Two helmets on a table,

When they met by the pizza table..

I was sitting. Scrambling in thought, about adding coffee to make a pizza capable man, very very capable. This is when the letters glowed on that table. Where two helmets met sat for coffee & conversation.

It read to her,

Of course I will hurt you,

And of course you will hurt me.

To become spring, we have to accept the risk of winter.

So, for all the summers and winters,

I hope to have courage with me,

To look at the sky, and touch this green bit of the grass,

And spread my nickle of spark,

To say, I love you with my summers and winters.

Some pages have will. I still have that nine rupee note.

A city this city. A bundle of pain.

A city, this city, far beyond the Honor of names.

Beyond Green & blue things

This grass and sky are made of daily commute. A Noir recession has hit our conscious. One that demands constant upheaval or melancholy of the stranger, who sits by the corner, with his i-app or whatever, blinking lights on his face.

Here, elections come and go. The green stranger says, we live in a matriarchy of temporary kings, many have come, many go. But, life lives in the bundles of coffee cups and conversations in a shop. Or the long hours of a chimney puffing smoke, for a pizza in a bakery. In these noise of everyday things. It happened. I had 9 rupees. And they said. In the name of blue sky, that is not enough.

I was stubborn enough to ignore these chimney smokers by the blue sky. I thought of this thing.

And three summers have come and gone since then. I still have the 9 rupees that, is proving them right.

Cups and conversations say something in the distance. I’ve yet to hear it. Noir conscious and melancholy resists change. For, how long that is a tale that lives beyond Sunday.

Somewhere along the way,

We looted dignity, we kidnapped, we ra*ped,

And then we feast at the Round-table?

What are we to do of an unrelenting beast conscious?

You have this, I have this. I have seen it by the tree. Green said.

True, I have seen it by the pond, harassing a swan. Blue said.

What happened to the swan? Green said.

Same thing that happens to a leaf in autumn. The swan was doing his business. Suddenly it went mad, and ran around in circles. Then, it took a dive. I waited a day. It never emerged back. Blue said.

That’s the harsh. The tree of eternal autumn. The harsh, got your swan. Green said.

Who is this harsh? Blue said.

I’ve heard only rumours. Some say it is a man riding shadows, comes to your village, and when he leaves, no generation of man survives. Other’s say, a daughter once catching fish, by the pond. Harsh, took her. Her mother and father, went to the pond each day. Then, they like your swan took a dive. Never to emerge.

Where is this pond? Blue said.

Where there is a swan, there is this pond. Green said.

Can I tell you something? Blue said.

Sure. Green said.

What if we are harsh? Blue said.

I didn’t take the daughter or the family, and I am pretty sure, you did your best to help the swan. For you have given me tea, and feast. Such souls, are far from harsh. Green said.

But, what of desire? Blue said.

What of it? Green said.

What if it circles the swan, the daughter, the tree and that poor old man and women? Blue said.

Let it. Sir. Green said.

How come? Blue said.

If it is good for desires of the heart are echoes of something real. But, reality of our journey is, anything can be twisted, by harsh. So, the swan is good, on the pond. But, one can take its wing while it takes a dive. A daughter is good, but one must be careful, to see what she is fishing for. As for the old ones? They will live. They have seen the swan.

Where is the daughter? Blue said.

Behind a wall. Playing with the swan, that took a dive. Green said.

How could that be? Blue said.

Inside the beast’s harsh consciousness spell. Many illusions can be true at once. Like when you saw, the blue women in the desert. Was that the only thing she watered? My green tree’s shadow says so as-well.

Like sun’s shadow, things hit different for each. Yet still remain the same in essence. Green said.

So, what are we to do? Blue said.

The harsh tell me to rib you limb from limb, and then brake her walls, leave her a blue women in the desert, battling the elements. None, would have her. After I am done with her. Green said.

Surely, you wouldn’t dare attempt such a thing, against the very women, who fed your green tree’s shadow? Blue said.

Yet, many have. Green said.

PS :

Thanks for your time folks, this got a bit dark on us. But, for pineapple pizza’s voice to be heard in the parliament. I must go there.

Good day.

Somewhere along the way we forgot the light,

Somewhere along the way, we threw the common meal.

Somewhere along the way, we forgot the way,

We fought..

What is lost to the world of modern politic?

Decency is the first thing that is lost in this world. You have seen the videos but, modern politic often feels more like a show, than an actual debate of dissenting ideas. While. the ruling party ensues its demand, and lays the smack-down. Rarely a man from its own house or party challenges it. Which is interesting to me. I mean, unanimous agreement doesn’t happen on pizza on a pineapple, so how come it happens in the the world of politics.

They at the core have the same problem. The opposition means to obviously oppose, but there always a pizza on a pineapple, that should be in the party. Otherwise, it is not complete picture of reality. Which leads us to soft power.

What does the Round-table teach us about soft power?

The way of polite address. To debate with understanding, that pineapple pizza was how their first pizza was formed. While, it is sacred to oppose it. And challenge their view. It is never sacred to bark at them, while points are being made. I think this type of politic came to prominence after a very moustached man of power from a certain Austrian strain, decided to play Sudetenland or else, with the margins of borrowed heritage.

The way of the soft power is to sit with the man of normal crust pizza and pineapple pizza and see if they can see the same bird, who chirps in the morning. Over the parliament. And try to resolve and not to end things. This kind of thing could benefit relationships too. As tje way of outrage is getting tiring, and modern politic or civilisation is coming to a rather harsh phase. Humanity seems to lost in the dying embers.

So, is all hope lost?

No. At least the stubborn will inside me won’t let the pizza fall, even if I refuse pineapple on a pizza. I do enjoy Pineapple juice. So, takes makes me think, manifestation matters.

And how to recover it in the practical daily life, that is habit and ritual?

Two Journeys, one table and a sleep of cheese cake

Now, imagine with me for a second. The man who is with normal pizza, and the man with the pineapple pizza, before they hired their conscious on the word of the ill moustached dude, as a way of debate, were born of the same ancestor. That is to say, they both run on platelets. Which they do. Gut bacteria is inside both of them. No, human can deny this either. And once upon a time, this ancestor met.

Now, both of them wore the sun symbol crest. But, while the first ancestor brother wore blue, this other one wore, colour of grass green.

So, the older one asked him, why is your colour green?

The young man said, cause the sun ruled in shades other than bright sometimes, and trees sheltered my breath, and my shield. From the strike of wild things. So, I chose it as my garment.

After a bit of a ponder. The ancestor brother in blue. Smiled. Looking at the green tree, that stood in the courtyard.

Meanwhile, the young one asked, what is the blue represent?

The older one said. Hope.

How so, said the younger one.

See, once I was out in the desert, and was without water & ruined castled and broken walls were my only shelter. There, into ruins I found a women wrapped in blue. She gave me water from her well. With that water, I came through the desert, and so ever since. I have chosen blue.

Sincerely,

Vimal..

PS : Thanks for your time. Let me know if you have any insights regarding politic, that is other that this ⬇️, also can share your cheese 🍰 recipe if you want..

So, the year is 2009, I was a pre-teen, and then. The worst thing that can happen to a little brother happened to me. My older cousin died. Dude was the kind which did not offer random gifts. He knew cricket ruled breakfast and dinner for me. So, when the birthday came. I went up the stairs, the my dude, just handed me a package.

I tore it open. A package of tennis balls. It was heaven for a while.

His innings soon came to a close

Soon, he was struggling with Platelet counts, and from which he recovered once. But, the second time, it came back stronger, he fell. Part of me our family fell with him.

So, why do I tell you this?

Well, this started a war in our associate family. Since, I was the only male child left (whole another topic for someday), some wanted me to stay put. My mom, father, and grandpa thought otherwise, and sent me away from this environment, and I landed in a metropolis for a few long years.

But, back to the point of this article. Yesterday, I was sipping chai with a local uncle, you know the type. With general stores on the corners. Typically known for over sharing. So, we were talking a bit, and I already had this topic in mind, which he did not know.

He said, why you should have more than one kid.

I asked, oblivious to him, I was thinking the same, why is that? I said.

And from there he unfolded his tragedy of how, he lost his newborn after three days once. And the subsequent struggle that followed, to recover the relationship. To help her wife, and himself. And then, a few years later. They had twins, and then another child.

So, he said. Glad there are three. The house is never lacking for energy and youth. And always gives you united purpose. So, you don’t get self absorbed if you have children running about, take them to school, practice, food, hygiene, etc. Rarely you have time to think, I am gonna run about the streets like a wild man singing, who let the dogs out.

But, his main point of emphasis was the same, as mine. The case for more than one child. They serve as alternatives or side quests. When, the main quest gets dull, boring or loses its way. When, the first one dies, of tragedy. You get vigor from the second and third one.

As loss of a child is heavy on the soul. Hell, a brother’s goodbye almost broke me. And all I had was a experience. How much more would it hurt, to see all the days you cared for him or her, all the day trips, school hand-off, the smiles, the whining, come to a close, before. For a parent.

So, should you have more than one?

I was once in a carnival, and there I saw a man. His eyes weary and dull, his shoulders were shadow like in pain, yet he held two kids. He was weeping without weeping. So, that tells me it is not easy to deal with two.

But, it what happened to my brother happen’s to any unfortunate soul, you lose support. A father loses strength, and a mother loses care. And a brother loses his way.

One more thing. If one has an older sibling. Life is a bit easier. As you have someone at a level above you, that can be imitated. A mini liturgy of life appears in the household. You beat each other up, have argument, and have a perfectly fine meal together.

Perhaps, gift a younger sibling the same kind of attention, my brother showed me, with that birthday present.

Sincerely,

Vimal.

PS : This one was inspired, . So, go check her out. And tell me your sibling stories, or anything related to this topic, in the comment section.

And have a good day.

So, this is Mary..

Keep her in mind. She’s important.

Sister’s marriage party thingy

So, my sister got engaged sort of. And it was a fine. Had back to back snacks. As people decided it is good two parties in the time span of an hour or so. But, aside from this most of the event was alright. A bit was rage, was there. As a brother should feel, thankfully that didn’t interfere with the event, as I took pictures and played the waiter for a bit.

So, the incident with grandma

It is in the aftermath. I was feeling a dodgy. Angry, would an accurate word. But, it was not unfounded. See, people turn targets quickly. And in this sort of environment. Where, the girl is getting married. The missiles of the elderly start preparing their aim, at your border. What is a man to do?

And I am not complaining. It is good that they care. But, people care enough to ask and pepper, they don’t even know if I like black coffee or regular, cappuccino. Then, it builds resentment. And this is what is happening with Grandma. Every other question turns into this, when.

Meanwhile, I don’t have a girl, or something to tell them. Other than, when it will. It will. For now, just a guy waiting for his Mary.

Then, they ask ladki hai koi bhi chalegi? (Its a girl, who it is why does that matter?) So, that’s been pestering my conscious for a bit.

So, we come to Mary. See, I told you she would be important.

I don’t want a f*8k buddy, I want a princess

Well, in the famous old disney animation, Snow White and the seven dwarves, you have the images of fracture human fracture in the form of dwarves. Grumpy, Happy, Sleepy, Bashful, etc.. My psychology professor said, when she eats the apple, why can’t they revive her? Well, the answer was because, they are incomplete. You can’t just be complete anger, or joy, or only have money or only compassion. Where, everything comes together, cause you need anger in some places, and joy and other.

So, what prince charming is, like vision of proper harmony. He kisses her, and she wakes up. And I won’t go into how the fairy tales, are like fractals of reality. That would take three pages. But, in short. A princess is more than a pretty face.

There, was a time. When a buddy of mine who suggested I marry for the offers were many. You get to use her for sex. Do it..

We are no longer friends. But, my point is such, koi bhi nahi chalegi. Marriage is more than physical interaction of matter. It is to me, at least a sacred offering of attention, to love, sacrifice. It is glances and dances, winking when the dinner table is lit, a generations letter to say we made universes, when we kissed.

Haven’t found my Mary yet?

Behind all the call backs, her heart maybe in the right place. But, bashing metal in only the heat of the forge, produces a dull blade. Cold is what tempers a good one from a cracked one. So, I am not against it. But, to have it coming from everywhere and every conversation is tiring. I am thinking of boycotting grandma for a while. How successful this will be, I don’t know.

