Stream Of Consciousness
I write, but the readership is thin; maybe in the future, I feel awkward in coming forth. My work is no more than shade, but small ideas come which I amplify by automatic sharing. I hardly use any platform. To some extent, I use the Words app.
In fact, my field of ignorance is becoming a Maw.
Here and Now Sitrep: The first idea that flashed was, “Mati Kahe Kumbhar Se Tu kya Goondhe Mohe.”
My heart quakes at the future. I have forgotten the past. Here I Live, Here and now. Here and Now means I am aware I am thinking.
Presently, there is smoothness and watchfulness as I write and converse with you. The window is half-curtained. There is a table and a bookcase. I am the writer on the keyboard. A lamp throws yellow light. My cat is comfortable speaking. Another cat is asleep. My wife is doing yoga. There is a dog barking in the distance. A cat was meowing. I thought she wanted more. She wanted to play. My wife wishes to have a chit-chat. Now done with everything, I am at the table with tea. I finally have a space for myself. How do I feel? Relieved. I realized there are some things I need to address. I have procrastinated enough about money matters, cashing bonds, and paying insurance. I will do that later, before the first pay, before encashing. Tomorrow I will be a farmer, buying Kiwi plants for a 100-plant Kiwi orchard. Orchard is an experimental part of the villagers’ uplift. I am investing in it. If my children do not enjoy it, then others will. They can stay in that beautiful and remote place. At just 1400 feet, Solan has a Spanish-type climate in the hills; it is a nice place to stay. There is a gorge there. People are settled away from the side of the Gorge; instead, they prefer, and rightly so, the undulating hill slope. At night, the gorge emits a special sort of darkness. This darkness extends up through its black points of escaping light from the houses beyond.
A Vision for Solan
There is a strange clarity in the present moment.
I am aware that I am thinking. That is all. The heart quakes at the future, the past has slipped its grip, and here — in this smoothness, this watchfulness — I remain.
This is my philosophy of the now. Not as doctrine, not as discipline, but as condition. I am here. I notice. That is enough.
Writing, in this state, feels like shade. Not substance, not structure — shade. Something soft, something temporary, something that offers relief but does not claim permanence. My ignorance resembles a maw. It widens as I move. It swallows what I do not know. It reminds me of scale.
Yet we plant.
And we write.
We do both at the edge of the gorge. A special darkness gathers there at night. Escaping points of light rise from houses beyond, puncturing it. It is not a threatening darkness. It is a waiting one. A listening one.
It feels like the right place for small ideas.
The Solan Project
Tomorrow, I become a farmer.
Not by inheritance. Not by tradition. But by intention.
A hundred kiwi plants for an experimental orchard. Not as commerce alone, but as upliftment. For the village. For the place. For those who choose to remain in that beautiful, remote land.
At around 1400 feet, Solan carries a Spanish-type climate in the hills — gentle, temperate, forgiving. A land that does not resist being lived in.
This orchard is a gesture. If not for my children, then for others. For the ones who will stay. For the ones who will walk those slopes after me.
Legacy does not always wear marble. Sometimes it grows leaves.
The Gorge
There is a gorge there.
People have wisely settled away from its edge, choosing the undulating slopes instead. But at night, the gorge asserts itself. A particular kind of darkness rises from it, climbing upward, pierced only by distant, stubborn lights.
It is not dramatic. It is not cinematic.
It is honest.
It feels like a place where thought can exist without performing.
Pending Matters
And then, of course, there is life.
Money matters.
Bonds to be cashed.
Insurance to be paid.
These will be done before the first. They always are. They always must be. Even at the edge of a gorge, paperwork follows.
One does not cancel the other.
In the shade of my thoughts, at the lip of darkness, I plant.
And I write.
That is the shape of my faith.