Reading Idgah by Munshi Premchand

Idgah is a story written by Munshi Premchand. It was published in 1933, when India was still under colonial rule.

The story gives a tele-micro-nanoscopic view of realities of its space and time. While focusing on the interaction of children in the story with the spaces constructed and created by adults (which contained within it the east-west interfacial spaces), the story spectrumises the journey from fasting to feasting; from village to city; from desire to need; from spaces of the colonized to colonized spaces.

In moving from the milieu of village to the milieu of city, the story moves from one way of life to the one implanted with instruments by the colonizer. And in the encounter of children with these instruments in the form of toys (policeman, lawyer, etc.) the story highlights and questions the exclusivity of these implanted institutions. Further,  the story also anticipates the dangers of superimposing the elements of one space over the other without taking into consideration the unique language of that space and through the metaphor of chimta (a pair of tongs used for cooking Indian bread) the story presents to the reader an organic and inclusive option.

Actually, the story articulates its way by first engaging with the complexities of celebration by zooming in and out from the innocence and awareness of children. Id-the festival in the story-has at its nucleus the concept of fasting. At the most basic level, it’s a journey from fasting to feasting, where feasting or may be fasting also is married to economics. Children in the story challenge this conventionality by going to idgah without fasting. So basically, children enter into the world of adults by (first and foremost) unstitching the conventionality. This challenging is found nuanced in Hamid who further unstitches the conventionality by fasting against the delicacies on the feast day to ultimately buy a chimta for his grandmother. That is to say, Hamid feasts by controlling his desires and buying a utility, a need of his grandmother.

In the final words of the story, when Hamid gifts this chimta to his grandmother, Premchand adds another frequency to this cultural-economic complexity by writing in the tears of Ameena-the grandmother-silences of love. Khushwant Singh’s translation of the story expresses the same as follows:

And the strangest thing happened— stranger than the part played by the tongs was the role of Hamid the child playing Hamid the old man. And old Granny Ameena became Ameena the little girl. She broke down. She spread her apron and beseeched Allah’s blessings for her grandchild. Big tears fell from her eyes. How was Hamid to understand what was going on inside her!

In other words, at every level the story is trying to access what is not immediately accessible and in doing so, is attempting to collect some light from the shadows.

You can read Khushwant Singh’s English translation of the story here:

The story is also adapted into a short film, written and directed by Gulzar. But I will advise you to read the story because the film does not highlight the section on toys which I think is crucial for the postcolonial reading of the story. In fact according to me it is the most important part of the story which asks important questions related to self of the nation.

Here is the original version of the story photographed from Premchand Rachna Sanchayan published by Sahitya Akademi:



Why Should We Teach Western Literary Theory to Indian Students?

First and foremost, it is important to focus on the situation of this question. What is leading us to ask this question is probably the plight of India and its students; or may be, obscurity of the language of literary theory or possibly, birth of literary theory in a context other than ours. This article by trying to elaborate on these three roots of this question will ultimately attempt to answer the titular question.

The processes which constitute, construct and create the Indian student result in various kinds of relationship of Indian student with western literary theory, an approximation of which is presented in the following pie chart:


Present Situation

Plight of the students of English literature in India cannot be understood without mentioning the propping up of coaching institutes for UGC-NET exam; their YouTube channels and the number of students and teachers succumbing to financial and social pressures who find themselves in these institutes and following their internet channels. Of course there are students who escape this mesh, there are others who cannot for the sake of survival. To be able to address our questions it is again imperative to understand why a student visits the coaching institute. The reasons are:

  1. Students are unable to cope up with the amount of syllabus (which I will not focus on in this article)
  2. Students could not understand the postgraduate or graduate content of their course.

Another consideration which should be kept in mind is that plight of Indian students also consists in the fact that many students associate a course in English literature with prestige and many others who do not. In other words, there are infatuated students and there are students who are not infatuated.

So, what I am trying to get at is that even after teaching western literary theory the result is not evolution. What happens is that the elements of this structure in no way address the questions of literary theory. Students who are reading about questioning the status quo in a structure which does not itself questions the problems rather perpetuate and produce the status quo. You will find this fact related by the end of this article.

Language of Literary Theory

Many Indian students fear language of theory. How does language and fear go together? The answer probably can be theorized in terms of inaccessibility of language. Theory is usually not experienced as expression by the student. The reason being a difference in the language of theory and language of various other genres of expression. It is claimed that language of theory sprays out rationality which shoos away students. Though it is possible that they are absolutely accessible in the original language in which they were written, reading them far removed from their original contexts and language contributes to our inability to relate to them. May be the situation will be different, if we also read stories of theories and ask questions like: why were they written? In what conditions were they written? In what spaces were they written? Whom did they specifically address? Etc. But the question which is haunting is that can theory be written in Wordsworth’s language and if yes, will authorities, institutions and general public be able to go beyond the written word and understand its complexities.

Story of Theory

It is a possibility that literary theory was born to problematize the problems of representations in literature and give a voice to what was yet left unexpressed. Literary theory is a language which tries to unveil language. It tries to unveil a language which one expresses when one is not physically expressing. It protects us from colonization by any kind of language.

Everything that happens in our world, happens in language or through language. It is very important to realize the possibility of hegemonic throttling of expression. Literary theory is one way of realizing this. It is one way amongst others in our own philosophical literary tradition which can make the student of literature in India question the status quo rather than getting trapped in it.

Literary theory by giving a language to those who have lost it sets them in the direction of liberation and evolution. It should be taught to broaden their perspective; to come out of glorifications and infatuations; to make us realize the beyond context nature of human self; to reason out the silencing and vacuuming; to make us more humane; to go beyond binaries and address complexities.

So, in order to understand language, in order to take dives into ourselves, in order to deal with the problems of human societies it is important to teach the perspectives of  Western Literary Theory along with other Indian theories and philosophies to Indian students.


