randomness revisited

The pantry man in the hostel spends major part of his night writing. Everytime I go downstairs, and see him, I find him sitting in the white plastic chair, furiously writing in a notebook. Is he a poet, writing undiscovered verse each night? Or does he have a family in a village far away, that he misses tremendously and writes letters to every single day? Or perhaps they are plaintive love letters or mechanical to-do lists or possible names for a future child or perhaps he practices the alphabet so that he can learn to write so that he can pen some undiscovered poetry someday…!

Why do I always want everyone to be a poet…?!!!! :)


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I wish there was a reason for everything I do.
I wish that every word I say has purpose breathed into it.
Then I look at it all and realise the unadulterated joy of recklessness.
I cancel my wishes and draft a letter of apology.
I will pray. I will work. I will not seek what I have.
But these wishes, they keep coming back,
and with such force, that they cannot be ignored.
The quest for purity and perfection is noble.
The child that plays in the mud is a happy child
provided he remains a child:)




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