Explorer

The Gypsy visits places
where none ever
explored. But once he
leaves his remains,
a civilization takes shape
built on his joys and sorrows.
Thus, the Gypsy is
never seen in his home
unless someone excavates
to find his roots.

Death wish...

Sometimes, while going
on a trip, even before I
started my journey,
I felt that I had
already come back,
although,
I hadn't yet moved an inch
from where I was.
On some other occasion,
after moving through
several cities and their parks,
dark lanes and their
buildings, streets and
railway stations and
countrysides that
they once had; the small
shops and villages and the
forests around them,
when I arrived back home,
I felt that I had never
seen and heard anything, except
the four walls of my
room and their quiet
whispers to me.

Likewise, when you are
within me, living in my
breath and sighs,
I often feel you are not
there and were never
there.
But as soon as you
storm out of my life
leaving me gasping
for life, I embrace a minor
death, temporarily shunning
you out of mind, for surviving
the wrath of your love.

Thus,
living without you is
never an issue,
but dying every moment
with you, is.

Lovers & stones

Lovers are made in
heavens.
I made them in my poems,
sometimes in rhymes and
rhythms, and sometimes
as illogically as stones
stand in the way of the river
and break its
flow, and yet create
the sweetest musical notes
of the wilds.
Such is the state of the
soul in love that
unless tormented and
battered and bruised,
the joy of the
orgy of love is never complete,
as life flows like the river,
in love with the stones
in the mountains, or
without them in the quiet
planes, where it surrenders
to the ocean,
just as the lovers do
to each other, every time
love knocks at their doors.

Womb

Those days, dreams were
made of fear of
losing you.

But now, ingrained as you
are in me,
I find new space everyday
as you keep growing
in me,
larger than my own life.

New Post in 'Ordinary Life'

New blog in 'Ordinary Life'

'The One Rupee Scam'
http://jessdharordinarylife.blogspot.in/2012/10/the-one-rupee-scam.html

New Post in 'Ordinary Life'

Colors of Gujarat

http://jessdharordinarylife.blogspot.in/2012/09/colors-of-gujarat.html

The One

There, ahead of me,
the road divides in two.
But here inside me,
I only have one heart.
Behind me, lays a mindless
journey. And ahead,
an unknown world of which
I am mindful.
In this twilight of time,
I wish I were several,
but I, like all of us,
am just one.

Surviving death

There were moments several times

in the past, when I felt I had done all

and there was nothing more left to do.

Such moments brought thoughts of

death and sadness of being left alone.

I however never died, nor did I have to

ask for any dole to keep me alive, as

every time I was about

to breathe my last,  I waited for you

and kept waiting, till I gave up dying

and decided to live for a while longer.

This way, death kept me alive.

New post in 'Ordinary Life'

http://jessdharordinarylife.blogspot.in/2012/07/closure.html

Love in mortuary

Last night when my
Father in law died, I
as a mute spectator
watched how doctors and
nurses struggled to bring
him back to life, as his
heart gave up slowly.
Several injections, a
Heart Lung machine and
continuously pumping his
chest could not bring him
back to life, and he finally
passed away, leaving his
body in the dark cold room
at the back yard
of the hospital, tagged
as 'Patient Mumber 113'.

As he was dying, by mail,
I read a poem from a friend
who wrote about how she
appreciated her new awakening
and how she had realized
that every moment
of her living belonged
just to her own self,
and her own world.

On one hand, a dying man
gasping for his last breath,
trying to snatch a few
more moments to live,
and on the other,
an inspired lady, happily
expressing her gratitude
for every moment that
she was abandantly enjoying
in her own way.

These two events, both
depicting life as an intense
wish to live,made me think of
our love, where each one of us has
been the lone warrior,
fighting a battle of
yours, or, mine,
thus condemning all
our heart beats inside the
deep chambers of
a dark mortuary.

Standing in the corridors
of life, last evening, I told
myself that death and life
were two similar human
endeavors, equally intense,
to remain alive
just like love was.
Everything else was just
blatant lies, told by you,
and by me.

Rain filled love

You and I, once upon
a time, lived on the two
sides of a rain
flooded valley and
I often swam across to your shore.
This way, unaware
we fell in love and when
the rain stopped, the
valley dried, leaving me
in a mud filled graveyard.
Trying to swim across
now in this mud is futile,
unless rain comes again,
or you,
walk across and exhume
my remains to see
what is left.

