My mother’s father passed away when my mother was six. Throat cancer had gripped his life and he knew that he was about to die in a few weeks. As a young man, in his forties, he was, for a good reason, worried about his six daughters and two sons. He had no property except for a small paddy field and a ramshackled antediluvian house. No source which could yield enough money to sustain the entire family. Eventually, he decided to quit looking for alternatives and took over a conscientious task of writing a guide for his wife’s sake as to how the home is to be nurtured. So he wrote one letter everyday which contained scrupulous details on topics starting from upbringing of the kids and providing bread and butter to the family, to living the ‘life’ in the best manner possible. Each of these beautifully written letters consistently ended with the same sentence: If God wills for my survival for another day, you’ll read more in the next letter. All of this was, of course, in Urdu. He also happened to know Hindi, English, Persian and a bit of Arabic. He had such love and fascination for ‘language’ and its usage that not a single day passed by without using some or the other Urdu/Hindi/Persian couplet in his daily conversation. His favourite – Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib.

On the other hand, my father’s father too was a grand lover of poetry. Attending mushairas (poetic meetings) was his routine. Every anecdote that my dad tells me about him contains a pair of Urdu verses. His conversation would remain barren unless a couplet or two were spoken. And again, his favourite – Mirza Asadullah Khan Ghalib. But then, he too was gone by the time I entered this world. The more I’m told about him and his way of life, the more I feel bad for not having met him.

My entire family, from both maternal and paternal sides, has been so much institutionalised by Ghalib, that all they wanted to know was if the new born child was a boy or not. And what if it’s a boy? – He would be named after Ghalib! I have, by virtue of my name, inherited the legacy of poetic love both my granddads had. None of them saw me, but I’m certain if they had, they would have been in love with me, at least for the sake of the name that I carry. What adds spice is the fact that Ghalib’s father’s name was ‘Abdullah’ which also happens to be my father’s name.

Ghalib, undoubtedly, was a brilliant man. He authored around eleven thousand couplets in Persian which, however, failed to bring him accolades that a mere two thousand in Urdu could. Legacy has it that when Sir Syed Ahmed Khan went to him to get a foreword written for his well-researched and illustrated edition of Abul Fazl’s Ai’n-e Akbari, he wrote a Persian poem criticizing Sir Syed for wasting his efforts in writing about something which had happened a few centuries ago. Sir Syed immediately dispensed with all his interests in history and archaeology and became a social reformer. Eventually, he established Mohammedan Anglo Oriental College which was transformed later into Aligarh Muslim University, one of the largest in the country.

But, what made Ghalib so great? They say that a bare philosophical poet cannot do much if he’s leading a good life without being carked. Well, they’re right. It’s the circumstances and environment which makes one write. And Ghalib wrote. He wrote in such fantabulous and dulcet manner that the title ‘Father of Urdu Poetry’ is an underestimation. His views on life, grief and death were as poignant as anything could be. In one such wonderful couplet, he says:

Qaid-e-Hayaat o Band-e-Gham Asl Mein Dono Ek HaiN,
Maut Se Pahle Aadmi Gham Se Nijaat Paaye Kyoun?

The prison of life and the bondage of grief are one and the same,
Before the onset of death, how can one expect to be free of grief?

All this did not come to him out of the blue. He could hardly make peace with his life as he had to brook the death of all his seven kids even before any of them could reach puberty. He then ended up adopting his nephew who too passed away within months of adoption. And all he would do was to write!

Haan Ae Falak-E-Peer, Jawaan Tha Abhi Aarif!
Kya Tera Bigadta Jo Na Marta Koi Din Aur?

(Indeed, O master of the skies, Arif was still young!
What harm would it have done to you if he had died some other day?)

[Read more of the above poem here]

In spite of all this, he had perseverance towards his faith. He prayed and believed that the woes will be gone soon. It didn’t happen, but he still had faith. And he wrote as he waited anxiously for a good turn.

Ghalib! Na Kar Huzoor Mein Tu Baar Baar Arz!
Zaahir Hai Tera Haal Sab Un Par, Kahe Baghair.

Don’t make repeated pleas, Ghalib, to your Lord!
Your situation is evident to Him, even without mentioning it.