Sincerely,

Vimal.

PS : I caught a glimmer of this love thing in the movie, About Time. Fell in love with her ever since. Anyways, have a good weekend. If it is not, give this a listen..

A young boy is about to set sail, and the old man with a pipe, instructs him. Be well, and come back with fish. Or else.

That or else is important. Remember a few articles back we talked about active participation, in life. That is to court anything, with intent of relationship. Yes, that, or else is part of this perspective.

The old man is the same old man, who came across the tiger on the road, and pierced the fog, and then built a harbour town, as the lantern on that last hill faded.

Then, comes the lizard. Get it out of sink or else.

Back to the old man’s. This boy. The town has ample supply, the horizon is free of tigers, and people mingle by the lantern square, every day. Hallmarks of a court, with coconut water in hands of a boy, and ill fading courage in young men, alongside elders, masquerading their adventures in fables, to court attention, are present.

So, for all intents and purposes. The fire on this hill, the word that makes sense of a sentence, is in proper blush and functioning.

So, why does the old man say fish or else?

How perception either elevates, or deflates. 

The sacredness of spaces are determined by the spirits who live there.

So, it's morning and he has sailed for a bit. After the first night under the stars, he wakes up to find a lizard nested on his hand. If that boy has took its tail, and threw it a out. Then, the living reptile of tiny proportions, is not a threat to his heart rate. But if the thing appeared, before him is novel. Then, his perception will be either freeze avoid, kill or seek council from, fish in the water.

Another way to look at those thing is, if you walk into a cafe and the tables are unclean, and mosquitoes are flying about. Then, no matter what your fish friend told you about coffee from heavens, hesitation and weirdness has entered perception. And that deflates your spirits. This becomes a sacred space that deflates.

So, what elevates?

What elevates, is the core of any good endeavour. Maybe, the coffee is still good, even if that table is looking like a caveman had lizard carcass for dinner, and cleaned it last in the bronze age.

Would, you visit this cafe often, was the coffee that good..

Is the lizard, still on his hand..

Why did the old man say, fish or else?

Any ways, other example of perception, includes land ownership,

So, square foot rates. You have heard of those. In city a piece of land, costs x amount of money, in city let's say Mumbai, the rates are towering like it's skyline. While, a reasonable person might say that’s a piece of dirt and look at that, that’s where I was born, in that village across, the cafe on harbour town. And that’s also has a piece of condensed dirt. So, what’s up with these square footing in giraffes?

How narrative plays a role, in how we see things.

In all cases. Like that skyline in Mumbai is perceived to be of more value, cause the gateway, taj, lamington road, and everything else, it's food order capacities at @4 in the morning, are built in luxaries that comes with it.

So, even if some of its cafes are blending, crappy tables but with good coffee. The rates are a reflection of its story. We the people don't get to decide this, as much as we like to think we do. The Marine drive and its waves, follow a logic of its own, coffee shops and picture-esque locale get perception to equate, this is good. So, your spirits go high.

You think, I liked that experience. Lets come back here. And the guy sitting in the coffee shop, sips as the waves crash. He thinks the same. He goes back, longing for it. And now many souls are thinking, wow. wow. much satisfaction this waves, and coffee. Builders, hear. Coin. You say, how much, he says. xxx. You go yes.

Cause, you still thinking. Spirits high. Coffee good. Coin, worth it. Skyline rises, as others come to do the same, then the square foot rates go xxxx. Developer goes. Meesa happy. You sip, and enjoy the waves. If that makes sense.

Epilogue -

So, he finally have a fish. That is an answer to or else. A healthy economy. Let's back to fishing. Our old man left the town, cause the lamp there had faded. The economy of grains was ending, and the coffee shops were inhabited by cavemen who barely lit the fire on the mountain. So, he brought the seed to Mumbai harbour, and from there it grew.

My point with this was, the way of life. Either a land, a person, an interaction. Either leaves you elevated in posture and serenity. Or it leaves you inflated. In a that hand has a lizard on it. Bad hand. Or it can become, that hand that held a lizard, that guy look it out, and let it go to the side of the boat, and started a bucket business named lizard bucket. Inc. bombay.

Sincerely,

Vimal..

PS : This was hard to put together. I hope this resonated at least somewhat.. if not here’s a Hedwig’s Song.

Far from the world of validation, and troubled minds in group therapy of words, I saw a lizard in my sink.

Yes, I know, I promised something akin to saving the big cat out of a tree, but this is in similar spirit.

Some time ago, I had a meal like a caveman on a holiday, as mother and father, were away. Soon after the grumbling of my stomach fell, as I walked into the kitchen to trouble my sink with soapy dishes. However my unawares, were troubled to see, a devilish little running about, tussling to get out of sink.

It moved about, here and there, a bit more, before I turned the knob on. From there it settled on the side. As if it found its place in the chaos of it all.

Now, there exists a version of me that would have shrunk 10 to 80% in panic, a year or so ago, I would have become paralysed, but since a paralysed caveman is no good for any serious household, I had to do something. And thank the heavens for the stars and the trees, I happen to have had a run in with another few dead lizards this past year.

From whom, I had practised to carry their corpses to the green fields, by the side of the house. So, the dishes got done.. with a linear eye of the thing, still hugging the sides. Obviously, even a caveman’s heart still beats, and I was feeling sorry for the thing. So, something had to be done, to free this tiny monster.

It resisted the bridge, perhaps because my shadow was still framing the vicinity. But, by the time. I went out and came back. A tiny monsters had understood the bridge. The sink was ready to back, water and gravel with soapy dishes, again.

What I understood from this?

Earlier as I mentioned. The things would fall to the ground, I would have to clean them up, and ditch them in the grass by the side of the house. This time was different. In my caveman moment, universe placed a caring challenge, I am glad it did. To save a life feels infinitely better.

Apparently, all you need is a tiny viper..

Sincerely,

Vimal.

PS : I don’t exactly know what this was, or even interesting. But, I enjoyed contemplating on it. So, bear with me, folk or read about M’s Natasha Badhwar’s take on the romance of small intimacies. Or a poem I wrote as a conclusion to a series.

