Why I'm Celebrating 1st January As My Birthday Instead of 20th August

By Sadho Ram

I was not born on the 1st of January. But the day is so much more important to me than my actual date of birth, which is the 20th of August. I'll explain why.

But first of all, let me take this opportunity to sincerely thank everyone who has been kind enough to take note and wish me. It truly means the world to me.

More than a decade ago, when the world hit the new millennium, things in my life changed.

In less than four years, I lost both my parents — my mother was murdered in August 2000 and my father was poisoned in May 2004. He was an influential politician in Eastern India.

But my life didn't stop. It went on, albeit with a few minor hurdles. Over the years, though, something kept transpiring and by the end of 2008, it became so much harder for me to carry on.

I despised the name I was given, the identity that was associated with it, and all that it reminded me of my past, including the people. In other words, I didn't want to exist carrying all that further.

But I couldn't just stop. I had a little sister to take care of, to see that regardless of what my situation is, hers is a good life.

After much consideration and reflecting upon the possible repercussions of the decision I was going to take, I finally decided to renounce my name and the identity it carried with it and in the presence of my friend, Swapnil Shahane, I named myself Sadho.

That was on the 1st of January 2009.

I named myself Sadho after the 15th-century mystic, Kabir Das, who — in his couplets — had used Sadho to address anyone in search of something; a seeker. In my case, it became my search for myself.

That morning I not only renounced my old name, but I also renounced other Hindu societal norms that came associated with my birth and I was made to carry in the name of keeping the family honour alive, such as caste, religion, surname, etc.

People's reaction to my decision was very... frustrating, to put it mildly.

Almost none of them took it seriously (some still don't). Everyone thought I'm just fooling around, because who really changes their name and shit, right? I kept bearing them on while telling myself that it's alright, people don't really understand and sometimes they need time. So it went on. I found a few who even though could not understand me completely, respected my decision to do so and started addressing me as Sadho.

Anyways, fast-forward to 2013, I was still struggling to get my name legally registered and get myself a government-issued photo identification card under my new identity — not to mention, and still dealing with people who refused to take my decision seriously.

But after several dozen failed attempts and reattempts, in December 2014, it finally happened.

With the help of some really kind people in my life, I managed to get my name legally registered and got the Income Tax Department to issue me a new ID. The entire process was filled with ordeal and disappointments, and it would have never ended if not for a certain few people who used their best resources to help me.

To name a few of them, Neha Vaswani, who from helping me file the papers to finally using her personal contacts got the entire process done, Anshul Tewari and Guneet Narula, who truly tried all they could do to make sure the issue is sorted out, and finally, the guy at the Income Tax Department in Delhi. His name is Azam and he, even though there were some issues, made sure that my new ID is issued to me. No amount of 'thank yous' would ever convey my gratitude to these people.

All this while, I kept celebrating my birthday on the 20th of August, but somewhere in my mind, there was always this thought that I shouldn't, not on the 20th of August at least. So I made another decision, this time to start celebrating my birthday on the 1st of January instead of the 20th of August.

Swapnil with me. This picture is from 2011.

Why?

Because it makes more sense to celebrate and acknowledge the date — 1st of January — as my 'birthday' on which I renounced what I despised and everything else that held my relation to the people who are responsible for making me and my sister orphans.

Much has come to pass since the morning of that 1st January when I changed my name in front of my friend. Many who are close to me have become more privy to some of the most vulnerable memories of my past, some of which I've written and published for the news site I work for.

Mukhagni: Putting Fire Into The Mouth Of My Dead Mother

By Sadho Ram

Couple of weeks ago, I came across a set of very intriguing images on my Facebook News Feed. The images were such that it immediately attracted me towards them and reminded me of my father’s funeral pyre. I’m sharing one from the set below :

Artwork by Urs Fischer

Usually it takes over three hours for a body to turn into ashes and cinders, but, I remember very clearly,  when I put fire to my father's pyre -- his body completely deteriorated after over two decades of alcohol consumption and having poisoned a week ago -- melted in manners as if it was made of wax (just like the sculpture in the picture above).

The fire didn't even last for an hour. I stood there, right by the pyre, not at all feeling the warmth of it, because there wasn't any. It was surprisingly cold, almost like the night in an usually slightly hot month of May.

Although, not my first, the experience of seeing my dead father's body melting into the fire was surreal for me.

