A few days ago I read an interesting and thought-provoking blog on, in the author’s own words, ‘writing, music, painting or any area of expression’. His advice to any aspiring artist is, ‘Do it daily’. Though it is a fact we know very well, yet it pays to read, hear, and feel it often so that it carves itself into our brain, and emanates out of our fingertips. Whether the inspiration is in the air or not, one has to take up his pen, write, sketch, do whatever it takes to do it. Every day. One of the first hurdles that an artist has to cross is one that he himself creates.

There was this story I read a number of years ago, wherein two gentlemen wait for a third to join them at eight o’clock in the evening for a meeting that would become the crux of the story. A few minutes before eight, one looks out the window, sees no carriage stopping at their door and says, “I don’t think he’ll turn up.” Of course he had valid reasons for doubting the man’s word.
The other says, “He will. He is an Englishman. He will be here on the dot, at eight.”
Sure enough, midway into the clock’s chime, there is a knock at the door and the landlady announces his arrival.

The tragedy was not that he did not believe in astrology. The tragedy was that, he had made it a point to announce to the entire world, and then some, of his disbelief in what the stars foretold.

Now they were all out and about, smirking, to watch him devour his words – for he was at the door of a renowned astrologer, holding a pair of birth charts, birth timings and other miscellaneous details, not admitting – even to himself – his hope that the interview would bring peace to his very troubled mind.

Mom said I was in the Intensive Care Unit for a day. Unfortunately, I have no memory of it. Just when I opened my eyes to discover a few nurses fussing over me, I was moved out to the ward. Too bad – I did not even get time to savour all the attention. The name itself makes one feel important, doesn’t it? Intensive Care Unit. I like the sound of it, though I don’t fancy its smell. The last time I was at the door of the ICU was when my Uncle was admitted. He died a few days later. No wonder I had a host of wide-eyed relatives around me when I woke up.

Rajesh was more than a colleague. When he joined the organisation a few years ago, he was introduced to Sridhar for mentoring. Within a matter of days, Sridhar learnt that it was futile to even attempt such a task as mentoring a person like Rajesh, so he gave up and the allotted duration was spent in casual talk. It followed naturally that Rajesh spilled his life before him and called him his confidant, much to the latter’s distaste. But a mentor was not expected to exhibit dislike; all he had to do was listen and offer a pointer when it was required.

A generation or so ago, a majority of the people in our country lived a life far different from that of today. A life that you would call tough, astounding or impossible. They walked miles to fetch water from the river, used hot coal to iron dresses, washed clothes at a stone specially designed for the purpose and hung them out in the sun to dry. They bent double to sweep and mop the house. They wrote letters to connect with others. They did arithmetic in their mind, or on paper. They used fire to cook. They went out shopping. They fanned themselves in Summer and burned fire-wood in Winter.

The Watchman was tired. Tired of faking a smile for everyone who passed in and out of the gate, with hardly a glance at him. But he had been doing this for years now, day and night, and it came automatically now – the stiff widening of the lips that he called a ‘smile’, that created no strain to the lines on his face or to his eyes. True, that not many acknowledged it, but he did it every time. He was about to close the gate when the Mother with her two-year-old on the stroller appeared.