Alright, see ya, path beyond the tiger awaits, next.

And the instruction to get the job done. Now, that the job is done. Things are tuned slightly, differently. What the whole fiasco taught me about leadership. Which is to say there lay many dormant parts in the heart of man. Only, to find their courage in times of trouble. Which was certainly the case for me.

While I briefly mentioned this in the previous article. I shall greatly expand on it, in this. So, with that comes the question comes, what does consistent laziness on your part does to you? It chips away at routines, at first. That was certainly the case. I was like a newly wedded bride, it took a while to find my place in city’s ethos. Then, from there it clicked. I was alive again. For this brief time, that Mumbai Version of mine came like a hurricane.

So, back to how laziness chips away at routines?

Humanity and my past experiences has shown if you lost a habit, lest say talking to people, your social sphere shrinks, and fear of starting again increases by the measure of every little bit you have avoided. In our lantern on the hill, if the priest is sleeping. Who is putting ghee in the lantern? Soon, the lantern falls silent, and so does the town. 

What comes next is a tiger.

So Miss Shweta was talking about this, courage thing.

There. It came to me this mythological image of a tiger. When, the lantern falls, and the priest is asleep. Someone from this town, has to run a few errands. Now, what was previously treaded upon, is now a wild path of rumours, where a tiger is pouching a stray soul that is running beyond the border of this town. Yet, the grain in house is running low, the man must go hunting for it. 

So, he walks the trail, of the tiger. And a few steps later, the rumours prove true. Middle of the path, they lay a tiger. The man falls…

Crouching in a pouncing stance. The man approaches with grain thoughts in the sand, the tiger growls a bit, then some. As if setting the stage for a final confrontation of man and the wild. The man trembles, feet wobbly. Hands like a bird in the jaws of a snake.. bit by his side.. He gets up.

Walks. The tiger growls. The man. Takes another step. Fog comes in. It's heavy. Only gets heavier. The man walks through, legs rambling a bit less, hands a little bit freer. 

Thinking, where did the Tiger go?

And isn't that the question for all of us, when laziness rules or for one reason or another, we forget ourselves. Stop participating in our hobbies, that lantern on the hill goes cold, do we have courage, to look at the Tiger, and hear his growl, and court that path again, cause the grain is running low.. 

PS : I shall catch up on comments through tomorrow. Thank’s for your patience cool folk of Substack. Next up, we shall talk about what makes a person mad enough to see a big cat, ignore his routine of walking through the park, and climb the tree, rescue it back to pavement.

Sincerely,

Vimal.. 

(May your week to come, bless you like lavender fields bless the spirit of someone mad enough to walk through it.)

Courting courage, through cancer.

So, I was sitting after the last of mother’s chemo sessions were done. Ah! I thought. That's a relief. But, then the doctor threw a wrench in the plans, and said. There is still something else to be done. Which would be good. Optional yet good.

The man talked about something called radio therapy. I was raging, maybe it was anxiety. Or mad rage. Don't know. But, this whole process has been a bit of merry go round.

Something begins, when you think, that's the finish line and then something takes its place. Its like living on the road which collapses every step you take. You build it, and then breaks again.

Then, a fair few days in her radio therapy sessions. After staying in a new city. I was still a bit mad but, fair enough, it grew on me. As, I though it gave me something new to explore.

So, that naturally, during this period I was observing things about reality. How, people behave, and the electronic attension magnet in our hands, which has killed any resemblance of generosity. 

Then, comes the call from my uncle. He says. Electronic device has eaten my people’s conversation ability. He means, to say. Ten years ago. People would have dinner, sit outside. And have a laugh about things and life. 

Now.. 

Its still a thing. People come, say hello. Bury their head in the very thing, that is supposed to bring us together. At least on paper. Phones were meant to enhance. Smartphones have eaten, our conscious. As, per my uncle. 

So, I go out. The next day. Sitting by the intersection under a tree’s shadow. City commute is rampant. People stop and go. Like mad. Few pass on foot. Some sit close. Here’s the disturbing bit. Very few, have the courage to hold eye contact. Very few. And those who did. Had rarely anything to give. 

I am getting uncle’s point about conversation ability. See, on a normal day. You walk, if someone is in the eyeline. You smile, wave, talk if interested. But, none of that was a thing, here. By the intersection. Or elsewhere. 

And the few times. It did happen. I’d say in a rough estimate, 80% of the time, I had to conjure a smile. Or initiate the talk. 

So, how does this affect everything else? Like leadership, relationships and how hills and mountains are a cure for this disease.. if you can call it that.

Why, the hills have eyes? 

People and the ancient world was sometimes cruel, sometimes mad, and it had better village design than ours. Why? I think. I will let the mountains speak about them, and temples talk of their virtue. Since, always humans are servents of attention, and what you attend to have consequences down the line. I think the anciets knew this. When, that bell rang in the temple. People got together. For good or ill, it works. 

Like my uncle’s bit earlier. When, that dinner table was done, hosting let's say Gulab Jamun, and sandwiches (I know not the easiest of combos to image), people got out and talked. This temple like bit helps with bonding. And that is necessary for confidence. And leadership. As, I've learned on this road to recovery with mother. 

Ive had to do stuff, I didn't before. Build, new routines as the treatments changed. And still manage to show up on time, as the doctor is not gonna wait, all day. And people around me have helped. And the chief being my uncle. So, good on that guy. And I don't know if I've explained the shrines and temples well enough. But, I think of it as stories of the past, holding our current consciousness from falling completely apart. 

Like, if someone is lighting a lantern for 300 years. He's doing it to hold the village together. To bring people close. To bond. Pick your language. Like, how a topic brings the words close, then you get to describe and get into the nitty, gritty details. And that's exactly why you should, dump your girlfriend and boyfriend, or give them a firmware update..

So, Stop Boyfriending or Girlfriending, and start courting..

So, that's a bit extreme. Yet, I am completely sincere in those words. Make the upgrade. Before the lantern on that temple hill falls. I mean, you have finite attension give it to something or people who are gonna be there courting back with promises of building a lantern together. 

