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Friday, October 20, 2006

Stream of Time

July, 1745
Bhai Taru Singh who would rather have his scalp removed than cut his hair.

A barber proudly displays the kesh of a young Sikh boy in Punjab, who is trying to catch up with times.
From a recent story published in Outlook.
According to Outlook, about 80 per cent of the Sikh youth in rural Punjab have cut their hair and discarded their headgear.
Nothing more to say.

One Houston year later....

It's almost been a year since I started writing this blog. Almost. I think I have matured somewhat. I do not feel as lonely as I used to. These days, when I get off work, I don't say," WTF" because I will have to go home and stare at my walls and lose myself in a spiral of introspection leading into an abyss with no bottom. So, that is probably a good thing.

I have new insights into who I am and what I am expected to be. My sense of belonging to a community keeps taking a beating every now and then. But my resolve holds on. I still quite haven't changed my mind about Sikh women. The more I think about it, the more I find myself not wanting to marry one. The thought of finding out six months into my marriage that it was all under pressure just scares the daylight out of me. Somehow, I find myself getting distanced from who everybody wants me to be. Some people would think that is not a bad thing. My parents, I am sure, will differ. I feel myself, morphing into someone different. I don't know if that is just normal growth or if it is the effect of the stream of life flowing by me and carving out a newer different me.

For some weird reason, I sometimes still feel that something is missing. I can't quite put a finger on it. But there is this spooky abscence of something in my life. I haven't been able to meditate for some time now and thus not able to search for that elusive entity. But hopefully, I will be able to do that in the near future.

I am in a pensive mood today, thinking about life and stuff. Hopefully, I will write something a little more shinier next time. Here's a little something the Bard wrote that I haven't been able to shake off my mind for the last few days:

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale'
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing...