Life... Love... Kumbh...

The gods are real crazy when it comes to prayers. They listen to some sometimes and do not listen to some sometimes. But the whole world prays, nonetheless-All the time

But you raised a ruckus about and threatened to perform a Julius Caesarian on anybody on anybody who calls April the cruelest month- I was Damn born out of the loins of my father in the spring of April, you claimed. Surgeon, you stood up for the month of buds and bitches like a true Kuon Kunos

I knew then and there only that pretty young little things are like monsoon lilies; transient trams. Catch them if you can, but if you miss them, do not wail, a next one would be whistling round the corner, about to enter the La Gurre of your heart

People forget history nowadays,that is what the ego does, making one the prisoner of one's inflated present, ignoring the humble past one had lived.

Your perception may not be my reality

That is what the opposites do, cross the swords invariably and unknowingly.

He didn't ask because he didn't wanted to know. If you know, moments die an instant death. She held his hand in hers; hiding them like a pearl; her coral eyes ensconcing his pain.

All writers pen sad stories to garner sympathy, writing is after all for the abandoned of the society: the ink-leech, spewing black blood and sucking innocent souls.

The words explain us all, each having a meaning in a meantime: every time for a lifetime.

All scientist are oglers, i suppose, the sensuousness is a sine quo non of modern technology

History tells creativity is a result of Soul song.

Her tears still lay, unattended, on my bosom...I wouldn't wipe them, for she might stop paying me visits.

People forget history nowadays, he lamented, that is what the ego does, making one the prisoner of one's inflated present, ignoring the humble past one has lived.

How a sip of water from a brass cup or a few drops from a brass spoon of the size of finger or how can one keep rose petals and marigold spreads between the pages of one's books for years or how the fresh shoot of barley could be put behind one's ears or how a dot of vermilion on the forehead or how fasting for a day or how praying or chanting or lightening an incense stick or how lighting a cotton wick dipped in mustard oil or how being blessed by priests and saints or how sitting in a lotus posture or how reading the holy books could kindle in one that thing called faith

Its gresham's law in operation is all walks of life and not just money: bad money drives out good money from circulation; bad writers drive out good writers from circulation, bad parents drive out good parents from nuturing, bad politicians drive out good politicians from governance, bad girls drive out good girls from heart, bad teachers drive out good teachers from classes....But bad emotions drive out good rationality.

Descartes' Meditations; doubt rise and results in clear and distinct ideas. all in the mind and all innate. Spinoza bakes the best cake, love God intellectually. Oh! God, he should have stuck to polishing glasses or gotten married. Then dear Philosopher we what mettle your are of. Soren Kierkgaard is the king of leer; life is a disease unto death, he proclaimed till death claimed him early. And Nietzche? following Schopenhauer's Superman- was nursed by his sister despite crying foul of the female race and died a wreck man. All theory no practice. Sartre was better , loyal to Simon De...Both lay next to each other in Paris, witout marrying.

For, if after fifty you don't live the aspirations of the young, go away. Who needs needs spectacled snails, salivating on the Soma of youth.

Karma has to be done, to the last moment, there is no way of escaping the world once one is in it.

Mr. Rip Wan winkle, be a star that twinkle.

Ah! the joys of linger...

Why can't one live a life of disappearing?An invisible man- the real superman.

But why have you dear English Jew whose forefathers fought to enter the country of Johnny Mill, the Stuart with a little heart, saunter in Haridwar, no pubs or fish and chips' counters here, only Ganga-Jal, -the holy ale- Quaff it for the spirit and carry it to the banks of Thames in a holy grail.