I mean you court to be someone’s forever lantern keeper. I promise this builds leaders. How? Cause, responsibility is not a side thing. Its the main character of any successful civilisation. In courting you don't get the luxury of let's see, where this goes. When, that bell rings, people comes together. You go if someone needs you at 3 in the morning. 

You can court anything. 

Yes. Sand, butterfly, motorcycles if you are me these days. And how this interacts with the sense of binding found through community? 

Being bound by something as ancient as the bell timing it's knock at 8’0 clock might seem a bit oppressive to the modern mind. Yet, it is this initial coming together, like how substack bring somber writer who are tired of other social platforms together. Someone in the spheres rang that bell on the hill of social media. And now we are here, courting each other's word. Without obligations to call people names. 

Anyways. I mean to court is to pursue, with proper aim, it never negates freedom down the line. Like a couple who decide. Yes. We are gonna be the couple who eats ice cream on a Saturday, everyweek. Does not engage them, to only pistachio, or chocolate. They can let their whimsy dictate the flavour. And the rest of the afternoon. The mere act of ice cream first on the Saturday is akin to that lantern lit on the hill, at 8’0 clock in the morning. Its a reminder, not a binder. 

Which takes us, to our final point. 

Why, look up?

That's a hard question to answer. But, I think of a couple who is beautiful and attractive, sitting on a bench hopefully close. Yet, are looking for a partner on some dating app. It drives me a bit mad, if I am being honest.  The modern world is mirror reality. Text is validation, ticks are revelation. If either of them, did use it to court. Here’s how it would go. Both cross paths daily and sit on the bench. The guy eats a sandwich, and she is eating kit kats. That's a daily thing for thing. Yet, that electronic device has made them invisible to this, and an uncle furious, mad (Picture it it's fun). 

If only one of them could look. The texts don't have to go. They can come after the eye contact. After the smile, and talk. When he's hugging grandma and she's teaching the cats Jiu-jitsu. That's would be a conversation, I’d love to be a part of. 

To, that end. Her radio therapy sessions are entering the final strech. Soon, I won't be on this intersection of the city. Where life takes me, I don't know. But, I hope which ever bench I sit to observe the merry folk of traffic. At least, I have an encounter of that temple hill, like I did this previous week. I sat for about half and hour or more by two old gentlemen, one of them left and the other had a beaming smile, when I told the man, thanks for sitting with me. This trip has helped me find, parts of me that were dormant. 

I hope we can move past the anxiety of the stranger, and put the eye back on the hills of conversation. Which, happens through ackward encounters, ends in beaming smiles.

PS : That was a headful to write. Thanks for sticking by, and feel free to let your observations run down in the comment section. I will check’em in the coming week,

Good day, and a merry weekend.. 🍕

Why did such a thing weigh the young shoulders of the prince? The answer lies in the book of histories. The book said, of great kings and kingdoms.. Yet, his own was a mess.. So, he though maybe the rebel leaders are the righteous ones. After all their symbols say, all empires exploit, all empires are evil. And the streets of lethargic men, watching as the pools dried, brothels full and families wandering.

He had no reason to question this narrative. Then, on the way, a rebel killed and raped a girl. At least that’s what the wanted paper said. Reward 300 coins. But, if this was true, and it proved as such. As the tribal forest was full of screams and violent conduct. He moved on and came upon the statue of a horse and the rider. The downside of the monument read.

“A good man comes of intent. A better man takes care of the horse and his stable.”

The prince thought for a moment for the men who carried the green saber in their hand. How in the book of histories, good kings took care of the virgin in towns, and were porous in courage to any rebel who dared within their borders. But, it was feeting feeling. As he had seen the detriment of his own land.

For, him the good rebel being a possibility in the kingdom was a dream. The book of histories did mention several horsemen who posses such a trait. But, these too were legends of the bygone age. The pillage in the pit of the kingdom was from top to bottom.

And it is here. In the plains beyond the second princess’s castle he had visited with a smile, he saw a golden helm of a sword. Upon closer inspection it was a Saber, that one with an emerald of the great magician embedded in it. The one according to the book of histories, that has the power to order, any kingdom and make any man king.

So, the prince leant closer. Did not try to take it, and asked leaning by the elm, and the bonfire by the sword, hosted in the deep cut rock. What is this for?

To his surprise a uprooted itself from its sleep, and pushed on his back, close to the sword, which said. Many things. People Kings, peasents, rebels, and squires. Have used me for many things. What is your desire?

…

There was a stretch of silence, as if a branch was shedding its leaf’s. How could it talk, he thought, and his eyes perky wide at the shedding elm’s golden emerald glow. A tongue strangled for words, and his heartbeat’s a resistance of rebellious emotions.

He screamed at his conscious, what it good?

That Saber said intent.

Yes, I know life is cruel, it breaks you,

but it also lets you win sometimes..

How?

Through an ancestor, through myth, and a minor cycle.

ANCESTOR

That ancestor of your was a rapist, he built colonies on the way through blood and broken bones, yet without him you the man you are in fight for his life, wouldn’t even be here. If he overthought like you, fought like you, gossiped by the cooler or canteen, and then forgot himself in the shadow of his problems.

But, he looked at the then thousand strong army. And this is where his story truly found life.

A myth begins. When a guilty man finds honor.

MYTH

If you are here, that means that man ancestor of yours, stood tall and won his way out of a personal valley of death.

What did he do?

He looked them dead in the eye, and said not this day. I will not surrender my conscious. However bloody or guilty it is. I will fight. And he did.

But, what of his raping, looting and murders by the side of a mob?

That is an important question. But, so is the other one.

What of this building, this country and its electrical circuits? Are all these recruits of a fallen man, built of on a bloody compromise, hence the burden you carry mere punishment from the historical protagonist of the universe.

Or is it a blessing, for a collective cry of a common ancestor, who stopped his rape, loot and murder, to do what?

To build.

I suppose sins of the father do weigh heavily on the conscious of a man. Wars and death, a residue of an old world, at least in terms of our historical protagonist.

To him a building was enough to let the man live through when the horde came, to break his first creation. A building. That song bearer of history, your ancestor was now human. To save one’s life was enough.

Whose life did he save? Your historical grandmother.

By the river, by a log build around her. And from a roundtable dinner came a country.

