I see this tree outside my flat with magnificent yellow flowers. The flowers fertilise. The pods arrive. They hang precariously and at times, the wind knocks it down. The tree with its many hundred pods is unable to bear the heaviness. Is the tree like a mother ?

The pods get swept away every morning by an old man with a long broom and a cigarette in his mouth. The wind blows again. The pods fall. The tree lives. It is lonely, surrounded by concrete. There is a church in the front on the walls of which a hater has spray painted: if you love in God, burn a church. I wonder, where this hatred arises ? Does hatred have a root ? Is it due to unaccomplished thoughts ?

There is a music bar facing the tree. Every day the tree witnesses the smoke from the visitors and receives its share of bottles and kicks. The bikers at Barao Geraldo are a noisy lot and they love to rev the accelerator, to flaunt their horsepower and the tree silently absorbs. Just like it absorbs the various molecules that has been emitted by the person who smokes a joint under its wide branches.

Is the tree doing its job, I ask. It is a question worth asking ? What is my job I wonder at times ? I live so far from my loved ones. Know not the word love, but I use it for want of a better word.

I meet some Indians who say that they are happy that they do not have to read. I feel sorry for them. What is life when we cannot see the various form of beauty it holds in its belly ? Literature, classical music, star gazing and spending time with people without seeking anything in return. To live life is a job, feel at times, I.

I met someone who said India is the best country and all the foreigners are idiots. The same person, visits temples of various religions. I thought he would be open but his views seem very limited.

I wonder if people can ever belong to the world and not to any nations. Seeing the migrant crisis in Europe is heartrending.  Mr. Cameron and Ms. May say that England is only for the best people. France turns its back on the asylum seekers in Calais. How can France, the country which gave art and literature, close its doors towards others. The situation is very difficult in Hungary or in Germany.

I hear about the law of conversation of mass and energy. Both mass and energy are limited. Does that mean my thoughts are limited too ? Any thoughts that spring me, is from the same ocean of thoughts, as thinking is a material process, is it not ?

Why did we become individualistic? Who planted this notion in us ? What made the hydrogen atoms in big bang to come together ? Why do we attribute everything to a random process ? Does anything have a mind of its own ? Am I day dreaming ?

The drama of life unfolds every moment in Campinas. I see the separation between the have and have-nots. The havers protect what they have by building big fences around them. The havenots work tirelessly so that they can climb the ladder of social strata. Is life only doing a job and becoming successful ?