About four years before this, I had also put fire to my mother's body. The images of that night are still very vivid in my memory.

It was the night of 30th August. The year millennium. We had all come to the Jangipur Ghat in West Bengal. It was here where all the Hindus came to put fire to their dead loved ones.

There's a term in Hindi for it - 'mukhagni', which translates to "to put fire into the mouth of a corpse at the time of lighting the funeral pyre". And you actually do put fire inside the mouth. I remember when I was told to do so, I freaked out. Even protested. Shouted.

“How can anyone ask me to put fire inside my mother's mouth? Don't you know it would hurt her.”

No one said a word. Everyone just looked at me with pity.

“Why can't you all see how calmly she is resting? Why would you ask me to put this burning stick inside my mother's mouth?”

What do you expect, I was somewhere around 13 then.

It was agonising for me to comprehend the fact that I will have to perform that one task which will eventually wipe off her existence from the face of this earth. I couldn’t come to term with it back then. I’ve not managed to come to term with it even today.

I remember my father, who was otherwise lost in his grief (I had never seen him in such heartbroken state), coming to me and trying to explain to me why I must go ahead and do what the pundit was saying. I still couldn't. So he held my hand, asked me to close my eyes and took it toward her face. He then took me towards her feet and put the burning stick there. As soon as it was done, couple of relatives and staffs started piling the candlewood logs on top of her. I shouted at them. Again. Almost breaking away from my sobbing father’s arms.

"Stop. Stop. Why are you putting all these heavy woods on her? She can't take the burden. Please stop."

"She is beyond all that now, son," he whispered into my ears, holding me tight.

"Your mother is beyond pain and suffering. That thing burning there is no longer your mother. She is finally at a place where she can find peace."

…

Today is 30th August. And it's been 14 years to be exact now.

But I'm still not sure if she is really at a place where she has found peace.

You see, I don’t believe that those who were not allowed peace while they were here, can or will ever find peace anywhere. She was not allowed her share of joy and peace, and I refuse to believe anyone who have tried to tell me how she is now in a much better place. She is dead.

There is no better place after life.

So stop telling me what you don’t know. For it’s the one thing I don’t need people telling me about someone who they never knew.

Trust Me When I Say, You'll Be Wasting Your Time By Reading This

By Sadho Ram

I cannot count the number of times I have wondered how would my life be had I been speech-disabled. There have been so many occasions where I have regretted having the ability to speak.

Now, this is in no way a proof that I don't value it. It's just that there's this constant feeling inside which makes me wonder about the (im)possibility of such a life.

I mean, what use of such an ability which only hurts the ones I care about? More or less, it has been the case that whenever I have opened my mouth, I have uttered something vile or disgraceful for the ones I love and have loved.

There have also been times, where I have actually considered the very possibility of impairing my speech by myself. And the strange fact is that the thought doesn't scare me even one bit. It somehow seems like an ideal way to keep my unwarranted anger inside. Because it is something, which has only ruined the good stuff in my life so far, and I'm sure it will in future too.

Or, maybe I should train my mind to be in control and not wander.

But, the very idea of being speech-disabled is so fascinating to me, it almost makes me want to rip apart from venom-spewing tongue out of my mouth and wonder what the heck did I just do!

Maybe, one day I actually will..

PS: The sketches are totally not related to the whole thing. The whole thing, as I said in the heading itself, was a total time-waster.

A Profound Realisation In The (Prolonged) Moment Of Crisis...

By Sadho Ram

Sometimes, it so happens, I'm not sure about things that I do on daily basis. But, again as it so happens, this feeling of being uncertain doesn't last long enough to warrant any additional thinking.

Like for example: the futility of taking a bathe everyday.

PS: That's a sadhu, not Sadho.

Now this is a feeling I encounter when its just another option for me. But as soon as this option turns into a privilege, the very feelings of being uncertain departs my mind as a soul would body.

So, now that due to unmanaged circumstances, I am rendered out of taking bathe everyday, I realize that there's no futility to it. That how essential it is not just for body but also for mind and our emotions. I not only understand the profound impact a normal shower can have on us but also accept that I've been a baboon whenever I thought that there's nothing more futile than taking a shower. Sigh!

Catapult

By Sadho Ram

Life suddenly seems as if it has come to an unexpected halt.

