the morning assembly without feeling a tinge of wonder? Is it talking about freedom fighters, about whom we have been talking since 69 years? Is it boasting how Mahatma Gandhi is known around the world, yet not following his ideals?

The common Indians of today are constantly apprehensive about their future, about their families, about their health, freedom fighters are people they recall only one day each year. Do you ever talk about Bhagat Singh on 26 May? Or the 17th of November? Independence Day is seen as an incentive to show your 'hidden' love for your country.

For some of the more relatively well-off people like us, being Indian might be eating ice cream at India Gate, assimilating with people from different states despite our differences, talking passionately about topics like reservations and secularism, clearing taboos about India all over the world. In short, thinking about what we need for the future.

Independence Day isn't naming a road after a freedom fighter.
Independence Day isn't memorizing the birth dates of prominent leaders.
Independence Day isn't renaming the Agriculture Ministry to Farmers' Welfare Ministry.
Independence Day isn't recalling complex poetry which touches the heart of only those educated enough to understand it.
Independence Day isn't about speeches and assemblies.

Independence Day is defining our future.
Independence Day is thinking seriously, and doing.
Independence Day is introspecting, and finding what we need to do.
Independence Day is gaining independence from close-mindedness and taboos, and talking of subjects of national importance without hesitation, with good intentions.
Independence Day is everyone listening to everyone's views, not everyone listening to just the Prime Minister's views.
Independence Day is befriending our enemies, not defeating our enemies.
Independence Day is living in the present and looking to the future, not dwelling on the past.

Independence Day is true independence.

i already made my shoes

Hmm.

Right now the road seems grassy... muddy and grassy more like. Well, there I slip, and splash mud all over my crazy toes. And then I feel the sweet old grass under my feet. Oh, how it wipes all that mud away... Let's just hope this road feels my feet only where there is grass. See, there I slip, and then far out somewhere I mend it all. Nice opportunity, if you ask me. But oh, the mud, that's all I can see, splattered over the dewy grass. My crazy feet, they dirtied the sweet, wet grass.

Hope... I do hope that there's no sharp gravel all over the next path I take, far in the distance. Shoes would be good. Maybe I should knit socks out of the grass! Then the road coming next would be much the easier, won't it?

Hmm.

Well, all these roads and all. Why do they hurt my feet so much? Why are there sharp stones scattered all over there in the vicinity and sweet, scented grass growing on the road visible far behind in the distance?

Why do the paths ahead always have to be so grim and deceitful and hungry for blood and bone alike? Why does the path I'm standing on have it's share of cloudiness, too? The mud, it hurts. But the grass is tasty, that's for sure.

It's an excuse, folks. The mud is a damn excuse.
Failure's just hiding behind the curtain.

The sun has to set, they said.
The future always seems brighter than the present, they said.
But, the future, it's always grimmer, they said.
Well, guess what, I can see that road right in front of me. And guess what, no sooner would that be my present.

It will be bad, they said.
Obstacles everywhere, they said.
The grim ones said.

Obstacles, ha. Nature's obstacles, ha-ha. Now comes the revelation, the twisting turn. The future's morose no more, I rule it, I grabbed it in my dirty, black, muddy hands.

I already made my shoes.

The Void of Thought

Is the road ever empty, I wonder?
The road I walk, with nothing in sight
Except walls and walls of tunneling darkness
And a sky made of infinity,
Where weight is lost, all is lost
Is it empty still?

Out of the wild emptiness, take birth
Colourful clouds brimming with imagination
Out of whose wombs, are castles born
And reveries of adventure, beyond raging mounts
Flowing seas do dreams adorn.

A forceful aura, a giant aura
Of forceful thought, mighty will
Sprinkles light on my dilemma...
With thought as vast as boundlessness,
Nothing is empty
Empty is nothing.

Comfortably Numb

I walk the winding road of loss, going back and forth, back and forth, in circles. Round and round and round, until I'm confused between myself and the ghost of my past. I have nothing more to lose, except myself. Nothing more to give, except myself. 