सीमा और उसका भाई टेलिविज़्न पर अँग्रेज़ी में ख़बरे देखते हुए एंकर की नकल उतारते. चुकी दोनो को ही अँग्रेज़ी नही आती थी तो उनकी नकल की भाषा कुछ ऐसी होती: ब्लालाल श्वा ललालपलाल ख्डलॉबॅडश्वलला. उन्हे ऐसा करने में बड़ा मज़ा आता. सीमा की उम्र बारह साल थी और उसके भाई की दस साल. एक दिन दोनो को बड़े स्कूल में डाल दिया. बड़े स्कूल में पढ़ाई अँग्रेज़ी में होती थी. भाई बहन में से किसी को यह भाषा अभी तक समझ नही आती थी. घर में एक आद शब्द के अलावा कोई भी वह भाषा नही समझता था. नए स्कूल की कक्षा में तो अँग्रेज़ी जाने बिना काम नही चल सकता था इसीलिए दोनो ने शब्दावली माने डिक्षनरी रटना शुरू कर दी. रट रट कर वे किसी तरह उनकी ज़िंदगी की इस नई भाषा को समझने लगे. पर जब तक वे समझ पाते तब तक क्लास कहीं की कहीं पहुँच चुकी होती. जिस गति से वे समझ रहे थे और जिस गति से लेसन चलते थे उसमे काफ़ी फ़र्क था.

वे दोनो कक्षा के मुक़ाबले काफ़ी धीरे चल रहे थे. रट रट कर ही किसी तरह नए स्कूल में भी परीक्षा पास कर लेते थे. दोनो में से किसी को भी यह बात समझ न आती की वे अपने घर की भाषा में स्कूल की पढ़ाई क्यूँ नही कर सकते. उन्हे यह भी समझ नही आता की उनके माता पिता या उनकी पड़ोसन स्कूल की भाषा क्यूँ नही बोल पाते. तो उन्होने यह समझ लिया की स्कूल की भाषा पढ़ाई की भाषा है और घर की भाषा घर की भाषा है. उनके मुताबिक स्कूल और घर की भाषा में यही फ़र्क था. लेकिन जब परीक्षा के परिणाम दर परिणाम आने लगे और यह तय हो गया की स्कूल की पढ़ाई की भाषा ही उनकी पीठ थपथपवाएगी तो वह उसी भाषा में लिखी किताबें ज़्यादा पढ़ने लगे. उन किताबों मे ऐसा बहुत कुछ था जो उन्होने अबतक अनुभव नही किया था. उन किताबों के लेखको के नाम भी उनके आस पास के नामों जैसे नही थे. ज्ञान प्राप्त करने में वो हैरान रहे.  वे दूर दराज़ की बाते जीने लगे और संसार की गतिविधियों, विचारधाराओं, आविष्कारों, आदि से अवगत होने लगे.

वह घर वाली भाषा जिसमे वह खेले थे, नहाए थे, सोए थे, कूटे गये थे वह पीछे छूटने लगी और उसका ज्ञान और एहसास भी. क्यूंकी अब उसका इस्तेमाल नही था. अब वह नई भाषा में खेलना चाहते थे, नहाना चाहते थे, सोना चाहते थे.

कई सालों बाद…

वह जब और बड़े हुए तो उन्हे यह समझ नही आता था कि यह काम वाली बाई काम वाली क्यूँ है? उसके कपड़ों से बदबू क्यूँ आती है? आख़िर हिंदू मुसलमान लड़ते क्यूँ है? नेताओं के मॅन से बटवारे का ख़याल गया क्यूँ नही? अगर कॉलोनाइज़र ने हमे लडवाया था तो हम काम वाली के पानी का ग्लास अलग क्यूँ रखते हैं? हम विदेश क्यूँ जाना चाहते हैं? झुग्गियों में रहने वाले भंगी क्यूँ होते हैं? क्या घर की भाषा की व्याकरण ग़लत करने का डर उतना ही है जितना स्कूल की भाषा की व्याकरण ग़लत करने का? हमे ये सआदत हसन मंटो, फ़ैज़ अहमद फ़ैज़, इस्मत चुगताई, आदि के नाम नही पता मगर इनकी कहानियाँ बेयुवुल्फ से ज़्यादा अपनी क्यूँ लगती हैं? हमें महाश्वेता देवी का नाम तब क्यूँ पता चला जब उनके मरने की खबर न्यूज़ में आई…..?

दोनो भाई बहन जब बूढ़े हुए तो अपने बचपन का न्यूज़ एंकर की नकल उतारने वाला खेल अपने नाते, नातियों, पोते, पोतियों के साथ खेला करते. खेल के लफ्ज़ कुछ ऐसे होते: ब्लालाल श्वा ललालपलाल ख्डलॉबॅडश्वलला…

Vincentness in Lust for Life

Lust for life is a fictional biography of Vincent Van Gogh by Irving Stone. I read this book or rather I should say I experienced it. It journeys the story of the life of Vincent Van Gogh: the ‘lunatic’, the artist who started ‘too late’. He was twenty seven. Until he reached this number, he was crippling under the contraptions of constructions as an art salesman and under the ideologies of religion and power as an evangelist in one of the torturous abyss humanity has ever known. All of it could writhe his intestines but lifeness of life extended its stay via a splash of lines and shades into the space he was constitutive of. Ignited by that splash he is burning and radiating since then. Even today.

Lust for life is the story of one who didn’t know, who didn’t pretend to know…whose life belonged to that which a man is left with when he no longer has teeth or mind. Each layer of his consciousness had an expressive streak waiting too long to be placed on the way to illumination.

And then each day of next ten years he have had an intercourse with colorness. He wombed out a creation each day of those ~ten, eleven years. He didn’t dissolve to come to a transparent liquid. To the splash of colors he responded by giving them each a new kind of colorness and to the spaces where they belonged, a ravine spaceness. His loam lay in the plaster of his canvas; his earth in the tubes of his paints; his plough in his brushes. He loved peasantness. He laboured for it. The expanse of beautiness of beauty around matured him into the romance of the sentence: “character is beauty, however sordid it may be”.

Passionate absorption into the millions of passionate drops led him into the clouds, the rain, the river, the mines, the fields, the cafes, the Arles, the brick, the hill, the loam, the stars and all of this into him. It was the ‘soilness’ of expression which absorbed vincent.

In the dark of absorption he created light. To the light he gave his canvas…

I must leave you with the picture of an excerpt from the book.

