Thlasik Mumang

What is it they say about winter dreams?

Tacky beads on my neck turn cool

Mingled with the chill of night.

You gave nervous, disapproving glares

When ghosts of Christmases past

Knocked on the thick wooden door-

Wreathed.

Your memories have become mine.

And so, I felt the fascination

The excitement, the fear,

The disgust.

I felt in me

Your exquisite helplessness,

So addictive.

I saw you from a distance,

Torn. A fragment of a moment

In painful slow motion

Enacted on your face,

Stretched to infinity.

But I was mute,

Equally helpless.

I saw you rooted

Unable to move

And then you retreated

Into yourself.

Unreachable.

I shall put away the wreath soon

And pack it in a box labeled

‘Ghosts’.

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When You Spoke

When last you spoke
You spoke of times long gone,
You spoke of Bangkok,
Strange accents,
Stranger diets.
You disarmed with laughter -
That sound was alien too long.
Did you know somehow,
None more would be forthcoming,
The way you laughed that day?

Memories are tricky;
On good days they bring remembrance
Of golden lockets from Kuala Lumpur
Shaped into a heart
Now long lost;
The sound of mortar and pestle
When you ground
Spices, herbs, hearts;
On good days you remember
A new car with meaning in its numbers,
And prayers floating in church
Long after it was deserted.

On bad days-
But one should not dwell on bad days,
What is the point?
Suffice it to say
On bad days
You remember Pink Floyd
And Time.

And Death-
Somewhere an unwilling pseudo widow
Is drowned in the good and bad,
As she struggles to explain
Absence
To sweet fruit
Born of blighted seeds.

MA (English) "zir ve hrim hrim" hi

Mizo tawngin tun tum chu ti ve ngei ange aw... Kima Mizohican paw'n a ti ngam a lawm le! Hehe. Ziah dik loh leh tawngkam thiam loh kha chu min lo hmuhloh der sak hram mai dawn nia. Mizoram University hnuaia admission tih a hun leh tan chho tawh a, thawhpui te chuan an phone engtik lai mai pawhin a rik leh tan chuah chuah tawh thu an sawi sap sap leh ta. Kei ve mai, ramdanga awm daih pawh hian admission lama sawi pui tur a min rawn ngen call ka dawng nawlh nawlh mai! Hemi chungchanga kan hriat tha ka tih tlemte ka sawi chakna hi a rei tawh a, mahse kumin chu ka awm lo bawk a kan sawi ve ang e.Department dang ka sawi kep lem lova, mahse kan ngaihdan hi a inan tlan viau chu ka ring. Hei hi chu MA (English) "nih ve hrim hrim" tum ngawr ngawr te chhiar atan bik deuh a ka sawi ah min lo ngaih sak ula, chutih rual chuan English Department aiawh pawh ka ni chuang hranpa lo. Ka mimal hmuhdan ve mai mai a ni.

# Mizo te'n admission hmuh kan tum dan hi a fuh lo. Kan kalphung hrim hrim hian a zir loh vang te pawh a ni anga, hna dil leh engemaw hamthatna tur awmah "induhsak" "insawipui" tih vel hi a lar bawk lah taka. Zir na sang umin kan kal a, bul kan tan tum dan a dik lo nghal viau zel. Merit (a ti tha tha) a thlan mai tur ni si hian in sawipui leh in duhsak vanga luh kan beisei tlat. Kan department ah chuan hei hi theihtawpin tih loh kan duh dan a ni ve tlat thung. BA zirlai zawng zawnga zir tha peih si lo vawi leh khata inel rala duhsak vanga luh thut tum a, mahni aia zir tha peih leh thawkrim zawk rawn leh pelh vek tum hi a dik lo hrim hrim.
Minister lehkha leh Zirlai Pawl hruaitu lehkha, thiantha sawipui leh chhung leh khat, kohhran leh khawtlang a min hmelhriat tu rawn sawi zawng zawng hi admit vek theih an ni si lova, lungawi lo fe fe pawh an tam ang. Chutih rualin heng lehkha nei ve lo tan chuan thei ang tawk a dik (fair) a entrance test leh interview kan lo neih khan an tan chuan a 'fair fight' a nia, a lawmawm viau thung.