Until finally, suddenly, the path gives way, and I fall into the ditch of indifference, remembering my past self distinctly - who I was just a second ago, before I fell into this abyss - me, whose brain was riddled with mourning and sad, the offspring of loss.

Oh, and then, this heavenly abyss - indifference. Finally, comfort envelops me and my brain can't feel a thing, devoid of all discouraging emotions... that thin line between heavy loss and indifference, crossed, until I'm numb.

Comfortably numb.

That heavenly flight in the heavenly skies of love shining with stars of imagination... the gleam of those dreams taunting me wherever I fly. I slowly grow the wings, wings of the hopes for a better future. Waving them about in delight weaving tales unheard, I hear a sudden ring.

I try to move my wings to my ears, to shield them from the deafening, frightening roar, only to find bloody shreds in place of those wings. All the hopes, all that love, dripping to the ground I can't fathom. Expectations only lead to a sad disappointment... let me forget this, let me think this never happened...

Slowly, reluctantly, I fall to the ground, into a deep pool of forgetfulness, where I sink to the bottom and memories flow to the surface like bubbles. That roar, it showed me reason, making me cross the threshold of that lovely water of forgetfulness. The water holds me up like a hero, comforting me, washing away all emotions, numbing me. My mind, my fingers, all are numb.

Comfortably numb.

I am a star... that star burning with the embers of life. The heat, the adventure, I'm finally as large as life. Outside, I might be raging with storms and flares, but inside, I'm still young, and want to remain young. Until...

The most fascinating thing about life is that even though it can drag on for years and years, it takes just a second to end. The boundary between life and death, that thin line between reality and dream, scaled in just a second.

All I know is darkness. Or is it nothingness? After all, I'm a hole. A black hole, destroying all light that is life, crushing all my surroundings, sucking them into the mourning... the mourning of death. Relaxed, I am. Yet I feel no life, no charm of unpredictability. Without life, it's numb.

Comfortably numb.

As Fair as a Star

There rides the knight in shining armour
With beaming fervour, endless valour,
Scars and scratches compliment whose visage
Black by the dust of acts of courage,
Raising his head, eyes beaming with pride
The sun blesses him with the magic of its light.
And all those legends, who look from afar
Sing of a face as fair as a star.

There sails the maiden with undeterred will
perched on the mast, the quintessential fille,
Who rose above all mockery and scorn
Stunned the world, for the flair she adorns.
Though her face blotched with tears of Fate
The silvery moonlight does wonder create.
And all those legends, who look from afar
Sing of a face as fair as a star.

The laughing child, who laughs no more
Shielded her mother, amidst wild furore,
Parted from life, united with love
Infinite, immortal, in the heavens above.
Though her face deathly still in the casket of wood
Lights up, alive, from the gaze of motherhood.
And all those legends, who look from afar
Sing of a face as fair as a star.

Existence

Sometimes I find it hard to believe that this Universe, our Universe, exists. Millions of human beings living their life on a green and blue planet somewhere in the outer reaches of the Milky Way Galaxy, which is but a microscopic stain on the fabric of spacetime... pronouncing Oort Cloud is easier than believing this fact.

How can such a vast, complex universe with endless forms of matter and endless dimensions and other complexities difficult to fathom come into existence? How did Creation come to be? The simple answer a majority of people would look up to to quench their curiosity would be - God. Who created this world? God. How is the Universe so big? God. Why is the Universe the way it is? Because God created it that way.

However, one nagging sensation at the back of my mind constantly keeps asking the question... Who created God? Well, maybe another God? Another God? Then who created him/her?

The analogies might be endless, and the question? Still unanswered.

But surely there must be a reason for all this? Consciousness, existence, intelligence, thought, cognition... somewhere, there might be that reason.

And the only explanation which comes into my mind which is closest to being plausible is... infinity. Infinity in space, and infinity in time. The Universe might have been existing for forever with its reaches spreading out to a distance greater than infinity. That God they all fear, that God they all revere... what if that is infinity?

Sometimes while I gaze into the the night sky and think of its vast extent, I try to search for the answer. Each answer has a 'Why?'. Each reasoning has a 'How?'. This leads me to the conclusion that an answer might not really exist. Because existence... existence itself is a question.