Over to Vincent and his words…in the following pictures of pages 363 and 364 from the book:




What of Him Lives in Us…Lives in Us

His body had turned into junk

His body had become food to mite

Each leaf and page of that body had stagnation stagnating it

It yearned for the recycling house (kabadi ka ghar)

Recycling house–the seat of Dharmraj

He reached cremation ground

No, he didn’t reach cremation ground

What reached cremation ground was junk

He left behind in us

Some in you, some in me

Some in the context which had made the stagnation pools in his body

Recycling house placed his body at the first stair of the way to becoming one with fire, water, wind, sky

It will lend it on to the first road towards life

But that of him which is left in us

Can neither become scrap

Nor can it go to the recycling house…

What of Him Lives in Us…Lives in Us



Let’s Converse…

Behind the clocks
are words in hiding

They lay in the pockets of pyjamas
with the sleeping forgotten keys

From the wallet
kept in the jeans’ back pocket
they were found screaming into butt cheeks

On the roads
under the speeding tires
they lay rocking and rolling

From the wrinkles of these old walls
they shed off as a ripened fruit
falls from a plant

They are their in the fists of a kid
clearing the fog from the glasses of a car…

About Words in Times of Relational Vacuuming…

Losing In..nat..e..ivity…



Hasn’t it become very common to violate our own bodies? Are you also abusing your own body, your own breath? That’s the title of the poem:

It’s route is through ‘the body’
It’s roots are through-
Out the body
Fitting, adjusting, moulding
Its innateness
The river of breath penetrates the lifeless matter

The river of breath penetrates the lifeless matter
Inside Us

Inside Us
The river of breath unfastens its robe
Hangs it
Roams around
Dances around
Plays around
Sings around
And yes, flares around
Churns out from the densest of forests
Our innateness
Our nativity

Crossing and climbing a huge wall
If it falls with a thud on the other side
It laughs and smiles
Getting ready to create…
…What lies between sadness and happiness
Chiseling out for us A G E
Rather than its mirage…
Emerging out of the vortex of desires in this AGE


Is There a Difference Between a Poem and a Song?

Languages are born with intonations and into intonations. They are primarily sound waves. Musicality is also constitutive of waves. Now, does that bring to your imagination: sea waves, air waves, microwaves etc.etc.etc.?

Yes, we breathe and live in a wavy galaxy.

There was the silence. And then boom! The waves happened. The sound happened. The words happened. The speech happened. The language happened. The poetry happened. The song happened.

Or the song happened and then poetry happened? Or both happened together?

But we are at a stage of evolution where we do not classify anything and everything that happens in language as poetry or song. I am not saying that we can give a definition to these two genres of expression. Of course we cannot. But one can say they are the genres of feeling. So, they are kin at the level of their conception as waves and at the level of feeling. They are waves created out of waves and seeded back into the world of waves. Yet, do you also ponder upon their being separate genres? Is it true that what cannot be sung, cannot be poetry?

In many cultures around the world poetry was written to be sung so much so that distinction between the two genres was not even considered. In fact some scholars say that human cultures began with the oral tradition with verse forms composed only to be sung. It is a very popular statement by literary giants that poetry comes with its own music. And even today we see poetry turning into songs thereby entering into a circle of consciousness wider than it inhabited before. Wikipedia lists a number of songs based on poems. Here is the link: . Indian cinema is full of poetry turned into songs. There is a long tradition of Ghazals culminating into songs.


Everyone who has read a lot of poetry and heard a lot of songs must be having their own answers for the question. Here is what I feel about it:

We encounter poetry as written word (or if sung, then as sound, but then it is a song) and a song as sound. In a poem we meet the “abilities” of a series of words. In a song, we meet one of that ability manifested: the ability to flow like a river without becoming conscious of the same. I talk about the abilities of a poem and yet if a poem turns into a song, it is a fact, that it enters wider social consciousness.

Imagine what kind of a song T.S.Eliot’s Wasteland, if tried, can turn into? Words just do not turn into a song in a macabre context. Yet there is, Amrita Pritam’s “Aj Akkhan Waris Shah Nu” sung by Wadali Brothers. Amrita Pritam urges Waris Shah–punjabi sufi poet who authored Heer Ranjha–in the grotesque context of Indian Partition. And then there is our very own Bob Dylan: the song writer; the literary Nobel laureate 2017.  This gives us another question to wonder about: what kind of poems turn into songs? Of course, a poem comes with its own music, but then what is their in it which marries it to a musician’s (artist other than the poet) creation? It will not let us know… 😀

Poetry lets us be with the uncertain. It gifts us and leaves us with something which always and always slips out of our hands. It plays. It is it’s andaaz–it’s style and it’s way. And may be so does it is of songs…

The court is open for discussion.

There is a Difference…

There is ‘IIT-IIM’ Chetan Bhagat and then there was a banker who turned Paul Gauguin…

There is capitalisation and then there is imagination…

Some people turn from MBA to remain an MBA, some turn into great ARTISTs…

Some people shake hands with status quo…some people try to subvert it…

Some people are always afraid living in the garb of civilisation…some people throw it off to become savage; to commit to life(an art)…

(I recently read The Way to Paradise by Mario Vargas Llosa)




Can we be Someone Else?

Over the centuries we humans have created myriad jobs to better this universe and to prevent the chaos we usually indulge in, in the absence of checks. Yet there are millions jobless; another million who fear loss of job; another million who live with the anxiety of getting a job.; another million who live under impressions to beget impressions . The faction of us who belong to this million try to ape the “bestest”. The faces flashed on our television (especially advertisement) screens are exactly the ones we want to become. The question is how can we be someone else when we are who we are? How is this wish to be someone else, to meet someone else and not one’s own self find its way into our minds and increase the already heightened entropy? (Wouldn’t increase in number of similar people reduce the variety of workers required for the job?)


PS: What I am going to write about constitutes human feeling and its writing over.

Especially as kids-the revolutionary kids-our cries, sadness, rebellion, happiness, erupted out of some elder trying to either discipline us or make us feel committed to something. By the way, do we not still rebel? Have we grown up yet? Have we evolved enough to let commitment or discipline seep in? Don’t we, even now, doodle and dawdle like kids and feel like giving a kick to whoever established that establishment? But then even doodling and dawdling requires a kind of commitment or discipline. Even dawdling starts slipping out of our hands as soon as the sense of stagnation seeps in, which means what we really wish to kick off is this sense of stagnation. Though human life kicks one enough to not even think about this stagnation, yet we cannot deny its seeping in, even if for few seconds. Though some proportion of our feeling is weaved out of our sense of being committed or disciplined, a portion of it is also written because we either don’t want to be committed or don’t want to be tamed by discipline. We, sometimes, want to fly without nesting or resting…which is too ambitious. Commitment or discipline is about nesting or resting; they give one roots.

It seems you don’t really agree. That’s why I will try to think about the words: discipline and commitment separately; what is there in them that aches the human soul and what can heal it. I will only try thinking about them as,

Yet all that I have learn’d
By long experience, and in famous schooles,
Is but to know my ignorance at last.
Who think themselves most wise are greatest fools.

