My Literary Indulgences...

Interred yet alive, in this interminable internment, deemed irredeemable by physicians, institutionalised for life, he chants away in his isolated cell, "It was all a lie, my beautiful fraud." * The essence of a child's innocence lies in its inability to lie, at least effectively, and the truth keeps everything simple. Alas, his childhood was lost in a barrage of reproaches attacking him seemingly from all directions and one day, the novelty that the human mind is, it started conceiving ways to silence the rebukes before they came. A master in optimisation and efficiency this evolutionary tool, it taught the child to lie. * The best lies go against Occam's razor - they are those that are so incredibly detailed, comprehensively thought out, and convincingly deceptive of every aspect of reality that they achieve the same unhinged effect in everyone's mind and thus building an alternate reality in the collective conscience. With age as the situations grew complex

Thank you all for coming today. It is true, my father didn't have many friends in life and even among those, there were so few who kept in touch. They're not entirely to blame as he did lead a rather eccentric life and even I, his only son, had difficulties keeping up with him a lot of times. I'm sure all of you have felt the same at some point. However, here we are because we all loved him. Today, I'd like to say a few words about him and his life, in hopes that you'd find explanations as I did, and that you find closure as I did. If there is a land of immortals on earth, it is this, or rather any library in this world, for monuments whither, and deeds are forgotten, but the written word survives ages. The irony then, of having a wake at a library is not lost on me, and that is what I first regarded the idea as, just one of his witty jokes, his most eccentric and final. But then I went on a journey, of the times and conditions in which he grew up, what he faced, f

Before the first bout, ringside His words cut through chaos “Do good work”, said Coach Seemed a good place to start - Simple words of encouragement. Alas, this life mocks simplicity. Stepping into the battleground Hubris made me wonder It’ll yield to me, kneel to me I hop, spring, take a swing I miss spectacularly, and Take a loaded glove square. Bashed bloody and senseless Here I lie on the mat Hands up, shielding in vain Trying to survive in the game A question burning hot How do I survive this barrage? For as I take in cheap shots, And the jeering from the crowds, And the debilitating self doubt, And the crushing fear of defeat, In these monstrously unjust odds, How do I “do good work”?

What does it mean, to hurt? She knew it, had read about it, experienced it with causes as varied as one's life presents, and understood it insofar as her comprehension had depth. She knew it, as a feeling. However, that her prudence, morality, creativity, insight, rationality, predilections, empathy, verily her soul owed themselves to a deep-seated, poignant hurt, registered that tumultuous afternoon of an ambushed reunion with her father. In a world of independence, individualism, nonconformity, and ambition, the institution of the family had mutated to propaganda rather than a bedrock of human society. Her mother had chosen to separate from her father, immensely dissatisfied with the state of her marriage. She found her husband insufferable, and despite several attempts from him, her parents and even their marriage counsellor of brokering peace and creating a fresh start, she was inconsolable. The discord ran so deep in her that she successfully convinced the court of law to

“Our maker beholds in agony, the repercussions of his dastardly deed - to have made us as one soul, divided into two beings, separated by an unfathomable distance. He weeps for us Aa’isha…” It comes again, the numbness in his being, a grief so immense, he has no choice but to lie down paralysed on the cold hard ground, clutching his letter in a wincing vice, hidden from sight. The stars, lights, quiet and winter offer him no solace, cold winds freezing his tears. A broken heart can be healed, but how do you heal a broken soul, so tormented that it disintegrates reading its own words? Suddenly he feels a deep rumbling, emanating from the bosom of the earth, and now the sky is awash with burning white light. “This is it” he wonders, “it’s too much even for him now.” He relaxes his body, eager to meet his maker, and the letter flutters away. The next second, it’s all over and he sits up dazed and confused, trying to make sense of what happened. He feels his hand clutching empty

Reign in thy tempest, my heart! The sun can’t help storm-chasers. Provoke they will, the unpleased. Bestill regardless! thy duty is to love. Seduce they will, the divided. Bestill regardless! thy duty is to bridge. Destroy they will, the departed. Bestill regardless! thy duty is to honour. Repel it will, the crowds and cacophony. Bestill regardless! one holds thine hand. Capture it will, the solitude of books. Bestill regardless! a beloved awaits. Bestill my heart! Halt your pursuit! For happiness, chases thee.