A place to discover you...

Why do we hate some cities? Why do we love some? I struggle with this question every time I come to delhi.

For a person born and brought up in delhi, I ought to have some really pleasant memories of it. It should remind me of my playful childhood, my good schooling and my childhood friends. It should feel like a homecoming. But it does not.

Every time I come to delhi, I think that maybe this time I would really love it. But I dont. Two days in the city and I want to run away. Back from where I came.

No, it is not some bad childhood memories which haunt me. I was an ordinary kid. I had ordinary parents and an ordinary childhood - full of love and care and everything that is human. I loved school too and had a blast. But still....

I think there is a place we are born in. A place where we physically come into this world. And then there is a place where are born again. Where we realize who we are. It is like the stone discovering that there is a sculpture inside. A place where we begin to knock off this piece, chip off that block, where we sometimes get hammered into shape to see who we really are.

For some people, it happens to be the same city. For me, it was Delhi where I put on the inches to my height and Mumbai where I learnt to grow. I feel like blaming the city for not allowing me the right air which would have nurtured my spirit. I came across people who happened to be insensitive and cold, who judged me constantly by how I looked than what I really was capable of and who had little respect for my need to be quiet and on my own. It was a place where you had to “fit” or you are not left alone. For me, the place had turned as cold as the frosty winds that sailed through its streets in winter. It just never warmed up.

No, it is not delhi’s fault. I do not match what it takes to enjoy the city. I think it is for the braver-hearted. For those who can stand the aggression and learn to blast their way through life. As far as I am concerned, I prefer a gentler place, a place where my need to be alone is respected and I dont have to fight for it. Maybe a place where I can change the stone that nature gives me into a putty and merrily twist it into shapes to reveal who I am.

Yes, that must be why...that must be why.

It's only words......not really!

Words are dangerous. They can drown you. Ask me...am usually floundering in them. These days, I am sucked into Zorba. I dived into him when I came across his character in a book a few days ago. Vibrant, insane, a physical manifestation of man’s basic desires. Driven towards women, wine and work. Definitely, a character buried inside each man. Enough about him...lets get back to words.

Some words are shallow. They don't collect much. You can wallow in them but you ll tire out soon. They are usually complex with lots of syllables..like submersible, deskilling, reification. No one speaks them aloud when they are emotional. Just intellectual nonsense, I say.

Some go way deep. Take Buddha, for example. Just like the ocean, you can explore it by staying on the beach and trying to guess whats it like deep inside it by looking at the sea shells it leaves. Or you can run into it. Madly. Savour it. Relish it. Go deeper to find that sea shells are nothing even close to what it feels like to be next to a whale.

I think right now, that is what I want to do with Zorba. Feel it with my body, taste it and then take a deep breath and dive in.....Will I survive? No way. The present I, will melt away and another I, a different one will get created. Will it be better? Will I grow? Don’t know. But then, that is not really the idea. From here, the journey looks dangerous and exciting. And I am happy to go ahead with that. Three cheers to Zorba!

Stumbled upon a lost me...

I sit on the same writing table as I have for years. But every time I write; I become a new me, a different me...sometimes a me that even I am not aware of. No, I am not playing with words here. Everyone who writes or speaks from their heart has felt this.

Over the last one year, I have lived mostly through the mind. I have found it to be safe. There are rules to live by. I follow the rules that I have embraced, usually blindly avowed to and feel that I am in control. That if I continue to follow this way of living, nothing bad can happen. The rules are like a casket...ready to protect me in case life throws a surprise.

But then caskets are not fun.

As I read through Zorba's way of life, it seems to cut right through the clutter. He comes alive and tells me that rules and philosophies might make sense to the logical mind but they bind me. He awakens the creative spark that has since long been buried by the mind. Where did the heart go?

An archaeologist rummages through an old mine and finds a statue. He holds it in his hand, caresses it and gently rubs off the dust. The features of the statue become sharper. He finds that the face on the statue is his own. I am the archaeologist. The statue is the me I had buried because I had blamed it for leading me astray. I was angry then. Very angry.

I hug the statue. It feels like discovering an old friend. The hate has lost its edge. The embrace melts off the bitterness. Tears roll down my eyes. I am glad to rediscover a me which I thought had choked and died off.

I want to explore again. I want to take more risks. When I see a woman who tugs at my heart strings, I want to go and tell her just that - even though I saw her moments ago. I want to travel to lands where they can only understand me by the hand signs I make. I want to learn the pakhavaj. I want to be up before every sunrise and watch every sunset. I want to be insanely in love with life again.

“This is true happiness: ..to have the stars above, the land to your left and the sea to your right and to realize of a sudden that in your heart, life has accomplished its final miracle: it has become a fairy tale.”  - Zorba the Greek.