Touch me

Most of the time I just feel sorry for people.

Sorry that they have to stoop to the levels they do. Sorry that they have so little to say. Sorry that the little they say means even less. Sorry that in trying to hit out at others they are in fact revealing their own deep-seated anxieties/fears/dilemmas. Sorry that they behave like trained monkeys. Sorry that they will always be like that.

Most of the time I feel sorry.

When I get disgusted by things around me, I find a stray piece of paper...Sometimes a few loose sheaves...And they remind me of what I really am. I have never referred to these as 'fan mail'. They do not give me a temporary high; they in fact make me find myself in the wilderness.

One such note came from a writer (the year: 1999) who has a few books to his credit. He wrote, "Whenever I read you I want to reach out. I was waiting for an opportunity. It never came. So I created it."

That's it.

Another one said, "I feel I can trust you. Lest you think I am flattering you, then let me tell you that there are other writers I like too, maybe more than you, but I relate with you much better."

There are times I have wept.

The time the lady suffering from cancer had met me and asked me to be the Executor of her Will. She had relatives, she had friends...here she was sitting across from me asking me to be in charge of whatever possessions she might have and how she would like to disburse them after she had left this world.

How does one react?

I just held her hand and convinced her about other options. The moment she left, I wept.

I had never met her before. I had not done anything for her. Are a few words enough to make someone believe in you, belong to you?

Last night, again a night of deep thought, brought me this verse in an email...did someone read my thoughts?

Tu bhi dil ko ikk lahoo ki boond samjha haiy Faraz
Aankh agar hoti tau qatray mein samundar dekhta