Mahboob's Journal

Upon this stage, money is the measure of wealth Yet all our riches yield no lasting fruit. That which we cannot carry after end of breath That we ought to spurn, this futile pursuit. Presentation is all that matters, Masks build names with tales sweet and vague. A ceaseless saga in shattered tatters Building reputation, a luxurious subterfuge. But love brings light to darkest night, we find, Guides us through life's tempestuous note. Leaving absurdism far behind, For all woes, it's the timeless antidote. True love, divine, stems from the Almighty's grace, Temporal deep love, through Him, finds its rightful place.

Bakrid observations & celebrations enhanced by a quick detour to Shamshabad yesterday. My daughter's foray into the corporate arena commences with pursuing a master's degree in business administration. A new chapter in her life and the family’s. Took a selfie at the amphitheatre on campus.

A classic beauty she is, the stunning Sonakshi Sinha. Made a digital painting of the Fareedan character player, using Adobe Illustrator and Photoshop. I hope you like this artwork. #DigitalArt 

the i, the me, the self, the mind all nothing but memory and the past conditioning of the brain. journeying male, indian, muslim, son, brother, friend, husband, father, lover, mentor proclaiming reader, writer, programmer, manager, founder being perceiver, listener, experiencer, chooser, jury, judge causing love, deep love, peace, happiness, creativity preventing lucidity, presence, connection, communication, communion breeding fear, anxiety, sorrow, despair, loneliness, guilt, irritation triggering envy, jealousy, greed, attachment, possessiveness, ill-will, hatred, cruelty, bias, prejudice inventing virtue, courage, ambition, beliefs, ideologies, stories, experiences NOW, aiming like a canvas bare, a map untold, a spring coiled tight, a bird in flight, a symphony untuned, set free from the inherent chaos of existence  and constraints of social and cultural norms, for  a site of potential and experimentation, for a more primal form of existence to  be a body without organs

Alice Munro died on the 13 th  of May.  Though I had heard about her, never got myself to read her stories. But the press coverage and obituaries made me realise what an accomplished writer she was. Alice’s last book ‘Dear Life’ a collection of 4 longish short stories. The last story in this collection is, ‘Dear Life’. It is the first story of Munro that I’ve read. As she told The New Yorker, the four stories in “Dear Life” are   “not quite stories … autobiographical in feeling, thought not, sometimes, entirely so in fact.” In fact, the story titled ‘Dear Life’ r an in The New Yorker as a memoir, not a story.