It's been a while since I posted something. In the midst of earning a living, struggling to grow in a new city, finding time for my people; somehow time for words took a back seat.
Meanwhile, struggling with severe anxiety issues and a spiralling self esteem, this post could probably be a revival for this sleeping blog. Here's hoping more time for regular posts.
I am here in flesh and bones
With the heart beating faster, breathing heavier.
I am here in full form and you see me “present”
Present… with a storm curling inside my guts.
You wonder why I slowly respond or, maybe, not at all
It’s to stop the guts from vomiting this storm outside
I am here… squashing my sentences short
Focusing on my breath that seems to take my heart’s side,
not wanting to slow down or pump less fear.
I am here with every inch trying to slow down
but the mind has a game of its own… finding spark plugs to keep the rhythm going.
Spark plugs. That’s what it is!
Sparking emotions and reactions that you play tag with, each quarter of a second.
I am here just reacting to the storm inside.
Reacting is all I do to show myself the way out.
Don’t worry, it’s not what my mind’s telling me to do.
It’s my body putting up with the games of spark plugs and doubt.
Don’t worry, I’m still here… maybe looking like the mess a storm leaves behind
Sedition:noun /sɪˈdɪʃn/ [uncountable](formal) The use of words or actions that are intended to encourage people to oppose a government
Source: Oxford English dictionary
The reason why I have started with a definition sourced from the Oxford dictionary is to showcase the symbolism of the source itself. The University of Oxford is believed to be established around the year 1096 and is understood to be one of the oldest surviving universities in the English-speaking world and I have aspired to be a part of it at one point in life. That dream is still not dead. Even when the student left of the institution is alleged to be institutionally antisemitic as per news reports [Source: The guardian]. It is an institution older than the archaic section 124 A (sedition) of the Indian Penal Code which is still mischievously providing ammo to issues that are hollow as an empty barrel; fueling fires that need not be stoked. Apparently, the word “Sedition” does not occur in Section 124-A of the Indian Penal Code or in the Defense of India Rule. It is only found as a marginal note to Section 124-A, and is not an operative part of the section but merely provides the name by which the crime defined in the section will be known. [Source: Dr Ram Manohar Lohiya National Law University, Lucknow]
I am a proud Indian despite all that angers me about this nation. It angers me that after surviving on the same piece of land for 69 years, despite our differing cultural preferences, religious inclinations and ideologies, we can show no respect or tolerance to a thought that does not match ours. Thoughts change. Beliefs change. Change is the fuel that helps evolve a nation instead of intolerance and rising insecurity. Indisputably, open fearless dialogue should steer this change… but so should respect and tolerance. The confidence in thoughts and ideologies is imperative in debate for conviction, provided it doesn’t turn into arrogance. I doubt my nation’s knowledge and awareness on the multitude of cultures, traditions or even religions which have thrived and died in this country (beyond what is officially recognized) and I don’t blame them for that. The officially recognized religions and cultures in India form a rigid knowledge spectrum that limits a citizen’s awareness of anything that exists beyond it. We still have citizens who can’t differentiate between Tamil Nadu and Kerala, leave alone the cultural difference between the two states. The North East is still a mystery, in terms of its myriad cultures and tribes, to a lion's share of the nation. A niggling few might be aware of the struggles of civilians in Pakistan occupied Kashmir, while governments try to distract the nation, neck below. They can still not be blamed for their lack of awareness. However, curiosity is a far better reaction to areas beyond our comprehension, than medieval resistance and rigidity. Witch burning never killed evils, just gave birth to more.
India’s culture is not homogeneously distributed but it is not our Achilles’ heel. We are not weak enough to get incited by mere chants of inanity. Then how is this insecurity getting triggered? My brain sometimes starts spinning conspiracy theories around a greater agenda on the ruling party’s mind to probably deviate us from bigger issues. But when I look at the reckless handling of raging issues, I can only see insecurity and the helplessness at curbing a turmoil. What follows is desperation at proving your side and defending your stand.
Kanhaiya and Rohith are just talk points in the larger picture. They are vehicles for ideas and thoughts that can exist within India and can drive evolution in thought. These cases are not targeted at a particular government, but the society that eventually forms the four pillars of a democracy. These cases are opportunities for society to realize flaws in its thought process, direction and foundation. Kanhaiya and Rohith are citizens of India and were entitled to every right that an Indian citizen is entitled to. When defenders and facilitators of justice resort to blatant physical and vocal violence with an intensity which is garbed in patriotism for defence, it raises some grave questions. A society bound by words and laws defining a feeling shall never learn of it. A country trying to define patriotism shall never experience it. The debate needs to rise higher than religion and casteism. The dialogue should make every citizen of the country question their love for the country and how one defines himself/herself to belong to a country. Do we even want to belong to one country in the age of global citizenship? Because… honestly, it makes me sick; all this injustice in the name of nationalism.
In the end, quoting Charles de Gaulle to capture what could be a better debate in the country at the moment.
“Patriotism is when love of your own people comes first; nationalism, when hate for people other than your own comes first.”
I believe souls don’t understand death the way bodies do. Souls don’t understand pain like bodies do either. Probably a sharp object penetrating the flesh feels like a twitch in the eye to the soul. Pain needs to pierce deeper than the flesh to leave an imprint on the soul. Way deeper into a vortex which is maybe located somewhere behind that rib cage. I don’t think it has anything to do with flesh, or muscle or veins. Not even blood. The soul goes deeper than those… somewhere in between the molecules. I believe the soul is ether and death goes beyond matter for it to feel its presence or lack of it.