# Entrance/ selection kal phung: BA marks hian 50% a pu a, a dang 50% hi written test leh interview a ni. English department ah hian written test hi zirtirtu zawng zawngin dawhkhan thut bialin hmun leh hmunah paper tin an check a mark an pe hran vek. A tawpah an marks pek theuh average an la. Chutiang bawkin interview ah hian zirtirtu awm zawng zawng an thu a, marks a hranin an pe vek a,a tawpah average lak leh a ni. Mi pakhat khan a lo duhsak ruk viau pawhin a average lak a nih avangin awmzia a awm thui vak lo; chutih rualin kan en dan a inang tlang duh viau a, kan marks pek pawh hi a inang tlang viau thin. I ziah zawh hman loh emaw i nervous deuh etc vang khan i rilru ti hah lutuk duh suh, a endiktu lam hi experience nei tha tak tak an ni a, phek 2 -3 an chhiar emaw rei vak lo an kawm che chuan ngaihdan an siam thei ruak. I thiam vek loh pawn i thiamloh kha chu an lo zirtir mai dawn che a, an vei lutuk lo, zirtir theih turin potential i nei em tih kha an ngai pawimawh viau.

# MA hi zir mai mai chi a ni lo. Tunlai chhanah mi in hausak (k)an duh theuh a, Masters' Degree English a i neih khan i hausa thur thur dawn lo. Chutah a ti tha pawl i nih lova, pass ve tawk tawk i nih phei chuan zirtirtu hna tha emaw research tihna chance pawh i la nei vak dawn lo zui. Practical skills zir chhuah a tam lo hle a, doctor te, engineer te, leh Sciences zir ho angin nitin nunah i thiam thil han hman tangkai na tur em em a tam lo maithei. Sapram university tam tak ah phei chuan Humanities hi chu mi hausa zir atan an dah tan. Eizawn nan a tha ber ah ngaih a ni lem lo. I lungleng thei viau anga, thil i chhut neuh neuh peih viau anga, i philosophical viau anga, tlem tlem in history, psychology, political science, leh sociology te i hre nel nual ang a, critical thinking i hneh viau maithei. Chu pawh i subject ah i tui chuan. I tui loh phei chuan i hne hlui a ni mai.

# I hne hlui nachhan tur chu a workload a la rit phian zui. Lehkhabu pakhat chhiar zawh nan a thla thum vel mamawh zel chi i nih phei chuan a ngaihna a awm dawnlo. Semester khat (Thla 5 vel) chhungin a lo berah lehkhabu 30 vel i chhiar theih angai a, chu chu text chauh. A bak i inchhiar zau tur phei chu i peih zat zat a ni tawp mai. Zirtirtu te lah hian kan dim vak lo leh nghal a.

# "No" a theih loh. MZU hi a hla. A tehna a zir te pawh anianga. Mi tlangpui tan a hla. A lum bawk. Duhthusamin tui, ei leh in, bus service, etc etc a tha lo fo. I vun te kha a thu vek dawn. Hmeichhe tan - first semester chhung bak chu i inchei parh rei lo ang. Mut kham tawh ngai lo turah in dah tawp a fuh ang. Chung chu i pawm mai khan i hahdam. I no viau chuan i tlin dawn chuang lo.

# Master's Degree hi kal paha tih vel mai mai chi a ni lo. Assignments, presentations, tests, leh exams a indawt zut. I fail kher lo anga, mahse i social life - thian kawm, khawtlang leh kohhran, innei leh chaw eikhawm zawng zawng thulh lo a tih pah i tum chuan i rin aiin i ti tha lo anga, a tawpah certificate leh marksheet i tangkai pui vak loh nen i hawi ha ha mai ang.

# Saptawng zirna a ni lo. English department tih a ni naa, literature zirna a ni a, language hi a hranpa in kan in zirtir lo. Kha lam chu i chan.

# I tui chilh bur a ngai. Art a ni a, tui vak lo, tha si a ngaih avanga zir tum i nih chuan zir lo law law la i hahdam zawk maithei. Graduate i ni tawh tho tho a, hna tlangpui dil turin qualification i nei tawh tho; Master's chin hi a subject specialize duh tan liau liau a ni tawh tih hi kan hriat nawn a tha hle. Thu leh hla lam zirna a nih miau avangin luangliam deuh zawih zawih, sawi hluam hluam chi tan a nuam, titi mai mai naah te thlenga tui tak maia sawi peih loh tan chuan hun khawhral na ninawm ang reng tak bak a ni thin lo.

