An autobiography

I often talk about my biography - autobiography, in fact. Autobiography because I know nobody else would write one for me. It doesn't matter whether anyone will read it or not. If my blog can have readers, so would my autobiography (point to be noted - I refuse to improve). And in any case, I intend to get it published after I hit the 'bucket'. I think I will leave a note like Kafka - 'destroy all my works after my death'. I am sure that my friends will not change after my death - they will definitely do opposite of whatever I ask them for.

But what will I write in there?? I don't want a chronological detailing. That gets boring very quickly and even more quickly in my case. I'd prefer to draw a time-line for clear understanding of the flow of events and thereafter, category-wise or event-wise or some other criterion. I mean the editor should also have some headache - I intend to be dead by that time anyways. And although highly improbable, I'd love if someone reads it and thinks - he was a nice man.

So with that much decided, what would the chapters be like?? There are some obvious choices - my schools - from MGM in primary days to IIMA in PhD days and how I messed up everywhere, my family and other animals, something about my teachers and my students, my days in mental asylum, my experiments with life, my idiocies and idiosyncrasies, perhaps about my blogs too, my interests - poetry, writing, research, politics, and travel - and my utter failure in all of them, and so on... but considering the practical aspects of it, I think, I will not be able to write a chapter about my death, so someone please ask that editor guy not to forget it.

And the most important chapter - about my crushes, girlfriends, and relationships - although I want it to be the longest chapter, I know it would not be so. If, at this point of the post, you think of me like an aspiring Casanova, I am not talking about the numbers you pervert. I want it to be the longest because I have so many memories of all those moments - so much to say, to miss, to confess, and to be nostalgic about. At the same time, I know it would well be one of the shortest one among all. It takes some courage to say it all and even in death, just like in life, I know I will not be that brave to say it.

And there is one chapter I wish I don't have to write at all - about the regrets of my life. The regret of not studying enough, the regret of leaving poetry, the regret of not seeing enough places, the regret of saying I don't care, the regret of not saying that I cared, the regret of letting go, the regret of not forgiving and forgetting, the regret of moving on, the regret of sticking for too long, the regret of a life full of regrets... Alas! This is one chapter already written!!

मैंने तो इक बार बुना था एक ही रिश्ता

I gave my thesis seminar today. This is one event that I we waited for so long, so patiently, with so many dreams, with so many aspirations...

and today, when I am finally there... I am there - alone. It feels so lonely, so empty, so useless...

I wish if there was a little more patience... a little more endurance... a little more trust...

Life was not meant to be the way it is... nothing was meant to be the way it is...!!!

मुझको भी तरकीब सिखा दो यार जुलाहे....

है जनम का जो ये रिश्ता तो...

I have already quit poetry - writing, this time - forever. I think I should stop writing as well - diary, blogs, lists - everything. I should also quit photography. And also sketching, reading, net-surfing, talking to people.

I am too coward to kill myself. May be that un-vented burden of emotions, that load of unexpressed feelings, and this regret of being would do the job... I hope sooner than later.

I was too brave to say it all in front of you... I was too coward to kill my 'self'... and now I am too coward to kill myself.

कोई ये कैसे बताये कि वो तन्हा क्यूँ है
वो जो अपना था वो ही और किसी का क्यूँ है
ये ही दुनिया तो फिर ऐसी ये दुनिया क्यूँ है
ये ही होता है तो आखिर ये ही होता क्यूँ है

The man who is an island

When I came to IIMA about four and a half years ago, I was not willing for a relationship at all. It is about four months before I leave this campus (with a degree, hopefully). Ironically, I am not willing for any marital bond again. The words 'ironically' and 'again' because in between these times that were a changin' and changin' at an amazing pace, I found 'The One'. But Life... it has a weird sense of humor. I experienced all that that inspires poetry in these few years and then I lost all that that inspires poetry in these few years....

All that what has not happened is also a part of history. All that I failed to live is also a part of my being. All that I lost is also a part of my belongings.

Sometimes, I feel suffocated. Sometimes, I feel free. Sometimes, I feel like running away. Sometimes, I feel like giving it a fight. The duality lives itself in me. I feel confused. I feel torn apart. I feel nothing. I feel everything. I feel like an island.

P.S. - One problem of reading too much literature is that everything real reminds of something fiction. While writing this post, I recalled and found this passage from my old diary-

"टाइम इज़ द ग्रेटेस्ट हीलर'। असल में समय के साथ सब कुछ ठीक ही हो गया है। हम अपनी - अपनी दुनिया में हैं। पर हम पेड़ नहीं हैं कि इस पतझड़ के बाद फिर वसंत आयेगा। बीता समय अंग-भंग की तरह है। उसकी क्षतिपूर्ति नहीं हो सकती। स्थितियों के साथ समझौता ही किया जा सकता है। अगर रहना है तो स्थितियों के मुताबिक ढलना होता है। अपनी कमी को स्वीकार करना होता है। अहं और आक्रामकता ज़िन्दगी नहीं है।

उस गोलार्ध में - पंकज बिष्ट (1992)

17 years and counting...

First task took 464 years. Already 17 gone, second and final act should come sooner.

you talkin' to me?

In my orkut scrapbook, there are scraps written to me... by me. why I write scraps to myself? Well, I like having something nice to read sometimes. And more than that, I like talkin' to interesting people. Somehow, I've never found anyone more interesting than him, who writes scraps to himself.