Love Saves

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There is a redeeming value to Love. Even if we might be unaware of it, it exists.Requited, unrequited, accepted, unaccepted, distant, near, even fake love. Yes,even if Love is faked, just for the jest of it, would start changing you in ways you could never imagine. It would start opening neurological pathways in your brains and would make you look for possibilities and options and hope in places where you might’ve overlooked it, or not even thought of could’ve ever expected to exist int the first place. It gives you courage to grapple with the meaninglessness of existence in constructive ways.It gives you a motive to exist in this cruel world,giving you mode to exist in all the absurdities of life, it makes existence and thousands of its discontents, bearable.

A lot of troubled and resentful people around the world who do all kinds of horrible things to themselves and people around them, are just unloved, seeking it in their own ways, no matter what that might mean to them. Unloved people do things which make the suffering of existence worse than what it already is.  Our aim should always be to lessen it, not to add to it as it is as bad as it is, in itself.


Melancholic Nights


In one of the rooms which are made specifically on the rooftops, away, aloof from the world, where even the winds come swirling in unsure and unconfident strides.. where only those kinds of antisocial people reside on whom rest of the world has given up hope on, and more importantly, those who have given up hope on the rest of the world, in quite nights when a cold wind is gripping the world outside,making the ceiling-fan in your room unnecessary, something which might’ve obstructed you from noticing other, fainter sounds ever present in the background. The same winds forcing people deep into their cosy beds and quilts, in arms of their loved ones, babies and pets snuggling up to their mothers and owners and lovers trying to disappear in their partner’s bosom, by hugging them tighter than they usually do, you hear the sound of some distant horn blown on a far away road, carried all the way to you by the gushing winds, along with the howls and cries of dogs and other nocturnal animals , living out their daily, often overlooked,  primordial struggle for existence, and maybe a guy talking over on his phone , softly, yet quite distinctly as he paces up and down the narrow passageway by the side of his house,his conversation over phone made all too clear by the dead silence of the night, and you can make out he himself is talking to someone he loves, someone in whose embrace he might like to disappear in, in these cold nights.

Sounds of distant horn of trains leaving and arriving at the nearest railway station reach you too. All these ambient ‘noises’, which remain more or less the same no matter which city, which part of the country you are in , as part of an ever existent background setting,unchanging, at-least in comparison to our time frames , i.e moving and changing too slowly for us to notice, still always present there, right at the corner of our perceptions, our daily struggle to pay the bills, our worries and hopes , our success and failures, our dreams and our realities.

Only on these special cold nights, when everything stands still, except for that cold breeze that is blowing outside , you notice these sounds and realise that your place in the world is not defined by the post that you hold in your office, or the money that you have in your bank account, but by the people you collect along your way in life. Because only those who truly care for you, make the world for you.. rest of it is just .. ambient ‘noises’ and surroundings , unconscious and uncaring of your existence or your absence in this vast vast universe.

The city

The city rises as an edifice made by the old gods from the dust of the magnificence which existed before. To make an example of people who steered too far away from the path shown by him. It’s hot outside, with a heat wave slowly gripping the lands as the morning matures into another summer day.

The drought here doesn’t only exist in the ground but in the very heart and soul of people. Blank faces looking into oblivion, from their shanty houses and shops, made from the dust that exist all around them, as a result, dulled on their edges, broken, with holes in between and disintegrating. Some have rented out their houses to host very large banners on the front side, in the desperate hope, for the posters to mask their dust tombs, in which they lie, dying a slow, painful death, like the rest of us. But this scheme has also proven inefficient, with the treacherous banners caving in to give us a glimpse into their gloomy world, where just a bed-sheet, bought from some cheap lahsa sale ,years ago, hangs as the last refuge against the voyeuring eyes of the world. What are they trying to hide..? Don’t they know that all of us are suffering here together..? God has abandoned us long ago, and we are living in hell with all the demons.Maybe we all are constantly,subconsciously, looking for less fortunate people than us to feel better about our own existential condition. Hence quite a few numerous ways to feel happy in the world, generally don’t guide us towards finding any meaning in our lives, but to feel grateful for what we have and others don’t .


The city is like a replica of a village with colonies divided on basis of caste /religion, with a lot of rustic looking folks, visiting it from the countryside, where, amazingly, things remain bleaker. Hell, indeed, is a pit-less hole. The flyover sprangs over this abysmal waste of filth and humans and dust and destruction and malice and all the thousands of variants of sins found in their true variance , as a hand rising out of a man on verge of death, suffocating and gasping for air. But just like that man’s effort, to breathe fully, fails…  the flyover fails too to breath in life into this ever dying, but never dead, city.