His pleas weren’t heeded to. He was in the same state of affairs till he left this world in the year 1869. And now, he rests here, hopefully, in peace. A man of his kind. No one similar shall ever exist on this planet!

Tomb of Mirza Ghalib at Hazrat Nizamuddin in Delhi

Husn Gamze Ki Kashakash Se Chhuta Mere Baad
Baare Aaraam Se Hai Ahl-E-Jafaa Mere Baad

Beauty is spared the strain of ogling after my demise,
Despotic beauties, after me, shall in peace abide.

Mansab-E-Shefatgi Ke Koi Qaabil Na Raha
Hui Maazuli-E-Andaaz-O-Adaa Mere Baad

None now deserves to wear the lover’s honoured badge,
Airs and graces of the beauties will now neglected lie.

Shama Bujhti Hai To Us Main Se Dhuan Uthata Hai
Shola-E-Ishq Siyahposh Hua Mere Baad

When the candle flame is snuffed, smoke begins to rise,
The flame of love has donned the sable after I’ve died.

Khoon Hai Dil Khaak Main Ahwal-E-Butaan Par, Yaani
Unke Naakhun Hue Mohtaaj-E-Hina Mere Baad

My heart bleeds inside the grave when I think of beauties sweet,
And realize that their nails are thirsting for the henna dye.

Kaun Hota Hai Harif-E-Mai-E-Mard-Afgan-E-Ishq
Hai Mukarrar Lab-E-Saaqi Pe Salaa Mere Baad

“Who will drink the bowl of passions overbold?”
There will be no reply to this question once I die.

Gam Se Marta Hoon Ke Itna Nahin Duniya Main Koi
Ke Kare Taaziyat-E-Mehar-O-Wafa Mere Baad

The saddening thought chills my heart that after I’m gone,
Untended and unmourned will love and passion lie.

Aaye Hai Bekasi-E-Ishq Pe Rona ‘Ghalib’
Kiske Ghar Jaayega Sailaab-E-Balaa Mere Baad

The thought of love’s helplessness fills my heart with grief,
Where will the devastating tide go, when it’s done with me?

“Well, don’t laugh at me when I answer your question!” was what came as a reply from a friend of mine when I asked her as to what kind of music she likes. Curiosity built and I convinced her that I shall not even giggle. She then shot a message which read, “Ahem. I’m not into rock and metal. I listen to the classics of Hindi music, most of the times. You know, Rafi, Kishore and all!” After almost screaming at her for being so hesitant about letting me know this, she said, “Well, enough people have laughed at me for the kind of music I like, okay?”

See! There! Whatever ones beliefs are about the classic Hindi/Urdu music, the moment you try degrading someone else’s choice of music with a pretext that what you listen to is ‘cool’, you deserve to get shot! The meaning that the words possessed once upon a time, when compared with the contemporary music, makes me feel that there has been an evolution in the language itself, let alone music. It’s not easy to digest the fact that the same language, which could produce such sensible emotional words that took the listeners’ breath away, is now put into use to shout and scream without even comprehending what the words mean. Very often, these new-fangled songs are made so emotional that one could label them as ‘wannabe emo-music’. (Examples here and here) My disgust had broken barriers when a roommate of mine played this nauseating cacophony on loop! And one cannot write about the ‘contemporaries’ unless an honourable mention is provided to ‘Tenu Mein Love Karda, Bematlab Karda, BahoN Mein Aa Soniye, Bas Aaj Raat Ke Liye’. Now, wait a minute. You claim to love that person, emphasizing modestly that it’s meaningless, and you want her in your arms for just one night? We’ve had a generation singing ‘Sau Saal Pahle, Mujhe Tum Se Pyaar Tha… Aaj Bhi Hai, Aur Kal Bhi Rahega!’ and well, BEHOLD! We’ve progressed so much now that the ‘love’ lasts only till we get an orgasm!