Heng zawng zawng hi i inhuam a i ti thei a nih chuan semester li (4) i zawh meuh chuan a hma ai chuan tih danglamin i awm ngei ang. English a Master's Degree nei chin hi mi rilru zim tak, tawng pung pung leh mawlmang deuh deuh a ngaihdan siam pup pup an vang viau. Keini lam, thiam vang ai maha hrat vanga thildang tih thlang lova lo luhchilh ho hian kan lo lawm viau ang che. Welcome aboard, and best wishes!

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Dying Alone

The news that greeted me when I logged on to facebook today was that my maternal cousin, Reem-a had died in a car accident in the early hours of the morning. Probably because I stayed the night alone in my apartment, my family had not informed me of this, and thus it was that I was confronted with the news via the status update of one of my other cousins. Anyhow, this is often the case with me – I am always the last to hear of any news in the family, births, deaths, marriages, and the assorted calamities and celebrations in between.

I was not particularly close to Reem-a since we hardly meet anymore, and he was a bit of what we Mizos like to call a ‘cowboy’ – a bit on the wild side, although he was a lot of fun, with a terrific sense of humor. When I imagine him in my mind’s eye, I see him grinning from ear to ear. That was the kind of person he was. The youngest of a large family of six other siblings, he was doted upon by his brothers, sisters and parents. He lost his mother, my aunt, a few years ago, which must have been especially hard on him. I like to think of him now being hugged into his mother’s warm embrace. Although I have not been able to attend his funeral, which is in Lunglei, I can imagine the waves of shock and grief that must be coursing through his near and dear ones right now. Rest in peace, brother. Sorrounded by his family and friends, he has left this world.

Mizos have this fear that we will have nobody to mourn us when we die. I’ve been thinking about it, and I guess that for many of us regardless of race, culture, or environment, dying alone may be one of the biggest fears that we have. Not that you can die with anyone, but not to have anyone to feel a sense of loss, of bereavement, seems an empty existence. To many, that may sound illogical. After all, once you’re six feet underground, what would it matter whether you had mourners or not? And yet, such is human nature. We want people to feel something when we leave this world.

That is why, we love and love and love again no matter how many disappointments life deals us. People are fickle, people are callous, people are unpredictable, people hurt us. And yet, we leave ourselves open to new experiences, willingly make ourselves vulnerable in the hope of finding someone to fill that gap. That persistent need to be loved. Our determination that we will be loved, just as we have loved. How brave we are, how strong the human spirit! Here are a few words that Native American writer, Louise Erdrich has penned in her novel, The Native Drum:
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, of left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself that you tasted as many as you could.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

If you search for tenderness
it isn't hard to find.
You can have the love you need to live.
But if you look for truthfulness
You might just as well be blind.
It always seems to be so hard to give.

Honesty is such a lonely word.
Everyone is so untrue.
Honesty is hardly ever heard.
And mostly what I need from you.
('Honesty' - Billy Joel)



When is it ok to lie? Are there special circumstances in which lying is acceptable? These were some questions that came to mind after I discovered someone close to me had told me a bare-faced lie.

Of course, there is a thin line between LYING and being diplomatic, polite, kind, or whatever we choose to call it when we say things like "You look great!" when we know someone looks terrible, or "It will be ok" when we know it won't, or "No, that outfit doesn't make you look fat" when in fact, a tight top creates sausages on a friend's tummy, or when we smile and say, "I'm alright" when we want to scream out of sheer frustration.

What happens, for instance, when you tell a lie to "save" a situation or a relationship? Should we confess to our sins and hurt people, or lie and give them peace, quoting the adage, "ignorance is bliss"? What about our past? Do we 'fess all or edit and censor shamelessly? When is "honesty is the best policy"?

On the flip side, what if we decide upon the amount of information we give to near and dear ones, but unfortunately cannot prevent them from discovering the truth from some other source one day? Then, of course, we risk losing their trust forever. So, should we plunge in and bare all, knowing full well the consequences - which could be, and often are ugly - or, do we keep our lips zipped and cross our fingers, hoping they will never find out the truth? How honest should we be? Is there such a thing as being half-honest, partly honest, and how different is a white lie from a black lie? How honest should we be to the ones we love? Honestly, I don't know.

