I have lived much of my life like a man who never learned the art of self-defense.

Not because I did not see the tricks, the half-truths, the silent manipulations, or the small betrayals people wrapped in friendliness. I saw many of them. I noticed them. But I often chose not to resist. I chose to stay quiet, to stay connected, to preserve harmony even when it came at the cost of my own peace. I let things pass, not always out of wisdom, but often out of a strange loyalty to people and to the hope that kindness might be enough to keep love intact.

That is why Prince Myshkin has always felt less like a fictional character to me and more like a mirror.

In The Idiot, Dostoyevsky gives us a man who is gentle to the point of vulnerability, honest to the point of social inconvenience, and compassionate in a world that treats compassion like weakness. Myshkin is not admired because he is strong in the worldly sense. He is misunderstood because he is too pure for the game people have agreed to play. And I know that feeling too well.

I was bullied in school, and I said little about it. Even then, I did not know how to turn hurt into distance. I remained open, even to those who had hurt me. I continued being friends with my bullies as though nothing had happened, as though silence could heal what cruelty had broken. Later, in friendships and love, the pattern continued in different forms. I could not always say no. I could not always tell when I was being used. I did not have the instinct to protect myself early enough, and by the time I understood the game, I was already emotionally invested in it.

Maybe that is a flaw. Maybe that is innocence. Maybe it is both.

What I do know is that I have often been too emotional for my own safety. My feelings have frequently overruled my reason. I have been so sensitive that I preferred to absorb pain rather than cause discomfort. I did not want to hurt people, even when they were hurting me. I gave help, time, attention, and sometimes even my own basic well being to people who were willing to take without giving much back.

And still, when they returned apologetic, I often let them back in.

That is the part of me that feels most Myshkin-like. The part that cannot remain cold for long. The part that still believes in mercy after disappointment. The part that knows the world is built on status, performance, advantage, and the subtle domination of stronger personalities, but refuses to fully become that kind of person. I have always known what sort of world this is. I have understood its rules. I simply never liked them.

I have never been a spoiled fish swimming comfortably with the rest of the current.

There is a particular loneliness in that. To see clearly and still not belong. To understand the structure of the game but remain unwilling to become a player. To be called naïve, soft, foolish, or impractical simply because you have not turned yourself into a weapon. The world respects hardness more than sincerity. It rewards those who calculate, who withhold, who know how to disappear when needed and return only when useful. But some of us are built differently. Some of us keep returning to love even after love has wounded us.

Dostoyevsky understood that tragedy long before I ever did.

Prince Myshkin is not tragic because he feels too little. He is tragic because he feels too much in a world that demands restraint, suspicion, and strategic cruelty. His tenderness is not a defect of his soul; it is the very thing that exposes the brutality around him. That is what I have felt in my own life too. My sensitivity has not always protected me, but it has made me deeply aware of what this world does to people who remain open.

I have been tricked. I have been hurt. I have been rejected. I have been made to feel small. But even then, I have not always been able to turn bitter. There is a strange tenderness in me that refuses to die. Even after being used, I have still wanted to love. Even after being abandoned, I have still wanted to understand. Even after being disappointed, I have still wanted to preserve the humanity of the other person.

Perhaps that is foolish.

Or perhaps it is the beginning of a different kind of strength.

Because to remain kind in a world that repeatedly punishes kindness is not the same as being weak. To keep one’s heart open after injury is not always stupidity. Sometimes it is courage without applause. Sometimes it is faith without guarantees. Sometimes it is simply the stubborn refusal to let cruelty have the final word.

That is why I relate to Prince Myshkin. Not because I think I am holy, and not because I believe innocence automatically makes one wise. I relate to him because I know what it means to be out of step with the social instinct for self-preservation. I know what it means to value connection more than pride, forgiveness more than revenge, and love more than winning.

Maybe that is why the world can so easily call such a person an idiot.

But Dostoyevsky’s genius lies in this, he makes us ask whether the idiot is truly the one who remains tender, or the society that calls tenderness stupidity.

And maybe that question is the real heart of my life too.

They say what if we fell,

Me as an amateur shore,

To the elder nightangle.

Maybe stars are not aligned

for both of us to bind.

I, to write the fiction,

About she, despite of friction.

Narrow lane of subtle hope,

Yet makes a way to zigzag slope.

