Being right does not guarantee a good life

At a time when abuse victims are labeled antisocial for looking sad, when asking civic authorities to restrain rabid dogs that are eating babies is construed as animal rights violation, when Dalits protesting against discrimination are denounced as casteist n antinational, it becomes clear that being right neither guarantees justice nor peace of mind.

Complain twice about some transgression and you are sure to be blamed as suffering from a 'victim mentality.' We can cry ourselves hoarse with hurt but we can expect nothing more than being prescribed an antidepressant. So what to do, in these times, when victims are punished twice, first with the crime and then taunted for being too sensitive, impractical, and not moving on?

Are you waiting for corrective action or justice to start living n smiling again? Have you postponed your happiness expecting it to arrive when you finally extricate yourself from some sticky situation? An entire lifetime may pass you by in that state of suspended animation.

So what can we do to reclaim our lives if we cannot get justice or be saved immediately from people who hurt us?

By all means, continue to strive for justice and safety and reaching out for help but in the meanwhile there is something we can do to bring happiness back into our lives. We have to heal ourselves. By feeling our pain fully and then letting it go. We let go of our hatred to those who harm us because the hate is hurting only us and hijacking our lives. In that space of forgiveness (does not mean what was done to us was right or we are denying justice, karma wil catch up), we find our heart at ease once again. For the greatest injury that was done to us was not the abuse itself but the dis-ease (burden and hatred) that entered our hearts at the moment of abuse. By letting go, we do not do the people who hurt us any service. We save ourselves, our souls. We find the expanse in our heart, that quiet stillness in which compassion can flow again. We become the love that we need. We are no longer under anyone's control. No action of another can thwart our tranquility. We hav the peace to function at our highest level. We dont waste time or energy running stories of hurt in our heads. We hav all the energy to chase our dreams and reach our highest potential. We thrive. It is not an easy thing to do but it can be done. What other choice do we have? No one else can do it for you. You hav to feel your pain. You hav to heal your heart. You have to do your work. But at the end of it, it is worth every bit!!

A writer's meditation

A writer needs to venture out into the world, fearlessly absorbing the multitude of sights, sounds and scents that it offers. In the cauldron of the writer's mind, those stimuli combine their flavours to brew intoxicating narratives.

Writing is mostly done in seclusion. When the ripened ideas present themselves for plucking, a background of stillness is essential to detect those delectable delights.

Once the writer has given birth to the offspring of lengthy contemplations, it is time to again mingle with the people. For it is only there, amidst the myriad hues of life and bustling rowdiness of awkward emotions and contradictory opinions that great tales lie dormant, ready to possess the writer's psyche.

Any seed will grow verdant in the fertile soil of the writer's imagination and many a canvas will be adorned with any flowery discourse. Yet, the writer must arduously select the perfect germ. The crucial criterion for inclusion is whether those ideas will be of service to humanity. Will they enrich our culture and enhance our level of awareness? Or will they be an unenlightened repertoire of human vanity that pollutes our minds and dulls our senses?

The writer must therefore guard the sanctity of the inner sanctum. Once the deity has been chosen with great deliberation, the writer's meditation commences. Fierce forces clash mercilessly in the inner arena. Many fallacious Titans are annihilated. Many a duplicitous idea sacrificed at the altar of integrity. In time, the nectar of inspiring vignettes pour unabashedly into virgin pages making readers ecstatic.

Oh poor me!

People think that they can spot a psychopath easily. It must be that cold-looking creep or bitchy lady. But surprisingly, most real-life psychopaths do not fit that cartoon-cliché. There is one tell however that is unmistakable. This is the pity party that the psychopath or malignant narcissist craves. Oh the drama, they yearn for. Oh their poor lives, oh, the horror of it all. Oh poor me! These people are bored. They need high levels of stimulation. For that reason, some psychopaths talk or eat incessantly. They want to fill that big hole of neediness inside them. Even if you worshipped the ground that the psychopath walked on, that love of yours will be like a tiny breadcrumb hurled at a deep bottomless chasm that can never be filled. Like blackholes, they suck you dry of your spirit and love and they look radiant in your reflected glow while you slowly shrivel up and crumble away.

They are always going on and on about how they have been wronged by so and so (usually dead scapegoats or prior victims). If you interrupt their constant bleak narrative to talk about some real unfortunate event in your life, you will either get a vacant stare at best or if you are a scapegoat, a taste of their rage. It is in these moments of great pain or need when people turn to the closest people in their lives that the true nature of the psychopath comes through. Most people are baffled. Suddenly things don’t add up. The psychopath is incapable of a true empathetic emotional response. Yes, they will use their intellect to mimic what they lack but they fall short by a mile in these unexpected situations where human warmth and compassion comes through for all normal people within microseconds without effort. In short, a psychopath is incapable of remorse or empathy – the very traits that make us human. 

A tale of love

Life is beautiful. Its myriad hues of pain and joy interspersed with moments of heightened awareness and fatigued stupor certainly warrants appreciation. Here is a poem in the mores of TA.

A tale of love

She, the love of my life,

The thorn in my soul,

How can I hate her?

Yet to love her is a sin,

Made in heaven.

This is the curse

I have to bear till the grave.

From this hell,

God alone can save.

The physical abuse,

The emotional abuse,
The covert sexual abuse,

The pain and anger and hatred,

These are excruciating

But I overcome them.

It is the love that truly defeats me.

Not hers, for she can never love

There is neither empathy there nor conscience.

She will use me till I drop dead

And then weep over my listless head,

Yet I will willingly die for her

That is the secret and the dread.

This hidden desire to throw away

My precious life,

For her cruel play.

It is my love that defeats me

I ever drown in this sea

Of my emotions,

Which I carry for her,

This sickness that blackens my soul,

None can erase this love so foul.

“Please help me!”

A cry from the depths of my soul:

The Child within weeps

Trapped in this forbidden love.

A greater love does exist

And this is the happy twist

That will efface the horrors of my tale.

This devotion for that presence

That envelops every sense

Will dry my eye

And draw out a smile.

Into His glory I will melt;

All my burdens will be smelt

In the fire of this divine love;

The ore of shame

Will yield a heart of gold.

En route to this haven of mine

There are pitfalls of pain;

The path is steep to traverse

Yet lit with His amazing grace;

Thirst quenched by snaking rivers,

And guided by Parental stars,

The Adult carries on in hope.