William Alexander, Earl of Stirling

Admission as a disciple of the ‘discipline’ can do one wonders. It is definitely a challenge to become one. But then there is another word called ‘commitment’, which opens its arms again only to challenge the human spirit. Both though drive us away from procrastination one is tempted to ask: is there a difference between the two or both of them employ their energies to tame the human being? Yes, words do possess energies which constructs civilizational sensibility. Civilizational sensibility constructed by the words commitment and discipline have invariably made us confront the difference between what civilization wants of us and what we want of ourselves. Why? Why is there a difference between what civilization wants of us and what we want of ourselves? Does that mean we want to be spoiled brats and it wants us to be table mannered children? Whatever the answers to these questions, it is almost certain that discipline has in its connotation the tendency to rule while commitment means self rule. To be ruled is suffocating while to rule one’s own self for the sake of commitment is liberating. But then can we teach kids to be committed without making them undergo a rigorous discipline plan? A movement from discipline to commitment is required or should we be reared as committed beings?

I feel what arrest is to discipline, anchor is to commitment. It is in human nature to search for anchors but escape arrest. Yet, arrest, many a times makes us visit what was hitherto not visited. That means arrest is constitutive of movement but so are anchors. An anchored boat can be liberated at any point of time. Oops…are we entering into another debate… between anchoring and arresting?

But I am sure that since you are not getting any answers out of this post, you feel I must be committed or disciplined enough to provide you with some anchors. But, didn’t I arrest you for a while? :D… by the use of that PS: in beginning…


We cannot bind it in definition, so invested is the concept of eternity.

Love is when you look mad and beautiful at the same time. It is intriguing how madness and beauty can go hand in hand….ahem! may be they go hand in leg?… you see, they are madness and beauty…but we forgot method…the journey from madness to beauty is after all propelled by method. Method in madness, the Shakespearean idiom brought me to aforesaid sentence. How can one impede from coming to the mind master’s creations especially when one is talking of love.

Today, on this blog, love is when somebody makes you able enough to speak and is hell bent on doing the same yet never appears on the surface pursuing the same because the feeling dwells deep with in and refuse to embrace the affectations. And speech is what takes you to the other and to yourself. By speech, I mean conversation with yourself and with others. So, one who connects you to yourself or you to the world or you to the universe, is the one who loves you best. This is where the madness, method and beauty comes in and forth. So simple you see. Ha ha…

Let us witness a bit more simplicity of our existence

To be with in one body and not know its soul is the weirdest feeling. Everyday we wish to know it and do various activities to know it. But what if it slips out of your grip every time you attempt to understand it. That is where the other comes in. That is where you try to understand yourself through the other being and try to see yourself reflected therein. But the problem with observing your reflection in the other is that, one is many a times deceived into believing some reflection as the truest reflection. And that happens probably because of the contexts we are living in; because of the deficient measurement of how nearer are we to ourselves. Though, to come near to one’s own self one needs the other, it is the nearness to one’s own self which helps in having a clear view of the reflection in the other. So, it goes round and round and round. One may find many a reflectors…which means a part of us is in everybody of us, but some have higher proportion of us. But nobody can be us, because if somebody can be us, then the whole game of reflection ends and ensues the rusting process. In fact the one who attempts a way away from rust is really in love…with life. So you see it is in the mirrors that life sustains, yet it cannot sustain only in them. It ought deboard and board the mirror ship again and again for us to fall in love again and again and not enter the contraptions which might trap us in the rusting process.

Speech and conversation is what takes one to reflection grounds where one can observe one’s own self and connect with others. They help boarding and deboarding of the mirror ships and are instrumental in prevention of rusting process.

Let me end by saying, love is both unison and diversion; it is both similarity and dissimilarity; it is both madness and beauty. And one who lets you enter the distance between unison and diversion; similarity and dissimilarity; madness and beauty is the one who is madly in love because in that being lies the method which brings you the beauty.

So…my dear reflectors…Love you all…:)…


Nothing to be apologetic about your feeling of restlessness and bent towards blaming for the atrocities you face. After all, it informs one about the existence of a feather hitherto unknown. But, since it gives your stomach an eerie feeling, it is required to be mollified and morphosed into something which can alleviate all the gastronomic troubles; which can turn your being into a perfumery. And who does not like the thought of turning into a living, walking perfume or the whole perfumery?

Let us confront that restlessness has become common these days. Confrontation is one apparatus life sustains on. Now, notice, I am using the word confrontation and not pugilism. If you and I were together this evening, I would have liked conversing about the same and brought to the table, the topic of poetic confrontation.

Poetic: the word at times inspire awe, at others, is not considered worthy of welcome. If you belong to this other school of thought, it is required of you to keep your prejudices quiet for the length of this column. By poetic, I mean one should strive to become an absorbent and a reflector; absorbent of circumstances and reflector of the mystery in an ordered form.  It gives one a kind of calm when upon reflection, a rainbow like beauty is conceived.

But before going further, let me inform you, this is not a lecture. This blog post is an attempt to converse and know what goes on in the mind of my reader (which can be shared by commenting).

Mind is the breeding ground. Whenever we resist our circumstances and attempt to halt their course, this breeding ground stales and stinks. Nevertheless, we do that, thinking it will bring us some magical potion. But far from magic what we do get is a lump of putrid entities. Don’t we? So you see, all of it is in keeping with contemporary techniques; with experimentation. It is therefore important to flow with and confront whatever comes our way rather than consciously attempting to halt the train provoking constipation and ultimately farts. The flow assures a route away from restlessness. Now, if one succeeds in resisting the resistance of one’s mind, one encounters stones and puddles on the way. To create a way out of them, while being with them is where the aesthetics lie. To stay and look into the eye of harsh circumstance is therefore a feat. But doing it poetically is where lies the greatest strength.

Attending to ‘all’ that goes on around us calmly, raises our understanding of life and hence helps us live fully. This is where poetry comes in. Poetry is best at taking into consideration the context and then potterising it into sublimity. This happens because by attending, we increase the perimeter of our selves. In other words, we increase the space where we usually accommodate others; circumstances. If one succeeds in aping poetry, life can actually turn from restlessness to beauty.

And all of this turns us into collective beings, more sensitive towards others, which further leads to showering of love upon us from the collection, hence reducing the route to restlessness into a non-entity.

So for the sake of love, let us confront poetically and sprinkle the beauty of our perfumery. What say?

