My wife expired in the first week of May, 2021. The end was peaceful, considering she was suffering from cancer for the last three years. To find solace I took to writing, whenever I could and started tweeting. Writing them down backwards.

I got up in the morning and felt that tightness in my stomach and thoughts. It is so difficult to give up habits, conditioned reflexes which permeate unconsciously in the air and get into our pores. These include our dialogues, thinking, placid and anodyne, and the purring of pure routine continues.

I start smoking to feel lighter in morning today.

Yesterday was better. A set of clouds in the sky suddenly altered the lights and shadows of the landscape. It was raining in a city, where it hardly rains thanks to the onset of cosmopolitan attitude.

On last Friday, we had a fraud in our bank in South Africa. The shyster is known to us. A professional depressions set in and all seemed lost. Then a fragment of sky inscribed on the window of my life gave a glimmer of hope.

When I read the works of Latin American authors I can’t help feeling that eternity is in love with the works of time. Last week was surreal.

Whenever I cross my limit of scotch, I have a difficult time sleeping. To wade away tragic memories, I tell myself stories. They can be anything, but always with myself in the main role. The next morning, the idea of writing them seems inconceivable. Let them remain my secret luxuries.

On 12^th August, I woke up early. The harsh morning light from the window arrived before anyone, before the memories dissolved in sleep and in the drowsy confusion, it opened a path to the final destination. With hope, I exercised after a long time.

In 1^st week of August, in late evening I was reminiscing about the long married life. Why is it after a decade of so of being in relationship, the words of the lovers would go to the wall and come back in a slow game of catch. The two don’t have anything more to say to each other.

Some people get famous by associations. Like the fifth wheel. I took out the broom and started sweeping the area in front of the lift. At least I got associated with the sweepers. July was coming to an end.

This is the time of pandemic. We live in strange times. In a present, that merely hints at a presence, the only tangibility, a present that contains time which brings sorrow to see it tick-tock forward in an immobile space where every displacement remains, limited by curbs.

The rules of the game were different thirty years back. The right to follow a woman at the bus stop and hope desperately that her connection would coincide with the one decided on by me. And then the sadness of being unable to follow her. Thinking about college days brings nostalgia.

Today, the 25^th of July, I read about an epic in Persian history which is similar to Mahabharata. Notions about truth and goodness are purely historical, based on inherited ethics. But history and ethics are highly dubious.

Finished a sketch of my next thriller. Then re-read it. A good story teller make his own puppets. Out of paper, ice cream cone, pins. Midway through the story the puppets fall apart, but then if you are a master, you build that into the story.

Just came to realise, societies survive on hierarchy. Complete freedom is an illusion.

Came to release the condolence messages sent till the middle of May were quite meaningless. Actually words are meaningless. Some words make you happy, because they are said by exactly by the right person at the right time.

How about temporary deaths ? You die for a certain period of time every year. This is determined by the government on your tax paying ability ! Effective way to stop the spread of virus.

Touch replaces definition, instinct goes beyond intelligence.

You barely come to understand your passion, when life plots everything necessary to create obstacle. You feel exhausted. This happened to me throughout the months of May and June.

Was again reading Italo Calvino. A good book is like your hand and you, your living room and everything in it are pages of the book, being turned this way or that.

Looking at the politics of vaccination made me think : Is it eloquence that make people believe things ? Well most of us are morons.

Passions are proportional to destinies. I could never follow them. 

Before assuming ownership of a key, you need to look at it closely. It whispers you about the lock and by extension, the entire establishment surrounding the lock. The tragedy in my life gave me responsibilities overnight.

Gurgaon is so hot and dusty. In this dry, dusty, unyielding weather, a gardener can only grow thoughts. Unbearable but things are not light anymore.

One reason why India will remain perennially undeveloped. The delivery man was shot dead by a sniper and then the sniper was also shot followed by the sniper’s sniper. So much of back-biting in Indian politics. No more idealism.

Two days after cremation. Bigarrure set by pre-sunrise sky; yearning for one more experience of a day. The multi coloured stain glass memories getting refreshed.

I never gave my consent for my wife’s death to God. Consent makes you feel inferior. It’s a downward notion of your head. Even the most decisive people can find themselves unable to tell whether or not their consent was freely given. I lost the battle.

( Painting by Jaune Lacouleur )