For a poet, a winsome trope,

For a lover, an advised lope.

Yet the deluded again hopes for,

In the eve of night,

When the stars are aligned,

For both of us to find.

I, to hug her with friction,

About she, it’s no time to write another fiction.

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Mother,

please don’t love me so much.

How will I hold myself together when you’re gone?

The thought of you leaving breaks the center of me,

I can’t picture a day without your light.

You have been my anchor in every storm,

the quiet hand that steadied my trembling.

You read my strange silences and wild moods like a map;

you never asked me to explain.

Your love arrived without conditions, without questions.

When the world called me a simpleton (an idiot),

you handed me courage and a mirror that showed worth.

You taught me to stand, to remake myself from smaller pieces into something whole.

Whatever I am now, it is shaped by your voice, your patient believing.

You never let me know scarcity in money, in comfort, or in hope.

You gave me the things I wanted and the things I didn’t know I needed.

Every small tenderness, every late sacrifice, stitched itself into who I am.

I carry your kindness like a lamp through nights I would otherwise be lost.

Your love sits so deep inside me that the thought of losing you feels like losing my name.

I am terrified at the idea of your absence;

the fear comes in waves I cannot calm.

I cannot imagine waking up to a world where your laugh is only memory.

If there is a choice in such things,

I wish fiercely that I could go before you.

Forgive my selfish prayer,

to spare myself the hollow of your goneness.

I want to return some of what you gave me,

even if only in a single day of peace.

Know this,

every small victory I claim is a hand reaching back to you.

If I seem afraid,

it is only because I have loved you too much to learn how to let go.

Let me imagine a little bit more and add this to my countryside dream.

To have a home.

In the midst of greenery,

All tranquility resides in the feet of shelter constructed with strong wooden blocks and boulders.

I had my conversation, to my partner,

To be out of chaos and drama.

She said, “Whatever we like.”

In the countryside,

To have a home,

To have a bookshelf of our favorite collection,

Including our own writings.

I will be there,

You will be there,

In the terrace,

There will be a hammock.

No neighbours to sneak into our quiet space or to ask for something that we wouldn’t have.

Oh the hammock,

In the evening, It will be your favorite place, right?

One of the favorite books of mine,

You are lying, in my lap.

Just after having the ginger tea and sniffing the smell of soft air.

You will be giggling whilst reading the poems and essays I wrote admiring you,

I will shy away with every word you read as taking a dig at me.

I will be narrating you the best part of a random book,

Someday, it would be funny,

And you will laugh hard.

Someday, it will be grave and mournful,

Atleast I will get the chance to console you.

To wipe your tears off and a tight long lasting hug.

The fun part is, our number of pet are playing,

They are accustomed to enjoy alone,

They cherish seeing us enjoy and,

we cherish seeing them while enjoying.

I yearn all this but you are the prerequisite.

Without you,

I would still be happy but alone,

I want you,

To be part of this, to share a part of happiness with you.

And ofcourse I am not ascertained !

Maybe you are the necessity,

As, How often an alone turns to a lonely one !

In the countryside.

THE CONCEPT OF DEEP WORK

To retreat from technology for a while to the state of tranquility.

Sometimes, the mind needs silence, not another notification popping up,

Not another video, or another piece of shallow content.

Deep work is the practice of withdrawing from distractions and entering a

state of complete mental immersion. It is a way of becoming productive,

content, and mentally present again.

To be contented, to be productive for your poor mind.

Poor because, you bombarded it with cheap dopamine.

The brain must have been exhausted by this constant screen exposure.

Your brain be like, goshh ! Boss is always into screens.

The dangerous deep mental immersion directed towards it.

I must tell you and I am quite assured about that.

When my cutuu brain urges me to have a glance at nature.

Here is what I do,

To get the best out of me,

A pen and notebook and nothing more than that.

In the attic of my home,

Where no one likes to be.

I am not bamboozled now.

Writing at its peak and the outcome is brilliant.

The thoughts, ideas and perspectives are clearer.

To figure out something or to solve complex problems.

It is the sheer exquisite remedy,

To get the best out of your mind and,

Quite necessary for your brain to get the reward of genuine accomplishment.

Instead of squandering hours in worthless shitty content,

To achieve filthy cheap dopamine.

There is a book, “Deep Work” written by Cal Newport, argues that the ability

to focus intensely on concerned task is one of the most valuable skills of our time.