Everything I do seems to have lost its charm. Or to put it in a better manner, I somehow seem to have lost interest in almost anything that I do or doing these days.

Mistakes have become an active part of my life both personally and professionally. As a result, I feel demotivated, demoralised and defeated... even though there is no war that I am fighting. Or maybe I am. Who knows!

There is also one more thing that is happening, I am losing interest in people in general. I live alone, so I only step out when I need to buy groceries and food items. Other times, I keep myself within the boundaries of my house, locked and glued to my laptop screen, working away the hours of day and at times... night.

I am scared to mingle with people of the outside world.

But that is not what I want to be. I don't want to be scared or to keep myself locked within the boundaries of my house.

I want to live and not just exist.

I am man with dreams in my eyes and purpose in my mind.

I want to break free from the shackles of my own mind and catapult into a free-self, someone who can learn to be empathetic, someone who understands the value of life and people in it... someone who is not afraid to live.

I wish to be catapulted into the world of calm and sanity, where mindlessness has no place and where light shines through even the darkest of nights.

I'm a Sucker for a lot of things..

By Sadho Ram

...and cinema happens to be on top of the list! Good, bad, it doesn't matter how a particular film is, I've got to watch it. And not just Hindi or English films, I watch films in language I don't understand a shit about and that too without the subtitles (in case I have to when I don't find subtitles for them)!

Back in village, about 15-16 years ago, I would steal money from my father's pocket to go watch films in the only theater my village had. It would cost 5 rupees per ticket, I would get caught, get thrashed by him but couldn't let go of the habit.

I don't know why, but the emotions that run through me while watching films―fills me up with immense joy, a kind of satisfaction I can't really describe!

I laugh, I cry, I rejoice, I clap―at times I jump from my seat, I whistle, I shout―I make noises that annoy other viewers (although none of it is intentional, I guess I just lose myself while watching a film)―in sort, I celebrate cinema the way it should be celebrated (according to me).

Although I try to contain myself when I'm inside the theater as much as I can, but I forget everything when I'm watching a film inside my house. And maybe that's the reason I like to go to movies alone―all by myself!

This world, my life wouldn't be the same for me had it not been for films! ―♥

Me, Facebook And The Profile Of My Dead Brother..

By Sadho Ram

Yesterday, I suddenly came across the Facebook profile of my dead cousin, who got electrocuted a few months back. He was only 14. He was sweet and a nice kid. Very adorable! He was studying in a city away from the village, and had come to the village to get his papers for some exam, and was about to leave on the night when his mother, my maternal aunt, asked him to say a day more, and so he stayed.

He got electrocuted the very morning when he stepped inside the bathroom to take a bathe and tripped over the wet floor along with the bucket full of water and electric heater attached to the plug. When I got the news, I was out with Blue, shopping. My sister had called to give me the news. I later came to know that he didn't want to bathe that early in the morning, but as his mother had other things to do, so she wanted him to get fresh and ready for breakfast.

That poor woman, my sister said, kept blaming herself. His father.. he did not believe even though he held in his arms the lifeless body of his youngest son, whom we all fondly called Raanu!

I never called his parents to share their grief, never made even a attempt to do so. I did cry. But I don't know why I didn't just called them up and say sorry for their loss! They were there when I lost my parents, they were there when I had lost almost everything in the past! But still I didn't .. I just couldn't do so much as to make a single call.

The reason I'm sharing this, is because I had almost forgotten about him but coming across his profile on Facebook yesterday, just threw me back to that day and all those memories of him just overwhelmed me.

Life is so short, we never realize what or who we might just lose in an instant!

I haven't still called them up. After all these months, I am not sure if it's the right thing to do. Moreover, I no longer know what is right or wrong. I just think that maybe I should just let them continue to think that I do not care or I've forgotten everything, even though I haven't actually.

Maybe it's just that people are better off without me or my presence in their life!

A Note on Waiting and the Joys and Sorrows of it.

By Sadho Ram

Waiting, for some, is a process of experiencing joy, for some it is merely a process of evolution of the self by acquiring what one is waiting for. But for me waiting has been all sorts of different kind of things. Like others I’ve had joys and while waiting I’ve evolved too. But it somehow has always felt like a slow severe pain in the chest. And yet I’ve waited for everything that I’ve ever wanted in my life, regardless of whether I got or I didn't, whatever was that I had wanted at the different waiting junctures of my life. I’ve waited so much, working my way through to get whatever I want, that at times I've felt I should just give up, that I shouldn’t wait anymore for anything.