Deadly promise

It rained that day,
when you said you loved me.
And it rained the other
day too, when you said you didn't.
Not any more.
In between, when we were in love,
we fought the drought with
wild flowers, a few sprinkles of joy
and promises of a
tomorrow, which came and
took away everything from us.

New Blog

Dear Readers,
I have been taking a load of photos for past so many years. I found no better way to start my new blog 'Ordinary life', with some of them. But my new blog, 'Ordinary Life', will not be a photo blog alone. It will have many simple stories of life, for 'living' life, rather than 'surviving' it.... Here is the first one:

http://jessdharordinarylife.blogspot.in/

Redefining a journey

Happiness and hurt,
I always deserved them myself,
and accepted either of which
like the last trace of carbohydrate
in a thrown away piece of bread,
thankfully eaten by the orphaned dog.

Thats why when you went
away after putting up with
me for longer than necessary,
I walked out in the rain bare footed,
feeling the warmth of the asphalt
slowly melting under me,
washing away the pain
without remorse, and to
say 'Thank you God,
for bringing me till here', because
however short lived, the joy
by far outlived the hurt.

Departing!

The day when I changed my home and said
Good bye to Manobendro, my cat, for one
last time, several nights thereafter, I could not
sleep and probably cried, feeling extremely
distressed and empty, by not hearing him
purr, or, peep at me from the corner of the
table, as I ate my food. In desperation to fill in
the void created by Mano's absence from my
life, I also considered to reverse the course of
my life and go back to all that I had left behind.
Later, on many days and nights, memories
of Mano's eyes tormented me, as I remembered
how he had tried to sniff around and probe
through my bags and baggage and other neatly
packed boxes, to find out where I was going, or,
if he would also be accompanying me on a journey
yet unknown to him. If Mano would have been
a human, he would have never believed me,
if I were to tell him that it was only I who
was going, leaving him behind forever, in an
abandoned and empty home, which he once
made lively with his daily dose of strange 
tantrums.
But a mute animal that he was, he had only
looked at me helplessly, and brushed his face
on my feet. And that was the last time I saw
him. And never again.

Feelings, they say, are changeable
with time as healing takes place along with it.
But buried deep within us, there are some,
which neither get healed, nor do they ever
go away, leaving a vaccination mark on our heart,
always telling us that its still alive,
and yet not there. Just not there.

The Baobab on the river Mara

It was much before I found you out by the sniff of 
your hair. During those days, I had many things to do, 
as I had time to while away doing ordinary things
that everyone did in life. Except, unlike others, I 
also moved on the street and followed the blood spoor
left by your act of living and loving. Those days,
as you were planting your roots and creating shades 
for your summer days, I was crossing the river Mara with 
the Wildebeests, migrating from Serengeti to Masai
Mara, in search of water and a temporary shelter. 
It was by natural coincidence that I did not get devoured
by the ghastly crocodiles who waited hungrily in the
flowing deaths of Mara, and in the other hemisphere, 
you evaded insanity to remain sane in a world of mad rush.
In the years that followed, I survived several deaths
and you, in pursuit of life, grew into a strong
Baobab, far away from where it belonged, on the 
banks of the river Mara where I lived. 


All migrations thus, through the history of time,
have fall outs in the form of victims of survival.
While some grow into a large shade over the
others, some others, find it essential to cross the
Mara a number of times, as dodging deaths in every
foot step becomes an addiction of life for them,
as they keep looking for that nonexistent Baobab,
either here, or in the land of the Masai, among
a few millions of Wildebeests.

The orgy at Narmada

Every time I go to
Chanod, where Narmada
flows in a sequential
orgy with the earth,
I remember my father
who lays underneath.
Going near its strong blue
tyranny of water,
I look at its
fluidic arms and legs
and wonder how exactly
I would look like
laying next to
my dad, whom I had
poured there as a bundle
of bones and ashes
some few years ago.
But now, looking around,
I only see moss, fish
and a few green pebbles,
all rolling, swaying and
dancing in an unknown
form of joy, celebrating
the unison of identities.
This then, brings me to
the matter of love,
which, if not today
but tomorrow,
will surely lay under
the flowing river of
Narmada, much far away
from you, where you
won't be even able to
come and look for my
bones and a few grains of
undetectable grains of ash,
mixed with all other souls that
lay there either in peace,
or in pieces,
depending on trying
to get close to you and
the secret of your glass house,
which forever remained
guarded by your own.
This again, prompts me to
say, whether under the
river or above it,
as Long as I am soaked in
your love, I will still be
the one,  sunk in a life long
orgy at the Narmada,
far away from you, and
always without you.