Train Journeys, Unexpected Delays and Transcendence.

Was on a Study Tour recently with my students. Travelling on an unbelievably tight budget, we had to travel by train, second class sleeper, non- AC. I realised I hadn't had too much experience travelling by train, and I can't say I regret that lack. I warned my students not to be "princesses" and to be tough and stoic come what may. I must say I myself was a bit unprepared for the filth, the cacophony of vendors and beggars and hijras that burst into the compartment whenever the train stopped, the condition of the washrooms (!!!) and the total chaos regarding tickets and seats. Unless one sat steadfastly in one's seat all the time, any number of ticketless travellers assumed that they had the right to plonk down on the seats, without so much as a by-your-leave.

The food was relatively decent, except, of course, if you get stuck in some bizarre railway traffic situation in the middle of goodness-knows-where, and are forced to spend an extra day and night on the train, then nothing tastes too good anymore. By the third day, all of us were eagerly awaiting the arrival of peddlers who came to sell their wares- bracelets, keychains, torches, sauna belts, chains and locks, knives... in short, most everything. One man even came with a number of mobile handsets, shouting "PCO", so I assume it was possible to make calls from his numerous phones. Bargaining became an art, with all of us trying to outdo the other in the loud and lengthy negotiations that took place. Our broken Hindi didn't help. I got conned into buying a solar mobile phone charger, which charged the phone for precisely 5 minutes, after which there was no more life evident from my phone. A hundred rupees. I was also robbed of the Woodland sandals I was wearing. When I got down from the top berth, it simply wasn't there anymore.

Anyway, notwithstanding my initial revulsion and boredom, by the end of the third day of the third journey by train, I was able to cope with most things, and when I finally stepped down on the platform at the last station, I had finished three novels, numerous magazines, and was loaded down with a motley collection of trinkets and gadgets bought on the train. A little worse for wear, but that much richer in experience. That's life.

Oh, and I'll save the story about the bedbugs for next time :)

Just Another Post

This isn't going to be one of those academically-oriented posts that Calliopia finds so boring; I ought to warn you that it also probably won't contain sage words and profound insights into the fundamental truths of life. No, sirree. This is just another post about a topic that has been discussed almost to death : love.

See, what I don't get about this whole concept of love (not the divine kind - although I have a few questions on that too, for another time)is how it's supposed to be the definition of perfect bliss and excruciating pain all at the same time, and how, despite it's seemingly ambiguous, arbitrary and completely fickle nature, so many of us seem to be addicted to it. Is it love, or is it the idea of being in love that has us hooked? No profound observations yet - I did warn you.

In spite of countless attempts, for centuries nobody has ever been able to define love; at best there have been some very good descriptions of the nature of, the effects of, the characteristics of love. For my part, I would like to add that Love is a very wet thing. And by wet, I specifically mean the kind of wetness that emits from the eyes...tears, some call it. Hah, and you thought I was talking about the other kind.

Anyway, not to meander too long from what prompted this post in the first place. In short, I received a call from a girl friend of mine, a very tearful call, in fact, this evening. We all know the story - her guy, with whom she'd been involved in this extremely hopeless love-triangle, did the unthinkable (actually, not so unexpected, considering his complete inability to commit to either of the women involved), and got the other woman pregnant. She ranted, raved, raged, and threatened to commit some act of violence involving hammers, pistols, and other assorted weapons. However, once she ran out of really graphic (and painful) descriptions of what she would do to him, what remained was that elusive emotion called love. She wanted to hate him, but it didn't work. Well, maybe the hate will come later, but right now, she's making excuses for him. She knows what she's doing, and she still can't help doing it because this thing is bigger than her.

So, what is it about us that we jump into situations and stay there, fully aware of the potentials of getting hurt - again? Are we suckers for pain? Is it some masochistic impulse that keeps us going back for more? Should we run as fast as our bare feet can carry us the moment we are threatened with this thing? Are we simply kidding ourselves when we chalk down a failed relationship as "a mistake" and then look toward the horizon, to that new person we've just met, and think "maybe this is The One"?

I don't know. I have no answers. But I like to think that this refusal to learn our lessons, to 'wisen up', is, in fact, courage of the most heroic order. To risk ourselves getting hurt again and again, to refuse to lose hope.... maybe that is just another evidence of the indomitable spirit of mankind. And maybe the small victories make up for the huge losses. Or maybe the losses are, after all, in the end, victories.