But no, I haven’t given up on waiting or waiting, so I’m still waiting; now for a whole new awakening to embark into a journey from where I know that my life will take all those turns which is only going to make it what years and years ago, lying over the vast spread of due laden grass in the fields of my village, beneath the gaze of winter sun on my face, I had dreamt and promised to myself. And now somehow, somewhere down the line, the waiting for me has gradually turned into something else, a sort of different pain, not in the chest anymore, no. But somewhere deep within; it pleasures me now, keeps me going, gives me strength, and provides me with a hope that my waiting will finally yield the result(s) I’m seeking. So I wait, hoping and holding onto whatever that I’ve now with and within me.

It’s a strange phenomenon with waiting. There is always a sense of uncertainty attached to it and yet we wait.

Currently, at this very moment I wait for her. And I’m waiting for my birthday this August.  I’m waiting to hold her in my arms once again, and to feel her warmth once again. For waiting is all I know that I have chosen to do, not because there isn’t any other option but because I’ve  promised to stick to waiting through thick and thin, and work my way through it for that new awakening, no matter how long it takes, no matter how short it lasts, I’m waiting... I’m waiting.

I remember about exactly 11 years ago I had waited with bated breath to get to my village to take one last look at my mother’s pale skinned face, who was lying dead, covered in red, inside her room. That was the time, probably the first in my life, when I experienced the sorrow of waiting. Because when my wait had ended, she hasn’t come back to life, as I foolishly had thought. The sorrow of that waiting was much deeper than I had imagined it to be, or maybe it was just too shallow. Because I remember I didn’t even shade a tear. But at the cost of being honest, it was that I couldn’t shade a tear, I just couldn’t. I had gone silent, partly with sorrow and partly with the realisation of the great loss. It was silence that had engulfed me, and had consumed the basic ability of a child to cry.

Since then a whole decade have passed away, actually more, and life is not what it was back then, so am I. Emotions have evolved, feelings have changed, I’m different too. But the silence of that day is still within, caged somewhere in some corner of my chest. It still breaths, still lives on. Although now that day of my life seems like another lifetime, it’s a whole new life now that I live. For I haven’t given up on waiting or waiting...because I know that the sorrows attached to waiting are gone now, all it now has to offer are the joys of waiting.

She is coming here to see me, to be with me. My woman from west, who have promised a new world to me and to whom I’ve pledged my life and every single joy of it. I’m waiting to experience the world she has promised, and I’m waiting to live up to the pledge I’ve taken in her name. On my this birthday, I will finally experience the joy, the ultimate joy of its kind, when I take her in my arms, tangle my fingers in her tresses, and plant the kiss that I keep playing in continuous loop inside my ever active head time and again. I’m waiting to become one with her.

Just like the sense of uncertainty is attached to the process of waiting, there’s one very distinctive trait attached to it too. It’s the test of the mettle a man is made of. And currently, I’m testing my own mettle.

...because, folks, all I know is that I’m waiting.

Rest In Peace, Father...

By Sadho Ram

"I wish I had not cremated him, instead buried him. That way I could have at least wished that he would rise from his grave and come and see that his son, whom he loathed, is not that worthless today as he had said once on his son’s face."

I wish you would rise and see that today your name is known after me, my name, which I, your worthless son, have made your this particular dream come true, that people around today know of your name because of me and my deeds.

Hello father,

I wish you could rise from your ashes and see that no one remembers your death nor do they remember the date on which you died, no one, except me, except your son. But don’t worry; I will make sure that the world does remember. So here it is, O'world, today, on 14th may 2004, my father – Gulab Ram Choudhary – breathed his last, exactly 7 years ago, tied to the hospital bed, he succumbed to the poison running in his veins along with the alcoholic blood.

Rest in peace, father, rest in peace.

And please forgive me for momentarily disturbing your sleep, but you see it was needed, or else how would I have told the goddamned world about you and your death anniversary, which sadly no one remembers, not even your own mother. But you see, I have to live up to you and your dreams, even though you are fucking dead, thanks to your good old friends.