I don’t mean to pick on whatever shit that’s being sung and heard. What is insulting is the way the lovers of the contemporaries, sitting on their scholarly horse, discard what the last generation wrote, sung and lived with. No one, especially not them! No one decides as to what is ‘cool’ and what is not. I’ve never claimed, and will never do, that the classics are better than what is being produced now. What antagonizes me is that the same music that your mother listened to when you were in her spa-like womb is now being ridiculed and mocked at. These were the same words that many of your antecedents dedicated to each other.

Maybe Manna Dey is right when he says (here) that the present condition of the Indian music is so because of the void that has been created with the passing away of glorious personalities like Mohd. Rafi, Naushad, R D Burman, Sahir Ludhianvi, Shakeel Badayuni etc. The mellifluent ‘Haaye!’ that Mohd Rafi could pull out (here) is an impossibility for anyone living on this planet now. The point is that it ain’t because the people have changed their tastes that we see this humiliation happening to their legacy. Rather, it’s because of the absence of those people who gave life to music that their work has become a past. I’ve exhaustively gone through the works that have been released lately and tried too hard to find the traces of the kind of emotions that the classics tincture (say here). Failure is what I’ve faced throughout. I’ve told this before and I say this again. Keep your lame-ass music with yourselves and stop judging something you cannot even manage to understand. Yes, I did poke fun at your music in this post and for a good reason. I shall not waste my time to do it ever again as long as you shut your trap.

[Personal blogs are meant to be, well, personal. And this post is as personal as anything could get, just that it wasn’t written by me. But some sweet soul decided that this place is where he/she wanted it to be. And so, I decided to put this up without any second thoughts, proud as a duck!]

It was in my first or second grade that I’d my first encounter with death. A car accident, the driver survived, the woman passenger did too. But the children, two of them, by the looks of it, as old as I was then – were dead. One of their bodies was pulled out of the car in pieces. It is a very distant memory, the encounter, in that very moment, even more distant. Death made very little sense to me as a kid, it became an inherent truth as I began to grow up, by the time I was 12, I had come to view it as routine.

But that is for another day, for now, I think, the question that so many of us should ask ourselves is whether we still confront truths or make them seem routine, treat them with this wonderful tool of apathy. I have come to do the latter. Because my life’s been, erm, too random. And how do you confront the truth that your life is strange? That Sunday night was spent in a lockup, and Monday morning you attended school? It is to routinize. This word is used by academics studying the institution of prisons. Prisons.

We are in them. You can resist, you can create passive acceptance or you can use your indifference.

And indifference does not necessarily mean acceptance. It is to bide your time where you can’t resist and are unwilling accept. It is to outlast all of the jailors, the inmates and the rapists. It is to exist till all of them are subdued. Time and Pressure. And this is my greatest truth. The greatest lesson.

I have also learnt that despite the general air of scepticism that I live my life with, hope is necessary. I’ve found it in people sometimes. And when you hear stories of what your friends have ‘done to you’, you also witness, yourself, that what your friends have ‘done for you’, and it is no insignificant contribution to how you will view your life.

‘Standing up for you’, ‘being there’ – rhetoric. But those random acts, gestures – they are immensely important. Because they teach you that your existence as an island is not in isolation, it is an archipelago. And while you might not owe anything to the others in return, your existence is suddenly relevant and for as long as you are fighting those prisons, within yourself, you can do with some humour and some company – not consistently, not even reliably, but it’s around.

Thank You, random people in my life, for telling me that death is not the only truth. And that in moments, there is a world.

Anonymous.

NALSAR. The dream of thousands, an Island of excellence and a temple of intellectuality. Right? Wrong! Of my sixteen years that I lived before coming to this place, not once did I hear the words like ‘Personal connect’, ‘Being there’, ‘Trust’, ‘Dependency’, etc. Had I told, say, my cousin that I trust you to be there when I need you and that somehow I’m dependent on you, he would fire back with “Baigan. Kaike toh bhi baataN karre yaaroN?” (translates into ‘Dude! (uhm, literally ‘Brinjal’) What bullshit are you even speaking?’

