A poster hung over my grandfather’s deathbed. It said — “You observe a lot by watching.” I saw that poster many times and read that caption by the Cheetah’s paw, as many times. Made sense, but my father understood it better than I did.

Another of those thoughtful philosophical sixteen minute journeys through Mumbai’s local trains. More confusion, or maybe as much as before — only the context seems to differ.

My teachers have been those who were (and probably are) more confused than I am. And I am destined to enjoy this state of mind – only in retrospect. Have I decided that I have nothing to learn from men who have (or seem to have) clarity of thought? Or is it that I reading too many books?

What am I pushing my body and soul towards? What is my goal? Am I here to achieve the petty accomplishments that society demands? Am I supposed to be true to my self, or wisely selfish? What dictates my actions, behaviours, and moods? Why do I feel like a sugarcane going through a sugarcane juice machine? Can I conveniently blame it on ‘systems’?

My person searches for its remains. I am a lost soul – lost to the warped world of technology. I would have been a poet, an artist, a teacher, and perhaps a singer too. But I chose that a dumb electronic machine guide my life and I lead myself to believe that I am shaping the future of this machine and all the lives that will interact with it. And this acquired fanaticism is the excuse for everything – this fatwa rules the roost – over all aspects of my life and above all my self.

All this writing can be written off as a drunkard’s gibberish, but someday later I will regret that I did not follow my heart – and what a poor heart it is – it no more has any say. It has retreated and quietened down, perhaps in resignation to this undetermined ambition whose only basis is default.

~ 18 December 1999. Handwritten, locked up for years, recently discovered.

Epilogue

What you just read is neither a rant nor a profound exploration of self. It was an unknown pin on the map of my life. You know where the pin is—but you don’t know where you are. It’s a mind learning how to be lost without panic. There’s hesitation, a slow unease, and something like holding hands with a question—just for a moment.

Carlos Castaneda once called clarity the second enemy of a man of knowledge. At that time, I think I was lunging toward it—seeking urgency in wisdom. I won’t argue with Castaneda, but I’ve come to understand this: clarity isn’t something you seize. It settles in. Quietly. It builds a slow home in your heart.

Almost twenty-six years later, I have no real regrets about the “dumb electronic machine.” It gave me a life. It paid the bills. It gave me knowledge. It showed me purpose. It became my teacher. It brought people into my world I never expected. And in my own quiet, satisfactory way, I became the things I once feared I’d never be: a poet, an artist, a teacher, an amateur historian. Singer? Not so much.

But I am no longer lost. I may not always like where I am—but now, I know where the pin is, and I know where I am. I can move, if and when I choose.

My heart is fuller than it was in ’99. It’s filled with love, with loving friendships, with warmth I never planned for. The heart is still quiet, but no longer resigned. It knows how to change the default settings.

It took time, but I’ve learned what settings fit me best.