Anyways, that was it, I have done my duty for today, have told the world that you died on 14th may 2004, exactly 7 years ago. I should now let you rest in peace and head towards that one person who doesn’t consider me worthless, she instead thinks that I’m perfect. Which again makes me wish that you would have survived longer enough to see that what kind of devastatingly comforting beauty have fallen for me, for that son of yours whom you considered nothing. But anyways, you rest in peace, just wanted to let you know that I’ve found my peace. It doesn’t actually matter now that you are not here, for I’m happy that you did not have to suffer longer than you already did. But see, that’s the thing it is, you would not have suffered had you loved my mother the way you did after she was gone. Trust me father, had you loved her before she died, you would have had a much better life. Much, much better!

But why the hell am I telling you all this, you are dead, right?... burnt into cinders, so then why?

I guess I’m just having a mighty good time by telling you what could your life had been, had you only realised what you did realise after it was too late to realise anyway. So, rest in peace, father, for I’ve made sure that people know a bit more about you, this time through your death anniversary.

The Utter Lamentations of a Bard’s Jaded Mind!

By Sadho Ram

It’s almost three months now, almost! Three months of life living behind the concrete walls of a very hostile house, yes, a ‘house’ not HOME, a very-very hostile ‘house.’

And though, this house, in a very posh but quiet, not serene, ‘quiet’ locality, stands proudly with poise and confidence; a confidence that only comes to a soldier standing at the border guarding his country, but isolated; isolated from the much needed chaos of daily life and happenings, isolated from chirpings of birds in the morning, and isolated from the barks and howls of dogs in the night, in fact so isolated that his eyes longs to see a fellow human being who is receptive, but alas as he finds none, so do I, after almost three months, almost, found none with whom I could share that how it feels like to stand in crowded town, but isolated.

The only saving grace is the wind that blows here, unperturbedly, but then it carries nothing except a few more ounce of quietness; a quietness which instead of being the source of comfort and bliss, frightens the soul to that extent that the ‘remote’ which controls it, yes, that tiny piece of muscle ‘pumping gallons of blood and beating in rhythmic cycle’ in the chest, starts to shiver so peculiarly that it hurts, sometime for hours, to breathe; hours which sometime surpasses the usual day-night cycle and still continue to an unforeseen period of time, and in those ‘hours’… in those longer than day & night ‘hours’ I find myself gasping for air even though it’s flows like a river all around me, but seems as if it has barred me, cast me out from her club of lovers, from touching and feeling her, from experiencing the ecstasy that her touch would provide my soul.

Ah, how I long to be cast away from here, from this town called Barddhamaan, to that place where the wind instead of prohibiting me from ‘making out’ with her, would indulge herself in the ‘foreplay’ which would reignite the soul within; a soul that drives me and my passion – passion for people and poetry, passion for life itself, passion for adventure, passion for compassion to some extent and moreover passion for passion itself, the place called Bombay!

My mornings here start with a very unusual headache; a headache which begins its journey from one side of the head and then travels towards the other side of it, daily, leaving me in acute pain for the day that doesn’t easily ends. The days here lingers, actually it’s the feeling that lingers but seems as if the days have stopped, and so I try to endure the days and nights here and indulge myself in the work that though otherwise enlivens me but due to the catastrophically monotonous life of mine, the work too, has become so dreary that I often look at it with repulsion, yes, repulsion for that same work for which I once gave out a sumptuous banquet treat to the comrades of solace – my friends.

And as the night approaches, the restlessness grows inside; restlessness to go out ‘prowling’, to slaughter the silence that I forced myself to endure during the day, but as the night starts to discolour itself, I once again force myself, this time to endure the restlessness within. And I succeed to an extent, but then silence and restlessness are two utterly distinctive feature of human nature, and that too, with their own set of different natures, as where the nature of silence, which is like a baby, allows her to be tamed, the nature of restlessness shatters all control, like a insanely flowing river destroys any barrier that tries to forcedly stop her, thus, my soul, after losing the battle, abandons me, making me almost a ‘carcase’, which then collapses over the big bed in my BIG room, for few hours, only to come back into it and wake me up with the same headache that begins its journey from one side of the head and then travels towards the other side of it.

Sigh.

I now think that this was not what I’d imagined when I came here and this is something which I’m sure I will never experience anywhere. Before it happened, I always used to say I wonder – ‘how living alone, away from the chaos and cluster of the world will be?’ – but today when I now no longer need to ‘wonder’ about it, when I know about it more than I ever ‘wondered’ about it, I pray that – ‘if living alone, away from chaos and cluster of the world is like this, then I don’t want it, ever again, not even in my worst of dream.’