Now, that’s what this place is all about. It sounds melodious when we claim that we are so far from the city that we’re a civilization in itself. Well, maybe we are. But we’re one disgustingly fake civilization. You win a moot here and you’ll have way more number of people become jealous of you than appreciate you, in spite of their ‘Yipeee, you’re a stud!’ wall posts you’ll have on your Facebook wall. You win an open challenge and the teams you managed to defeat in those rounds will wish and pray that you face a miserable loss at the actual moot. And no, the MPL rankings make no sense within the campus, even though you’ll go around bragging about them when you’re interning.

From the CGPAs to the elections, it’s all about you being in the limelight and getting all the accolades rather than appreciating someone else for doing well at what they did. Last semester, one of my batchmates, who figures in the list of top rankers of my batch, had asked me if there’s any sport he can play just to get a certificate out of it so as to add it to his CV. He was meticulous in telling me that he can devote ninety minutes every day for the same. That’s what we are. We don’t do things because we ‘like’ them. We do them because the world would throw accolades for doing them. Yes, he wanted Rhodes and, oh God! I shall jump into a pool of ants if he gets something like that.

We can fake each and every virtue that exists in this world. Every single one except for ‘modesty’. No, that’s nowhere to be found here. All the ‘catching ups’ and ‘going on a walk’ to develop a ‘personal bonding’. (I guess we can make a lexicon of NALSAR jargon!). All of that shit is much far from being genuine. Something happens to you and you need people around you so that you can ‘talk about it’. You need people to ‘vent out your frustration’ if something’s wrong. This place does teach a lot about ‘survival’. But not without people. You start talking to people about your life so much that if something goes wrong, you can hardly do without ‘talking’ to them about it. You make yourselves so weak as a person that the ‘survival’ this place teaches you itself turns out to be fake.

However, all of this ain’t fool proof. I guess a fake world filled with fake goodness isn’t so much to complain of. But this world we spend half a decade in does have periodical lapses. There’s a bitch called ‘ego’ which thrives in every mind, body and soul (and also in every part that can move by itself 😛 ). The superiority complex is so much that if you crack a joke and no one laughs, you’d would put in every bit of creativity to throw another one and make up for it. All this, because it hurts. It hurts badly when the curtains of fakeness are raised. And hence, you would rather have people showing phony concern than have real people who don’t give a damn. When one of my batchmates had passed away, I could see a few countable souls who were unfeignedly aggrieved. All others were engaged in deploying some or the other means to show to the world that theirs was the biggest loss in his departure. (Rest in peace, my friend. Look down and smile at us for we are the bastards of the first order!)

No! We won’t change. We’ve come up with such arduous unwritten and unspoken rules that they’ve begun to rule us. I used to love roaming on the flag road, after dinner, with a set of loud people. But not anymore. It’s sometimes laboriously difficult to find if someone’s being true or not. And considering what it takes to fit it into this disillusioned civilization, I’d rather sit in my room and meditate. Yes, I love to sit alone in a corner during the classes rather than act like I care about every random bucko. I’m at least genuinely happy with what I do. Ah! Minority, only this time – by choice! 😛

“Quiet Please”, said the chair umpire and the score board read ‘40-30 : 6-3 . 6-5’. All I was hoping was that my first serve goes straight to the point where I intend it to. Nothing in the world seemed more important than this one shot. Dad had closed his eyes unwilling to see the ball going anywhere else, of which the probability was quite high. Mom had a tensed look in her eyes hoping that this shot marks the finish of the National Championships. ‘Concentrate, this is one moment where you could feel anything but nervous’, I said to myself. And as I toss the ball, I could see not just my eye balls rolling up, but of the entire crowd around me. The ball goes high in the air and before it starts its descent – Zzzaatt! It falls almost on the ‘T’ and hits the opponent’s racquet frame, never to be seen again! That is it! It’s done! The chair umpire announces ‘Game, Set, Match – Shareef. 6-3, 7-5’.

That one moment – that walk towards to the net to shake hands with other guy, that first look I gave to my parents and vice versa, and that night where all I could do is repeat ‘Thank You’ to anyone who came to congratulate me – that moment still is stored in the most safest and impregnable part of my brain. If I could ever go back to one time in my past to experience something all over again, it’s certainly this one. Never ever was I so happy on the Tennis court. And never ever did I find such joy in being exhausted and tired.