THE MINOR CYCLE

So, goes the myth. When the first building was completed and signs of a community were in the air, with a log on fire, and a round-table set for dinner. He looked her in the eye, and looked at the shadows surging from the east, to the west, and walked out with his sword. Same bloody sword that has years of pillage, written on it.

Nobody can track what he did. Bar the ballads of heroism, by the time we live. You live. That building has electricity surging through the poles, that is proof enough of his victory. The shadows from the east and the west, were made a graveyard sings one of the songs.

So, comes a country from here. Said another song. It records an event when, a man saw a child sitting hungry. And gave his food box to the poor thing. While thinking, is there something more to be done now?

Yes. But, the answer which comes to him, was this. Life is cruel. It breaks you, and it also lets you win, in the minor cycle.

In the minor cycle, that ancestor, would you help a child on the way to face the shadows coming from the void.

Only if one finds the courage to feel the fear of the void, and build on the good deed of a little sacrifice. In his case was food, and shelter. Maybe, your 1% chance, when you are hoarded with bored existence and banal purpose, will carry you.

So, look at a building, the electricity and minor things of importance, and maybe a common ancestor can be saved of a thousand wounds he received on the way to goodness.

( I recommend looking at that image for a while, but its up to you. See, what kind of hard life questions come out of it? Let me know.)

If any of you is curious as to how a myth forms, I wrote this a while ago.

Sincerely,

Vimal.

Imagine a building with grass running of the ground and covering a glass panels. Yes, the is sun out. The lavender sensing beauty is needed on the flat panel. Curls around this balcony.

But, then comes the warden of this building. He says, the panel is colluding with the hearth of the earth, trim it. And it is done. The panel is flat, pristine. Stale. Boring.

The lavender interjections another window,

But, what happens to that flat panel?

Knight AD 3

A knight sits by a river, looking at her reflection under, the moon.

The reflection moved when her lips had courage to ask, why does the company of log and fire, keep you?

His answers hunted a grim reality, pointed to smoke, and wandering winds. Shouts coming from the mountains. A town ear without a cry to rally, the future. And a words from a father which went as such,

“To you my son, now duty lays. Find a sword, and question this rest.” So, he does.

He questions, that crowd in silence, what is the due of a table?

The cook, the table keepers, the rest of men. Proved liars of his fathers words. Until he was in the company of log and spark. There a river of reflection answered him, in smokey plains, and screaming mountains.

That sword said, walk where screams get loud.

Here his virtue found lacking found company of log and a spark.

And this river’s crowning reflection keeps him honest.

What took your collar? Knight said to her reflection in the river.

An empire without a grassroots. She said.

Epilouge

Lets go grass roots. There is always two types of wandering. Our beloved panel/ balcony with lavender roots show a flat kind of world. Too prestine. The kind which has kings and cooks, yet no flavour. The second kind is where the Knight grew up, with a garden which has no gardener. Until, a river of reflection gives perspective to conscious. One tugs at purpose, the takes takes slaves.

what takes her collar.

Society doesn’t like erratic folk. Because, to it, eating pizza with a stick is an cultural anathema.

So, you the anomaly must be tamed, your chopstick must behave as any man’s does. Tired in cubicle, by a keyboard eating stale food, a mule would puke over. Every ounce of personality, that humming spirit must be tamed in worship of, keywords and analytics?

But, heart of a man is wild. It wants wander of the stars, and comfort of the jungle. Once in a while. To eat with a stick if the heart so desires. For any society wants to tame a man for this baser instinct will fall. As the hearty barbarian of the hills, will eat with a stick, and as nature troubleshoots humanity away from phones and emails.

I see an anomaly in the heart of man. What a too tame society does to kill itself. Maybe, on purpose. Maybe, by accident. But, nature is gonna troubleshoot, like lust and images before, and where to put attention when free of that?

KNIGHT AD 2

A knight sits by in the forest, selling fire to the log.

That company of log and fire whispering to him, his expensive ring, and a noble horse breed. Gossiping to him about the permanence of screams, coming from caves mountains, deep dark woods.

A cycle of little nightmares. He wonders under this sky, brimming with stars. Who those screams keep running, eternal?

In this moment his horse, screams. He rides out to see another massacre.

He looks at his pouch of coins, and wonders what it takes to be a good man in the company of log and sparks. Is it about helping the screams to calm down, for a bit of coin.

The beer-folk are numb, the tents have evaporated, sword & axe witness to a trail of screams where chicken lay. Some say, chickens were taken by a storm. The princess girl chased the chickens, so the storm vanished with her.

The knight observes the spice market, unlike the last time. There is no fellow of town, anymore to one to feed him coin. So he pets his horse, and goes into a storm brewing on outer edges, and there is evening and then there come the stars again, and an ill time later comes the morning. Now, the storm dies, as he has gallops into the spice market with the girl, with a swollen belly.

The merchants don’t see a chicken on them. Accuse her of eating them. The Knight stares at the merchant, throw the head of a ritual stone, to them.

Which reads,

“Feed me until the day reeks of grain, for every soul little or big, food shall be plenty to last ends of weeks.”

This time, the girl does not get off, the horse. His tries falling to her mulish contrast. So, does his gestures explaining his work for a log and spark company. The spicemen surround him. With a kind of desperation which makes them pickup the sword and & axe of beerfolk. None of them know where to put this spice. They humm, in a low manner, only if she goes with you.

A quiet declaration of war, in their eyes. He had seen it before. Over hills under trees.

He throws his sword, and his noble ring. The merchants fight over it, as the two of them, gallop into that mild soft fire, that waits by the log. Under the night lights.

And there they settle, he shows her a river nearby. Sits by it, as her reflection pierces his in the river she asks, Why doth thy strong hand tremble, as a fell bird?

He looks at his left hand, and shows her his right. She nods. And asks how come?

EPILOUGE

How come indeed?

That is a wild mystery. No amount of alchemy or science will tell you, where true man will be found. But, I can tell you no amount of keyboards and email will keep the wildness of heart tamed for long. It will want to break out, longs for a damsel in distress, and thread of fire and log in the woods. And eat pizza with a chop stick. Reflecting by the river.

What then ?