And I now wait for the September to come, like a child waits for his father to pick him up. So, till September comes, I will have to keep myself from going bonkers, which is obvious to happen if …I fail to wake myself up… when September comes!

Let Me Be

By Sadho Ram

I did not bleed my finger-tips blue to help wake the human race up from its deep slumber. Let it be as it is, I shall not do any good to it and shall also not wish that it be good to me. But I do ask for one thing –

‘Do not yank me out of my grave.’

Let me be there as I want to be or else I shall disregard all my vows and bend the tip of my fountain pen in such a way that the ‘blue in colour and rebellious in nature’ blood oozing out of it shall go down to the very roots of this somnolent human race and blemish it so bad… it shall be void of hope and beyond any repairs.

O’ world, it was not you who had to put up with the throbbing for 9 longs months and it was also certainly not you who had to be out day and night, cold and in scorching heat to earn the bread and butter so that I could be raised.

No, it was not you, O’ greedy-greedy world, it never was you!

She was my Mother. He was my Father.

Then why do you seek me when all I am, what I am for no one but for them?

Then why do you blame me when all I do, what I do for no damn one but for them?

And why should I pen for you when each time that I do, I do it for no one but for them?

Forgive me not, O’ opulent world, for I anyway do not seek your mercy, but you shall stop me not from writing about the misery and treachery, despair and about being unfair, death and about fallen faith, about illusions you create, and lies which you propagate.

And if you promise to do so, than I might also pen for your false assumptions about all those things... things which you think needs propagation.

Till you obey by your promise…

‘Let Me Be’

Moving on ...

By Sadho Ram

The life of mine… the way I live… it has always been through doldrums of unexpected happenings.

And so, sometimes it makes me wonder that –

“Why is all my life has been through so much of sadness?”

But sadly, I have never even come close to any answer. And, while I, on one side, kept wondering… my life, on other end, kept tumbling.

I tried to rise, I often did. Sometimes I even went beyond. Did ‘stuffs’ to please... but my life never found ‘that’ much needed and desolately desired ease!

The last two weeks, too, though did not do any bad, but it made sure that nothing good happens. All thanks to the Sardar.

I am currently under debt. My relatives from far land have now started criticizing me, saying things like –

‘1) First you ruined the money and now you are ruining the life. 2) We told you to study CA but you studied something which god only knows what? 3) Look at yourself, at your age I fathered two sons and you… you are not even married.’

Left with no choice but to leave the ‘city of dreams’ for a while and go away from all those friends who stood by me.

Not a day goes by when I don’t regret the day I met the Sardar.

And, on top of that I am the one who is being made to think that it’s all my bloody fault.

Some people sometimes can be real hypocrites.

But, whatever, I stood by what I believed in and there are people who supported me, stood by me, giving courage to go beyond. And, while I made sure that the article reaches to as many people as possible there was this wish to move away from all these mess. But I just couldn't go away silently. As that would have meant that I gave up... and gave up to something which was not only wrong but also unethical.

But now the Sardar, I guess, have learned his lessons (though he is bad-mouthing about me and my work as my article made him delete his FACEBOOK account and his Photography Page).

Well, anyways, life, as I have been hearing this way too much these days, is all about moving on, so I guess, I, too, should move on…

Bye, bye, Bombay… for a while!

Migraine!

By Sadho Ram

'Yaar, Sadho, its been ages since you recited something.' – He spoke while the auto moved along with the light traffic. I shook my head in answer but remained silent. As I was not sure what to say.

(Happens whenever I am lost in something I don't understand.)

And he was indeed right that its been ages since I had recited anything but it has also been ages since I wrote anything (Read: Poem). Life sometimes plays funny games. Yeah, trust me its does. And in very un-funny ways.

Sometimes words just come pouring out and sometimes, no matter how hard I try, it just doesn't help. Head, sometime, feels as if has dried up, with no words or thoughts and only emptiness and migraine to cope up with.

Sigh

There was already this loneliness which has been haunting since... I don't know how long and now this brand new migraine thing has popped up. Every now and then the head starts beating faster than the heart beats of a marathon runner. Vision gets blurred and even a slightest hiss of sound feels like a blast inside the head.

