It’s not just mythical cats that have nine lives. We as human beings too, we live many lives. All in a single lifetime, and it’s not just the different phases such as childhood, adolescence and adulthood, but the many different experiences that we live every single day.Each experience brings about a death of certain parts of our ever evolving personalities and, leading to the birth of our new selves.

Every time we die out of our old identities, we carry with us the Karma to the new born psyche.

This non-physical cycle of birth and death is essential for us, to keep ourselves from rotting, very much like the plants.

It might seem weird, being compared to a being in a permanent “vegetative” state as we claim to be a species apart, different from all that is natural around us. However, in reality, we are sometimes no different from say, the trees outside our man-made shelters.

Just like the vegetation that grows, dries, sheds leaves, wears a dark look of death every winter, only to be reborn with the tender leaves and spring blooms; feeding off the compost of the last season; we, at the psychological level, need to grow, experience, shed the bad ones and let ourselves evolve, feeding off the past experiences without being too attached to their consequences.

The above realization puts the whole notion of rebirth and Karma in a new light for someone like me, who has always been skeptical of these concepts.


The Age of Wisdom.

You don’t always need to read a Kant or a Nietzsche to philosophize. The sources of your inspirational thoughts can sometimes be miniscule in size. No, I’m not talking about those pocket books  of quotes or even the humble bookmarks with their wise words, staring at you when you are trying to crack your whodunits.

I’m talking about the toon, candy and toy obsessed little beings; who can surprise you with their perceptions of life : Children. My daily dose of wisdom, besides the occasional posters [and the ubiquitous Facebook posts]; comes from the unconditioned , tender minds.

Ri , age 5: “Do you know that you can see an object twice, without that object actually being in front of you?!”

Me: “Are you talking about photos?”

Ri [frustrated that I didn’t get the obvious]:  “No! Have you ever been on a TGV?”

Me: “Yes, once.”

Ri: “Now, imagine that one day, you dream that you are in it again. You have seen it and been on it twice!”


SriR, age 10 –  On watching the repetitive images on the telly, of a politician being smeared with black ink; in the presence of campaigners and the media.

“I don’t understand why they are making it a big deal! It is just some ink, which can be washed away!”


SriD, age 6 [ a little upset] : “God never responds to me.”

Me [Being used to people praying for help or giving thanks when their prayers have been answered] : “When you pray to God, he makes the people around you , help you with your problems. you really can’t SEE him.”

SriD: “I know that you or my mom can help me with my problems. But, when I tell him that he is very cute, he never replies.”


A child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts




Deep inside,

Access granted to only a privileged few

Namely me, I, myself

And to no one else but me.

Deep inside,

An idea is born,

Waiting to be shared with all.

But before this can happen,

Bang!A seal: Classified.

Access denied to all

But me.

Deep inside,

The idea grows,

Nourished by all

But access granted

To the only “me”

Deep inside,

She wants to be a poet,

She yearns to break free her chains

Go out and play with her friends: The Words.

Who try to reach her,

Access denied….

Is all they get.

Deep inside,

An idea is born,

She wants to escape.

There is always some place in the corner.

Perhaps, she thinks,

One day her Prince Charming,

Might hack

And rescue her.

But what if?

All he might get is

“Access denied!”

Deep inside,

She decides,

The time has come,

She prepares to flee,

She has found the weak spot.

No one can stop her now,

Not even me.

Deep inside,

It’s empty…

She has fled…


New found freedom,

Access granted to all

But me.


Still enjoying her independence

Not caring if she is “independent” or “independant”.


Deep inside,

She is scared of the new world.

New rules,


And spell checks.

She is still chained…

She feels.

Deep inside,

She is back.

But now…

Access granted to all

And me.

In pursuit of a perfect life.

Fraser_spiral.svg_I do not care if I am:

Intelligent, brilliant

Or mediocre

Or even an imbecile.

Filthy rich, living in a golden palace;

Or desperately poor,

Living in a filthy dump.

I do not care:

If I have a voice of a nightingale,

Or a hideous voice used to scare naughty children.

If I have a Lamborghini to get me around,

Or a wheelchair for my paralyzed limbs.

I do not want to care:

If someone admires me

Or wants to run away at the sight of my presence,

If I am fat

Or thin.

A beautiful, super model

Or a plain Jane.

I do not care:

If I am an embodiment of sanity

Or a delusional schizophrenic,

If I am brave, valiant, adventurous and wise

Or cowardly, panic struck and rattlebrained.

I do not want to care:

If I love to hate

Or hate to love

Or like to like a person or a thing.

I do not care:

If my room is sparkling clean,

With a place for everything and everything in its place

Or, if it is bathed in dust and cobwebs that occupy the chaotic space.


That I need to live this life,

I do not want to care,

If the life I live is perfect

Or filled with all the unimaginable flaws that are far from being reparable.


That I need to cherish the gift of life,

For more important than the varied imperfections,

Is Love,

Towards those around me, no matter how different they might be.


Is, with Love, I can


Far away, from the blemished past

And the uncertainty of the future.

The Inner Battle


Ouroboros:Google it.

As the blue bird
Whisks past,
The sun
Smiles on the yellow wings of the butterflies
Waltzing above the
Glistening , frothing river that
Flows over black rocks.

Black as the eyes that
Behold the beauty of the dark forest around.
The dark forest in which
Dwells Peace.

Peace that struggles
Struggles to pierce
The beholder of the beautiful sight.

The one who runs
To the trees, to the hills
And the rivers.
The rivers that
Quench the fire of the battle within.

The burning pain
The stifled screams,
The dark thoughts , all
Engage in an endless battle.

A battle for peace that
Violently caresses
The burning spirit.

The spirit that struggles
Struggles to reach
The peace flowing in
From the rustling leaves and
The wind carrying the cries of blue birds.

As a blue bird
Whisks past,
Forcing peace to
Pierce through many scarred layers.

The sun
Smiles on the shiny yellow wings
Of butterflies
Waltzing the pain away above the
Glistening, frothing river.

The river that
Flows over the black rocks
Black as the eyes of the beholder,
Who bids goodbye
To the fear and sorrows that
Disappear in the dark forest.

The dark forest in which
Dwells peace.