A long forgotten entry...

I recently tried to clean my Almirah of all the pile of papers that I have been stocking in for some time. Partially I did that because I wanted all of that well sorted for future but mainly because my limited space was blocked for any fresh garbage to pile. I usually don't throw anything because it takes effort, so garbage just keeps on piling in no matter of time. Then one fine day I collect all my spared effort and try to clean everything, almost vindictive and ruthless towards relics of my past. So, when I was cleaning this time I found something interesting, a diary which my father had given me during my 10th standard. That is the only diary I ever possessed, and even that is half full with useless information. Mostly it contains Board exam papers, chemical equations, probability theorem, some old budgets and old phone nos. (some of the friends whom I don't even remember now). But it also contains some of the writings by me during my last 2 years in school, scores of Rahul Dravid, and detailed movelists of chess series between Anand and Cosporov in my father's handwriting. My writings of that time generally are Ghazals and poems but it also contains my failed attempts of converting my thoughts in prose. One of the entries which I wrote during my 11^th standard really intrigued me. It goes like this:-

“I have a god-gift of intelligence. Well for me Intelligence is nothing but the way of thinking. Intelligence to me is the proper, planned & step-by-step method of thinking, just like systems. This method makes your work much faster & almost error free. But as my nature is I always find some or the other thing as drawback, in this case, intelligence doesn’t make you busy, or, in other words, leaves you with lots of spare time when others are busy. And it gives me boring days to battle alone. I can’t find my way out of this boredom…”

In my approach towards social obligations I changed a lot from those days. In fact during my engineering days I had given up on reasoning and intelligence for becoming a socially apt person. It is not to say that I didn’t have friends during my school days. I always had many friends but at the same time I was subject of ridicule, because of my nerdy character. My IQ demanded respect but I and my friends could never relate completely. I was popular because I was good, sober, and genuine, not because I could command respect. The first line I wrote I don’t use that anymore, not only because I am modest now but also because the extra performance pressure that will put on me.

But what is more interesting is to find out that I really could understand understanding at that time, I could understand reasoning itself. And still I don’t remember going through that phase as if somebody else have written it in my handwriting. But I am also happy about the fact that I am right when I tell people that I haven’t changed much in my approach towards reasoning. I was insane back then and I am insane even now…

Writing for the sake of it...

It’s nothing more than pure irony that despite so much motivation I haven't yet started writing. I had calls about writing in every wake of life from individuals as different as chalk and cheese, telling me the same thing that I need to write...I need to write whatever I blabber day in and day out. I guess that is more out of love and affection towards me rather than my ability to kick start as a writer, and also because I dearly wished to start writing some day or another, letting everyone know my perspective, my outlook towards the world that we see. Because of my constant trial of understanding the underlying cause of incidents that we come across everyday and trial to provide myself an explanation which borders on both logic and rationality. But then why can't I write? Reasons are many; in fact I am not even sure if there are many or just one...

Its not that I never tried, I did, but every time I ended up getting lost with poor a sense of direction and a read that disinterested even me, forget pain other have to go through. .I kept comparing myself with writings of Charles Dickens to Oscar Wilde to William S. Burroughs to Chatursen to even Stephen King. I aspired for a magnum opus every time, found myself nonexistent in comparison and left half written pieces. This time I decided I will write, no matter how tiresome the read might be for others or how stupid I might sound or how so much directionless this piece might be. I will still try because I need to know, I need to know my own skill, and there is nothing better than putting and up a work and then scrutinizing rather than only scrutinizing and not working at all. In the past I have left so many of my ideas unattended because the misery I felt while writing for not being able to distinct my style, not in way that I can consider groundbreaking or defining. This is writing for the sake of it...Please bear with me whosoever is reading this and don't forget to put up your most honest comments. Its not that I care for comments but as it might act as a guide for me or else can motivate me.

The other principal reason that people have pointed out is my laze, my ability to make a cocoon of comfort and effortlessness around me and never come out of it. My ability of avoiding any hardships, no matter how so much I might be benefitted and my ability of being able to even shrug away dearest of my hobbies, if they require even an ounce of effort. I love it though and can logically defend till the end of my span but this morning I felt differently. I told myself, that I have nothing better to do, it’s too chilly to venture outside, games I am currently are proving to be increasingly difficult without cheats and there is no good read that I have bought recently. So here I am writing this piece for the sake if it...

What I really believe is that I am an orator, a man of dialect not rhetoric. I'm not sure how many out there have read "Zen and the art of motorcycle maintenance", but those who have read will never forget the great book. I felt so much at odd that though I loved the triumph of rhetoric over dialect, I found dialect as my way of learning. I even went on to choose Phaedrus as my alias (which my good friend Abhishek said, is nothing but plagiarism), who in a dialogue written by Plato between Phaedrus and Socrates is tormented by Socrates choosing dialect as his mode of reasoning. Though I felt like playing Socrates in many of my discussions, I identified myself more with Robert M. Pirsig and his former self, Phaedrus. So when I am more of an orator who only responds, reacts and provides rationality, it is difficult for me to scratch my mind alone. And even if I am scratching my mind alone, it’s usually dialogues within me. This piece which I am writing for the sake of it is my first attempt to give my dialogues shape of rhetoric. I hope to follow up more with the same technique...