And its not like the thoughts have fully abandoned me. They do come, often is haste, but fades away as soon as they appear. The words, though tasteless, now seems to be losing there grace, too.

And so, nowadays, whatever I write, is always like that premature baby which dies as soon as it pops out of the mother's womb.

My poetry has suffered its most severe attack of migraine!

And though, in medical term, the effect of the migraine lasts from 4 to 72 hours but its been 'ages' since it has struck to the poet in me.

(All I do now is wonder... and wonder... and wonder, with no outcome of any sort.)

If only I could get this migraine off as easily I can damn this off, I would have…

Sigh!

The Yearning, the Drought and the Need over Desire!

By Sadho Ram

Days refuse to pass by and nights, like the colour of it, have become dull in its taste. The slow rhythmic breeze which flows during the evening time seems to have lost its rhythm. Nothing excites anymore and nobody seems to appeal the way they once did. Life, it seems, has come to a standstill. Life, it appears, as if has been over-taken by extreme boredom.

Hmm...

Anger, against almost everything, is rising within and I am venting it on almost all those things. Sometime it gives satisfaction and sometime it refuses to give anything. For depression is attached to hopelessness, so it is out of anger’s league.

Talking to good old friends seems just futile and strangers, male-female alike, scare the shit out of me, so have started avoiding both the gender stranger. The streets appear empty and the sky gives the impression of being over-filled with dry dust-filled clouds.

And no, this isn’t the depression, about which I am quite sure, as it is this new found boredom... boredom which has been caused by a somewhat self imposed pause. Pause from that one and only thing which brings me contentment- Travelling.

My body has started cracking up and muscle-tissues are slowly starting to wear-out. Legs at night become heavy as stones and every morning I wake up with sore shoulders.

I yearn for the road. Road to a new town or hamlet. But the need, not desire, the ‘need’ along with some professional commitment to stay at one place for few more months is what holding me down.

But the reason for which I have taken this professional commitment is hardly fulfilling. This, holding up at one place for past three months, has abruptly put a speed breaker on my prolific creative flow through. I, along with my designing skill, am facing a drought which is just hell-bent on not being over.

Sigh!

Their Futile Hopes! My Wasted Life!

By Sadho Ram

My brother, the one who stood by me when I was falling apart, financially and emotionally, and supported me in my every necessary and even unnecessary demand, has now stopped taking my calls!

My sister, the one who never ever dared to even stare at me, has now started questioning me, though in jest, about my commitment towards my professional life!

But it ain’t their fault.

No!

It’s bloody me, who have been cheating on them and few others. It is because of me that those who once never got tired of me and my egotistic gibberish have now started looking for petty excuses to avoid my useless company. But what am I doing to stop all this and bring back the lost respect of mine?

Well, to be precise nothing exactly, except lamenting boorishly over and over again.

I have no clue about what has been the prime reason for continues untried failure of mine in every path, which would had taken me to certain heights till now if only I would had tried once! I have made my life miserable. So miserable that now it seems even the destiny has decided to dump any kind of support it may have provided to me in my future endeavours.

Sometimes during the evening time of day when the crimson Sun prepares itself for way back to home, I take an auto to the Barista Rock Beach in Versova and sit there pondering over my past life and the deeds. Of course, without any thoughtful outcome, as to why the bloody hell am I in such sympathetic condition where I am bestowed with what usually most desire but lack the audacity to claim that particular thing which is there for me?

Why?

Because I took everything, my life devoid of the love’s warmth, my path devoid of determination, my goals devoid of inspiration, my people devoid of trust and my ability devoid of productive use, for GRANTED! Yes, I took everything for granted.

Even the dreams of my late parents which, at one point of my life I have vowed to fulfil by turning them into reality. I guess I should bloody slit my throat and let every single drop of my unworthy blood drip out through the hole and then die slowly.

Yes, I ain’t kidding. I do think sometimes and have often taken up the knife but as I my failed life I regularly fail to fail my failed attempts.

My people, back there, still think I will someday be a very big person. That someday I, too, like thousands other, will bask in the glory and make a hell lot of fortune out of it. But alas their hopes have proved futile just like my wasted life.

I have forgotten my past (and they say the ones who forget their past are bound to doom) and I am lost in my present which means, as of now I have no future.

A somewhat self-constructive article by a very self-destructive Mango