Baring All His Teeth

The onrunning pedal of the restless cycle moves perpetually round and round, in the hope of completing a cycle that will never be fulfilled. Yet he tires — no matter what the result.

This is the massive outcome of becoming a cognitive idiot who stammers at noting and gets in the flow of everything.

This is the need-based need of a stoic worshipper — a follower of an incomparable deed that threatens to drown out the outcomes of his own tribe, in vain hopes of establishing his own supremacy.

This is the darewood devil, daring and baring all his teeth in an effeminate attempt at restoring his sanity.

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Looking back... (Whats app fwd)

 I drive for Ola. I mostly work night shifts. Last week, around 11 PM, I picked up an elderly gentleman. White kurta and dhoti, tired eyes—but a strange firmness in his voice.

As soon as he sat in the car, he said:

“Tonight, you’ll have to take me to five places. I’ll pay you ₹5000. Cash. But don’t ask the reason until the end.”

He handed me a piece of paper with five addresses written on it.

First stop—

An old house in South Kolkata.

I stopped the car. He didn’t get down. Just lowered the window and kept looking at the house… for ten minutes.

Tears kept flowing from his eyes, silently.

“Let’s go… next.”

Second stop—

A primary school. The gate was locked. The playground inside was dark.

He got down, slowly walked to a swing, sat on it, and gently started swinging.

After twenty minutes, he came back and said—

“I taught here. For 43 years. The best time of my life.”

Third stop—

A small old coffee house.

He went inside, ordered a cup of tea, and sat alone at a corner table. He didn’t even touch the tea. Just looked around.

After fifteen minutes, he returned with a faint smile—

“This is where I first met Amita… my wife. In 1969.”

Fourth stop—

Nimtala cremation ground.

He got down, stood near a memorial, and softly said something I couldn’t hear.

After half an hour, he came back. His eyes were red.

“It’s been three years since she passed away.”

Fifth stop—

A large government hospital.

He asked me to park. Then looked at me and said—

“Now I’ll tell you the reason. I have stage four cancer. The doctor said… a few weeks… maybe just days. Tonight, I wanted to see my entire life one last time.”

I put my head on the steering wheel and started crying.

He said—

“That house—where I raised my children.

That school—where I found my purpose.

That coffee house—where I found love.

That cremation ground—where I said my final goodbye.

And this hospital—where I will now be admitted. There will be no return home.”

He placed ₹5000 in my hand.

“Thank you. You took me through my life once again. My last stranger… who treated me with kindness.”

I said—

“I can’t take this.”

He replied—

“Take it. I have no one left to give it to. My children have grown so distant, they don’t even talk anymore. Friends are all gone, one by one. You gave me three hours—three hours of humanity. That is worth more than money.”

He picked up his small suitcase and went inside.

The next day, I went to the hospital. I asked—

“Mr. Aniruddha Mukherjee. Cabin 412.”

I went in with flowers. He smiled when he saw me—

“You came?”

“I couldn’t just leave you like that.”

We talked for two hours—about Amita Devi, his students, his estranged children.

I started visiting him every day. I would bring tea, read the newspaper to him, or just sit quietly.

One day, he said—

“I thought I would die alone. But you are here. In my final moments, a stranger became my family. You have my blessings.”

I held his hand—

“You are not alone.”

On Tuesday, at 3:17 AM, he passed away.

I was sitting there, holding his hand.

His last words were—

“Tell everyone… look at strangers. Truly look at them. We are all going somewhere—some fast, some slow. Show kindness along the way. You did. You made my last days worth living.”

The monitor turned into a straight line.

At his cremation, there were only six people:

Me,

three nurses,

a lawyer,

and one former student.

43 years of teaching.

52 years of marriage.

81 years of life.

Six people.

I said—

“Mr. Aniruddha taught me—

Every stranger is someone’s entire world.

Every passenger is a story.

Every human being is living, dying, waiting… for someone to truly see them.”

He gave me ₹5000 to drive on the road of life.

But what he taught me… is worth far more than money.

“Humanity is not an extra thing. It is everything.”

Even today, those ₹5000 remain in my glove box. I have never spent them.

Because every passenger might be on their last journey.

Every stranger might be saying their final goodbye.

So now, I drive differently.

I ask. I listen. I truly see people.

Because one elderly teacher once asked for a gentle night—

and a stranger chose to stay.