The other ways

Absence of all kinds
and all forms, are encounters
too. Molten bodies, one on
the other, are proofs of lives
that existed.
Silence too, likewise,
is a lung full of words
spoken to you.

Gratitude for an ordinary life

I am thankful that this life
has been ordinary and plain, not
that it has finished yet.
But I just thought that if
I do not express my gratitude
for having been granted
so many ordinary things
that made my life so special, then
it could be too late and
the arrogance of not doing so
will rob me of all those small
joys of life, all that I have.
The childhood was not full of
sufferings and hunger and
nothing dramatic ever happened
to write about, nor any one
noticed that I was growing up.
Much later, when I arrived,
I passed through the small lanes
and safe passages towards
becoming what all of them
called a very well settled pattern
of wife, children and a home.
In this journey, I never had to
struggle, nor did I do anything
extraordinary to claim
to have won, even a very
insignificant cricket match.
Such plain has been my life that
when love came and knocked
at my doors, I thought it was
the fury of the Westerlies
and not the 'Lara's theme' in
the wind, telling me again
and again "Till then, my sweet,
think of me now and then
Godspeed, my love, 
till you are mine again!".
I do not know if anything ever
happened to me, or if I made
anything to happen, but standing
today where I am and as I do,
I am grateful and humbled and
express my gratitude
to you too.

Weeds of love

Dreams,
I never had many.
And the few that I had, got
scattered at the feet of the
fence on which we sat.
When they grew taller,
they spread their tentacles
and embraced us to survive,
just as the parasites would do
in the name of love.
Soon, as the years went by,
the world was covered by
weeds, and no one remembered
that under those dark green
layers, there used to be a sunrise,
which played hide and seek
with the full moon night.

Disaster

Like poison,
love at times also spells
disaster and calamity,
taking away all in its way
just like a river eroding
into its banks, breaking homes and
flooding millions of lives
with its Almighty touch.
Love thus,
is for the ones who can
swim across the strong flowing
muddy water, full of one's
own household goods,
beds, pots and pan, and
one's very favorite clothes
soaked in memories.

All in one

There are days when
I do not have you with me
and looking around
when I see men, women, children,
I feel
how beautifully others
are living in love.
There are days, when I dont
have friends around me
and looking around, when I
find myself surrounded by
scores of unknown people,
I feel
there are so many friends
whom I have not yet met.
There are days when I dont
speak for hours, and closing my
eyes then, I feel
how deep our mind is
as I drown into it,
finding friends, love and
my own self in it.

A rainbow and the rain

The other day, as I
started to paint your face,
my brush strokes made
a rainbow, unaware that it
was a rainy day and
my dreams on the canvas
might wash away and flow
into small streams of joy.

And it rained.

As I watched melted colours
dance on the water,
I waited, as I always did,
for the sun to come up
which it did, and
by the course of
natural reasons, vapourised
the rainbow water into
millions of floating clouds.
This, so happened,
So that I could  paint your
many faces in the sky,
just so, if it rains again,
I will be showered with
in your colours.

Ballerina

I can feel it,
when you light
up with your eyes
these offerings of mine,
I can very well, too, feel
you breathe, and also
the clouds in your heart
which sums up and drops
as rain.
It doesn't matter any more
if I cannot be here when
you come, touch and caress
these pages,
as unlike you,
I have not loved you incognito,
but have been loud enough
in these pages of love,
so that you can come and
kiss me quietly, and then leave
like a ballerina on her toes.

Guru

The room was dark. There was a lovely fragrance moving about the room. And there was smoke from a pipe. Behind the pipe, and behind a huge desk, sat a very strange phenomenon. Korah Mathen. That was his name. It was January 1982. The Indian city of Ahmedabad was still having its winter bites.

