Questions

A few big answers come and load the questions under their weight, even those which haven't yet been asked. Even when questions are more interesting than answers. An answer is like a sleeping giant. I can't gather the courage to disturb it out of its sleep and so I let it sleep for ages in its stagnant finality. A question, on the other hand, you can hold its hand as if it were a child, and run around with it as it runs around in unknown joys, and stand still when it stands still in the awe of having made yet another little discovery about the world with its own innocent intelligence.

So, I just let the questions float around me. The collection of a lot of questions, however, leaves me uneasy. It tells me another big fact, that I am growing up. Growing up involves a lot of load-carrying. You are carrying it all for the future, and since you don't know the future, you don't know how much of it you'll really need and how much it you'd better get rid of.

Growing up ain't good. Most of my answers are answers of resignation. I've started to believe life is made of small things, and it's just because big things aren't happening, or I am unable to bring them to happen. I've started to believe that right and wrong are hazy concepts, and that's because I never seem to be able to decide what is right and what is wrong. Maybe all this is right, but I got to admit that I believe in them even without seeing much. Because I don't want to live with just questions, I've picked up answers randomly.

Just want to be able to live with unanswered questions. It's irritating not be a child anymore, and not being an adult yet either. Worst part is, this is probably the most interesting period of my life.

Writing out wounds

When you start getting the hang of writing, it appears very inviting to load it with all your pain and disturbance and in the process, get rid of them. Or, you try to sort out conflicts, or less serious confusions in your mind using writing as a tool. It is "writing with a purpose" as they call it. And slowly it becomes a necessity to have a problem in possession before you sit down to write, so that you can solve it by writing. And like that begins the painful process where you scrape your own wounds just to have something to write. Wounds, which were healing and should have been left to time. With this scraping, the wounds remain evergreen. The idea of letting time heal our wounds doesn't seem to appeal to us. We want to feel the satisfaction of healing them more actively. We end up cutting out the wounded area in order to remove the wound, leaving a deeper wound in the process.

It sounds a little far-fetched, so may not be true for everyone, but may be true for some far-fetched person.

Baatein

कुछ कहते कहते रुक कर एक बार आस पास देख लेती हूँ कि कोई सुनने वाला तो है ना, अब अकेले बोलते चले जाने से डर लगता है। पता नही कब से ये किसी सुनने वाले की ज़रूरत पड़ने लगी है। और ये भी नहीं पता की कब से ये बोलने सुनने की आदत पड़ गयी है। बचपन में आराम से चुप रह लेती थी घंटो तक। कुछ साल पहले तक भी। पर अब बोले बिना घबराहट होती है।

चलो, जो भी हो, ये भरोसा तो है थोडा बहुत की तुम तो सुन ही लोगे, और तुम ज़्यादातर समझ भी लेते हो। ये भी यकीन है कि नही भी समझोगे तो कुछ बुरा नही समझोगे, मुझे पागल नही समझोगे। पहले तो मज़ा आता था जब कोई पागल कहता था, क्योंकी पता लग जाता था कि उनको मेरी बात समझ में नही आ रही है। अब तो सभी ऐसे पेश आते हैं तो में डर जाती हूँ। तुम रहना यार, कुछ और नही चाहिऐ, बस बातें करेंगे।