Today, I tell you of a dark chapter in my life. Yes, it is related to lust. Known else where as porn-hub energy. You, know. You wake up, scroll, play a video or two while, the brain is silently humming the kind of imagery that is sacred to a man, and his wife. Now, imagine for a generation, this is normal habit. It is. Unfortunately.

Before my day began, the energy was gone. You feel terrible. You could have worked out, been a productive crow to the morning bird’s coup. But, no. You’ve broke a sacred image, from which babies comes from. If done in grace. Why, is that important, I don’t need to tell you. But, I can tell you how it can ruin a man.

It is that tale. How productive potential, can be alienated from community. And this is right. We don’t talk about it, its not like you go to friends, and show them, where you left the fizzy stuff. Yet, it is a big part of life. Traffic to these sites is more than healthy, and that gave me an idea.

What if it is an image problem? If certain type of imagery can garner a lustful response, what if we go back to that morning, and assault that image with another, of a man on the horse.

Knight AD

A knight sits by in the forest, selling fire to the log.

Yes, good fire. The log is your good mate. Work with it. He hums in prayer.

As that log catches a creative spark. He hears a scream. He mounts, moves past a tent, people are having beer. Swords and axes are hung about, as all are cheery about the screams. Except, a fellow.

Now, that fellow of town. He sees the armour, and says. Sir, are you here for the good of the commoner?

The knight nods at the mountain range, where the scream is contorting with the high pitch noises coming from the crowd from that tent. He nods again towards the fellow of town, and gallops high towards that mountain.

Now, its been three hours, smoke is coming out of the mountain. The beer-folk are doing their bit with ordering, quipping a wager on the Knight’s fate, some say I’ve seen enough armour to wager him a meal of the mountain.

The fellow of town, sitting with his cold prayer beads. Praying, for a swift return, three hours pass, the smoke is faint now. The moon is here to say aye, to stars. And the scream stops. And gently riding out of the fog, is a girl, soon to be followed by that saddling knight.

Fellow of town throws a pouch at him, he catches. Drops the girl, by the town square, as the beer-folk look in awe and disgust, some empty their pockets for him, others curse his armour for a lost wager, as much as they could from their hazy angle. And one of them says, the head is extra. Didn’t he tell you?

He pats, the bleeding bag, and throws it at the beerfolk. Smiles, as he rides off.

Where did he go? She asks the fellow town..

EPILOUGE

I think. This is the question. I asked myself. Where did he go?

Well, he went to the fire.

And this is where, it becomes relevant to lust. That morning. What if a man sees the pornographic imagery all day, and becomes a beer folk, all talk and wager of a sterile society. Who doesn’t even have the strength to hear the screams, such is the numbness of his being. What if he looked at this all for a morning change,

Would he have the slight incline to go past the hazy culture, and into that mountain of screams?

Addendum -

It was in October skies he heard a song,

There was she, bright was her lung.

With every word she sprung.

Their graceful company weaved,

A bond of wedded addendum’s,

Where birds sat in meek.

Act II

Then, one day of inquisition,

Her mother caught her leg,

Swollen from birthing twins,

Swore her off to a wandering path.

Cursed is this place,

where wells are screaming,

And water is an unfaithful mate.

She wept and walked for ages,

Before finding a shed,

In it a letter from a guardian,

Which she read, as she wept.

The man was born,

The man then loved,

The man then fell.

The man was blind.

The man was hollowed,

The man was chained,

The man now screams.

To reach that fellow in that pit,

Reach for your tower,

Where he fell to abyss.

By the hermits word,

Sing of your times,

Sworn evenings and all of your crimes.

Surely this hour is a suffering twilight.

He is blind to commands of every other fate,

Yet, he sings of a dawn, with an October born maiden as his mate.

Act III

At last this sonnet. I understand.

The coupling made in moon’s embrace.

Chains of war on his shadow they dance,

As pollution of this fog blinds your breast.

Made strangers of you, this land,

Heiress it is time, to rescue your fate.

For, I see a painted world,

With his sword leaning by a door,

As a bird on a roof weaving good October days…

- Odd Adam (MOB)

Introduction :

My journey to the word, has been a simple one. Born out of desperation. No job, everyone inside. What, the hell am I supposed to do in isolation, as my best friend married a Russian, and moved countries the bastard. So, I did the next best thing. Or the only possible thing, I cried a lot of words on a page. A hundred 1000 words, worth of incoherent novel account, and let the glimmers of that haunt me here.

This makes it clear to me. Words are born out of pain. 

They slowly chip away, at your consciousness if kept in, and haunt the world if we are brave enough to let them out. So, we chose, and whatever happens in that moment of choosing, a song or a poem, condensed grief of a man or a women, is told to relieve that pain. On, the surface it maybe a few words. But, every line contains, a cosmos worth of effort it took for humanity to find a way to express itself, without letting it kill you.

So, yeah a thousand or two thousand words I wrote everyday, thinking I would become a big shot writer of fantasy, if I just wrote more. Followed the advice a good writer is a reader. I am more of visual person than a reader. I said to myself, wouldn’t videos be a better path? Well, that’s a maybe as I live this life. But, words haunt the world of imagination before an image forms.

So, I took on the advice. Read long poem’s in vein of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. Knight in a panther’s skin (any Kartvelian’s in the house?). Alongside the long drip of novels from Dostoevsky, Nicholas Kotar and Bram Stoker’s prime fiction Dracula.

So, that was the start of me in the world of stamping words here. With nothing to lose, I dived into the mouth of the substack dragon, with a brief dash on medium. Been slaying it scared ever since. Soon, you shall know of the origins of poetry in my life. Only, if you want to. So, take a pizza, punch a koala. Or your local animal punching equivalent. We about to hunt, a rhyme and a reason for this condensation of meaning, which says ain’t no grave can hold my body down.

So, what’s he deal with poetry?

To me its simple. A song is a poem, and old bollywood was a feature of my father’s cassette collection. This is where my base was formed. In one of the his songs, a line goes, “Shama kahe parwane se pare chala jaa, meri tarah jal jayega yaha nahi aa”. Roughly means the flower tells the moth, go away. Lest you burn like me, do not come near.