I was asked to sit and as the man stood up to check some files, I noticed that he was wearing a pair of blue jeans. I could't see whether he had a shirt or a T-shirt, as the upper part of his body was wrapped with a huge shawl, or, what in India is known as a chaddar, a kind of a wrap around for the upper part of the body. The color of the chaddar was undefinable, sort of dark brown, and yet not brown, made of  a very rough fabric of coarse material, but warm and comfortable. It was supposed to be the first interview of my life. Actually it was, and incidentally, it was also my last interview. Korah Mathen was connected to the Marketing Department of this huge cloth manufacturing company in Ahmedabad, India and he was also the Chief Executive of an arm of the company which handled rural development projects in the state of Gujarat. 

I couldn't see his eyes, as he wore tinted glasses. I saw his slightly uneven teeth, because he was biting his pipe, which constantly blew smoke towards the ceiling. He was a good listener. He allowed me to speak whatever I wanted to speak about myself. And then finally when I stopped, or he could manage to stop me, he started with disagreeing to everything that I said. I was quite amazed. What was I doing there? Was I called for an interview, or, for a debate. I was there inside that room for about an hour, and all the while we were disagreeing and arguing. 

Since during the first five minutes of our arguments, I gave up any hope of getting the job, I sat back and enjoyed the debate. Korah Mathen was deeply involved in making me understand his way of thoughts. And I was equally eager not to try to understand what he was saying. 

Finally a time came when both of us were tired; he was tired because of failing to make me see the light and I, was tired as I could not see those lights because of my young age. I got up from the chair and thanked him for the wonderful discussion and said goodbye to him. He stood up, looked at me, shook my hand and said very coldly "Come and join from tomorrow. You are hired".

That was the beginning. Next eight years he worked on me, against wishes of all others, who wanted to see me out of the company. He was my first Guru of management and there has been none after that. I can say today, that all that I learnt in school and college would have gone to waste, had I not met this man Kora Mathen. A very strange man, ferocious in his beliefs but dynamic in delegation. He helped shape my future, putting high end ambitions in my head and encouraging me to do and explore what I loved doing and exploring. I just did that with increasing hunger for knowledge.

That was a very long time ago. But I met him yesterday. After many years. Korah Mathen, his wife Sujah, and their daughter Nidhi. Their son Dibith is in Dubai. Sujah treated me with those very well known brownies that she used to make so well. Korah is retired now, but looked the same eager faced traveler. 

This page is not for writing a story about Korah Mathen. But this is just to express my gratitude for a person, who, I feel, played a very vital role in shaping my future. Korah had put that burning desire in me in a time when I was still inside a mould, unsure of the final form.

So, if you are reading this Mr. Mathen, please know that I am dedicating this page to you for what you have done for me, and for being my best Guru. Thank you.

Pollen

Standing on a veranda
Facing the new sun
Coming up slowly, I
Basked in its orange glow
That washed my toxins.
Toxins that I gathered
During the long travel
In the dark side of the
Night, needlessly
Intensified by moon, while
Walking in unknown
Territories of life.
In this, the potholes bled
My feet, as
Your hands gave me
The healing touches to
Soothe mind and body
Et al. Now as the morning
Came up, it brought me
The ruthless truth of
This journey, where all
But you flew away like
Pollen infecting the
Mankind, telling me how
Allergy also forms a habit
In us, without which we
Don't feel like
We are living.

Unforeseen surprises

Things are said to be
strange when a herd of wildebeest
turns around and faces the cheetah
which sits down sheepishly,
surprised at the unexpected turn of events.
Stranger were the times when it
rained through the moonlit nights
and I rushed home to find myself
in front of a locked door
holding an unknown key,
exchanged mistakenly with
someone else, who must be
equally stranded too.
Thus, stuck in such strange
situations, all that I can
think of doing now, is to wait
till such time when my key will
arrive by mail, in a pink
envelope, posted from an unknown
place. This will also give
me reasons to find you once
again since I still hold the keys
meant for you.
Unforeseen to us, providence has in
store for us surprises, which turn
up at odd hours, guiding us
to open all our locked doors.

Void

Like an aircraft trapped
in an air pocket,
I shudder now.
Two hands spread out
like an eagle looking for the
usual support in a never
ending space,
I freely fall to the pit
of my mind, now full of
breathlessness, as you walk
away from me slowly
to fill up voids that you
created some years ago,
in some other place, not aware
that when Goddesses move from
place to place, they always
leave their mark in forms of
catastrophe, either here,
or there.

