Stranger Ranger

Stepping beyond the walled perimeter of my humble home, onto jammed streets, crowded lanes and packed paths, everyday I start out alone, though within seconds mingling with dozens of unknown faces- unknown, but travelling to the same destination; unknown, but in a similar hurry; unknown, but walking beside me. Strange faces- some tense, some stressed, some smiling, some overjoyed. Strange shoulders, excusing themselves while banging into others, knowingly or unknowingly. Strange eyes, wandering and making fleeting contact with others, willingly or unwillingly. Strange lips, flashing emotions at others, smilingly or warning-ly.
All these faces, some strange but some just unknown. All these gazes, some unwelcome but some warranting a contact. All these people- still strangers, yet not so strange.
Losing myself in a crowd has become a habit of sorts, living where I do, and commuting as much as I do. Being a part of a crowd myself, I often wonder how many of these strangers, gazers, onlookers and passengers would remember me. Do I remember any of those faces? Or maybe the way they walked past me? Or the way they were talking over the phone? Or to other people? Do they remember that about me? Is it bad to be remembered by strangers? Not all experiences with strangers are negative encounters, some do become positive anecdotes. After all, all my friends were first strangers, most of whom are strangers again. Is it wrong to accept a few smiling strangers as friendly fellows? Are a few friendly strangers not better than those distanced, estranged friends?

Mask task

How simple it is conceived, to don a mask, a face, a state of mind or a veil; how boggling is the assumption that something that bothers you, should render you absolutely hapless and shattered! How stereotypical can expectations be if all that is wanted is attention and time, instead of concern and loyalty. How misplaced is the trust which hasn’t travelled miles and knocked on the wrong doors, or had a few life-altering stays, before it finds home. How questionable is one who cannot find questions in stances normally conceived unquestionable. How indolent is the love which hasn’t been outraged, demeaned, faulted, frowned upon, or flailed to the edge of lifelessness. How outrageous is the smile that carves in the face of despair.

Once again, how desirous it is to mask all emotions with practicality, but aspire to be unmasked. But how tainted is this desire that feels betrayed when someone attempts to unmask the same!

Emptiness and optimism

Emptiness and optimism

Philosophy argues and contradicts itself in innumerable ways, taking examples of half filled or half empty glasses, fighting to put air as a competent element just to prove the supremacy of optimism over pessimism. Air?!

The fight I’d rather put up, is between emptiness and vacuum, pessimism and optimism apart. Connotations of a philosophical nature are debates that can’t be concluded, owing to the oratorical skills of opposing parties. But such distinctions as those between emptiness and vacuum, require only one component- experience!

Vacuum- an absolute isolation of thoughts, processes, people, feelings, expressions, and doubts and dilemmas. But emptiness? That is just connection of the soul with the more materialistic components of one’s self. An intervention for oneself, staged by one’s own thoughts, feelings and emotions, seeking an outage, just not in presence of foreign beings, but oneself. That, is emptiness.

The beauty of emptiness lies, not within the sorrow it tends to render to your material being, but to the pleasure it brings to your soul.

After all, an empty space still holds the potential to breath life into a body. Brace your emptiness. It, after all, is a red carpet for action.


The most important, most trying, most teaching, most testing, and sometimes, the most hilarious, most enjoyable experiences of our life, have been mistakes. Mistakes define our perseverance in reaching out to do what we thought of doing. The question that causes a dilemma for me is, are all mistakes just a certain few takes on our lives gone wrong, or are they those experiences that have just been given a negative spin to? Now, me, I am not what you can label as a stark optimist. But this one, my experiences tell me, has rather been labelled incorrectly.

For me, mistakes are rather detours, rest-stops, where I get to contemplate. Not only over the task at hand, but at the quagmire I have been put into, the situation my misstep puts others into, the position this mishap puts me into, and subsequently, these cast light on my stand in life. Oh, the cogwheels that my deliberation starts turning! But this deliberation, I am grateful for. In inference, my mistakes aren’t just episodes, they are quintessentially escapades.

Title tale

What is it about titles that makes assigning a title to a detail a gruesome job? The absolute requirement of it having to convey the concept of the detailed and comprehensive passage of your ideas, all in those four words. Four words to convey the jist of something that in the first place required me to write something so lengthy. Four words to express what I wish you to comprehend out of the entire jibber jabber contained in the text that follows. Four words that are supposed to make you understand, which what I feel the proliferation of words in my passage might only begin to tickle you in deliberation of my message. Four words that are supposed to be bombastic, only to be elaborated by the usage of a good hundred words going forward. Four words, contributing to frustrated frowns and fretting.

Now don’t you argue with me over the number “four”!