As I recall all of this, sitting on that part of NALSAR’s Boys Hostel terrace which is fancily called the ‘Dark side of the moon’, I get a feeling that it was all just a dream. Maybe I woke up or maybe I’m still dreaming. Maybe I’m something else in reality or maybe I’m just a character in someone else’s dream. How exactly am I to believe that one day I was holding a National Tournament’s trophy and on another day I’m sitting beside a shrinking lake gazing at millions of stars? Did all of it really happen to a tiny speck like me who’s on this particle called ‘planet’ which is hurling through the infinite blackness? But wait, it’s not all that unbelievable, is it? You just don’t value something until it’s lost. It never crossed my mind at that time that the memories that very moment had framed would be revisited a hundred times. I remember not being satisfied then. Yes, I wasn’t. I had lost Doubles in Semis and I was just regretting not doing what I did in Singles. I wanted more and I looked at those kids who had this very moment of glory way more number of times than I did. How much ever you do something or achieve something, you still feel incomplete. I guess that’s one of the most remarkable things of life – It’s never so good that it cannot get better and, sometimes, it’s never so bad that it cannot get worse.

And all such transcendental experiences are met only you sit alone and think of the past events. When the glory you once had is no more, I think the higher power should have the decency of stripping you of the knowledge that you even had it. But I’m not all that sad. I shouldn’t be. Maybe one day I’ll sit at some place similar and reminisce this exact moment. Where it’s just me! – sitting under this infinite blanket of blackness, gazing at the stars and thinking of the mysteries of creation. Yes, I will.

[This happens to be a true story and I’m the ‘boy’ in it, while ‘you’ is a girl who’s a batchmate and a good friend.]

So, you land up in the new city which you never ever visited in your life. New fragrance, new streets, new language and new transport system. Well, the last one is a drastic change if we consider its size and usage. I’m sure it leaves you in awe if you jump into a metropolitan city from a mountainous and less accessible one. However, you aren’t alone with all these new-fangled experiences. You have a company of a boy who’s younger than you and is a complete stranger to you when his whereabouts are considered. But, he happens to be your batchmate and quite probably one of your good friends in that isolated 55 acres beside a shrinking lake. And you start living with him for a month, just to tame that bitch called ‘internship’ that’d sugar-coat your CV.

Day 1 – You wake up at 6:30 AM and even before lightening up yourselves, you light up the Blackberry. It has a neat message displayed on its screen – ‘Data Services Charges – Rs. 0.1 | Available Balance Rs. 20.84’. You curse that black piece of technology for engaging itself in a spree of piquantly deducting your balance. Yes, it has been happening since a few months and hundreds of hard earned rupees your parents threw at you, time and again, have gone to waste. But then, why bother fixing it when it ain’t poking you! So, you carry on with all the activities that would make you look/smell beguilingly delight for the day. In the meanwhile, this boy gets you a recharge of Rs. 50 just so that your zero balance doesn’t collide with the roaming charges and ban even the incoming calls. You’re out of home for the day and you thank him on the way!

While the crowded bus creeps through the busy city, with merciful intervals of steadiness, you rejuvenate your love towards the same Blackberry. Punching in keys to tell the whole world, at least most of it, about how/what you’re doing. And the most wonderful thing of all – ignoring those tiny little messages about the balance deduction.

5:00 PM – You’ve been blown out of office as the work hours end. You go meet the boy at the Bus Station and throw yourselves along with him into an empty bus. While the bus crawls through the same route, the herd inside increases massively in number. You start sweating while at the same time thanking that you got a place to kneel your ass down, as it gets darker outside.

7:00 PM – You peep out through the window and try to figure out the proximity of the bus from your stop. The boy claims that the stop is almost there and asks you to get down through the ladies door at the front while he’s going to do the same through the back one for gents. With enormous struggle, you manage to reach the door. The bus stops at a traffic signal and voila! You jump out like there’s a herd of rats pinching your butt. As the bus moves away, your nervous system reacts to the fact that this boy hasn’t got down. Well, he’s going to get down at the intended stop and you were clever enough to do that at a traffic signal. With all the decency, the boy gets down at the stop only to find that you’re missing. He sneaks into the bus to see if you’ve been lazy enough not to move. Realizing that you’ve disappeared, he takes out his mobile and punches the call button to reach you. Heck! How could he? You’ve managed to blow a bountiful surprise at his face by dissipating all the balance your mobile had!

