Friday, January 18, 2013


Some times all the efforts you have put in, all the grains you have gathered like a diligent ant is not enough.
All the hours put in, doing a day job and then slogging through stolen hours at night is not enough. The gray hair strands and the smell of sleep over dogeared books isn't enough. It just hangs some where like an unread manuscript.
You need to have color coded swipe cards to enter the places where knowledge is veiled like a highly guarded secret. Oh, you could take the other way and try to disregard them. Be the Ekalavya, whose knowledge is worthless without the correct stamps.

Have been trying to do the full Harry Porter routine and enter the castle for a while. When a kind Dumbledore opens a door, you realise that there isn't enough money to make the journey. You didn't win the yearly jackpot by the rein deers. This year they are giving it to the birds and not ants. The endless wait in the cold, to avoid delete buttons, trash folders, spam bins-to arrive at a place where an actual pair of eyes will glance through the manuscript...

Might just never make it. But is an ant. If the castle remains unreachable will one day go ahead and prove it wrong all the long long way.

Friday, January 11, 2013

Of Seminars

Is a vagabond traveller in a spice connoisseurs' meeting. As the smell wafts in and people spread their wares, I try to collect a word here, a word there.

Is more of a chilly farmer. There is never enough money to farm. And when  money, blood, sweat, tears and heartbreak finally blooms as some kind of quirky chillies, there are almost never any buyers. Long stretches of time and life is spent in smelling other gardens, walking through un known stretches, waiting in patience at alien doors- for the kind of seeds which will grow the quirkiest chillies.


Have decided not to farm for a while. As a friend said, need to recover from the wounds of last harvest.
So is here, an onlooker at the spice connoisseur's meeting. As the words float higher and higher, I try to conjure up the ghost of long dead Foucault , who looks like a ghost who will know the uncertainties of those who float amidst the surety of words. He drops in for a nano second and then goes away saying that he needs to use his time more judiciously and cannot drop in for each personal anxiety or perspiration.

So, I switch back to the lecture of a connoisseur who talks about the moods of high end spice market. The speech ends and the crowd wafts around. Self tries to act like one who fits in and ends up looking like a bad groupie.


There is no land anywhere in sight. Not more money than to get by. But, is still collecting the seeds. One day in a piece of land some learning house will be kind enough to lend, words will grow side by side with the quirkiest of chillies. The words will learn uncertainty and will waft with the smell of chillies. Till then, will be the vagabond traveller, moving from door to door, learning to respect the silence of uncertainities