A story about generational love

 Imagine a pair of twin Gul mohar trees amid an urban sprawl.  At least a few generations older than their environment, their sordid frames would rest within the concrete. Public servants in the area would be glad of their presence. They would be legacy and must be protected.

An accidental window would look down upon the Gulmohars from the north-west. Its inhabitants, bespectacled and grey, would be unworried yet anxious about all the time in their lives. Their ability to come out of their shells depends on their children and their lives.

At the ages of thirty-three and thirty-five, they held a baby in their arms. Something to pour into. Like a lavender flower to pin onto her hair, or a pair of leather shoes for him to preserve.

It brought life to their existence, an aliveness of time, a concretization of love.

Love is latent in everybody. But some are lucky to be nourished by it. The day their child was born was a miracle

As their child grew, so did a responsible kind of love grow within them.

But their affection and attention as products of the ego wavered, and expressing them sparked and fused over time. The child sometimes remarked upon their moods, castigating at their selfishness. When there is an emotional awareness of an idea, all its contours and textures rush in like a crashing wave.

Only the deeply loved have the capacity to deeply love. It’s an adjacent idea to generational trauma in the sense that sometimes generational love is mistaken for its popular cousin.

Imagine the Gulmohurs fillip in pleasure on occasions when the breeze blows.

As if to remark to their child, “Ah, my little one, oh my sweet dear little one. Whose grace is upon me that I get to love and to care for you”

17.06.2026 – 9:25 PM

When I allow myself to rest in my daze, it seems that there is an uncontrollable urge to fall. To arrest this fall requires stability that has always been foreign to me. I have always had to rein in this stability.

I cannot forget her face. The tears streamed down helplessly.

What must one do to endure such unbearable emotion?

Knowing the truth is sad, yet one can’t help but be sad at the unknown too.

How must I proceed? With each passing moment, I carry the burden of one more moment. The weight will soon become unbearable.

The tenderness erupts only when I’m alone. With others, it emerges scathingly or sarcastically. I prefer the former, when I can cry and be myself.

Even in the sadness, I feel freer. Like unwrapped, uncoiled, like I can breathe in the air of this diabolical place away from my home, and grieve. Like Odysseus

20.06.2026 – 4:55 PM

Balmy sunshine rests on the leaves. In the foreground, a spider dangles, spinning a nest. The crows caw, and the sparrows chirp. Summer is ending, and a frozen winter within me will soon start to melt.

1. In the hearts of men everywhere, can there erupt a wind that carries with it a new fragrance for this land. How I yearn and resist the dams to burst forth with the passion that I am ailed with.
2. A life of simple, pristine, and benevolent measure is appealing. If I could concentrate on a vision and the thin horizon between the concrete and the spiritual, I could instill a vigor. My imagination cannot save me. There must be a critical path to the pain, and not a painful path to the spirit.
3. What is the point of communication if not to commune. What is the point of myself if I cannot be me.
4. Just like the bend in the river gave a new direction to fertility, a material pivot to the flow of time within me is possible. A form of this is writing. It yanks the currents to an undiscovered side.
5. I want to hold, cherish, and pull apart the fabric of existence as it appears to me. Is this mastery or a desire to experiment? The social sciences would scoff at this irresponsibility.
6. To the throes of the planet and beyond, to the banks of the river, and to the hills of the mountains, I wish to find the company of comrades in spirit and in love who participate in this venture. Who desire as I desire, who succumb to the pulse of the air as I do, and who plant their feet in my heart as I do in theirs.

27.06.2026 – 4:01 PM

Wherein lies exuberance also lies sanity.

Perhaps it’s physics. Does anybody know if a meteor travelling through space will ever land?

The characters in Cuaron’s – Y Tu Mama Tambien’ throw themselves into their immediate environment. It seems wise and not the folly of youth.

When I hear the essential silence in me, there is nothing. Shaping it is interesting. Like the bird that flies because it can, why can’t I throw like I must? At least I have a ready answer if a journalist asks why I threw in one of those Olympic sports.

Luisa from Cuaron’s film is an interesting character because she contradicts the idea that there is more chance of leading a damaging life if it is long. But what even is damaging?

If one were to read Walter De La Mere’s astounding poem ‘The Listeners’ in a certain light, a truth erupts. The traveler came and kept his word, yet no one answered the traveler’s call. A chilling indictment of reality and humanity.

What even is damaging when faced with a reality that shrinks to your command.

What even is damaging when faced with a reality that just occurs, failing to exercise any agency.

What even is damaging when there is no God.

Our mates at the Advaita Vedanta center champion the case of non-duality. Yet what use is a utility that is a tiny drop in the face of the reality monster. I suppose that’s what they mean by a reduced ego.

Understanding the expanse of the world and realizing your place in it comes with time.

12.07.2026 – 6:05 PM

 Windshield wiper 1

In a moment of lucidity, my sister tells me about Titanic and how I guffawed like a monkey as Rose shivered uncontrollably on the piece of wood holding her lover’s hand. The searing scene ended with her being able to muster the strength to blow the whistle for the rescuers. A good six years older than her, my emotionally stunted gaze on the highly dramatized but emotional crescendo of the film had shattered my baby sibling.

Windshield wiper 2

A sleepy mother and I were awake at 4:15 am. It was perhaps a muggy spring or autumn night, we had both decided that I would study seven of the thirteen chapters of the geography book on the morning of the test. Spread across the small wooden tables in the living room, I sat and lay intermittently on the sofa set, my being expanded outside of the dim and claustrophobic bedroom setup.

The sharpness of the morning, the anxiety of the minutes, and the ferocity of my learning were in collusion with the energy of a space that hosted guests, parties, and was a place of expanded leisure that the adolescent me thrived in. I remember the morning and the buzzing sensation of newness like yesterday.

Parts of me are unfurling with time. Time is a jester that lies within the pages of reading Knausgård. The man says that there is no shame in the truth of your life.