Smoky Life

He sat through the night looking at the white stick in his fingers. The stick grew thick luscious tresses of smoke, bouncing effortlessly away from the stick, rising lovingly towards him, but the wind kept pushing them away. They fought for his affection; to kiss him sleepily between his lips, grow inside him, filling him with themselves. They grew, they flew up to him, they tried reaching him, but couldnt stop rising, they grew till they were thin. Thin remnants of smoke, white, like a silky shroud tried hard to stick together, but couldnt. They had to split. They were never destined to be together. They were never meant to be one. Meant to be formless, without boundaries, dissolving into each other, dissolving away from one another. They flowed out of the stick like a foaming gushing river till the invisible rocks in the little breeze broke their odyssey. Small boulders around which they came around, embracing again. Huge invisible boulders broke their flow, their form. They persisted. Finally they reached the top, the helm. But by that time, they had already vanished. They had already lost one another. They had lost themselves.

He was not much different.



Rama Uvaacha


Forgive me Sitaey, forgive me. I know you understand that this was the only way I had; that this pain was inevitable.

I would have killed myself for even the slightest suspiscion on your character, but as the reigning king of Raghuvamsa do I really have another choice of action, Sitaey?

I know you understand me; you understand the storm that is raging in my heart, tearing away the insides asunder. But as a king that has to take care of my praja, my children, it’s my duty to listen to their grievances. I will have to listen to their wishes and rants, Sitaey; you will know how it feels when you shall have kids of our own, how demanding and lacking in conscience their cruelty can really be.

I had to fight the war to get to you Sitaey. For 14 years, I was going through all the hardships breaking my dharma sometimes… only for you, only you. It was something I had to do; I had to, for, you were my only glimmer of hope. It would not have been difficult to tell Hanuman to get you from Lanka; but I had to tell the world, to prove to the world, that you are worth all the pains that I was undergoing. I had to fight off great warriors of Lanka, Ravana, Kumbhakarna, Myraavana-Indrajit, Meghnath; it was not easy Sitaey; but I had to do it, because you were worth it. You are worth it.

But now, forgive me Sitaey; this is the only way I am left with. I wish I could be with you by giving the place to Bharata to look after the kingdom, but that would make my children, my people believe that indeed you are not chaste. It would make them believe that indeed their suspicions are true and I, blinded by love followed you to forest once again. I couldn’t bear to hear that of you from them.

Holding a court of law would be apt but even if you were acquitted, they would think it as a victory of power & money and not of your chastity Sitaey; for the seeds of mistrust have already be planted. I know Ill be damned for the centuries to come; but then it was never easy for love to survive, was it?

It is for me to prove that you were never unchaste, the pure gold pratima beside me would remind them that. It would be a reminder to them, of the mistake they did and that you are irreplacable, and a reminder to me; of how difficult it is for the life of a ruler; how easy it seems to be to not to be a king and how it is not.

The joy of being a programmer

Now she speaks rapidly. “Do you know *why* you want to program?”
He shakes his head. He hasn’t the faintest idea.
“For the sheer *joy* of programming!” she cries triumphantly.

“The joy of the parent, the artist, the craftsman. “You take a program, born weak and impotent as a dimly-realized solution. You nurture the program and guide it down the right path, building, watching it grow ever stronger. Sometimes you paint with tiny strokes, a keystroke added here, a keystroke changed there.” She sweeps her arm in a wide arc. ”

And other times you savage whole *blocks* of code, ripping out the program’s very *essence*, then beginning anew. But always building, creating, filling the program with your own personal stamp, your own quirks and nuances. Watching the program grow stronger, patching it when it crashes, until finally it can stand alone — proud, powerful, and perfect. This is the programmer’s finest hour!”

Softly at first, then louder, he hears the strains of a Sousa march. “This … this is your canvas! your clay! Go forth and create a masterwork!”

*Not mine. Will credit the source soon*

Questions And Fears

On Questions
Are questions the key to answers? It seems they are, however it is not, never simply about questions, but about asking the right questions, asking questions the correct way too. Its the questions that define our limits; its the questions that limit our beliefs; Its your beliefs that shape your questions, and it reflects you in the manner you ask the questions. Its the questions that are elementary.

Answers are secondary, its the questions that hold the key. More the answers, more the questions. And somewhere after a lifetime of questions you ask if all of it was worth it. You then seem to understand that everything need not be questioned, for things have fallen in place not because it was decreed to be so; it was just that it was the process of evolution at place; and you must respect the process… the process of evolution. For every question in place breaks a creation in existence; asking a question necessitates a destruction; destruction of a block of yourself that you’ve defined as a truity, the unquestionable axiom. You might finally understand that finally, there is no answer. The question itself becomes meaningless if the answer isnt there in the first place.

