There are times when the space immediately around you becomes so thin, transparent that you don’t even know it exists apart from you. When you look up at the sky and stare instead at your own past, like looking into the magic ball. This quality of space around me right now fills me with a strange kind of sorrow, my head becomes numb from all the memories yearning to come out, yet I’m unaware of their individual presence. The smoky misty form never appears, day and night I go to sleep like a phantom living out of time, in an sequence which no longer makes any impression on my mind. Pages after pages are read yet what strikes me are the images not the story, as if our true memories of people and places are just stamp marks – blue green red, unchanging and sporadic, while the day to day details are the black backgrounds, now lost forever. I can string together little stories and bigger stories out of little ones, weaving a narrative of my childhood, yet there would be no voice guiding it, no one whispering in my ear, telling me about the course my life would take.
Nehaan in Persian means ‘secret’ or ‘hidden.’ In Japanese, the same word means ‘nirvana.’ In these pages, I will make an attempt to explore, and if possible, partly or fully reveal what lies hidden from our view in our day-to-day lives. The path will be characterised by a certain lack of method which I think is characteristic of human intuition. I write and shall continue to write only when inspired to do so. This also means I might occasionally make forays into varied fields such as science, music, philosophy, language, linguistics and poetry, to name a few. I hope this would not put off new readers and tire the old ones! But who am I to complain–even the lovers of fine wine feel repulsed by the first drop and still, quite strangely, dizzy by the last.
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