Interpretation of an Art Work

Before writing this post I should have interviewed or rather I should say interacted with an artist. But then I thought, rather than irking a soul, especially an artistic one, I should first compose the question. And since compositions are meant to be shared, I am here with my text, though after a long gap, as is usually the case at this blog. Nevertheless, I must defend my “non defendable self” by saying…..(its too private, I can’t share it; its too long, you won’t enjoy it; its too boring for your intelligence)….so let’s chuck it.

Back to the question, I wanted to ask the artist. Actually, I should first announce my personal feeling about it.




May be, I am taking too long to articulate the question. But just like I myself am intimidated by the question, I fear my reader might as well shrink after hearing it. This is not to butter-ify my reader,but I must say that I am dealing with a reader who revels in the distance from facts. Actually we should all revel in the distance from facts, for there is my truth, your truth and the truth, AND FACTS DO NOT FIT EITHER OF THEM. Anyways, my apologies to the factual “selves”.

Convolutions are mostly or I must say always intentional. Do attempt to decipher out the convolution the writer of this post has been trying to construct hitherto. Ok! now allow me to solve one for you.

So, my personal feeling about the question, “what is your art work about?, please explain it”, is that this question should either be properly constructed in a “convolutionary” way or it should not be asked.

In convolutions lie “precious-ity”; they can be depth-less or depth-full; it is in this game that the pleasure lies.

The questioner can shower respects to the artist’s effort by properly constructing the question. Just like, John Ciardi says one should not ask, “what does a poem mean?”, rather, “how does a poem mean?”, one should not attempt a reductive and direct question: “what does your art work mean?” It is almost as if the questioner is saying, “I have my antennas rusted, can I borrow yours for interpretation of your art work?”

The art work always mean different things. And it should mean different things. It is in its multiplicity that its aesthetics lie. Art work is a foundling after it is released from the artist’s mind and soul on to the canvas. True that, one must respect the history and personal life of the author which produced that art work but then one must also respect the fact that history and personal life come into being from a complex matrix of multitude of interpretations in author’s mind. One ought respect that multitudinal matrix by constructing the question in a proper way. One ought respect this foundling. Breathing in conventions needed for its  aesthetic survival, it remains for the large part of its life free from “the facts”; free from the conventions which want fast answers.

Whenever somebody asks this question directly about an art work, it irks me deeply. Though I have attempted to jot down the reasons, I am still not very sure about the causes of this ache. May be some of you share it or some of you do not. The question is open to both categories of readers and also to those who do not belong to either of them.

The question precisely is, “whether it is apt to directly ask the artist, what does your art work mean? and whether, “meaning is the only end, an art work’s interpretation should strive for?”

Complacency is a Disease: An Acerbic Note

Almost everyday, on my way, I see a dead body wrapped in white waiting for its turn to turn into ashes. Some elder readers might find this beginning utterly clichéd and to some younger ones, it may sound depressing. But however much clichéd or depressing it might seem to be, almost always a crematorium ground is found capable of arising in one few questions: clichéd, depressing or agitating ones.

I am writing this post because honestly I feel agitated when a hardworking day labourer goes to bed without getting his due. And because the infectious fever allows some in the system to earn lakhs for doing nothing or for doing everything for themselves and not for the context or society they are embedded in; not for the society from which they derive their so called individuality. It is this disease which ought be weeded out. And precisely I wish to talk about education system in our country. While there are many teachers who work day in and day out for their students, (I have met such teachers. In fact I have a friend who prepares for her students as if she is to face world cup finals and impressive is the fact that she does that everyday.) there are others who give way to all the complacency inducing ingredients.

Agreed, binaries are inevitable. But do we need such binaries. Agreed that in every system there are few best, some mediocre and some not so good workers. But then wouldn’t it be great if those not so good ones find out what actually they are good at. Everybody has to anyhow ultimately wrap that crematorium white; so wouldn’t it be great if everyone finds out what they are good at doing rather than constipating the system; rather than wrapping the crematorium white much before their due.

Our system is in dire need of passionate workers.

Now, passion is when one is keen on passing to future generations what life taught them and it lies in stimulating minds of students to move ahead of bibliography and citations. When one realises that the original subject is life and not the pedantic alphabetical letters ( though alphabets might themselves contain a lot of life); when ‘why and how’ of things is clear to children, guardians, mentors, teachers.

Those who cause weeding, stagnation, constipation ultimately procreate stink. Hence thwarting the very aim of life: to study life. Who is interested in stink by the way? The answer would be ‘no one’. But at many places, institutions we are precisely involved in creating stink. And those who work to weed out that stink ultimately go to bed empty stomach.

We are interested in maintaining bodies; stinking bodies ( stink of complacency ).

There is definitely everybody’s truth but then truth is palatable when it smells good. Repetition and redundancy allergize the whole system if used beyond threshold. Life lies in attempting to make things beautiful. I know, this is much too clichéd than the beginning but life’s very nature is imbued with dissident contents which pulls us back from fragrance. And by being constipated, we will find ourselves standing in the same lane as those dissidents.

In this context, I unabashedly proclaim ( is proclaiming bad by the way?) :

Commitment perpetuates conviction; complacency is involved in perpetuation of constipation ( and constipation stinks).

From Personal to Universal: The Journey Begins

Disclaimer: Read at your own risk.

Experiences have valencies. No, this sentence is not written to indicate my background in chemistry. I have proof literature people use it too.


Valencies. Valencies turn experiences into memory. How??

I don’t know.

An experience is immortal. This is one universal truth. But why does it not die? May be cause it has got valencies. May be cause these valencies grounds them in one’s mind. What exactly are these valencies? I think or may be my educator makes me think that valencies are airy nothings, unheard melodies. Valency of an experience is something which helps in its survival, which helps in its propagation through time. They help in scribbling experiences as memories in one’s mind. They help in allocating them a space along with preexisting memories.

Anyways, let me now finally tell you why so much about experience and its “valency”. Actually, I wished to summarise one of them. Though experiences are beyond summarisation, I will try to attempt one as I am dared to dream.

Rest of the text is purely a product of my memory. And because I need material for my senile years, I ought record it here(stupid me, I joke). And may be for the juvenile reader like me, this will give a glimpse of what fabric stories are made up of.

The journey started with langda aam (amputated-mango) story. The question was why langda aam called so? And while this question culminated into the idea that we ought question common sense; that questions are the harbingers of mankind, we were also acquainted with the idea that answer is the dead end. While all this question-answer complexity surrounded us, we were simultaneously experiencing complexity without being consciously aware about it. The flag of the course unfurled the idea: complexity of awareness; awareness of complexity.

