Michael Sandel’s ghost

I got around 12 valentines day WhatsApp messages. None from my wife, we don’t celebrate it except by teasing each other to hell drinking some wine and fucking the hell out of each other. I do get her a rose but that’s it. We have not told each other I love you in a year or maybe more but I doubt we have loved each other and made each other laugh and partied with each other any more than we do now. Valentine day is never about love. It’s always about sex. Everything else, the dinner and the flowers and the candlelights and the dressing up and the balloons is just foreplay.. Some get it, some remain happy with the thought of getting it due to all this foreplay, encashing the cheque later, others rejoice that pornhub premium is free for a day. We put on VR glasses and oculus vr on one person and alternately watch vr porn while the other does what he/she wants with your body. Except that. That is a given. One would think a nation of 1.2 billion would get that v-day is about the v and not about love. But I digress. The messages are generic most of the time.

1 was cute and kind and personal and direct, not a jpeg but words. Jpeg is like pizza while a personal message in words is like a lovingly cooked meal.

The other 11 were pizzas and stale garlic breads with weird toppings. Those brand pictures of some dental clinic or another – each spinning the day into something it isn’t. One wrote your teeth are your best Valentine. The other wrote love your teeth like you love your wife. Most people are either indifferent to such messages, some are even appreciative but generic branding on personal days always reminds me just how much has marketing pervaded every corner of our lives.

Everyone is a brand now. Inhuman. Flawless.

Everyone and everything is a product.


The Vibgyor Hypothesis

They say Newton was half mad.

That when he first split light by passing it through the prism, he saw 6 colours not 7.

But he was first and foremost an alchemist, and in an alternate world where he had succeeded to convert base metal to gold, Principia Mathematica would just be a footnote in history. And in alchemy, the number 6 is ugly. There’s an elegance and a symmetry about number 7 that 6 can never match.

So Newton conjured up the colour indigo out of nowhere to add to the 6. We had our Vibgyor.

Nowadays we say how curious it is that there are 7 days in a week and 7 colours in a rainbow but we got the correlation backwards. The number 7 is just a construct which has grown on us leaving 6 behind causing us to link it to whatever we value and whatever that’s useful to us. The drawing of a rainbow is as inaccurate and relevant as that of 9 planets orbiting the sun but it is now indelible in our collective consciousness. Both drawings make purists mad but add that simplicity to a complex existence, a layer of understanding of the broader world which though untrue, isn’t false altogether and we are better off with this half-truth.

Indigo isn’t necessary for the existence of a rainbow. It doesn’t make the tiniest of difference to our eyes which pretend to see it but never do. A rainbow can exist perfectly well without the additional space taken up by indigo and no one would have noticed its absence if Newton didn’t bring it up into existence. I sometimes wonder whether the rainbow itself even notices it’s presence, but it’s sneaked itself in, like it or not.

Some of us aren’t really ambitious.

All we want to be is the indigo in someone else’s rainbow. Quiet, unnoticed. But always there.

There’s a strange illicit irrational unforgivable anger I am living with these days.

Its buried way deep in the brain’s mantle, while cars and trains rush past happily on its surface and make me tick.

The best way to not notice it is to keep myself constantly busy. To not sit with an empty paper, pen in hand, to not write.

To not notice the build up. To not vent it out.

I know its irrational, but then so is religion. So is god. A lot of people pray everyday, prayer is that thing which makes you feel virtuous without having to give anything of yourself.

There are men and women who are self sufficient, whose anchor is not outside themselves, who ARE the anchor, for them and another.

They dont need religion. They dont need a lover. They dont need a soulmate.

They dont need poetry.

I don’t need religion. I don’t need a lover. I don’t need god. Nor a soulmate.

My anchor is your words.

Every morning, I get up and I read. What you wrote once upon a time. A milestone here. A candle there. An open wire carrying electricity here. A stone lying in my path guaranteed to stub my toe every morning. A ladder. A path. A memory. An embarrassment. A laugh.

Something. Proof that I’ve lived. Proof that I’ve been. Proof that I’ve known. Words beyond what anything I am capable of, but strangely feeling mine. Beauty i can hold. Run my hands over.

My anchor.

My prayer.

I drink the same water from the same well everyday. It leaves me thirsty for more while satiating me for the day.

Your poetry. Your jokes. Your funny stories. I choose a drink depending on my day. Or I let the well spring me a surprise.

What can I say about it which I havent already? Your poetry is so indelible, it has vanished into my memory, the way a dream slips away upon waking up because it is so deeply knitted into the fabric of your subconscious. Its impossible to verbalise but it was beautiful and that need not be said, you know instantly when you wake up. You search for the source, just what was it? But you find nothing.

Thats what it is.

But I dont dream anymore these days. I sip from the well but I am yearning for a waterfall to shake the water out of its stupor. I dont want to be lonely near the well, I want birds and animals and fish to come back, because a treasure left alone to myself for myself? I am not man enough to feast on it. And while its enough to sate me most days, i cant see it alone.

I need trinkles and bells so that the world wakes up.

My dreams have dried up. Its upto you.

To make me write again.


The era of love is over.

Lust and passion are on their way out.

People don’t understand or desire to love or be loved, to lust or be lusted after, to passionately want or to vehemently deny.

All they understand is a grasping sort of a soulless, bottomless greed.

A greed for pleasant sensations.

That’s all they want. That’s all they desire. That’s all they get.

Those that never fill completely. Those that never empty completely.

We are living in an age of in-betweens.

And I am trying my damnedest to fit in.





People with large hearts don’t necessarily have vast minds. And there are some who do not have either large hearts or vast minds, it’s as genetic as being beautiful or ugly – Gilbert calls it winning or losing the cortical lottery.

You can take it as a curse that limits you. Or you can take it as fuel that propels you. All that you can decide is whether it will limit you or not.

Being a vast mind living between a few who cannot see far and do not believe anyone can, and along with someone who cannot see far but believes and trusts you can, pushing pushing pushing against constant friction gaining inches in quicksand isn’t not just possible, it’s doable and its exhilerating. You’ve been doing it and you will continue to do it.

Pull them up or get pushed down. It isn’t a battle, there are never any battles in modern lives because black and white do not exist and neither does grey. It isn’t a battle so you will never feel victorious or succumb to defeat.

It’s just a long long walk. Who gives a fuck whether it’s a strut or a gallop?

And on the way, whenever you come across a wall, and you always do, you can either bang your head against it or you can take a jar of paint and turn it into wall art. The way will still be blocked but the view will be something you can live with. You have always outlasted walls.

But it needn’t be bloody, it can be beautiful.