sometimes at the edge of a day i sit and... write

The day is a road which ends at the cliff of the night. From the edge of it we all take a leap and drown in its unfathomable waters, only to emerge unharmed, renewed, and ready for the next day.

Sometimes at the end of a day I sit on its edge and reminisce how my journey was. I think we all do this knowingly, unknowingly. (In matters like these, we’ve not been given much choice.) And sometimes at the end of the road we are propelled with such great momentum that our only moment of reminiscing is just before hitting the warm, inky depths of the night.

We writers are generally not blessed with such a swift end to our journeys. By our very nature, we are addicted to trying and prolonging this leap, that epiphany between jumping from the cliff and hitting the waters. Though this rarely happens, the road ends sooner than expected, the precipice beckons and we’ve but no choice to end it all, then and there.

But sometimes, by some opportunistic sleight, we do manage to pause the wheels of time. On days like these, we sit on the edge of the cliff and look back at the road, trying to derive meaning out of this needless traveling and jumping and re-emerging dripping the dreams of the night.

…
This life is also a road which ends at the cliff of death. From its edge too we take the leap and drown in its unforgiving waters, only to emerge unharmed, renewed and dripping with the karmas of our previous journey.

…
Sometimes at the end of a day like today, I just wish that when my journey finally ends, I’ll be given more than a moment of recollection, that in the moment when I look back, I’ll see a life well spent and a love well earned.

Sometimes at the edge of a day like today, I just wish her to be beside me and the day… to never end.

remembering Virginia

"Then a little before noon, she walked out, taking her hat and her walking stick and her overcoat, in the pocket of which she placed a large stone, and drowned herself in the River Ouse, near their home in Sussex."

(from this http://bit.ly/g9kH0f wonderful tribute at http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/)

it was seventy years ago that she killed herself, unable to continue her struggle with a restricted life. she has left a legacy of unparalleled works, that i feel should be read to understand life that little bit more passionately than we normally do. in her memory today, i'll start reading Mrs. Dalloway. have tried reading it before, but every time i come to the second page, describing the day of June Classisa finds herself in, i put the book down with a sigh.

"life; London; this moment of June."

which work of hers would you recommend most to a friend :)

खबर आई है के बड़ी अम्मा मर गयी!

खबर आई है के बड़ी अम्मा मर गयी! अम्मा, यानि दादी, बड़ी अम्मा यानि दादी की भी माँ. पूरे 105 बरस की थी बड़ी अम्मा. स्वाति कहती है, "50 हज़ार रूपए, एक जोड़ी कानों की बाली और एक भैंस छोड़ गयी है मेरे लिए! मुझे नहीं पता के मैं रोऊँ या खुश होऊं!"

105 बरस! एक पूरी सदी गुज़र गयी आज. और कुछ नहीं, लोग सुबह उठेंगे और काम पर चल देंगे अपने-अपने. सभी बढ़ जो रहे हैं अपने बरस पूरे होने की तरफ.

बड़ी अम्मा मर गयी. मेरी दोस्त स्वाति की, मेरी नहीं. फिर मैं क्यूँ लिख रहा हूँ ये सब?

जैसे बच्चे पूरे समाज की ज़िम्मेदारी होते हैं, वैसे ही बड़े-बूढ़े भी तो इसी समाज के साझा अनुभव का पिटारा होते हैं, वो सबके होते हैं न? पता नहीं कितने किस्से, कितनी कहानियां, जीवन के खट्टे-मीठे अनुभव  बड़ी अम्मा के साथ ही चले गए!

न जाने क्यूँ, पर स्वाति का मेसेज आया तो लगा जैसे मेरी ही दादी गुज़री है. दादी चाहे दोस्त की हो, होती तो अपनी ही है न?