Now what? You rush to a mobile store to get a recharge. But, wait. Do you remember your own number? Using it for a year shouldn’t really help you do that. So, you dive into your own mobile to trace those ten digits. In the meanwhile, the boy gets a little panicked and he calls the girl at whose place you both have been staying. That girl, with a calm and sensible mind, asks him to stay where he is while she gets your mobile recharged. But the boy can barely stand still. So, he decides to walk a little bit and find a mobile store for himself. Hurray! He reaches the place where you thought you were lost. You look at him and start blabbering excuses while he exposes his angry face at you trying to enquire the crazy reason you got lost. But hey! He shouldn’t have panicked, right? So, you shout at him for panicking for a mere fact that you were lost in this new unknown city amidst all the uncommunicative people. He realizes that the screw is indeed a bit loose in someone’s brain and decides to keep quite.

No, no talk on the way back. He looks out trying to cool himself off and failing to find a way to vent it off while you dive into your Blackberry again to talk to your distant cousin/relative/friend. For one moment, he’s reminded of the fact that he has no sibling and it brings him joy! Taking care of his own self is what all he’s been doing in his life. A gazillion thoughts run into his head. The most important one still haunts him. What if he begets such a careless/carefree daughter? Would he still love her? And how does one teach ‘care’ to someone? – The thought of this shatters him and he’s forced by his inner self to stop from carrying the intellection ahead. Period.

Last night, I was watching Mughal-e-Azam for, maybe the hundredth time. The movie shows Jahangir to be in love with Anarkali and wants to marry her against Akbar’s wishes. They defy Akbar’s law which puts Anarkali on the death row. Fortunately, her mother produces a ring which Akbar had given her when she informed him of his son’s birth. This ring could be produced anytime in Akbar’s lifetime to get any wish granted. One question which has always popped up at the end of the movie was: ‘Why the hell didn’t Anarkali’s mother wish for Anarkali to become the Princesses when she reproduced Zin-e-Ilahi’s ring rather than merely wishing for the nullification of her death sentence?’ This question has remained unanswered since always and will be so for eternity.

Well, questions! There are a lot of them, with and without answers. But few of them, simply put, are not supposed to be asked at all. Say, what if Andy Dufrense had not got the last cell towards the bulwark, but one somewhere in the middle? Where would he have dug the hole to free himself? Oh! And Why is it that Hermione did not use her time-turner to bring back Cedric Diggory, Sirius Black, Albus Dumbledore or Dobby when she could make Buckbeak spring back to life? And in what language do the deaf people think when they could never hear any? Why do you call it a Television set when it’s only one Television? Why is does a fridge have a light while freezer doesn’t? Why is it that the question mark requires the usage of ‘shift’ and is above ‘/’ while you use it much more than ‘/’?

One may try answering any of these, but one should not. They are the best when they’re left as they are. The perennially perplexed questions which would botch up all the sense the world dribbles if they’re given answers. You can keep on throwing questions at yourselves until you reach the ultimate one: ‘why did God create the Apple fruit and place restrictions over it for Adam and Eve in Heaven? What was the point?’. Well, as Denny Crane says in the very first episode of Boston Legal, “Questions like that will kill you. You don’t ask. That’s the point!” There are enough questions which are awaiting answers. These don’t have to be a part of them!

They say that every human being is born with a set of abilities, skills and capacities to do things in his life. Those who use their abilities wisely in a timely manner end up successful. But the problem is that it just takes a while to realize this fact. And by the time you do realize, you would’ve wasted much of your happening life already, doing ten things simultaneously. And there goes the ‘success’. You become nothing but a victim of your unplanned and undesired childhood.

