Observe

Time - spontaneously ending.

Things to do – infinite.

Music – divine.

Love – foolishness.

Education – everything.

Money – illusion.

Family – extinct.

School – producer of illusions.

TV – the idiot box in every way.

Future – disaster.

God – non-existent.

Life – opportunity.

Death-being dead.

Nature – everything.

Technology – the proposed future.

You – selfish.

Me – observer.

 I observe how you act, how you react, how you get your work done, how easily you tend to ignore, how you effortlessly waste your time, how you soullessly cheat people, how you suppress yourself, how you suffer and how you’ve changed. I observe how you adjust yourself in this world. You don’t have ambitions of your own; you’re just fulfilling those of your beloved parents. I observe how you die wasting your whole lifetime in search of something you never really wanted in the first place.

I see you crystal clear. The way you behave is not natural; your surroundings have changed you. I saw that you had a single aim when you got out of your home today. You had to do something! You spent time doing whatever you had to do; exploring more, expecting more. Later, you went to sleep without any fear; you had no regrets over what you had done. You continue to maintain your image in society by flaunting about, creating a heavy air around you, covering yourself with makeup. That makeup hides your real image. It hides how vindictive you are, how imprudent you really are.

You are so blinded by the mist of the ‘easy life’ that you forgot what it’s like to be human. I want you to wake up. I want you to observe what I observe, observe how people live in the worst conditions imaginable, how people die with no food and with no one to care for them, how they strive to endure against all odds. I want you to spend some of your invaluable time and just observe. Observe, and reflect. 

Feel Good Inc.

Today was a great day- I had a good time at college (for once, no one scolded me for sleeping during lectures), the girl I like smiled back at me, and even the little things like ‘Comment Wars’ on Facebook seemed to be working my way. It seemed like nothing could go wrong.

But that got me thinking. Today was a good day, but what about tomorrow, how would that turn out to be? Would it go the same? How about the future? When I step out of my college campus with a degree in my hand, will the world treat me well?

The world is a bad, bad place, irrespective of the path you choose. As teenagers, our lives are protected from these harsh exteriors. But sooner or later we will have to step out, be exposed and make a name for ourselves.

One sweet day I decided to step out and while away a few hours in the city. I stepped out of the campus gates and met an Autowala.

Me: Excuse me, mister.

Autowala: Where to, fellow?

Me: Burdi.

Autowala: 80 rupees.

Me: No, 40 rupees. Or should I go and look for another one?

Autowala: OK, 60 rupees. Not less than this.

Me: OK.

Me: So, Bhaiya, petrol prices rose or what?

Autowala: Yes sir. By 2-3 rupees.

Me: I’m thinking of getting bike soon so I can get around easier. What do you think?

Autowala: That isn’t such a good idea sir. You will need to take good care of it, and a lot of your cash will go in filling petrol and servicing. Plus on these roads, chances of getting into accidents are pretty high, so it’s pretty fatal.

Me: Hmm. So why don’t I buy an auto rickshaw? It’s kinda easy, and I’d be able to go wherever I want and earn money on the side.

Autowala: (showing his hand) Sir, look at this cut I have. One day, I had a big man as my customer. He had a 5-inch long knife, and when I stretched out this hand to ask him for the fare, he cut my hand with the knife and fled. Sir, my job is way more dangerous than simply owning a bike. Never take a job as mine if you are not strong-willed to do it.

Once, when I was travelling home to Mumbai by Howrah mail express, I met a millionaire. We had a little chat, and he made me realize that even as a millionaire, life wasn’t a bed of roses for him. There were much greater problems in store for him. He told me he had to be careful every time he stepped out of the house, for he had received many death threats. Now, for his security, he keeps a revolver with at all times.

So people, remember that wherever you go, know what’s right and what’s wrong. Identify the evils, and stay away from them.

And if you ever find yourself in a depressing state, try not to worry about it. There’s always Facebook.

