Deyasini Thinks

Mr Oliver, an Anglo-Indian teacher, was returning to his school late one night on the outskirts of the hill station of Shimla. The school was conducted on English public school lines and the boys - most of them from well-to-do Indian families - wore blazers, caps and ties. "Life" magazine, in a feature on India, had once called this school the Eton of the East . Mr Oliver had been teaching in this school for several years. He's no longer there. The Shimla Bazaar, with its cinemas and restaurants, was about two miles from the school; and Mr Oliver, a bachelor, usually strolled into the town in the evening returning after dark, when he would take a short cut through a pine forest. When there was a strong wind, the pine trees made sad, eerie sounds that kept most people to the main road. But Mr Oliver was not a nervous or imaginative man. He carried a torch - and on the night I write of, its pale gleam, the batteries were running down - moved fitfully over the narrow for...

Why do we trust so many people? Why do we so care? How many faces of a single soul do we see in in one single year? How much of pain do you supress in your heart? How soon will the Sun set over your eyes? When will the light stop dazzling you? How much of distress when piled in a load is enough to let you have a meltdown? What are you to me that you expect you deserve an explanation to all my decisions? You’re at least a wrongturn in the road of my life Sunken, shrunken and dirty on all sides Atmost you’re my night old muse My next poem is bout how you touched my soul Either way, you’re so shortlived my love I’ll forget you existed by the very next noon Shouting we’re all in the same doomed ship We’re not, we’re alone and waiting singly for our doomsdays Cause despite how far the bird flies from its nest When the Sun goes down, the bird’s only welcome in her nest.

A few days ago, I was watching The Haunting Of Hill House and one of the characters in it said that a ghost is a wish. I thought it was bullshit back then because it was not only irrelevant but also insanely insensible and stupid. It was like comparing two oddly dissimilar things together, things where a comparison is not just highly unlikely but also highly absurd. How can a ghost be a wish? What kind of wish is it? Is it fulfilled or unfulfilled? But then, how would a fulfilled wish still be called a wish? A week later into a strange mourning, I understand better. I realize how less dramatic Life is compared to all those daily soaps we grew up watching which dramatized pain beyond feasibility, use recurring characters, doppelgangers or amnesia to dress up Death as a break from the monotonicity of Life, like one week of a vacation. But Death is everything but a vacation. It's a surprise (shocking) one way trip to oblivion; something one can't forget or escape or procrastin...