To my readers

Dear Readers,
Thanks for you so many mails and the accolades. I am moved. I am working on two books right now

Ordinary Life

And 

 My mother's story

Both will soon be out as Kindle books on amazon.com. Thanks for your interest and so many questions about 'My mother's story'. I would have told you more about this book. But for now, I will only tell you that this is written by my mother in Bengali , a language spoken in the Eastern India, and is based on her journey of life, starting from her childhood, through the partition of the undivided India and slowly settling down in a new place, which would be her home. I have merely translated her works and I am hoping that I have been able to do justice to her feelings!

Both these books are in the making and will take another two months to hit the web. But I am very overwhelmed by your mails, asking about these books. Thanks. This is the greatest joy a writer can get.

Mythical love

What's my entity with
you?
Unrecognised, unsung
like a halo around you,
declared as an unknown myth?
I am not a God that I would
remain a myth forever,
which, too, I never wanted to be.
I wanted to walk my real
physical body along with yours,
I wanted to pick up those dry
leaves and twigs from the garden, as
you'd bring some tea in a lovely
summer afternoon, full of sunshine
and allergens that keep you slightly
swollen faced than you are,
I wanted to greet all your
friends, as we enter together, hand in
hand celebrating their anniversaries
birthdays, or, simply, their wealth.
But I remained a myth, as you never gave
me a shape, or a name, or even a name
to my entity, keeping me far away from your
mystical world of people, who were
everything and anything, but
never a faceless myth like me.

Reflections

Such was a time when
I had much to say as you asked
me day and night about my
several little endeavours
and many sojourns in the
countrysides.
Those days I woke up in
the middle of the night to tell
you about all such events
and many more, to which
you used to lend a kind
ear, if not mind, and loved
the way I expressed my ecstasy,
just as a little boy would do
to his mother.
I am still awake,
Its still in the middle of the night,
I still have many more things
to say, but in a different way,
as the little boy has now grown up
by watching the birds pecking
with their beaks, on the rear
view mirrors of the parked vehicles
and eventually flying away, realising
at last that they were playing with
their own reflections. 

My own mind

My letter to you
has come back today.
Unopened, untouched
and undaunted in spite of
several changes of hands.
As I looked at the envelope
and on it, the many seals of
those post offices that it
had crossed,
I wondered, if anyone ever
had the wish to open it
and see what was inside!
But years of tracking this letter
to reach its destination, as also
in case of a lost addressee,
to guide it safely back to my own
hands once again
and finding it sealed exactly as
when it had left me,
told me that our minds
were like sealed envelopes,
only to be opened to our
own selves, else, once
opened to others, there were
always chances of
dissipation, resultant to
falling in love.

Faith

I always had the faith that
you were there,
but not seen.
You always had the faith
I was not there
and never tangible.
And that's how I reached
you in spite of distance
and time.
But you never found me
in spite of the closeness.

Continuity

These pages, for many years now,
have been my corner to come and
rest and to go deep inside my own
self to see, if everything was alive.
These pages have given me refuge
and I have slept well within its folds,
breathing peacefully in love.
But now, as I come here, I find the
ink on these pages blurred, and its
extended arms withdrawn. That's
how, probably, everything has its
time, everything has its own span,
just so that, after the short journey
that we all have in life, we can go
back to where we all came from,
to the place from where we started
our journey, so that this cycle of life
keeps going.

Beheaded

As the sun came up,it
brought with it, the usual
new day and new promises
with a bunch of fresh flowers
and palm laden fresh breeze.
I looked at the far end of
the road and saw you coming,
taking two steps at a time.
Before I could bat my eye
lids once again, you were
upon me, with a silk handkerchief
and a smile that matched
the morning shine of the moment.
Next time, when I tried to
look at you again, my eyes rolled
in amazement, as too, my head,
which lay there on the ground,
blindfolded, beheaded,
with dried lips in a death
that was painfully true
of what happens at the end.

The last card

Traders nowadays,
have established few very
strange ways to sell emotions.
They have designed
cards for various mental
conditions, those for beginning of
love, and also those,
for the end of it.
They have broken down
events into moments and
defined every moment with a card,
thus increasing sales of
each breath, spent in
waiting.
Thus, we race
to define every beginning and
every end, marking it with
aplomb and a smile.
And now and then,

to score a point,

we look for a new beginning
and mark it with a new card,

after carelessly posting the

last card to our last love.