Though it is an almost impossible task, let me try to simplify the complexity I experienced. Once upon a time, a kid boarded a bus to school. On the way bus turned into Harry Potter’s flying car and then landed on Wordsworth’s lonely cloud ultimately landing in his crowd of Daffodils. In other words, the journey though seems like one of dreams, it is also its aim, it seems to help us move an inch or more towards bliss of solitude. Through indirections we are expected to find directions; to entertain, reflect and reform is our duty.

While singer of our group sang ‘jaaiye aap kahan jayenge”, I visited the land of melody. While theatre was rehearsed , I took a sigh of relief on a land away from science. While paintings were displayed, an urge asked me, “when are you going to become one with your medium, with your language?”

Gosh! This experience of transition from science to literature needs so many more words. I might write a whole book on it. Haha.

Before ciaoing, I would like to tell you that I felt so good when one of my classmates called me Hamlet. Once I had felt bad when I was addressed as Brutus. But then at that time, I didn’t know the story of Julius Caesar. So finally, I am all for Shakespeare and literary world. And I just hope I am not exaggerating. Earlier I was frustrated  with my confusion but now may be I should shake hands with the thought that “true knowledge lies in eternal state of confusion.”:)

May be.

The course will go on. The journey begins!! The journey will go on.

Darling Days

It has been long that I posted. My few, dear readers, this is to announce that now I am an official student of literature–the Sahitya. And this post of mine is intended to share how does it feel to be one.

Honestly, I think I am experiencing pure magic. I had only anticipated that exercising one’s mind could be so pleasurable. Taking flight of fancy is not prohibited here, though we are asked to stay grounded. And yes, all this might seem exaggerated, but then what to do if one falls in love with hyperboles.

I question myself time and again: what does it take to gift oneself and others a smile? No, no, don’t  worry I am not going to get preachy, I just wanted to share that how nothingness attacks one time and again, and how one sometimes yearn for the order in her life and how she wishes to save her day by meeting someone who could harmonise her disordered atomic composition.

May be yearning is a state of mind like everything else, but the solid fact is that it is palpable. It is in the air but this air can enter one’s being and make like it itself is, everything fluid inside her. I don’t know whether I wish to get across this yearning but this much I am sure of that this is fluidity has in it a rainbow and this rainbow is one of the most amazing things I have ever encountered.

And When I Started Thinking…

Today I was asked to analyze a poem. The exact question was, “write a critical assessment of the following poem by Seamus Heaney commenting on its title, theme, diction, imagery, rhythm and rhyme :


I write this post in order to share what I did before going to the answer sheet and then ultimately on the answer sheet.

I took one hour to get the meaning of this poem. Please know, that I saw the text as text only, no context. And seriously, I had not the minutest idea about the context of this work. Though I knew that Seamus Heaney is from Ireland and he got the noble prize; and that because he got the noble prize he must be writing  great poetry, I had no inkling about the kind of thing he is talking about in this poem.

The notion that great poetry always talks about some universal truth came into my course of one hour thinking and may be that ruined the probability of getting even a zero out of forty marks in the test. But right now, this feeling of being dilapidated is feeding the construction of this post. So I should not feel that much sorry about myself.

I tried to use all the faculties I had to get the thesis statement for this text. I tried a bit hard (and dare that silly smile approaching your face) as I did not know the meanings of the words “Requiem” and “Croppies”.

Hence, I started that guess work which always go wrong in exams. I guessed requiem’s meaning as replenishment and since ‘croppies’ has crop in it, I hope you understand subconscious faculties which automatically without much thinking can ask you to relate it to ‘crops’. And also since first line of the poem has barley in it, it becomes much obvious for subconscious to interpret what I did. (Note: I don’t like highlighting my mistakes again and again)

After reading the poem several times, I finally reached what according to me was its literal and figurative meaning. To decipher out that I did some coding-decoding. Let me enlist here all of that.

Greatcoats = coats which are great(literal) ; human beings(figurative)

Barley = resources for humans

Full of barley = so many resources

Although we have so much barley we have no kitchen to cook it(2nd line). Although we have so many resources we cannot cook them/ ourselves through them into eternity. We have become vagabonds in order to find peace.( we moved quick and sudden in our own country) because some God or nature kept introducing some or the other problem.

Priest = some God like entity/some human form through which God works to introduce into our lives problems which though ultimately make us wise but make us peaceless.

A people, hardly marching- on the hike = increasing number of people who don’t work, who force us into things we don’t want to do, who are God’s indirect messengers introducing problems into our lives.

Stampede cattle into infantry = like God/nature force us to do things ,during disaster we forced our fellow living beings to do what they didn’t want to, in order to find solution for our problems, in order to move from impermanence to permanence.

Then retreat through hedges where cavalry must be thrown= nature created for them such situation in which they had to live in dirty places where horses should be kept or thrown; again human superiority over fellow living beings

This one is ultimate.

Vinegar Hill = a figurative place where vinegar signifies acid and hence acerbic fatal conclave took place there ( acerbic fatal conclave = where everyone is irritated by everyone)

The hillside blushed = hillside is personified here and it blushed because now the hillside/nature has found a way to show off that it actually respect humanity. Respect humanity is shown when it blushes upon the intuition of coming of new life. As ‘our broken wave‘ = dead bodies will give way for new life, the hillside blushes that now it can experience new life.

I thought scythes is some underwater creature. 😀

Terraced thousands died, shaking scythes at cannon=  people irritated by natural calamities or life’s problems who met at the hill’s terrace died which sent tremors deep down the underwater. I thought he is talking about underwater because there is scythes in the line, which according to me is some underwater plant or creature.

And in August the barley grew up out of the grave = a sarcastic remark which states that in respect(show off) for work done by mankind (which ultimately see its decimation or movement into nothingness) on the resource present in full quantity in or near our human skin coat pocket, nature multiplies life or more resource as it says: the barley grow up out of the grave.

Are you still interested in my thesis statement?

I understand the fact that any teacher who is master of poetic art might kill me for doing this but I still was interested in recording this post in order to read, laugh or wonder at it a few years from now.

Now, if those of you who don’t know about this poem find yourself interested in reading the actual meaning and analysis of this poem might also get as bonus with that reading, your gaping mouths. 😁

Actually one must read the actual meaning and analysis of this work.( All respect for Mr. Heaney)



Chole Bhature(Chick Pea Plus Swollen Dough)- One Quarter, An Anna!