*Silent moments, unspoken truths.*🤔

The 400,000 "Invisible" Defect: How Horary Astrology Saved Me From a Bad Investment

Being in Delhi, I am concerned that my Petrol car will last only another four years as the Government has stipulated a 15-year maximum life for Petrol vehicles. I have given up the idea of Petrol or Diesel or CNG now as it involves the hassle of pollution certification, the norms of which are known only to the conductors of the test and the results of which are sometimes mysterious! Don't want to belabor that point.

So I was on the lookout for a used electric car. The Tata Tigor was a viable option. I found one online for under 300,000 INR.
However, electric vehicles are known for battery issues. Battery replacement costs almost as much as the car. I needed to find out the condition of the car ASAP.

Luckily, the technique of Horary Astrology was at hand. I cast a chart for the time of the question, and the car looked good with its significator being a dignified Jupiter in Cancer. However, it was in the eighth house. Bad sign. Oh, there's Saturn in the fourth house. A major malefic in an angular house is trouble.

I had experienced the truth of these conditions many times. I gave up the idea of looking at that particular car.

Horary Astrology isn't about "luck"—it's a diagnostic tool. It provides a layer of Due Diligence that spreadsheets and physical inspections sometimes miss.
It helps you see the "8th House" problems before they hit your bank account.

Are you facing a high-stakes decision where the "hidden variables" are keeping you up at night? Let’s look at the map.

hashtag#HoraryAstrology hashtag#DecisionMaking hashtag#RiskManagement hashtag#DelhiRealEstate hashtag#InvestmentStrategy hashtag#VedicAstrology

King of the Manoland

 

I watched the coach on the glass screen,

Sincere and polished, her demeanor keen,

But her chords fell flat on a heart grown tired

Of the frantic sparks that the world desired.

I seek the low light, the laid-back flow,

Where the ego’s embers finally go.

I saw myself in the digital mirror—

A stutter of fear, a lack of clarity’s mirror.

“Train!” cried the voice, “or lose the fight! Face the bullets in the dead of night!”

But the battle-cry felt like a dusty lie,

Underneath the vastness of an inner sky.

For I have found a hidden, holy ground,

Where the weight of judgment is never found.

I call it Manoland—a dream-swept space,

Where I run and jump at my own pace.

A no-man’s land where the borders fade,

Away from the plans that the "healers" made.

I polevault through thoughts, I somersault free,

I am the wind, the salt, and the sea.

Let the "post-doc" logic rub salt in the wound,

While my soul to a higher joy is attuned.

It isn't a sermon; it isn't a vice—

It’s the breath of a man who won’t think twice.

The chains have snapped from the norms of old,

The story of "healing" has all been told.

I am alive—not for the record or the crowd—

But for the unborn voice, singing soft and loud.

It was me all along, in the bliss, in the heat,

Dancing on the world with my own two feet.

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The Strange Honesty of Raw Emotion

Sometimes my mind fills with blind anger.

At one time it may be against my family members, old colleagues, or the regular people I meet in my daily life. The targets change, but the anger itself appears suddenly, like a storm passing across the sky.

I often wonder: is this a defect? Is something wrong with me?

Yet when I observe other people, I see something curious. Many people do not reveal what is truly in their minds. They smile warmly, speak kindly, and behave with perfect politeness. But behind the scenes they may be laying quiet traps — speaking ill of someone to another person, damaging reputations while maintaining a pleasant face.

I do not do this.

If I like something, I say so. If I dislike something, I say that too. I do not hide my feelings behind a mask of friendliness while secretly working against someone.

Perhaps this is a defect.

Radical honesty is not always rewarded in society. Saying what is in your mind is often the easiest way to create enemies.

Diplomacy is usually safer. Silence is even safer.

But there is also something exhausting about constantly wearing masks.

Anger, at least, is honest. It reveals something real that is happening inside the mind. The question is not whether anger exists — it clearly does. The real question is whether that raw energy can be transformed into something useful instead of something destructive.

These days I try something different when anger arises.

I write.

Not carefully. Not elegantly. I simply write whatever thoughts are passing through the mind — quickly, freely, without structure. The words come out like a stream of consciousness, one thought tumbling over another.

And something interesting happens.

After writing for some time, the storm in the mind begins to quiet down. The anger loosens its grip. The mind settles.

What remains is a surprising feeling of calm — peace not only with myself, but also with the person who had been the target of my anger only a short while before.

Perhaps anger is simply untamed energy.

If it is suppressed, it becomes poison. If it is acted out blindly, it destroys relationships. But if it can be observed and written out, perhaps it can dissolve into understanding.

Maybe the real task is not to eliminate anger.

Maybe the task is to learn how to transform it into clarity — and, sometimes, into peace.or shape it so it attracts readers on a blog (small stylistic tweaks can make a big difference).