PS: I'm sorry Miss Calliopia, I can't seem to find out how to make my fonts smaller...been out of touch for that long!

Forget it!

I swear I'm losing my mind. The reason? I just keep losing things. Have you ever felt that suffocating panic rising from your chest and lodging itself firmly in your throat when you just could not remember where you put that vital piece of paper, that article of clothing, or that library book? It's similar to that feeling of utter panic when you see a familiar face, but just can't put a name to the face, and the owner of that face is pumping your hand with vigorous enthusiasm and glee at having found you, long-lost friend/ colleague/ neighbour/ lover (?!), etc. Anyway, you get my drift. That has been happening to me with alarming frequency lately. Well, not that last bit.

Last week I ransacked my room trying to locate my educational certificates (yep, the originals), upending every drawer, cupboard, painstakingly going through every file. I still haven't found them. I even roped in my mom and together we excavated through the accumulated mess. Nothing. However, I did find a few interesting articles: old cards from friends I hadn't heard from in years, a few clothes I'd totally forgotten I had, my missing silver earrings, and tons of loose sheets and official correspondence which had cluttered my desk and shelves. My room looked so much better. But still no certificates. Therefore, I looked much worse off than when I started.

I had a mini-scare when I lost a VERY IMPORTANT key my dad had entrusted to me a couple of days later. When I panic, everything tends to be a blur (and that's not just because of my myopia), and for an entire day - what was supposed to be a relaxing Sunday- I went through the whole drill again. Thankfully, after many entreaties sent heavenwards, I found it exactly where I'd left it - on the shelf above my computer.

Today I misplaced my handset, and had a mild panic attack, until I gathered my wits and looked inside the car, where it was resting innocently between the handbrake and the gearstick. Whew. I have also lost innumerable books, pieces of jewelry, a brand-new nokia handset, not to mention money. I also forgot to turn up for a class I was supposed to teach at IGNOU as a favor to my friend. I swear I'm responsible about my duties, but there are days when you just can't beat the evil beings conspiring against you. And maybe it's in my genes. I once waved to my dad who was giving a lift to some guests from another state, and they all blankly stared back. Upon enquiry, I was told later that he had actually asked those strangers if they knew "that kid who was waving at them so cheerily". Since they obviously didn't, they wrote me off as someone who was either slightly bonkers or had mistaken them for somebody else. *Sigh

Well, at least I also forget to remember the many offences and injuries commited against me :) So I guess that's one good thing about it. And short of taking those wonder drugs for memory improvement so frequently advertised by shady characters, I don't think there's a cure for my malady. I'm losing all my things, including my marbles.

To Be a Woman

To be a woman, to have a heart, and to hurt. Here's something I came across when I was flipping through an old notebook of mine. It was taken from a Nike Ad in a magazine:

Oh, you’re so emotional.

There you are all caught up in your emotions, wearing your heart on your sleeve, wearing your heart on every piece of clothing you own. You cry at the drop of a hat. You cry absolute buckets. You cry me a river.

You’re a woman (you can’t help it); you’re a girl (now, don’t get me wrong); you’re a woman and you’re so emotional about everything and

even at those times when you’re perfectly rational and perfectly capable, somebody somewhere will look at you and say (like it’s the worst thing in the world)

Oh you’re so emotional

And of course, that really makes you want to scream.

And then just as soon as you don’t weep, which is most of the time anyway, and you’re cool and calm and absolutely brilliant under pressure somebody somewhere will say you’re too cool and too calm and then, of course, you’re suddenly and forever called insensitive.

Ah, to be a woman.

Somewhere in the middle of all these assumptions and all these labels is the way you really are. You are kind (that’s why we have hearts). You are strong (or you wouldn’t have made it this far). You are fearless (or you would’ve hidden your heart long ago). And because you wear your heart so easily sometimes

you know how easily it is broken.

So through time, you have learned to protect it. You learn to take it for long walks. You learn to let it breathe deeply. You learn to treat it with respect.

And, through time, you have learned to move it and bend it and make it accountable, because the best way to keep a heart alive is to be unafraid to use it. And you are so very good at using it.

Listen.