He further suggests that many accomplished writers and thinkers have temporarily

preferred solitude from ordinary distraction so they could immerse themselves

entirely to their work.

He reiterates that opting to work deep is the essential prerequisite,

That he has accomplished extraordinary endeavors in his life.

He suggests the very idea of ‘Deep Work’ and it is a terrific way to maximize your productivity.

My own experience confirms this idea.

Try it sometime.

Put your phone away. Take a pen and notebook.

Find a quiet corner, even if it is an attic nobody else likes.

You may be surprised by what your mind is capable of producing when it is finally left alone.

Give it a try buddies, you will thank me later.

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It is not how you live life,

It is how you see life.

Does meaning matter more than the joy you can have?

The melancholy is all pervasive, as is happiness.

Fall in love with the poetry.

Fall in love with the words.

Fall in love with the art.

Fall in love with music.

Fall in love with the colors.

Find meaning in colors, they want to speak.

Find love in the words,

I love words, how good the word “Perpetual” sounds when I speak.

I love words, how good the word “Perspicuous” sounds when I write.

The joy of writing as I am writing.

The joy of writing complex words without a single spelling mistake.

“Miscellaneous”, “Floccinaucinihilipilification”, “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” .

The life and its content is all about perspectives.

How you see things.

How you relish each and every moment without rush.

The love of love.

The happiness of being happy.

There is nothing in this world that is entirely new.

Just the varied form of expression.

As they say,

“फ़र्क़ तो अंदाज़-ए- बयाँ का है,

वरना इस दुनिया में नई बात क्या है ।”

The restaurant I visit,

I am thankful for the service of helpers,

Even I am paying for that.

To be nice when you are truly nice,

It should not be like,

You wear a mask outside.

And you are not cordial with your family.

It shouldn’t be like,

“A honey tongue, a heart of gall.”

Because it does irretrievable damage to people.

“Atleast a dishonest person can be trusted to be dishonest,

Honestly, the honest ones you need to watch out for.”

BE THANKFUL.

Be thankful to every molecule that exists on this very planet.

Relish the sunlight.

Cherish the moonlight.

Relish the mountains’ height.

Cherish the ocean’s depth.

Relish the joyous moments.

Cherish the suffering with pleasure.

Be thankful to air.

Be thankful to water.

Love the sight of ripples when you throw a stone in a lake.

Love the soil.

Love the smell of petrichor.

LOVE YOURSELF.

LOVE NATURE.

HAVE AFFECTION WITH THINGS AROUND YOU.

Love the fan that is spinning around for you.

Be thankful to each and every thing you have.

Some people are not often blessed as you.

I love my Ipad and Apple Pencil.

Because it lets me right beautiful essays like that.

I love my home’s attic where,

In tranquility, I write about things.

I think about things.

I think about how to think.

I love my diary, where I do my journalling daily.

I love the smell of pages of new books.

I love calligraphy, to write good handwriting.

I know you may laugh at me.

But this is how it should be.

They are sad and affected by less important things than this.

Believe me.

Nothing is more important than your headspace.

Just you are not feeling or thinking ample to cherish things that exist around you and they are quite obvious for you.

That’s why you take them for granted.

I hope this essay helped you get new perspective about life.

Have fun, my lovely people.

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ESSAYS BY QUASAR (DAY 1)

The urge to learn everything,

The urge to know everything.

Hence the realization,

They are not synonymous with wisdom.

From absurdism to nihilism to stoicism.

From Advait Vedanta to Upanishad to Arthur Schopenhauer.

Hence the realization,

They are not synonymous to self - awareness.

From The Idiot to The Stranger to White Nights to Metamorphosis.

From Sigmund Freud to Albert Camus to Fyodor Dostoyevsky to Franz Kafka.

Hence the realization,

Every renowned author had some flaws and,

Their flaws lived beside their brilliance.

From being manipulator to being manipulated,

From making fool of others to being fooled,

Hence the realization,

This is not karma,

The whole world is impure and,

It gets back to you.

From absurdist to find meaning,

From nihilist to love God.

A person who has been through this all,

In one span of lifetime,

He has lived, He has lived.

From being atheistic to faith of God,

From being ascetic to materialistic,

Hence the realization,

They don’t answer.

Who am I?

Who am I?