Next summer

This winter,
I have decided to be
at the helm of affairs
in terms of conducting
life as it should be,
just as my parents told
me to, and just as did the
teachers, way back
in my school days.
Before this winter comes,
I will ask the maid to
hang  the blankets in the
sun to take out any
smell that some unwanted
creature might have left, and
I will also take out my
warm clothes in time,
so as to beat the winter
bite, which at times, if
one is not protected,
sets deep within, making
breathing a freezing
experience.
This winter, I will do
all these, and much more
just so, I survive
this periodic onslaught of
winter, and wait for you
to light up my summer,
soon, very soon.

Anonymous love

I know somewhere there
you exist. If not in flesh
and blood,
but in pixels
of love,
touch,
sense
and silent orgasm.
I know somewhere there
you died, bereft of love
that you felt 

But that was not there.
I know somewhere there
one day, I will find you
across the Savannah, where
you conceived our first child,
only to leave it in the
wilderness of life,
just so,
you remain glorified,
crisp,
and anonymous.

Potent

We are very potent,
however, not for all.
But, every time I touch
you,
you spread with the
ferocity of a  scorpion
stinging death in
every move.
Such potent love
is bound to find the
end, much before
our blood turns into
poison,
putting love to
its eternal sleep.

Aura

As I quenched my thirst,
I looked up with
mouth full of nectar.
You kissed and said
that my fiery hunger
smelled of, not me,
but your own self.
And I thought
did it really matter
in this survival zone,
if we smelled like
each other, or not,
when death came
slowly, dancing on
our cyclic spasms?

My new book "Ordinary life"

Coming soon as Kindle Book on www.amazon.com......

Ordinary life

Preface

This started with the story of a boy, trying to tell the truth. Long back, I read about a teacher who asked the students to write about what they would like to do when they grew up. One of the students wrote that he would like to eat all the rice with yoghurt. At that age, this was his favorite food. So all that he wanted to do was eating rice with yoghurt.

The student was beaten up badly by the teacher. During those days, students never protested against beating by a teacher. So the student fell on the floor, rolled from one side of the room to the other side and finally grabbed the teacher’s feet and begged for mercy. The teacher stopped beating and screamed “Are you pulling a fast one on me? What do you mean by ‘eating rice with yoghurt?’ You rascal! Go through the answers given by the other students. They are all your class mates. Look what they have written. Some said they wanted to be barrister, some said they would be school teachers, some others talked about becoming Doctors, Lawyers, Engineers. Many others have even said that they wanted to serve this nation and donate all their money to the charity. And you???!!!. You want to eat rice with yoghurt? That’s all you want to do when you grow up? What an idiot! What a shame!’

This story of a boy, getting beaten up by the teacher for telling the truth about what he wanted to do, was written by a renowned author from my region (Bengal) in India. His name is Shirshendu Mukhopadhaya. I want to recognize him here, as I find this story like an open heart surgery. It’s an open and shut case. Everything is very clear and loud. It talks about what others want us to do, and it also talks about what we, ourselves want to do. It talks about the reality of life. It talks about the truth of life. It talks about the extraordinary things that happen with our ordinary lives. This is the story of an ordinary life....

Coming soon as Kindle Book on www.amazon.com

Check out my last book 'Wait' at

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007KHT3BS

Lost in paradise

Waiting for sleep,
I keep awake.
Long hours of open
eyes bring hunger
of a kind that I left
in the Savannas
sometime back.
The hungry cheetah
moves in town among
poachers with fangs,
as its nails slip on
the polished concrete
road, leading to an
unknown watering hole.

Indelible

Dust laden streets
cannot hide you,
and you remain as
an etched face on
its thin layer, dry
and constantly changing
in the summer breeze.
Rain cannot wash you
too, as you dance on
the rippled portrait painted
on my soaked courtyard.
Spring brings out your
latent aura through
its blooming colors
just as always,
reminding me to breath,
Lest I die
in trying to be alive
without you.

Wait- Selected poems of Jess Dhar

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B007KHT3BS 

For my readers

My dear readers,
The contents of this site has been removed from here, as they are being published at amazon.com as a Kindle Book.

I will post the link for the book here, in the next few days.

Thank you and love you all.

Jess Dhar