“`Today, a reminiscence of my childhood loves to dance and assert its existence in the breaths of joy, while making life ecstatic. When like the morning freshness our existence awakes in the newness of freshness, the voice of holy recitation from the Gurdwara tinges me in the hue of the state of wanton infatuation and fills my breaths with a convulsive craving. Then to proceed to the gurdwara at daybreak fills my bones with the twitter of voicelessness, which throws me into a fog of gloom with a screech of my teeth and a frown of reflection on my countenance. This fog is such that I can neither make out the cause of my sadness nor learn the secret of the shriek of voicelessness. Only a heart-ravishing sight of a picture remains with me. Neat and clean clothes, grey hair and a walking staff in hand with spectacles on, a tipsy gait, serenity on the face, and wrinkles containing the secrets of life in a prominent form—my being has ever craved for and mentally revelled in this portrayal of old age. It had two reasons:
First, every face became my weakness. I remember whenever some friend or relative visited our house I followed them eagerly. Even today, that sight emerges in my consciousness and is vividly present before my eyes. Everyone seemed beautiful and I craved contact with him or her.
I always felt a flood of feelings and passions flowing within which longed to receive everyone within their fold. I wished to be loved by them. First, everyone called me ‘youngster’ and ‘crazy’. Then in my youth, such flows of feelings earned me the title of ‘sex-ravenous.’
My age remained indicative of the slavery of my feelings and sentiments. I would say to myself, “I wish I was old?”
The root of my feelings was not body but love, not selfishness but identity.