The Times, they are A-Changin'

My lungs, they are hollow.
My mind, it's deranged.
'Cause the times, they have changed.

The long, hard gaze
Two tightly clenched hands
Refusal, to let go, for
A journey, to a far-off land.

The stillness of the air
Inside, there's a storm...
The beating of the heart
When all it wants is calm...

The shutting of the door
The turning of the lock.
That deep, empty breath
The inevitable walk
Away from those times,
Away from the past.

Two hands divided
The feet miles apart.
Impervious to the leagues
Of separation,
Two inseparable souls.

 The times, they are a-changin'
'Cause the times, they are a-changin'. 

Inspiration, Lost.

My heart wanders to far-off places as it searches for inspiration. Inspiration... Found in each and every atom of this universe, yet so hard to find, so hard to locate. And to find the best, food-for-thought inspiration, you need to go out, get some fresh air, talk to children and adults alike. If you go out in the morning, you can't resist the night... Resting down on the wet grass with your eyes looking upwards towards the sky, the moon complimenting the whole sight like a pearl on your eye.

And that is where being a girl and living in Delhi comes in.

Nowhere can you find better inspiration than in Delhi. Culture rolls around here like colourful bangles on display. Traditions from all around the world migrate to this place for an enlightening extravaganza... All shattered because of a few reasons.

You are a girl? Don't leave the house after 7 pm, no, 6 pm. It''s dark you know (!). Don't wander off to mysterious places, and don't talk to strangers. ESPECIALLY don't talk to unknown men.

On the off-chance you do get the permission, and, anticipating, in want of inspiration from beyond the Earth, you lie down on the soft grass heavy with excitement, move your eyes to the sky, and search for at least one shiny spot, a star, all goes to no avail. The smoke and pollution has defeated the stars, after all. Nothing is visible.

So where the hell do we writers find our inspiration? The best scenarios or story-lines which will strike our mind will be of dystopian fantasies with the world covered in a thick layer of smog. We have enough of those, thanks.

Now, then. What exactly do we need for our dear old Delhi? A happy climax of a dystopian fantasy where all is well and the stars... The stars are in our favour. 

To Let the Wind Take You Along

When you've scaled high peaks
And fall in a valley too deep,
Where gloom is the only thing that speaks
And motivation to the lock is the key.
When you sing that inviting song
To let the Wind take you along.

When it seems you have nothing more to lose,
Yet you do, yes you do...
When you think happiness is just a ruse
Yet for happiness, secretly strive you...
When you sing that inviting song
To let the Wind take you along.

When the beating hair on your face
Drive away all those problems tender.
When your slackened arms you openly raise
And to inevitability surrender.
When you sing that inviting song
To let the Wind take you along.

When you have nothing but love in your heart
For that force blowing you away.
When your eyes close in deep enjoyment
And dance to that enlightening lay.
When you sing that inviting song
To let the Wind take you along.

A Thought for a Friend

May the stars be ever in your favour, oh friend.
May you never feel so worthless and lonely.
May those happy thoughts and memories never end,
May the bad thoughts remain so only.

Something to make me Happy

Well, to relieve the widespread sadness in this changing world, my mind is going to create something happy. So, here goes... my random musings on happiness.

Whenever I think of happiness, the first images in my mind are those of memories - happy memories - most of them from some distant nook of my early childhood. Memories which are just some forgotten stills from here and there, from the time my conscious mind wasn't so conscious of the-then current situation as it was of the small dainty details of life. A smile conjured up from ten years back, or excitement and curiosity emanating out of Time... what could ever replace all these times?

Apart from memories, happiness, for me, comes from inside, and letting things go is one of the most important acts you can do to keep that smile in your heart.

"In the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go, but what always hurts most is not taking a moment to say goodbye."

Say goodbye... live each moment, and then just let it go. If you live to your fullest, in the present, feel it flowing through your veins, you'll know that moment will soon go, and you won't forget to say goodbye.

Letting things go will never make you so happy if you don't live in each moment first. Dance to the tunes of the pulsating song of life... you'll like you've felt never before.