Your heart is beating. This means you are alive. Your body is moving. This means you cannot be stopped. The world and all its labels are calling you. You’d love to answer. But you’re moving so fast you can’t hear a thing.

Dedicated to the memory of fellow blogger Azaia, whose untimely demise has left us reeling with shock and groping for words and meaning.

On Death

Than Almitra spoke, saying, "We would ask now of Death."

And he said:

You would know the secret of death.

But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life?

The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light.

If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life.

For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.

In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;

And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.

Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour.

Is the shepherd not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king?

Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?

For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun?

And what is to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?

Only when you drink form the river of silence shall you indeed sing.

And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb.

And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.

(From The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese poet)

for more on this amazing writer, click here : http://www.habeeb.com/khalil.gibran.the.prophet.html

Mizo soldiers’ death

I’ve been watching TV, a rare thing for me. On Friday, the local channels broadcasted the arrival of the corpses of Mizo soldiers posted at Chattisgarh. I have been thoroughly depressed ever since. Their families, their young wives looking dazed, and especially their small children, who didn’t seem to be able to understand what the hue and cry was all about, nevertheless looking so scared, just made me feel so sad.

What amazed me most, however, was the callous attitude of the public. Sure, I’m aware that many went to the airport out of respect for them, at their own expense, and lots of organisations (of which we seem to have so many) have expressed their sympathy in the form of monetary gifts. I am not disputing the role of selfless men and women, particularly from the NGOs in their efforts to do all they can to ease the pain of death for the bereaved families.

But what about the larger public? What about those who used to send endless sms-es just to sympathize with those who had been voted out of some reality show or another? Or, for that matter, what about those who did not hesitate to spend money on telephone bills to cast those votes? Not to mention those donors who gave so many presents to the participants, they had to pile it up on the floor?

I mean no disrespect to those who wish to showcase their talents or their generosity. My point is, when you really look at it, what is more important? Don’t these soldiers’ deaths deserve at least some messages of comfort via the media from the locals? I’m sure it would go a long way in giving some kind of strength to those who are still reeling from the shock of a loved one. Solidarity, compassion, empathy, sympathy…are we so warped that we give these only to those who are public figures? By blatantly burying our heads in the sand in the face of anything unpleasant, by mindlessly seeking entertainment to protect ourselves from the real world, whom are we kidding? Nobody but ourselves.

Popularity

To be adored is not something to be coveted. It is a lonely position on top, and most people you come across will give you two predictable reactions – they will either join the fan club or be prejudiced against you from things they have undoubtedly heard without bothering to prove. And then you find yourself in the unenviable position of either trying to live up to their expectations or trying to disprove their prejudiced assumptions. At the end, you rarely manage to satisfy anyone, least of all yourself – for you find that in the process, you have had to sacrifice your individuality, independence, and frequently, your principles.

Truth

You say you want facts, that you like to deal with the truth. But what is truth? Your truth and my truth may be totally different. And what you and I perceive as reality may be nothing but a fantasy – or a nightmare – for someone else. We say truth is objective: genuine Truth probably is. But whose truth shall we accept as the Universal Truth? God is truth; ergo, Truth may be God. But what about mortals? We are so fond of perpetuating out own truths, and defending our own versions as the ultimate truth. How do we reach a compromise? Could there be multiple truths? And if you persist in calling my truth a mere daydream, may I label your so-called truth a pointless exercise in illusory rationalism?

Passing Away

What if somebody died, but didn’t just ‘pass away’? What if he refused to slip away quietly out of life without making a big fuss out of it? Is dying really passing away, or a violent struggle against a powerful force for which man is no match? What if, instead of complacently accepting his fate, gracefully conceding defeat, a person chose to rebel and refused to give up? What if he were violently and forcibly jerked out of his life against his will and approval? Is he passing away? What if he valiantly struggled for life till the bitter end?

Transcience

The value of a thing, its worth, does not lie in whether you are able to keep it with you forever, or own it for eternity. It lies in the uniqueness, the ‘special-ness’ of the experience you had when it was with you. Nothing can take away the passion, the intensity, the aura of those moments. They will always have a special glow in your heart, a secret place inside of you in which no one else may trespass. And, in the end, it does not really matter even if you had t let go of it physically. You are still privileged to have those moments, that short space in Time. And you still have your memories to cherish.