On Growing Old

I turned 24 years old today. This obvious marker of my days spent here in this world somehow brings a sense of loss. There's a loss of time, a loss of things that once were and would never be again the same.  It forced me to look at those old pictures of me, when I was young and happy, only an year ago, and that certainly brings a temporary gush of happiness.

I don't know why but this huge, pale cloud has cast a shadow over my faculties since I woke up in the morning. I can't seem to find the source of the mist that has darkened my sky. There is this strong sense of being lost, or loosing something that was perhaps within my grasp. Why haven't I achieved those lofty goals that I've always aimed for? Or, why, if I have achieved them albeit partially, I don't feel glad about it? Importantly, why can't I simply cherish what I have?

The above is of course the first reason that has triggered my emotional self and allowed me to deviate from my busy schedule and write a post. And the second is possibly the busy schedule itself. Yes, I think the regularity of my work routine even on my auspicious, 'happy b'day' has a hand in spoiling it somewhat. Of all the days, at least to-day I should do what I scarcely find time do it, and not read these darn scientific articles! To hell with them.

Ah! I shall read a book. A fine book it shall be. Gifted by my dear sibling, 'Ernest Hemingway on writing', my b'day present. The finest of all.

(Having written this, I feel much better. Writing is certainly a potent remedy for all kinds of sickness.)

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Current Book: Ernest Hemingway on Writing
Current Music: 'Bad Romance' by Lady Gaga (Happy b'day Gaga. <3)

A passage to India

I recently finished reading 'A passage to India' by E. M. Forster and I'm still not quite sure if I've completely parted from the book and its beauty. If I put it plainly, I do not consider Forster as a mere writer. He is more of a musician. He creates a symphony with words, and every part of the novel is part of this rich song that echoes in your mind time and again.

The plot of the novel is quite straightforward, and basically follows the racial tensions between the brown and white skins in a colonized India, when a muslim doctor is accused of sexually assaulting a British lady. While the plot and the characters were certainly charming, it's the overall environment of the book, the kind of India that it paints, was the most intriguing aspect to me.

And I read this while I was returning from a trip to India, on my way back to Europe. So this transition from East to West probably exaggerated the effect. The first few days I was back in Europe, I could not help but notice the aching stillness, and emptiness that suffocated the entire culture. How lifeless is life around here, in the developed part of the world! 

But as time passed, I found myself accustomed to the modern, individualistic and high standard of living, forgetting the charms of my own poor land behind.

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Current Book: "Tender is the night" by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Current Music: "Thrift Shop" Macklemore (this is fucking awesome... :)

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My little body is aweary of this great world. An Indian PhD student horsing around in Europe.

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