People nowadays are pretty disappointed with their life, some care too much, some don't care at all. Some are worried and tense, some make others worried and tense. And the fifth kind? Those who accept situations as irreversible, time as unbeatable, and life as a reward, those are the happy ones...

The Indian Recipe for Success

Since almost everyone owning some blog or the other is following this blogging trend of typing down recipes... behold! This one might be a bit different, may take a long time to cook. So, voilà!

Ingredients:
-An IIT-training coaching class
-A bachelor's degree from an IIT
-MBA from an IIM
-A high-paying job at a world-famous company

Preparation:

[Before proceeding, keep in mind that the aim of this recipe is simple: IIT, money, and status. However, the broth will be extraordinary if this isn't only about these things, but about what you really want to do.]

STEP 1: Join a coaching center for te preparation for JEE-mains. If classes begin at 11 years old, good. If they are owned by FIITJEE or Vidyamandir Classes, excellent!

STEP 2: Give the entrance exam for engineering at IIT. Adding Computer Science or Electrical streams will add extra flavour.

STEP 3: Relax after getting selected into an IIT, preferably at Delhi or Bombay. Suddenly realize that life isn't over and is much harder ahead. Turn the flame on which the grades are simmering a bit low.

STEP 4: Finish IIT and get a humongous starting salary which spreads around in the papers. Work at the job for a year.

STEP 5: Prepare for CAT, get selected to an IIM for doing management without knowing what it is and for obtaining a job with a higher salary.

STEP 6: Obtain a job with a high salary, people will love it and talk about it. If job is at Apple or Microsoft, get ready for your Michelin Star!

STEP 7: Get married. Fast.

Precautions: DON'T FOLLOW YOUR PASSION. If you want to write, do it alongside. If you want to go into the arts, don't, they're highly unstable. But the actual reason is... what will people say?

STEP 8: Listen to 'haye mera/meri beta/beti' from proud relatives whom you've never even met before.

Your dish is ready!

WARNING: This is simply a satire on the mindset of Indian society. Don't listen to them. Listen to your heart and follow your passion. Get into IIT if you really, really want it. You won't get a second chance, after all :)

Project Great Indian Bastard

On the 4th of March, 2015, the Project Great Indian Bastard was popularized by the BBC. The Government made visible attempts to hide its execution, however, banning the information related to it won't stop people from seeing the sensitive information, including the part instructing how to be the Great Indian Bastard:

1. Say, "Girl is a soft flower and we should protect it. Girl is a precious diamond and it can't be kept on road." Undoubtedly imply that girls are weak and can't protect themselves, bleating for the protection of oh-so-protective-and-kind men.

2. Be irritatingly condescending and say: "A girl should go with her uncle, father and grandfather.
She should not go out at night with her boyfriends." Assert that girls don't know what's right for them. Assert that men know what's right for them, because they can the see the future and the girls can't, right?

3. Say that it's the fault of the girl that she went out at night. Say that it happened because she was     wearing short clothes. Don't even think of those particular men who analyze that situation with their eyes. Don't even think of saying they were wearing their eyes (out).

4. Get educated and make generalizations like 'our society doesn't allow this' and 'our society doesn't allow that'. Oh yes! Blame the society! Don't change it! Simmer down and just let the damn thing happen!

5. Say the girl shouldn't fight back. Because if she doesn't, they would take pity on her. Because if she doesn't, wrong will continue to happen. Because if she doesn't, she'll die. And how pathetic is dying as a symbol for change?

6. Assertively speak that you would pour petrol and burn your daughter in front of all the people if she gets caught going out at night or losing her face and dignity. Don't think about who is the obstacle in roaming around freely at night. Just be a damn old hypocrite.

But, oh no! It isn't over yet. You see, bastards are everywhere, from the mountain to the molehill. And with this was launched, Project Great Bastard from Outside. What does that state, I wonder?

1. Generalize and defame all the men of a country for a crime which was committed by a handful of men. Bind the tourism of a country in shackles, paint their people's face with red paint, reading, 'falsely accused of rape'.

2. Be a hypocrite. Slam other people for defaming girls, and then defame the men, that too of another country. In this process, ignore the problems of your own country.

