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Hi, this is somebody who has taken the quieter by-lane to be happy. The hustle and bustle of the big, booming main street was too intimidating. Passing through the quieter by-lane I intend to reach a solitary path, laid out just for me, to reach my destiny, to be happy primarily, and enjoy the fruits of being happy. (www.sandeepdahiya.com)

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

A Common Man's Revolt


'Jana Gana Mana...' It started at hyperpitch in the cinema hall before Kaabil would start. I didn't stand up as a symbolic mark of respect. Just a little, harmless revolt. Almost unobserved in the dark corner of a cinema hall. I was feeling cheated by the system. It was my mute protest against certain things that have darkened the spirit that pervades through the national anthem. It felt like breaking a law. A revenge. But that's the maximum level an otherwise law-abiding citizen can harmlessly reach in protest. Twelve years back a gross injustice was done to a very bright, duly selected Haryana PCS batch. The Congress government opened the floodgates of institutional manipulation. They misused the state vigilance commission to put put the most farcical report. Certain candidates were denied appointments on the basis of such crazy remarks like "the evaluator has cut down marks in one answer from 4 to 3". It was interpreted as a malafied means by the candidate to get undue advantage to get selection. Imagine somebody manipulating the system to get a cut in the mark to get an advantage in the merit list. Craziest and heights of official misuse of power. Hooda government manipulated judiciary later to keep the sanctity of this illogical document. This report stands as the legal basis of denying appointments to the candidates who had worked for a decade to succeed in the exam. Well, it now gets proved that when it comes to misusing power, the Congress in no exception. The present rulers, the BJP, have also smartly upheld the status of this funny, criminal report. Well, that's how things stand in BJP ruled Haryana. 
As a sufferer of this report, guys please tell me, wasn't I right in not standing up to the national anthem?

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Of all types of death, including by disease, accidents, ageing, death born of someone's hate is the worst. Hate-born death slaughters the core principle of being humans. It strangulates the the basic constituent of our collective consciousness to survive individually as a part of the social set-up, a literally must-have for our identity as much as oxygen is must for our biological survival. Hate has potent carriers. It breeds death with the weapons of religion, caste, creed, race, ethnicity. From Nazi Holocausts, communist purgings, to modern day ISIS slayings, hate wreaks the worst form of death. Death born of hate is the very negation of the meaning of life.

Saturday, January 7, 2017

Lost in Red Mist

Lost in Red Mist

She is a courtesan fighting for a respectable identity in the quagmire of degenerated nobility, wars, intrigues, debauchery, lust and, last but not the least, love.
She is a foreign tourist in India, raped, picking up the fragments of her violated self, walking with bruised honour, her innate goodness intact, to reach the house of justice to salvage her identity, to redeem her pride.
A circumstantial pawn in the checker-work of sex trade, she passes much of her youth in the muck of lust only to regain herself back, to free herself in her forties, to begin a new life.
Kashmir is burning and in the bigger fire are smouldering little worlds of common hopes, mundane dreams, routine aspirations and regular cravings.
He is huge and lifts unthinkable weights for a living, goes on living and lifting weights only to be crushed by circumstances.
On a badly stomped platform he gathers the nameless pieces of his dusted identity to have a name, a face, an identity of a common person from the normal world.
In the Tsunami ravaged Andaman, she, an Australian anthropologist, survives and looks with hope at the remnants including the sole surviving Shompen tribal.
On the devastated eastern coast of India, he, a mere kid, takes the onerous task of caring for his still smaller sister, while the world around seethes in chaos.
He dreams big from his small village, only realizing later that the dreams that grow in disproportion to one’s circumstances are as good as nightmares.
He, an old man staying alone with a cat, patches up the holes in his present through tales of the past, to survive, expecting a painless end in the future.

She, a Western tourist at Rishikesh, opens her spirits while a whole world drags around her feet.     


Tuesday, December 20, 2016

Lost in Red Mist



She is a courtesan fighting for a respectable identity in the quagmire of degenerated nobility, wars, intrigues, debauchery, lust and, last but not the least, love.

She is a foreign tourist in India, raped, picking up the fragments of her violated self, walking with bruised honour, her innate goodness intact, to reach the house of justice to salvage her identity, to redeem her pride.

A circumstantial pawn in the checker-work of sex trade, she passes much of her youth in the muck of lust only to regain herself back, to free herself in her forties, to begin a new life.

Kashmir is burning and in the bigger fire are smouldering little worlds of common hopes, mundane dreams, routine aspirations and regular cravings.

He is huge and lifts unthinkable weights for a living, goes on living and lifting weights only to be crushed by circumstances.

On a badly stomped platform he gathers the nameless pieces of his dusted identity to have a name, a face, an identity of a common person from the normal world.

In the Tsunami ravaged Andaman, she, an Australian anthropologist, survives and looks with hope at the remnants including the sole surviving Shompen tribal.

On the devastated eastern coast of India, he, a mere kid, takes the onerous task of caring for his still smaller sister, while the world around seethes in chaos.

He dreams big from his small village, only realizing later that the dreams that grow in disproportion to one’s circumstances are as good as nightmares.

He, an old man staying alone with a cat, patches up the holes in his present through tales of the past, to survive, expecting a painless end in the future.


She, a Western tourist at Rishikesh, opens her spirits while a whole world drags around her feet.