Broken record

After my third post, a friend of mine approached me and asked, “Weren’t you writing your biography or something related to you in this blog?” To clear it out, I just wanna say that this blog isn’t entirely about me; it’s about my experiences through life, my response to day-to-day and my perception of human lifestyle.

Though I will probably dedicate more time to writing about myself, if that makes you happy.

An Old Man

My friend wanted to purchase a desktop PC, so I decided to accompany him. Once outside, while he was doing the dirty work of selecting his ideal PC, I decided to get myself a Chaat (Dahi puri) at one of the street corners.
While I was eating, a beggar came by my side and said "Aye bhav, doon paise deto ka bhau. Khuup upkaar hotil malay chaay payche." (“Hello brother, can you give me some money? I want to drink tea).
He was an old man with a moustache and a beard, and he had a stick with him. I usually don’t entertain such people, but at the moment I had a change of heart. I put my hand inside my pockets and grabbed around 5 to 6 rupees worth of change. I gave it to him, and proceeded to inquire him for a bit to kill the time.
Me: So where are you from?
Old man: I’m from Akola, sir.
Me: What are you doing over here in Nagpur? And how did you get into this situation?
Old man: I have some medical problem. I came here for my operation. It costs a lot of money, so every paise I earn, goes straight to my doctor. I can’t even afford to eat one good meal these days.
Me: But don’t you have a family? No wife or children to take care of you in your fragile state?
Old man: Yes, but what difference does it make? After marriage no one bothers about his or her family! My son lives in Pune with his wife. He has been ignoring me since the day he got married. After all that I had done to raise him in a suitable environment, this is the gratitude I get. I have a daughter too, but she got married last year. It would be immoral on my part to bend down and plea in front of my son in law.
Me: And your wife? Where is she now?
Old man: Sir, my wife passed away. I have a land in Akola which I use to cultivate cotton. I have sold some of it to pay off my medications. All my brothers and sisters are selfish, haranguing me to sell my land asking for their share of it.
Me: So what you going to do now?
Old man: I’ll probably go back to Akola and wait for the cotton to grow, so I can sell it to settle my expenses! Then I’ll be free from all this load. One thing’s for sure, I am not going to sell my land for the sake of siblings, because nobody gives a damn about my wellbeing. I am a Marathi Manus, begging doesn't suit me, and it doesn’t do my image any good. But my conditions are such that I don’t have a choice. So I’m trying to get as much help as I can financially, so that I can sleep peacefully on the foot path and catch the next bus to Akola in the morning.
Me: That’s good, take care of yourself!

Old man: Thank you, kind sir! You came to me as a God’s helping hand. You are like a God to me. Thank you again for your consideration, may God bless you!

Dear readers, I just want to say something. The next time you find yourself in a similar situation, try showing a bit more compassion. Who knows, the slightest bit of positive energy you radiate might just be sufficient enough to take that one unfortunate person’s life by storm.

Make believe life's beautiful, though the sorrows pours out, and happiness flourishes!

\O-O/

When I was 8, my dad was undergoing a bit of a dry spell as far as jobs were concerned, so I was sent back to India where I lived for the next one year. My mother enlisted me in nearby school called New English School. It was unsettling for me as things were entirely new and different out here. The school was comparatively tiny in area, with quite a lot of restrictions. I hated this one rule of the school which stated that it was of utmost necessity for boys to wear a half-pant as part of the school uniform. It made me feel kinda weird and shy- back in Saudi, the climate was pretty humid, so even L.K.G. students were required to wear full pants and full-sleeved shirts. I was pretty fluent in English and Hindi so I never really faced any communication barrier as such. Indian teachers are strict as hell, they’re always under this impression that the student community was hearing-impaired – they wouldn’t be yelling at us all the time otherwise.
India had an inimitable culture and a unique style of living. Parents would let their children loose as soon as they knew how to walk and talk, which was a far outcry from the prison-like conditions I was subjected to back in Saudi. It’s never easy being an Indian expatriate in a foreign country, because alienation from the local crowd becomes an everyday custom. As an Indian child you would rather want to be in the palm of King Kong’s hand on top of the Empire State Building than roam about the Saudi streets alone. And I learnt this the hard way - once I’d gone out to buy some grocery, and on my way back I’d encountered a local boy. He was smaller in height, but his aggression made up for it. He’d muttered something in Arabic, a language I couldn’t (and still can’t) understand, but the tone of his voice frightened me. He came closer to me, and before I could react, he snatched the bag and ran to his home. I started crying from the shock of it all and went home to dad. I’d explained everything to him. My dad wasn’t very fluent in Arabic, but he’d managed to talk to the boy’s father and reclaim the bag. But in India, things weren’t the same. I managed to get along quite well with the crowd, and that was one of the few things I’d liked about India. Rains were another thing I loved - it rained heavily every year, and I’d look forward to getting all drenched and messy, despite my mother’s repeated scolding’s.
But all wasn’t going to well, especially with studies. One day my parents were called up by my class teacher for a brief meeting about my performance in class. At home that day, my dad came back from work. He came up to me and asked me about my academic situation. I said everything was going fine. He showed me my note book which my teacher’d given him earlier in the meeting. He then proceeded to flip through the countless pages of ghastly handwriting and incomplete notes, in front of me. Terribly angered by it, he started shouting at me. It was the first time my dad had ever reproached me. He asked me why I was being this way, but I was so numb from the bellowing that I could hardly speak a word.
Suddenly, thud - his right hand came upon my right cheek at speeds incalculable. Tears poured out within seconds of contact.
I lied down in my mum’s arms right after; I whispered to her that my problem was I wasn’t able to see the blackboard clearly. Next day I’d sat down in the front row in the class, but still only managed to make out what was written on the blackboard.
Later that day my dad took me to the eye clinic for a checkup.
The next thing I knew, I was wearing spectacles.

8

Eight is my lucky number. I was born on that day, the 8th of April, 1991. My birth was a 50 per cent chance - the doctors informed my father that he would have to choose between me and my mother, as some complications with the colon attachment meant that someone would have to die. My dad subsequently chose my mom over me, but fortunately at the time, the doctors were smart and capable enough to bring me to life, against all odds. Yes, that day was undeniably a lucky day for me. You wouldn’t be reading this otherwise.

Allow me to introduce myself. Most people’s names are kept by their parents or close relatives, but I can’t say the same for my name – Sagar. The story of how I’d obtained my name puts me in a position of disbelief even now.

Let me elaborate –my dad had received a job transfer shortly before the time of my birth. The job was in Saudi Arabia, so he had to make my passport which would be prepared by the time I would be born. Back in the day, the formalities that went into making passports weren’t strictly enforced. The details of my passport had been filled down, leaving alone my gender which couldn’t be determined at the time, thus expansively delaying the process. Keeping this uncertainty in mind, my parents decided to play in the safe zone and name me Kiran, an Indian name suited for both the male and the female. But the officer-in-change had a different idea in mind. He decided to wait till the news of my gender came forth. As soon as he ascertained that I was a boy, he named me Sagar, an act my father dutily questioned. He answered that he’d lost his son the month before. And his name was Sagar. No one probed him further, and the name stuck.

I’m not complaining – Sagar is one of the most common names in the country, a fact I had perceived, after running into every alternate person with that same particular name.

Mulga (Marathi for ‘Guy’) is my alias.

I’ve studied a variety of blogs. While a few have turned out to be inspirational, quite a lot of them have taught me what not and how not to pen down. (No offense, fellow bloggers. It’s all good.) I have noticed that people make diaries which help them remember countless events in the long run. I have decided to place my blog along the same lines, although the events I recount on and the thoughts I express shall be presented in a relatively unconventional manner. I started out writing a blog-cum-love story ( http://loveon8.blogspot.com/ ) which was abundant with principally rusty English. But that shall change, with my friend Jason (jay.kay.92@gmail.com) volunteering to polish my articles before uploading them online.

Well, hope this is a suitable introduction. Updates will come rolling around once I have more free time in my hands. See ya.