3. Already defamed the country's men? Next step: defame the country's culture. Defame the society. Without even talking to us girls, announce that we don't go out at all. Defamation is the key!

4. Above all that, don't do such things for the 'betterment of the masses', but make money with that   information, because people only care about the rapes that happen India!

5. Say that knowing about these situations will enlighten people. On top of that, make the proclamation in English. The message doesn't reach those to whom it needs to reach. Instead, air it to that section of the society which already knows about it and stands up against it.

6. Ignore the fact that India has the largest variety of cultures, largest variety of religions. That spiritual people comprise most of the part of the population. More spirituality leads to more rapes, right?

7. Don't give a damn as to what effect your work really is creating. Don't give a damn that Indian men are losing their internships, their jobs. That they are being thought of as demons all over the world.

Meanwhile, we are sitting here, in front of our laptops, thinking of how these Bastards are as big a problem as the rapists.

<insert witty title here>

<insert a funny beginning here>

<here a line to follow it>

<something rhyming must adhere>

<something showing off my wit>

<this verse will nourish your senses>

<you'll feel tickles on your skin>

<your eyes will roll behind the lenses>

<your tongue will click and spin>

<here goes a couplet to make you feel>

<how jest always has to win>

<here go two lines which will unveil>

<the crowning of the king>

<insert something to make him laugh>

<something to stroke his nose>

<for in front of the good old jester>

<the good old king always bows>

<the end is marked by this line here>

<this line will make you sad>

<'cause you don't want to lose that dear>

<laugh which makes you mad>

Who Am I?

Who am I?
A human or some being beyond?
Or not a being at all?

They say I am an Indian.
They say I'm born for my country,
They say I'm a Hindu, my religion,
They say I'm what I was meant to be...

A servant? A bird caged?
Bound by the bars of rules.
Submissive? A follower?
Held by the chains of society.

But that's not what I think I am,
My thoughts roam much beyond.
To the edges of this universe
To the beginning of this time.

Am I my mind?
Am I my soul?
Or just my body all along?
I wonder, is it just me,
Singing this song?

Am I alive? Or, am I lost
In a dream of my own?
Is this all my mind's creation?
If not, whose then?

Sure, in this world
Just a speck of sand in the desert.
But what power does my heart hold?
What magic does it wield?

Am I a real earthling?
In this boundless universe?
If not, I pray, I wonder,
Where is my real home?

Yes, home I seek
In many wanderings
To far, far away.
The abode, where my answer rests.
I close my eyes,
And seek even
To the edge of this world.

Turning Points

Great stories have great people, great places and great sayings. Most important of all, great stories are the fruit of life-changing situations and aphorisms. Changing your life is changing your thoughts; what kind of an event is capable of bringing about such a change?

For most people, the answer may lie in suffering. The sight of a beggar on the street, starving, is the reason why many famous personalities chose the path of charity. For others, life may change with their Eureka! Moment, the excitement of learning something new. A small fragment of the crowd may find their answer in nature and the solitude it provides.

Nature provides solitude incomparable to
anything else

However, in my case, it is not the situation itself, but the events which led to the situation that pave the road for the change that is about to happen. These small events, however infinitesimal they may seem, have a significance that cannot be ignored.

The time which changed a person’s life might be when she had to suffer – live on small amounts of everything in a dilapidated old place or think even before buying a bar of soap. On tracing the path to its beginning, one may discover how small, everyday mistakes led to the poverty of this particular person.

On looking back, it is these mistakes which teach you to not commit them again, these small incidents which change your life. And when you review the whole thing instead of its result, which is merely a part of it, the change induced in you is a strong, determined change.

Every person has their own unique story detailing the turning point in their life. My story consists of not one, but numerous such turning points. Those life-changing moments are all the fifteen years of my life; each second of each moment teaches me something new, making me a better person with each passing minute. In retrospect, the two-years back me is so different from the present-me. The reason is that without us knowing, every single jiffy of our life span plays a role in changing us.

When I close my eyes and think of the water gushing and flowing fiercely down a cliff in a waterfall, it impacts my emotions and lets them flow, easing them. Whenever I’m angry or terrified, I just close my eyes and think of the waterfall, letting me control my emotions and thinking logically. This makes me a much changed person than before.

