Ginger drafts...

For a casual observer, the spectacle of today’s night might appear innocuous; the mindless profligacy, the abominable acts of indecency, the wasteful and detestable arrogance are but a display of intellectual decrepitude. It is the celebration of human ignorance; it’s the celebration of vacuous pleasure. Beneath the cloaks of celebration, hidden in the recesses of religious evocation, is the human indulgence. This indulgence is immune to the pleasure seeking proposals- apart from spawning pleasure moods namely music, literature and arts, this behavioural characteristic is also home to the birth of an execrable idea-creator. Science has proved that humans have bigger brain sizes compared to their cousins, and have attributed this bigger brain size to our additional thinking abilities. Studies on young chimps and human kids have revealed that humans adopt a learned technique, humans act with discipline, whereas chimps are instinctive. Even when the instinctive solution is rationally a be

What is with music? There is music that pierces through my nerves and once the nerves are taut with energy suffused in them, I stay afloat with benumbing anticipation of more. Music is perhaps the most accessible art form that has the ability of transferring instant gratification. Literature closely follows suit, but it is music that verifiably stands tall, above all the other art forms. My inquiries into music threw me asunder into the history of music, not the chronological development of music, but the seminal introduction of it, the invention of music in its most primitive form. What could have prompted the ancient civilizations to compose music? Language is a basic ground on which literature reside. But language all by itself cannot explain music. There was something more, something perfunctorily presented in our books of history. Perhaps it was the pure animal instinct of pursuing the course of lechery, fornicating in the wild as other cousins of ours do-when rebuked, on the grou

In one way or another, we are all collectors, some of us collect things, some of us collect memories, some words or phrases, while still other collect or make relations with people. Our collections are remnants of our forgotten past, but they are either too valuable to forget or we are just too squeamish to ignore them. These collections, the pieces of our glorious past, remind us of our past and put us at an upper hand rendering us capable of connecting the dots between these pieces. On the landscape of blurred vision that our past is, these collections serve us in navigating to towards the horizon, the path becoming increasingly clear as we travel towards it. Some have gone so much deeper into the horizons that they just never returned from there. Some just live in their past, they embrace past with their arms wide open, never to let go of it. More often than not, the rubber corks that our collections are over the undulating river of conscience never drown as long as our conscience i

What is boredom? Does it, with its piercing ability of prodding the bearer into a muddled up state of measuring; of him self, unbearable and over aching. Does the intensely deplorable state of measure, of himself, change him? Does boredom leave lasting impressions on the person? What does it do to the person that falls prey to this overpowering and overwhelming suffocating, nauseating feeling? The intrinsic character of the person-social animal, as hesitantly hailed by the society- hitherto encumbered by the seething and continuous ever lasting action, is flushed with the expectancy of more. And, when the person is denied of this voluptuous ubiquity of seductive intensity, when the person is thrown away from the activity, and when he finds himself in the corner of a dark room, the looming crisis strikes and he admits. His admission takes the route of a torturous act of self preservation in the face of boredom. But, defaced after the struggle, he admits, almost palpitating with anger,