Idyllic Thoughts

At last! I am both happy and sad. We were successful in shifting the man lying outside the city bus stand in Mysore to hospital. I called up the District Rehabilitation Centre and they said due to the recent deaths at the Centre, they have been ordered by the DC that they cannot admit any old person directly. So we called up the Police and they shifted him to K.R. Hospital. The sad part is, whereas normal people who are poor don't get treatment in that hospital, how many days will this man survive?

  My Chief Sub-Editor told me to take a picture of an old man left on the pavement outside Mysore City Bus Stand. No one has bothered to take him to hospital or the District Rehabilitation Centre even after a fortnight. I called up the Rehab Centre who said they are not allowed to take beggars or old men anymore. We are even trying to inform the Police. But is he invisible to the authorities? Here is a picture of the ailing man who may die due to vagaries of nature and neglect. Hope somebody does something soon.

Writing is a passion for me. The urge to write comes so strongly like a wave that it never lets me rest. But most of what I manage to write are never seen by anybody because I write on pieces of paper I find in my bag, on the back of a visiting card or a bus ticket, on a small notebook I keep in bag which is torn in every possible way a notebook can, with a sheet lost every time I open it, in my mobile notebook and in a diary. Even the diary has become a journal of not just personal feelings but also a collection of thoughts. Most of my thoughts get lost because before I manage to get my hands on a piece of paper. And I write in bus, auto, walking along the road trying not to bump into some one else or an oncoming vehicle. It really is a torment writing on the road. I wish the roads would have more people than vehicles. Once I even managed to bump into an electric pole in a bid to quickly note down what I was thinking in my mobile; and on another occasion, I was so engrossed, that I d