These little things crave to be noticed, wanting to play the part they deserve to change your life, because the events that led to my life changing situation, composed of such minuscule occurrences, have made me what I am today.

Recollections of Red Fort

Even from far away, a person taking a trip to Lal Quila, Red Fort, or originally known as Quila-i-Mubarak, can see the huge fortified structure of red sandstone set against the skyline behind the antique open rickshaws and unique architecture of Old Delhi.

Another historic trip, another travel post. Well, the Red Fort was one hell of an experience, just the perfect one if you want a short trip to a place where the history flows like a deep, flowing river. The Red Fort, along with its tumultuous history, is an eye candy for observing the art and architectural styles of the Middle Ages.

The reason the capital of the Mughals was shifted from Agra to Delhi was Shah Jahan's love for majestic processions, which proved futile in the congested roads of Agra. That majesty can be seen quivering in the heart of the Red Fort.

There's a fort, readied for defence, so, it's the next obvious choice to build a moat. As soon as one enters, the majestic fort rises up surrounded by a dried-up moat once full of crocodiles and piranhas. The moat must be about medium in width, which is compensated by the well-thought defence mechanisms on the fort walls. Basically, the wall is divided into three parts based on the height where slits are set against the sandstone, just enough for the archers to shoot. The slits widen as the height of the wall increases, and at the top, the enemies from far away can be easily ambushed by cannons, if not arrows.

The outer wall is the ultimate symbol of defence, as helmet-like structures can be seen carved on the top of the wall at regular intervals. Lots of things have happened in this particular place, filled by the feelings of Shah Jahan and his children, including Aurangzeb, Dara Shikoh, Jahanara, and Roshanara.

Shah Jahan, or Khurram, was a renowned lover of art and architecture, which can be seen in the pillars and domes. However, attached to this were wise battle strategies.

Chhatta Chowk



The entrance to the fort is adorned by the Delhi Gate, renamed by Aurangzeb as Lahori Gate. Then wafting comes the cool, pleasant air on your face as you enter the eminent Chhatta Chowk, the first covered market of North India. In those times, it was more like Shah Jahan's personal market where he used to buy his perfumes, carpets, and lavish adornments. People from as far as Persia came to sell their wares, and the balconies built beneath the roof were places for the people to view the king's procession.

Naubat Khana



Moving on, one can see a building built by the British to your left, the dull among the beautiful. There's a roundabout leading up to a just as old building and further on, most of the space is covered by lawns with colourful flowers here and there sending a sweet scent through the air. Next comes the Naubat Khana, where nagadas were beaten in a variety of tunes to send a variety of messages across Shahjahanabad, the sixth city of Old Delhi. On its first and second stories has been launched the Indian War Memorial Museum.

An intricate display of weapons, defensive equipment and old-age technology completes this fascinating museum. Swords of different hilts, shapes and edges, rifles with hundreds of types of bullets, the chainmail and  the shields are riddled with ancient history. The telephone, signalling system, pressure measurement system, fuses and bombshells (some a meter high), send shivers through one's body.

Diwan-i-Am



Stretching out in front of the Naubat Khana is a road leading to the Diwan-i-Am, the Hall of the people. On that road only the foot of a human was allowed, except for Dara Shikoh, for only he was allowed to ride up to the Hall on a horse.

The Diwan-i-Am is a brilliantly constructed open hall where every single spot is visible from the king's high throne, which is carved and printed with detailed designs of pietra dura. On both the sides of the throne are nets of marble behind which used to sit Jahanara (in the more majestic one) and Roshanara, to learn from the judgments of their father. A voice from one far end of the hall can be heard at the other far end of the hall, such is its built. On the edge of the roof hang hooks from where leather curtains were hung in the winter and khus curtains were hung in the summer.

One can see many turns along the way, which were aimed at slowing down the attacking army. Spotted at the side are a few British buildings one of which was built in place of a major part of the fort during the revolt of 1857.