There are things for which questioning is unnecessary, things that should not be questioned, for the questioning will never end; and finally at the end of your quest; you might just want to ask the question “Why was asking questions important at all? What was my motive?” And that very time you might have understood, learnt that its not the process of questions that is important; what was important was a need to believe and trust in the acceptance of any thing incredulous; accepting anything and everything that you deemed impossible and also things you never thought or knew you were even capable of imagining in the most craziest stupors. Its the acceptance of the mysticism that was necessary not the questioning of mysticism.

On Fear
Fears need to be fed; they are like everything else… alive, pulsating animals waiting to ward off any attacks on their existence. They are there always; feeding on you, your weaknesses… they the beasts of the dark, beasts of light, beasts in totality. They are fed by us, to feed on us, to frighten us. That is how they survive, by being a part of our own psyches. They are the cheap thrills, we need to live an eventful life. For if there is no fear, there is no limitation to you, your mind. They are our own nets of safety stopping us from stooping low-down or swooping top-up. Its the fear that defines your identity. Its the fear that elemental. Leave fear and you know they are gone; but not without taking a part of you. Once you lose touch with your fears; you have lost a part of you. A part of you that will never again know what it is like to live within limits.

Source Control & Life

* Only for the techies who know what version control systems are. Others, this is just a whole load of goodledygook 🙂 However, if you persist, you can first read this *

Hi Admin,

I am the version of the human program [code: K-OPO-S] and I am here to complain about a lot of issues about the faulty program you had delivered to me. A space for this program was created on 23rd July, 1985.

It has been checked in every second of these 20 years=240 months=7300 days and you have no idea how tough it is keeping track of the changes to my version every 60 seconds of 60 minutes of the 24 hours of the day.

The feature of checking out the older version exists but I can checkout only in ‘read-only’ mode. This is a major enhancement to the features provided already by the Life(TM) program.

The database is extremely faulty and sometimes I cannot even checkout some very specific version of files even though I had checked it in. During my initial analysis, I found that some versions have been mysteriously been deleted too. There has been even the case where some garbage was also checked in without my permission or knowledge.

And since I have no backup of the versions I previously checked-in; it is doubly tragic that I will have to deal with a lot of bugs, errors and garbage values in my current version.I cannot ever rollback to the previous setup and remove those known bugs!

I cannot checkout any files lesser than versions 1.5. It is a different fact though that my parent systems are able to checkout some log files belonging to my earlier versions but sadly they are totally inadequate to my needs.

Invoking a delete command does not solve any of my current problems with the file version. Even the delete command is being invoked at random by your system and I seem to have no control of it however careful I am with the safety precautions listed in the ‘How To’ Manual provided by my parent systems.

kopos v1.20.240.7300

Admin = God


Pardon the absence of any resemblance to any sanity, rhythm, rhyme…

Time! An enigma to me and a billions others,
As the reaper you stalk,
and as a shadow you follow all along,
being the healer you make us laugh.

The grim reaper you!
breaking into lives peaceful
wreaking havoc as you drag away lives and loves merciless
The scythe of time you yield with precision frightening
Never forgetting to take away the one that was born.

Never at rest, never at peace,
You break into lives peaceful,
wreaking havoc as you swoosh by,
Stealing lives of love that we live by.
Reminding of the truth of life ephemeral.

Like a mother you take us in,
in an embrace warm…
And patiently you stay
during all times hard…

Wiping the tears from our eyes
now wet from pains of lif-san-mercy.
Like a mother you cajole and coax,
to forget the nightmare harsh,
and put me to sleep to dreams enthrall.

Like a father you teach us all
hard and sans mercy to learn things the stone-hard way.
You stand by us all in times of need
and give us strength in moments of despair.
Tall as a rock and acting without emotions
you teach us all the need for calm.

Like a teacher you teach of truths so profound
of truths that span in all ye’ times unknown.
Like a guide you stay,
true to word per se,

Without prejudice you judged everyone till this day.
Truths you bring now of times so old,
Sans an emotion you tell the legends of yore.
to all us fools of lives of the past.

Healing the wounds that people leave,
you drop in, the gifted healer,
the panacea for all the pains,
the longer you stay the better we heal.

As the dreaded stealer you come in slow,
stealing the thoughts that we now treasure,
Of memories and memoirs of people they belong,
Mercilessly you take away the loved ones
Confusing us, Frightening us, making us wonder
if the people we loved we really loved?