Abhijit Naskar's Blog - Posts Tagged "abhijit-naskar"

Naskar is made by Naskar alone, not an industry or benefactor – or more importantly, by family wealth. I had a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back – that was more than enough.

I started writing with literally zero dollar in my pocket. Let me tell you how it began, because for some reason, I completely forgot a crucial event of my life when I wrote my memoir Love, God & Neurons.

I once met an American tourist at a local train in Calcutta. The first thing he asked me was, had I lived in the States? I said, no. Then how come you have an American accent – he asked. Watching movies – I said. We got chatting and he told me about a book he had recently published, a memoir. I believe, this was the cosmic event that planted the thought of writing my own books in my head – I had already started my self-education in Neurology and Psychology, and I was all determined to publish research papers on my ideas, but not books. Meeting the person somehow subconsciously shifted my focus from research papers to books.

So the journey began. And for the first few years, I made no real money from my books. Occasionally some of my books would climb the bestsellers list on amazon, like my very first book did, and that would keep the bills paid for several months. Then the invitations for talks started coming, but they too were not paid in the beginning. The organizers made all the travel arrangements, and I gave the talks for free. It’s ironic and super confusing really – I remember flying business class, but I didn’t have enough money to even afford a one way flight ticket, because I had already used up my royalties on other expenses.

Today I can pick and choose which speaking invitations to accept, but back then I didn’t have that luxury – I was grateful for any speaking gig and interview request I received, paid or not. One time, I gave an interview to this moderately popular journalist for her personal youtube channel, only to find out, she never released the video publicly – she posted an interview with a dog owner instead – whose dog videos had gained quite a following on social media. You could say, this was the first time I realized first hand, what white privilege was.

Anyway, the point is this.

Did I doubt myself? Often. Did I consider quitting? Occasionally. But did I actually quit? Never. And because I didn’t quit, the world received a vast never-before seen multicultural humanitarian legacy, that you know me for today.

There is no such thing as overnight success. If you have a dream, you gotta work at it day in, day out – night after night – spoiling sleep, ruining rest, forgetting fun. Persist, persist, and persist, that’s the only secret – there is no other. Remember this – the size of your pocket does not determine your destiny, the size of your dedication does.

Naskar is an alter ego,
Naskar is a calling,
a madness bigger than sanity,
not chained to one being.

Even Abi is no match for Naskar,
Abi will perish, not Naskar.
Naskar is a chemical catastrophe,
priming humans as kind thunder.

Naskar is factory of humanitarians,
imbued with wonders against malice.
Muscle up your heart, heart up your brain,
uncontaminated by leanings of prejudice.

Nascar is a race, Naskar is a journey,
voyage of sapiens ushering in humanity.
Surpassing constraints of archaic bigotry,
Naskar is Manifest Humanity.

When I finished my first 1000 sonnets,
I felt, now I shall take it slow.
But now at the finishing of second 1000,
I feel, I gotta write thousands more!

The first thousand took me four years,
the second thousand took me two years,
all without an ounce of industry support,
I am the sole maker of my literary empire.

Sonnets are my vessel of reason,
Sonnets are my bearer of justice.
Sonnets are my medium of divinity,
I’m my sonnets – antidote to malice.

Proof of poetry is in the spirit,
Proof of justice is among the just.
Worlds to unite before I sleep,
Proof of life is in standing guard.

I am the Naskar,
and I bridge people.

Unlike religious salesmen,
I don't offer you a promised land -
because there is nothing to promise,
that land of love and life already exists -

it exists in your neurons - all you need to do is,
bring down the walls that keep you foreign,
all you need to do is, denounce the pills
that keep you alien in your own home.

And when I've drawn all my mortal breaths,
I'll take leave with one final declaration -
let there be gods - not one, not three,
but billions upon billions -

let each human be a god unto themselves -
without fear, without prejudice -
without superstition, without cynicism -
let each mind rise triumphant over malice.

The world often wonders about my influences,
in doing so it often cooks up fake inspiration.
So I write this little sonnet memoir, so you’re
aware of the crucial names in my ascension.

There is no Naskar the neuroscientist,
without, firstly Persinger, then Ramachandran;
there is no Naskar the poet, without Mevlana.
And among all your historic philosophers,
only appealed to me Tolstoy and Aquinas.

Then there are Ramanujan and Tesla,
with whom I’ve identified deeply.
And finally, to speak of my origin,
there is no Naskar the mission,
without Gadadhar Chatterjee.

These are my most cherished beings,
names that are never out of my mind.
None of them were flawless, none my god,
but they live rent free as part of my light.

Put your conspiracy theories aside, I’ll tell you why.

Pain Fuels My Pen (Sonnet)

When I started writing, I had a partner,
I had plans to settle in Sofia with her.
But then I lost my link to the Balkans, when
she grew weary and took the hand of another.

I couldn’t write a single word for days,
but then, I let the god complex unleashed.
That’s about when my writing skyrocketed,
as the heartbreak jolted my brain
into a hyper-publishing engine.

I had all the time in the world,
and enough pain to fuel my pen.
Every time I got my heart broken,
it benefitted my mission.

First time someone broke my heart,
I dropped out of engineering
and emerged as the Monk Scientist.
Second time when I lost my love,
Planet Earth received the Poet Apocalypse.

“I have no image that can be smeared, for I long lit the self to cinders.”

“There are many fake memes
floating about the internet,
one of them misquotes me saying –
‘spare the toilet, spoil the floor.’

I turn junk into jewel,
I reclaim the fakes as fuel.
Spare the toilet, spoil the floor.
Spare the fascist, spoil the world.”

The day children are raised
without religion and nationality,
that’s the beginning of peacemaking,
and the empirical end to warmongery.

Either raise your children with
no religion or multiple religions,
either raise your children with
no culture or multiple cultures.

I grew up celebrating Diwali,
eating fruitcake on the 25th,
and waking up to the call of Azaan –
if I’m devout anything, it’s a devout human.

I have no roots, for I am the roots;
I am the ruin of all heritage of lies.
Illegal Immigrant in every state,
for I come from a Time beyond tribes.

The pen is my paradise,
the pen is my grave.
Everybody has all the answers,
I seem to have only questions.

Good thing, I don’t know how to write,
methods are obstacle to my madness.
I’m vast enough to contain the world,
asylum pills don’t work on pilgrim brains.

My pen never runs out of ink, because
the pen is an extension of my anatomy.
Madness is the first sign of sanity,
oneness is the seed of infinity.

Stereotypes are sanity of the jungle,
prejudice is sacred in the animal kingdom.
Flags are the poison, cosmos is (my) kin –
I am no stereotype, I am the Prototype Human.

My brain is multilingual,
my heart is multicultural,
my life is multidimensional,
I exist for I dissolve in all.

You barely speak one language,
ramble doctrines from one dead book,
can’t see beyond the customs of your tribe,
yet you say, your truth is the cosmic truth!

Fanaticism is compensation for insecurity,
supremacy is compensation for inferiority.
Over a hundred books, thousands of sonnets,
half a thousand limericks, half a thousand
free verse poems, yet I still say, I’m incomplete.