And when you think of all this, you turn yourselves into a poignant silence. The kind of abnormal life I’ve had has put me into this wonderful dilemma. If one asks as to how I’m just 18 and into the 3^rd year of my graduation or why my 10^th standard memorandum is titled ‘private’, I repeat the same old story to everyone. The double promotions my parents forced me to go through, the Tennis addiction and disappointments I’ve been through and the reason I didn’t do my schooling from the 8^th standard onwards. Though the people might just wash it off as a fib and taradiddle, this is the truth.  This is indeed the truth and I’m not at all proud of it. Yes, I might be the youngest of my batch and I swear I’m not proud of it.

No, I’m not a good writer. I’m not half as good as the kids who’ve joined my college a year after I did. I’m not good at academics. Not at moots. Not at debates. Not at Tennis. Not at Web Developing. Not even with the basic General Knowledge. As much as I love CLATGyan, I hate it for a mere reason that these kids pinch my butt making me realize that I’m not as good as they are. Every ‘Ask-Us’ query that I reply stabs me to remind me of the truth that I don’t deserve NALSAR. I’ve never had what it takes to be a NALSARite and I never will do.

I wish I had done one thing. Just one. And had nailed it. I wish I had started playing Tennis a little earlier. I wish I had taken the courage to convince my parents that I’d really want to become a commercial pilot, instead of going berserk over the Flight Simulator. I wish I had taken up Web Developing seriously enough to make it my profession. I wish I had gone to school and done nothing else. I so wish the world had been different. I wish I had been good with one thing rather than being nowhere with so many. Well, I wish that at least these thoughts, which spiel again and again, hadn’t crossed my mind.

But now what? I’m definitely not going to get my Childhood back and even if I do, I’m certain that it wouldn’t be better than what it had been. And whom do I blame for this? That is exactly the trouble I have, at the very moment. This remains, and continues to remain, a question which cannot be answered. The closest I had ever been to answering that question is to blame it all on my existence.

Just like what Mirza Ghalib said:

Gham-e-Hasti Ka Asad, Kis Se Ho Juz Marh Ilaaj?
Shamma Har Rang Mein Jalti Hai Saher Hone Tak!

What cure does your suffering from the pain of existence have? (but death)
A candle burns in every colour until the dawn.

Not a single day goes by without his name crossing by my mind. And as I recall those conversations I had with my 1st semester roommate, I’m writing this just to preserve the moments I had with him. A few of them which I can specifically attribute to that Mallu guy with “Flash” written on his back of the T Shirt, as if he knew since ages that he’s just a flash for this planet.

It was 29th of June 2010 when I first saw him in the Examination Hall during our admission interviews. When I reached the SNAS’s desk, SNAS passed over a chit which had “Room Number 214 – BH II – Mahesh Gopan” written on it. He was then giving a lecture on what to do and what not while I was scanning the scene behind me to find that Gopan Guy. And well, I see him waiting right next to me. Waiting for his turn to receive a chit with my name and to listen to the same SNAS cassette. I shook hands with him and said “Hi… We’re roommates!.. Asad” and he reverts back saying “Hey! Nice. My name is there re, on that chit you’re holding!”. … Putting a titter on our faces, we then headed to our room.

While Sparta was cleaning our room…( at least he was pretending to), I introduced my roommate to my dad while he introduced me to his dad. The same followed for the mothers. Though I don’t remember the entire conversation my dad had with his, I remember his dad asking mine, “Which batch of LLB did you pass out from?” and my dad replied “1977”. His dad startled a bit and said “Aaah.. Even I’m a 1977 pass out!” and my dad replied saying “Nice! And our sons will pass out from the same batch as well”. Both of them laughed hysterically while I and Gopan stared at each other. Obviously, he had the smile he always had. Always! As if it was just as inherent as one of the parts of his body. Or maybe, that was just Gopan. He had the same smile even during some professor’s bawl out for missing his attendance.

Initially, all we shared were our ragging experiences! How we escaped and how we were trapped by our brute seniors. How our schooling went and who all he dated and hated. The conversations weren’t often personal. He usually turned up late to bed and woke up late. Generally, the only time we used to see each other awake was at around 8:30 in the morning when I used to try waking him up for the class. “What’s the first class dude?” was his default reply. Back then we were given the Time Table and I stuck it on my wall from where I used to give the answer to his question. He then used to shoot some lame excuse to hit the bed back again saying “It’s okay re… I’ll see you in the next class!” Sometimes I did try tickling and feeling up his body, just to wake him up. But that affected him in no way and he did tell me many times that he isn’t ticklish. During the end of that semester, whenever we met, poking each other was the natural way of greeting. And oh! we all know this, if someone had knocked on some door at around 1:30 in the night, no one even had a slightest doubt that it wasn’t him touring the hostel for food. “Dude… Have you got any food re?” was his common dialogue at every door.