Then, there were greats like Tolkien, Poets of the fall a childhood favourite, and in the apocalypse for a Russian betrayed life, came Dirt Poor Robins, to bring anthems to the edge of the world. All linger in a different part of my memory. Their beats haunt the beasts away, just enough to say, another day, another dream. So, walk on. What is a Knight to lose in a fallen world?

So poems are like birds to me. One little echo of pain of invisible, made visible. Don’t believe me. Have yourself a listen to this?

How, do I write a poem?

Remember we talked about bollywood songs. Yeah. Perhaps, it is that legacy. I can conjure a poem from a topic, at will. I try not to know the mechanical causality of it all. Nor, am I trying to declassify. Lean into something you care about, stare at the blank page, for 30 or so days, and that page will have produced something. Then, have kick up and down, till you find the courage to publish it.

But, if one is to fertilise this mindset, and specialise in poems. I would say read lots of fairy tales, listen to songs. Read a bit of Dostoevsky for the pain in life, and voila. You are a man of poetry.

Anyways, that is enough of me. Tell me of your journey to the world of narrative. Short, dense, or weird like pizza in a desert, longing for life with your significant other, on Vespa. I don’t mind.. As long as it helps you breathe.

If not keep punching, that Koala, maybe it will lay a golden poem,

Thanks for your time,

PS :)

Knight or a lady of the court, life keeps us busy in the valley of the runs,

But, as you breathe quests, and smell fresh produce through traffic,

Remember to sing along to your favourite melody of the dawn..

Here’s one of my fav..

They have led me here. I lay bound in chains of fate.

I accept this fate.

There was no princess to be found. I suspect the wig was of that lady from the painting. Red. I can smell red, and human bone marrows. If anyone wonders, what happens to a prince in the wild. Well, wonder no more. You will find love, fall into thorns, walk in the noise. Find a pea, an old lady lover of the rabbi, rabbits who lost the race, and the snail of encouragement, alongside a wily fox. Before a wolf gets you, trapped in chains.

Yes, I took that door, and next thing I know, is waking here. With breath, no sign of eyes. But, many voices, whispering through the dark. Some were encouraging too. I suspect the snail has made its way inside the glowing bottle.

Addendum :

So, I get that noise is like a river. If you follow it. It follows you back.

Why, am I here?

The Wilis in shadow whisper, I broke heart, by movement stone. Do they not remember the fall? I loved the walk, before the wall drained my spinal fluid of courage. Ever since the wilderness has kept me..

What is more harsh, falling or keeping still? Well, I didn’t know the answer. I had walked on both bitter water, and bitter sand. And now I am at the edge of my civilisation. Loud noises. No, sign of her red-pink charm. Hermit’s note, a snail, a glowing flower in a bottle, and fox. Being my guides Yet, this still feels like falling into a false mirror world.

I wonder if wandering with me, will lead them into the ruins. The tribes folk, are not here, by the gates as the fox said. All I see are wolf skins, and a gown burning with lust of red. The wily thing has disappeared. I do wonder if being a step back is the punishment of the lazy man.

As, once I was too mellow. I though the princess and the mattress would be there, when it needed to be. Then, it happened. And the hermit’s note changed its words. As you see noise. Howling. Its mostly howling, I see a chateau. But, what is a chateau doing in the middle of a desert?

This mischief from the cosmos is even harder to comprehend, than a rabbit losing to that turtle. So, I walked inside snail pouring its wisdom at how it reminds it of two tigers, who guarded the water of life. I see engraved paintings of an old lady, with the glowing flower, and the girl. Either side of her, a man wrestling a whale like wolf.

And it was true too. These images are defying the desert too. Still pouring, perhaps, even keeping a red princess inside. But, there were no tribes men here either. So, they are haunted beings too, a song born out of the mirage. Like many of my day dreams. Perhaps, all of life dreams. Some like me dream too, long and find themselves in a chateau, in the middle of a desert..

Hahahaha…

At least, I have a snail and glowing flower bottle. That will do, for now. And this guard house by the chateau has a wolf sign. So, I opened this door. I found an axe. Blood, an old wig.

And a fox came to my camp. I’ve no food. I whispered. But, the wild thing’s eye had a sore fixation, on the glowing thing. So, I put some it in the fire, and it was was still, there like log which should fall into ash. But, it held integrity, unlike the ruins we burdened.

And this must have disrupted the equilibrium of things. Now, I understood every growl of the fox, it complained about lights, how humans with big dogs scared him, and water is no fun to be with. A sentiment I was familiar with after the fall.

And then it looked at the flower again, and the now the log’s held fire, but did not lose their integrity.

So, what of ash? Fox said. It is not a thing anymore.

I think, its flower magic. Glow keeps us from living in ash lands.

Did you have this forever? Fox said.

I did once, she was like a radiant moon. Soft like an apple, and tender like a mushroom. Then, I fell.

Fell. I am glad you did. This is amazing. I don’t feel afraid anymore. You human, seem alright. Maybe I was wrong about the hunt. Fox said.

What hunt?

You don’t know about the hunt. It is said. A rabbit once lost a race, to a turtle. So, this hurt tribes men, who started to hunt all the turtle necks off the land. Fox said.

What does have to do with me?

You have the glow. You have language of the foxes. I thought maybe. You provided, secret info.

The turtle won fair and square. If the tribe can’t take it. Then, its their problem.

I think its everyone’s problem. Without rabbits winning, they think it disrupted the natural order. If turtles can win that race. They are afraid sea creature will eat them. Fox said.

I hope they do.

Really, I thought you were charming, you have the glow? Fox said.

Well, I also have a sword. Dear old fox.

Is that a threat? Fox said.

No. its only, a subtle reminder of a fate, if you don’t tell me, where they have kept the princess.

How did you know, Prince, isn’t this desert is a stranger to you? Fox said.

I have a snail.

Go on, past the three tower, then. There, the tribal folk, will require you get a replacement. I suggest a hundred horses. Fox said.

How, is one to find a horse let alone a 1*100?

Perhaps, a cocky prince can ask that snail. Fox said. Admiring a glowing bottle at the side of the prince.

Addendum :

Was she a question,

or was I lost in the noise,

Never the matter old rabbi said,

To follow the walk, and the sun shall form out of a weeping moon,

Trouble is, I see a river of weeping moon’s..