March 24, 2002
11.45 p.m.
……I am hearing her snore as I open the first page of a new diary. Another write-up has been born.
Outside, the breeze has picked up and the clouds seem to rumble in the distance. I had been lying quietly for the last one hour and realized that one can not try to be asleep. The more you try, the more elusive it becomes. So, either you are asleep or you are awake. There is no such fact as trying.
Lying idly, I turned my attention inwards and looked at my thoughts. The mind tires you. It continues to run off to so many places…people…events. Things get hazy and mixed up. I, as an observer, am tired now by the un-reigned naughtiness of it. It reminds of the title of a movie “Flubber”. I find that the mind does not even settle down properly into a particular thought for long enough to observe it. And many thoughts run parallel so that nothing well defined can be seen.
The mind is tricky and one feels like an old parent trying to keep pace with the young child. It runs ahead and beckons innocently and no matter how tired one is, it is difficult, if not impossible, to give up the chase.
The mind is really like a child….innocent, vibrant, elusive…and always trying to keep the parent engaged….in the pursuit of joy…towards vindicating one’s stand…towards justifying one’s cause. It runs (can run) to all the three dimensions of time towards an infinite goal.
From within the boundary lines within which we have placed ourselves, we can not propel ourselves towards anything infinite. And once the infinite becomes a goal, its non-achievement can create only deep frustration. Every defeated goal does that. The mind…creates goals, chooses to brood over the ones that are not achieved and refuses to be happy with the ones that are.
*
It is hard now to stand apart and watch what goes on inside the head. I am tired but sleepless still. Something deep beneath the eyes has begun to hurt and I can feel the pulsation at the temples.
The glory of the night goes on as usual. Each small sound is audible…the hum of the fan, the ticking of the time piece, the rustle of the curtains, the first hesitant rain drops, the night insects, the traffic on the main road, the intermittent turning on and off of the refrigerator…..
The peculiar scent of the night is carried by the breeze, which is dying down now. It is 25 minutes past midnight and I have begun to feel the pangs of a belated hunger. Let me check out the kitchen…
*
March 25, 2002
12.40 a.m.
11.45 p.m.
……I am hearing her snore as I open the first page of a new diary. Another write-up has been born.
Outside, the breeze has picked up and the clouds seem to rumble in the distance. I had been lying quietly for the last one hour and realized that one can not try to be asleep. The more you try, the more elusive it becomes. So, either you are asleep or you are awake. There is no such fact as trying.
Lying idly, I turned my attention inwards and looked at my thoughts. The mind tires you. It continues to run off to so many places…people…events. Things get hazy and mixed up. I, as an observer, am tired now by the un-reigned naughtiness of it. It reminds of the title of a movie “Flubber”. I find that the mind does not even settle down properly into a particular thought for long enough to observe it. And many thoughts run parallel so that nothing well defined can be seen.
The mind is tricky and one feels like an old parent trying to keep pace with the young child. It runs ahead and beckons innocently and no matter how tired one is, it is difficult, if not impossible, to give up the chase.
The mind is really like a child….innocent, vibrant, elusive…and always trying to keep the parent engaged….in the pursuit of joy…towards vindicating one’s stand…towards justifying one’s cause. It runs (can run) to all the three dimensions of time towards an infinite goal.
From within the boundary lines within which we have placed ourselves, we can not propel ourselves towards anything infinite. And once the infinite becomes a goal, its non-achievement can create only deep frustration. Every defeated goal does that. The mind…creates goals, chooses to brood over the ones that are not achieved and refuses to be happy with the ones that are.
*
It is hard now to stand apart and watch what goes on inside the head. I am tired but sleepless still. Something deep beneath the eyes has begun to hurt and I can feel the pulsation at the temples.
The glory of the night goes on as usual. Each small sound is audible…the hum of the fan, the ticking of the time piece, the rustle of the curtains, the first hesitant rain drops, the night insects, the traffic on the main road, the intermittent turning on and off of the refrigerator…..
The peculiar scent of the night is carried by the breeze, which is dying down now. It is 25 minutes past midnight and I have begun to feel the pangs of a belated hunger. Let me check out the kitchen…
*
March 25, 2002
12.40 a.m.
The p.m. has changed to a.m. once again. I feel an urge to smoke. There is a psychological concussion. Too many thoughts…all entangled…have jammed the mind and I observe that they have an associative property:
Fact: A dog barks outside
Thoughts triggered:
The dog we used to have in childhood. He was all white.
When he died, I was very sad.
There was a girl upstairs. We both used to play with the dog.
We also went cycling.
I got my first bicycle from my maternal aunt.
She works at Lucknow.
I did not have too many good experiences at Lucknow……
Now, let me light up the solitary cigarette….
*
12.55 a.m.
Some dogs are fighting in a far off street. The night watchman’s whistle is piercing through the stillness of the night. Anjanee turns a side uneasily. My insomnia continues as I look at her sleep with a longing.
At the moment, I can feel a longing by looking at any sleeping person. Perhaps everyone is asleep. All those who care are asleep. All those who do not are also asleep. Night…and sleep have a strange quality….they restore parity. Individual identities are submerged in sleep. Boundaries dissolve. All sleeping persons appear alike.
…And I remain awake to write about them. I will quit writing now and move out to the terrace to let the breeze play with my artificially coloured black hair.
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