Onwards appear lawns typically divided into four parts with water flowing in between the paths dividing the expanse. The Hayat Bakhsh Bagh is one of them. Then arrives the Moti Masjid, the personal mosque of Aurangzeb, who was too afraid to go pray in the Jama Masjid. Ahead of that is the Hammam, Shah Jahan's spa, where a hundred people worked (surprise much?)

Diwan-i-Khas



The Diwan-i-Khas dawns like the sun with its symbolic architecture singing of justice. On one of its walls is inscribed a taraju, an instrument for comparing weights, which clearly signifies equality in the face of the law. Inside, the pietra dura beautify the Diwan-i-khas to a divine extent.

A short passage of once-existing Yamuna water leads to the Khas Mahal, the residence of Shah Jahan ,and onwards to the Rang Mahal, the residence of the queens.

It is perhaps interesting to note that the bedroom of Shah Jahan, the Khas Mahal was honourably named the Khwaabgah, the abode of his dreams. The majesty of the thoughts of the people in those times surpass the ability of the most famed philosophers of the day.

Even more fascinating is the fact that the whole complex is shaped like a bow. The Yamuna which flowed in front of it, which has now changed its course, was the string, and the straight road leading to Jama Masjid was the skilled hand, imbibing power from God.

It's riveting to note that an equal part of the fort exists beneath it, in the basements, which were the refuge of the royalty during the hot summers. Unfortunately, the people aren't allowed to enter the area, so as to prevent spoiling the greatest architectural works of the age.

There are numerous great things about the Quila-i-Mubarak, the greatest being the intricate signs present in the smallest of things, signs which contain an infinite amount of history, complimented in between with melodies of symbolism and art. As one stands there, closing his/her eyes and opening them to reveal the surroundings re-winded to that enlightening age, the body feels vibrations, sending a message that history is much more than we believe. It's the inescapable reality.

Last but not the least, hats off if you managed to read this whole post. Hats off to you, man.

What's in a Name?

All of us know that J.K. Rowling wrote a couple of books under the pen name Robert Galbraith to live a regular author's life, filled with low sales, a relaxed environment and rest. Unfortunately for her, it didn't work out and she was the subject of the media cameras and the adrenaline-filled literary bloggers who fell off their chairs hearing the news (high five if this happened to you too).

But, what's in a name? Can a two-worded phrase that takes up a minuscule amount of a page make such an impact? The thing's got power, you can't deny.

In the case of J.K. Rowling, it turns out that 'J.K. Rowling' isn't her exact real name either. That's got another story behind it. You see, Joanne Rowling, the author of Harry Potter, was afraid her books wouldn't sell that much if the people thought she was a woman. So, she added Katherine as her middle name, turning it to 'J.K. Rowling'.

I myself thought J.K. Rowling was a man till the age of ten. Although it does seem sad that she had to hide her gender while publishing, she was being realistic nonetheless, but that's another story.

Well, it's not just her, lot's of other authors and poets have used numerous pen names, looks like it had been a trend even a thousand years ago. It's curious that the author Ed McBain used no more than FIVE Noms de Plumes - Curt Cannon, Hunt Collins, Ezra Hannon, Richard Marsten and Evan Hunter. Keeping all these a secret is a bigger achievement than writing twenty books.

Some like William Makepeace Thackeray do use them as a joke. George Savage Fitz-Boodle? Michael Angelo Titmarsh? THÉOPHILE WAGSTAFF? Seriously, dude.

It is interesting indeed to find out that Benjamin Franklin didn't only create a pen name, he mapped out whole personalities of that particular name. His first pseudonym, Silence Dogood, was a widowed woman much older than him. The pen name Polly Baker was his alter-ego, used to show that women were discriminated against by the law (she had a much, much more exquisite tale behind her, but that's another story).

While some use pen names to escape a disappointed father, and some use them to evade a jail sentence, the stories behind them are fascinating. Turns out something as small as a name is VERY powerful (unless you count Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. PHEW.)

Therefore, when I sit down and think for a suitable pen name for myself, I can think nothing more serious than Jalebi Sweetsavage (people would love me, wouldn't they?) Of course, this fantasy person's got a different life history... but that's another story!