Well, finally I managed to find some time out to drop in a line. It's not that I did'nt have anything to write. Thoughts did get spoken inside my head and demanded to be given shape to. But past few weeks were long and ridden with work. My team managed to handle quite a few technical issues that, at some point in time, threatened to derail this project.

On my ride to office, I often engage myself with a book. I finished reading Great Expectations. Pip would always remain symbolic of human foolishness and inability to rise above his weakness despite the revelations of every day life. We are trapped like house flies in a honey pot. We know we are stuck, and yet we continue to sink deeper.

Jacques Cormery, on the other hand, resembles what happens to men when they are brought up in abject poverty and yet manage to taste the basic joys of simple living. Jacques and Pip are extremes. One revels in one's memories. Other hides them under the abundance of snobbery. One finds comfort in the smell of his mother's clothes. The other cringes from the thought of being seen with his own brother-in-law who chooses to remain a blacksmith.

Well, such is the nature of life. I have often thought about this: How intricate are these webs that gives life its shape! These days my baby is happily turning around in my wife's tummy. I wonder what 'it' is like; eyes closed and ears open to constant gurgle of liquids, with strange dreams going on inside it's head. Perhaps it's still thinking about someone or someplace and something. That is if I believe that reincarnation is a fact. If it ain't, then stranger would be the state of affairs. Inside it's head, that is.

I don't know what it is to carry a life inside. Perhaps its like carrying your heart. Or, your spleen. You don't feel them. But they are there – together, making you. My wife can't tell whether it is indeed like carrying your spleen. She just says that when it moves, it feels like the sea stealing sands beneath your feet. I can understand her inability. After all, it's not everyday that my spleen rolls over. 🙂

Human relations are forged. Created. Like you forge out a bracelet. Patterns. Lines. Shadows. Criss-crossed and overlaid. And they take years to shape up.


Then they age.

Like we all do.

And with time, the threads fray out at the edges. You do not notice them until one fine day you find there is nothing in your heart that pulls you. Binds you. That keeps you together.

And then you know it needs some mending.

In it's primal state, human mind knows no such patterns. It is devoid of any feelings. It is devoid of any sentiments. It is just there. Floating. And occasionally kicking the woman that's carrying it.

Funny, is'nt it?

Hmm. My wife often complains that my writings have a dark shade. That I should write something funny, real, joyous and light. She wants me to write more, so that she can publish my works. I often imagine people reading them. Some are touched, some would toss them aside as piece of shit. But have you ever wondered why do we write? For a greater audience? Or, just to appease that noise inside your head? Would I write if there were none to read them? Would I still write if there is no hope of my work being ever published?

I guess so.

But I would still like to ask my baby. To know what it is like being without a name. Without an identity. Without anything at all, but the warmth of it's mother's belly. And some occasional voices muffled by the distance. Are you lonely in there? Do you know what is loneliness? Do you feel like shouting and talking? Do you feel like making love to a woman? Do you get angry (at your mother not sitting up properly, or when she eats pizzas in tons)? Do you get annoyed when I tap your mother's belly and try to talk to you? Do you like me? Do you like my voice? When I talk to your mother, when I shout at her, when I comfort her in my arms, when I fight with her on petty matters: do you know who I am?

Tell me who I am?

Tell me, for, even I ain't have a clue.

That's scary, is it not? Not knowing who you are?