And the time passed as we shared a lot of personal things. Definitely way more than normal friends do. We were not just friends, but good ones. And obviously the conversations, by the virtue of being personal, cannot be disclosed here.

28th June 2011 – At the staircase near the gym on the first floor. He was sitting on the first step looking at a colourful birthday card. On asking who gave it, he smiled and said “Someone re!”. Well that was enough for anyone who knew him to understand. We were still smiling while he got up said he was going somewhere and the last thing we did, obviously, was to poke! He poked me and when I tried, he escaped! .. That unsuccessful poke, really hard to believe, was the last one!

Wondering who actually the loser is now, I don’t think it is Gopan who’s missing the world. It’s us who’s missing him. He has gone away living the best of years and leaving a lot of memories. He managed to escape the phase where you’re to work, earn, take care of your family and friends, grow old, get on a wheel chair and of course to struggle with whatever difficulties life would give. He flew away taking off during his birthday party, that too while swimming!, with no need of putting on the landing lights again.

Praying that his family gets the courage and strength to deal with the loss,
Asad.

—

One of his Favourite Quotations on Facebook reads:

In my next life I want to live my life backwards. You start out dead and get that out of the way. Then you wake up in an old people’s home feeling better every day. You get kicked out for being too healthy, go collect your pension, and then when you start work, you get a gold watch and a party on your first day. You work for 40 years until you’re young enough to enjoy your retirement. You party, drink alcohol, and are generally promiscuous, then you are ready for high school. You then go to primary school, you become a kid, you play. You have no responsibilities, you become a baby until you are born. And then you spend your last 9 months floating in luxurious spa-like conditions with central heating and room service on tap, larger quarters every day and then Voila! You finish off as an orgasm! – Woody Allen

Blogs or Weblogs have become “cool” these days. I don’t know of anyone who doesn’t have or dream of having one. But, it’s surprising how the Blog fever has spread faster than any viral disease on this planet. And everyone has their own reason for having one. Some plan to show off that even they can ‘write’ while some want to make the readers cry by telling them the dilemmas they’ve been facing in their lives. Whatever the aim is, it all comes down to one common point. Making others read and appreciate. This is exactly what I wouldn’t do with my blog. I neither have the desire nor the inclination to get applauses for taking my time out and writing. Well… then there has to be a reason for everything. (Somewhat similar to what the theory of determinism says). And what is the reason behind me wasting the time to write all this crap?

You see, Change is inevitable. It happens with everyone. The older you grow, the more mature you become. But what is missing in people these days are the reminiscences of their past. Until and unless you recall what you were at a certain point of time or before a life changing event occurred, you will not stay on the ground. While it’s okay to fly high in your own territory, this particular phenomena causes people to intrude over others’. There has to be something which slaps you on the back of your head and reminds you of what you were before whatever made you what you are right now.

But the thought that I might just lose track of the past and fly over and above the cruising altitude scares the shit out of me. And that is the very reason I have this blog. To keep track of what I’ve been. Maybe, I might laugh at myself when I read this after 10 years. I’m sure I will. At least, I hope to. Well, that’s the point. I would’ve been changed by then. But, this blog would be a way to recall what I was. As I said earlier, Change is bound to happen. And the worst part is that you won’t realize it. Only the people who are around you are the ones who’ll tell you whether you’ve changed or not. But, what better than knowing the change you’ve gone through by yourselves. Spending a few minutes everyday to write a post won’t hurt. When I read these posts after a few months or years, that is when I’ll notice the change. And as I said, if your ego is taking you to places, your ailerons will be levelled with these recollections. And this will make sure that the flow of coolant in your body is steady.

Hoping that this blog serves me for what it has been made.