I am not in favor of those who profess the idea that dreams have got meanings in them. One thing I could assure is that they bring out a mysterious artist in every human being, a befuddled artist with nebulous notions.

Nightingales sing, flowers bloom, tigers roar, none of them are levied tax by the government. Farmers and Artists are like that for a nation; they should be exempted from tax or should be given concession.

She was beautiful for no reason, like a poppy, like the tender smile of an infant, like a dew drop, like the sunset, like the mother-nature — the god’s ultimate expression.

Infant clouds of the gloaming were struggling to prove their loyalty to the wind. Earth strived hard to prove its fertility. Somewhere, the flowers fought hard to preserve the fragrance in their wombs for the unknown tomorrow. The life was on an endless swing, mine and yours.

They behaved like the pets that lost their owner. They seemed to be in a never ending whirl of chaos.

The omniscient, omnipotent and omnipresent god was carried in an omni vehicle from village to village. It seemed interesting.

There was a rhythm between the silence and the song, like that of the breast and the baby, evading the realm of time.

You do not choose this existence but the existence chooses you

I look out the window — enormous clouds, like a series of white cottony elephants and rabbits go on procession there. I feel one among them, soothing someone’s mind and wetting someone’s heart. I feel one with the eternal motion of the existence. I offer myself.