Observe the following image carefully. Chole-Bhature Now, think about your pocket money and calculate the amount one chick pea would cost in 2014. I know they are making you salivate so much that you just cannot take your eyes off them and obviously you will not do that for some nonsensical or sensical calculation. But just in case you happen to reach this line, please suffer a bit of my audacity and allow me to assume that most of you are not thinking about what I am going to show you next.










The veil goes off:-

This is an image of Indian currency in 1939. It says ONE QUARTER ANNA INDIA 1939 GEORGE VI KING EMPEROR.

Guess what, my dad used to buy this plate of Chole Bhature for an Anna, the same given in the image above. It is being added to my knowledge that they used to buy many eateries using this coin and the Seth(business man) who gave this Anna to his workers as bonus was considered one of the richest and best. And the parents who gave this as pocket money were considered world’s most charming parents by children at that time. Very obviously today even one chick pea wouldn’t cost this much for one reason that this coin is part of vintage and other, that economy has moved 75 years. Today, this plate of Chole Bhature costs INR 86 at Haldirams.

History always has a surprising element even if that element is easily predictable in the present scenario. Chole Bhature are definitely enticing but, that coin, that absolutely surprise laden feeling coming from historical observation of one’s father as a child has the potential of leaving one with a thousand more thoughts.


What are you ordering now? 😀


I wonder how writing ideas suddenly pop out. They can volcano out of a television show, a picture, a fly, a badminton racket, a duster, a phone, an interview, literally anything. But the speed with which they tend to get extinguished is also mind blowing. I mean within a fraction of second one can be left only with the headline out of a swarm of sentences. I find this situation synonymous to being atleast left with the pocket after facing a pickpocket attempt. But the word hope communicates the option of refilling that pocket.

And today my pocket says:-


unconventional in 1666, more than conventional by 2013 

So let me start filling it up. Let us see how far I go.

It was told by a Professor that in middle ages bathing in general was a public activity (men & women together). A manuscript illumination shows that it was such a common thing that noble figures around are not even taking note of it. It was not considered weird then. But today we have a sense of individuality and privacy.




When we talk of conventionality what comes into our mind: preguided tour for life and assosciated things or something that is accepted by large number of people. For instance medicines are the remedy for disease. For instance birthdays ought to be celebrated. For instance logic can gift success in life. For instance success is reflection of satisfaction and happiness. For instance materialism or spiritualism is the measure of happiness.

Unconventional can be said to happen when something imaginary enters one’s head and refuse to take leave until the forced host makes it come alive. Like we have made cars, we do try to prevent pollution created by them, we have the ability to renovate after destroying things. We have made Lagaan/Titanic/Avatar/Sholay. To satisfy our curiosity laden desires we made a trip to mars, we experimented to find out God particle.

Conventions are provided to us via a basic How to Guide first by our parents, then by school and then by society. It is thought that to know conventions is important. Rightly so, as unconventional can prop out only after conventional database is known.

Records show that those who do not follow the rule book either reach zenith or drown deep into the unknown zone. In other words unconventionalists on first encounter with the world are presented either with 100% acceptance or 100% rejection. It depends on the immediate visual profit that the idea can generate. Only on secondary, tertiary, quarternary…centenary encounter do they get the honour of  belonging to conventions. And the unconventional idea which is observed to have zero dividend value appears to many weird, impossible, impractical and out of place resulting in rejection.

But if the host of the idea has been pinched and nagged more than a threshold level by the idea , the idea gets too much worked upon. It gets to get cultivated, polished, embellished ultimately leading to emission of visible rays. So, the invincible rays of this shine cross the non-acceptance barricades and weird gets to see the light of the day.

And hence the unconventional becomes conventional with the passage of time.

Does that mean conventional or unconventional doesn’t have a permanent definition?


Does that mean weird is the new conventional/weird is the old unconventional?

PS:- The words unconventional and conventional entered my head after watching Aamir Khan, Kiran Rao episode of Koffee With Karan. 😀



Kabir was observing that Red Light which turned off three or four times before he attained the freedom of so much wished non-stop movement only to be met by another in less than a kilometer. By any existing and required standards moral or immoral he wasn’t armed enough to drive atop rest of the vehicles in order to reach his destination.

Witnessing traffic snarls in Delhi is very common. N number of thoughts can strike one while standing in a queue of N number of vehicles. Fortunately Kabir got stuck(struck) with one only.

So rather than biting nails his mind took a leave to consider that Red Light as all the blah-blah-blah things he intended to achieve in his life. Blah-blah-blah equals success,prosperity,happiness,money,spiritual peace, love,friendships, BLISS. And I know you must have already imagined the next statement. But I still state that rest of them in queue were not merely objects, not merely vehicles but vehicles containing fellow beings like Kabir himself.

He felt irritated. Playfully his mind asked him to kick the butt of one vehicle ahead of him if not of all of them.

Since there was merely any distance between them, pushing one just ahead of him could have created a whole lot of ruckus ,not only for him but also for rest of the community there and about to come there. When pushing one ahead of him was liable to cause such brouhaha what fate was he destined to if he took out even one step to ride atop them.

He really wished to reach that Red Light in a fraction of second and was ready to wear above his pants you know what(Shaktimaan…Shaktimaan…Superman…Superman) to achieve that feat. While his fantasies moved from S..S..S..S..Supershaktimaan to Harry Potter’s flying car to ultimately his dole-shole(biceps-triceps) the Red Light turned Green once again.. 🙂


   Have you ever while reading a book or watching a movie gone to an extent of praying,

          “Oh God! Please save my hero”?

Racing heartbeats, sudden smiles, running eyes or may be even noses, urge to know what next, usually determine success of stories. If you are an aesthetic ANT then it is probable that you enjoy this surge of emotions with complete detachment. Attachment with characters, meaning those clasped hands praying for an eternal life of too much loved characters bear symbolic resemblance with ANTS glued upon sugar. Only a gush of water can save these souls   i.e. to say only a calamity like nature’s call or nature’s aggressive call can save our hero fixed ants. Aggressive call ….. ahem…. probably is the only thing which can lead to rocketing out of ant’s antennas. This call makes our ant slip out of the cinema hall or book but to get signals for antennas collection centre  s/he ought to move a bit farther from the area of power packed action.

In other words I was thinking..

How directors or artists are able to circumscribe themselves from their work and apply all the logic in the world to their work which attracts some of us to an extent where attraction converts into attachment?

This is the only question of the hour. INTENSE INVOLVEMENT without involvement.. how is it possible?

P.S:- I include myself in ANTS glued upon sugar.

‘Fear of Being Loved’



Togetherness flourishes when it is fed with freedom and if this is true the word F.R.I.E.N.D can be de-abbreviated to Freedom and Independence Enhancing Drug .

Two individuals gel up or get along well, most of the time, for the sake of their respective interests and those interests may be implicate or explicate . And to those humans who are novice to the World Family (Vasudev Kutumb) that interest is found to be termed very commonly as ‘LOVE’.

Hmmmm LOVE !

I am telling you its definition will never show up to the surface .

Ok!! So let us go the Aristotelian way then.

Emm that means , we should first try defining the word and then classify it. (No ,No ,I ain’t lecturing)

LOVE :- #$%^&*()!@#$%^&*()!@#$^&**&^%$@@@@


Let me try again .



Classification :-

1) Mother love

2) Father love

3) Brother love

4) Sister love

5) Nuptial love

6) Niece love

7) Friend love

8) Human-Human love

9) Etc-Etc love

We try to dwell in these forms of love for the sake of happiness , support and some things that will never let us fall.

Remember human being’s sense of happiness ,support lies in his own freedom. I didn’t say that, human beings did.

Now humans place boundations at the very start of these love based contraptions , ahem! relationships. No ,NO not all of us but many of us . May be they are not boundations but general requirements , but these are fast becoming the central theme of our relationships.

Let me make you count some :-

  1. Transformation from the idea of knowing someone to the idea of controlling someone.
  2. Transformation from the idea of being happy to being satiated.
  3. Transformation from the idea of feelings (emotions) to the idea of standard love i.e. to define the characteristics of the one who will become the fortunate receiver of someone’s ‘THE’ love.

Human beings love being leaders and since some of us or most of us are not armed well to control our fates , we find it really enticing to pull the reins of somebody else’s life . And many a times the one trying to pull it doesn’t even know that he is pulling it to stifle out the horse.

And then we really try to standardize the one who will be worthy of our love .

I tell you we are leading such demanding lives that ruling out the presentation of the one we are roaming around with is ‘NEXT TO IMPOSSIBLE’ . Right ! Popular culture .By God!! Remember only presentation ha …. The creature who has got the privilege to stand beside you has no right whatsoever upon his/her own identity . OK OK enough is enough . Please don’t ask me to kowtow now.

So for instance,

Implicate in parents’ wish is the fact that they want their children to become epitome of perfection

Implicate in a friend’s wish is the fact that he/she wants their friend to be exactly like them .

Implicate in a boyfriend’s wish is the fact that he wants a first hand ,beauteous , smart, intelligent, all rounder, hymen intact girlfriend.

Implicate in a girlfriend’s wish is the fact that she wants a smart , intelligent, humorous, all rounder boyfriend . Don’t forget richness and ah! How can I miss Lamborghini . Sorry ha ,sorry !

Implicate in many of us’s wishes is the fact that we want everything and everyone to move according to what will comfort us .

And in order to accomplish that we many a times become totally ignorant of the fact that polishing and greasing only one wheel of the cart, that is us, only ourselves, will become useless the moment other wheels start wearing out.

Now, there are times when people do feel like breaking away from some or the other relationship . And when the urge to satiate one’s self goes out of control that feeling asks him/her to become a loner .

Try to behold the trap here.

Is it all about hormones or is it all about star dust that constitutes us ? Probably it is about Implicate Order Theory by David Bohm .

(Again lecturing . Oho! that’s my implicate wish )

Probably David Bohm wants to convey that it seems that we are explicate- like our fingers think that they are different from each other, that firing of one of them has nothing to do with the other- but actually we constitute a larger purpose , we constitute ‘The One’ ; firing of one of the fingers will affect its neighbours equally and hence ultimately ’The Hand’.

So all these love forms have an immense potential to ALWAYS BLOSSOM and an immense potential to make one or the other party extremely FEARFUL of the other.

Wishes ,Deceptions or Nature .

Choice(wish) is ours.



Disclaimer-This is not an attempt to harm beautician’s income.

Artificial beautification is at the forefront these days. Parlours are doing best business ever. World economy might fall and succumb to its injuries but BEAUTY BUSINESS , no way; potent enough to sweep off all practicalities.

Why is the quest to move from natural to artificial so amusing and enchanting ?

Incidentally, in the name of development, attaining knowledge and fulfilling our requirements we started with a series of activites whose geometric progression seems to have repercussions, culminating at human body ,mind and soul. In this text I will try to explore the connotations of those activities- whose main aim is to move over and above innate characterstics- on what us humans look like.

Birth followed by years of livelihood is chased by death which is preceded by old age. In old age almost all the members of human breed zero in on to their childhood characteristics. That is to say we come back to our original form . This shows that our stubbornness to look what we are not born like finds no claim and standing in front of nature’s weild. Through these many years of livelihood, naturality tries to pull us back from the trance and wiring of the artificial beautification. But while death reaches to entrap us on its stipulated time we are still found mired in the hypothesis “look good, feel good”.

Why don’t we change it to “clean good ,feel good”.

Why is it difficult to grow with bodily characterstics bestowed upon he/she by his or her circumstances? Why is it difficult to grow with minimal required cleaning?

And then why this pressure to look amazing takes a toll over us and we are found knocking the beautician’s door. Why aren’t we satisfied with our natural make up?

While many of us would argue that a visit to beautician gives satisfaction, confidence and happiness . But weren’t we born with these . Why is it embarrassing for a guy if he doesn’t match the characteristics of a Greek God and why an overgrown eyebrow or upperlip makes a girl feel shameful of herself. How the painful experience of getting one’s hairs off is found to be so appealing? Or going to the length of using LASER to prevent hair growth or using thousands of beauty products in the name of cleaning captivates us? why are we in the quest of making ourselves what we are not?

Why soap cleaning is just not enough? (haha)

How does this question “that you look beautiful right now, get married before the beauty shed off”, finds entry into our realm of thoughts?Why pre-bridal and bridal , pre-groom and groom make up earning lakhs ? Why the concept of ideal beauty is found entrenched in us?

Many guys do not hit gym for the sake of fitness but to have six pack abs of Shahrukh Khan. Many gals enter parlours to convert into an ideal apsara who is fairer (bleaching) who has no hair (waxing) who has perfectly shaped eyebrows(threading) etc.

The answer to all this might lie in the fact that “we want acceptance” and a kind of mild or extreme ostracization may be faced by those who do not match the standards of a grown up community , of a community which many a times in the wake of doing business doesn’t allow people to grow with their natural innocence , with their natural characterstics and circumstances.