I believe the body dies once while the soul dies a million times over and over again in every life. I might be terribly wrong here. Maybe the soul dies a lot more than a million times in each life, but I’m sure it does. It’s definitely not inconsolable because it is etheric and one cannot expect ether to be heavy with sorrow or suffering or any similar dense substitute. It’s waiting for the body to release it back to where it came from till it gets portioned into numerous other bodies. No wonder so much in each of us is similar and yet so much is different. Probably you and I have been caged in a common body before… before we parted and became others. Maybe a part of me is trapped in these words that you are reading while the other one-sixteenth is reading it on her iPhone in some vague location and wondering if she should go get some lunch. We are not so different - you and I.
I want to believe that the ether that I send out into the universe (once this body disintegrates) will carry with it the imprints of all the deaths that this body put it through; and parts of which will become a fragment of another body with a fraction of deaths from someone else. Probably we are all a culmination of deaths and imprints that added more spirit to it all. We are all fractions yet whole. Maybe that’s the reason behind emotions. The countless sentiments, intuitions and the overwhelming sense of fear or happiness are just those chemical reactions when the ether is exposed to a reparation or compensating fraction… wanting to be whole or to balance itself out. I want to believe that the only thing stopping it is the body which effervesces with these reactions because it needs to live and not disintegrate. The body needs the ether and cannot let it go.
The body is just the cage.
(Inspired by Haruki Murakami’s New York Mining Disaster - Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman)
I am Anisha Nair, raised in a middle-class Indian family in a humble locality in Delhi - a city where humility is hard to trace and compassion is somewhere deep inside a Punjabi aunty’s LV purse who’s traveling in the general compartment of the Delhi Metro on Monday at 7.30 PM from Gurgaon. Like any other human, I was born in a world full of promises and offered choices that I could make - every time. I have had the choice of being a victim in a situation or crawl out and take a larger bite of the opportunity. There were times when I bit more than what I could handle. All the choices that I have ever made and will continue to make in the future, all the choices that I don’t make or abandoned in the past, every opportunity that came my way when I was ravenous for experience, constitute a significant part of me. Even though I’ve hardly created anything artistic or significant enough in my life (significant enough to profoundly influence another being or existence), I consider myself an artist and my sole inspiration or force guiding me through every choice or piece of work is my own father.
My father is not my inspiration just because I am a ‘daddy’s girl’. Trust me, he’s not the pampering kind and doesn’t take the least bit of interest in flattering me useless, when I make horrible tea. The man believes that horrible tea should not be consumed, no matter who makes it! He believes that anything that comes for free is bound to be useless, ‘coz it didn’t fight enough to be worthy. He also has a strange belief that people with ‘cat-like’ eyes are not to be trusted blindly. Believe me, there's no point arguing with him on such ideologies. I have tried and given up for good. I remember him refusing to acknowledge me as his daughter for more than a year, when I cut my hair extremely short during a rebellious phase to prove something I can’t even recall anymore. He has never said “good job” or “excellent” or “you made me proud” on any of my achievements… at least not in words. Guess he never wanted me to perform for a reward. He wanted me to perform for something greater than a tangible reward. Some might blame him for tough parenting. But, that man still manages to inspire me.
Dad is not the protective kind, even though I now understand how much he wants to protect me. I remember him chasing the school bus on the mornings I missed it, fighting with the bus driver and embarrassing the marrow out of my bones in front of an entire population present to witness the wrath of a scorned father of a lazy school girl. But I also remember him leaving a 6 year old me at the bus stop all by myself, because I couldn’t stop crying at the thought of going to school. The choice was to climb that bus and drag my sorry ass to school or do as I please, ‘coz he couldn't be bothered by such petty fits. So I dragged my school bag all by myself and walked that road back home… following my father who just walked away in a fury without caring much about what my choice would be. I did go to school that day. My mother took me.
He doesn’t say much… not in words. People rarely see him lose his cool, but there is a thunderous quality in his quiet. I have seen people fear him when they are wrong and he doesn’t need words for that. Let me say this again, people rarely see him lose his cool. He shames people without words. He does that. One might imagine him to be a towering personality who might intimidate people at first sight. He is not. In fact, I’m taller. He’s not a socialite and remains to himself. Cracks a few lame jokes every now and then. The typical dad. But what inspires me is not who he is. My inspiration comes out of how he brought me up.
He relentlessly tried to contribute towards my evolution as a human being. When my classmates discussed the latest Jurassic Park movie that they saw over the weekend, I would tell them how my father took me for movies like the Bandit Queen, which was as heavy for a 10 year old as sand is for water. God knows what’s right parenting and what’s wrong. But the man always exposed me to radical stuff at an age when parents are usually sheltering their kids from “all that is evil”. He threw me into reality and never minced words for my delicate brain to masticate the matter and make it fathomable.
I have never told my father how much I love him (in words) and he has never done that either. But I guess, when I used to stand on the last step of the school-bus and hug him and kiss him goodbye, he knew it. I was told, when I left home to study in a different city, he returned home after seeing me off and just sat in my room for the rest of the day. On his part, I think it goes without saying how much he loves me. With time, I guess it becomes difficult for parents to believe how much their child still loves them and I woke up with this fear today. I doubt if I will ever say it in words, ‘coz dad's not a man who wants those words… not from me. We share a language that goes beyond that and I fear losing grasp of it.
I fear it so much that it wells me up because I owe the ‘Nair-ness’ in my name to him. I do.
She was lying there on her flat
tummy with her head turned away and, maybe, even her eyes closed. Her bare bony
shoulder peeked from in between the sheets while her jet black hair was strewn
carelessly on her back, maybe even hiding her face. The faint morning sun was
fighting with the light-green drapes to get in and expose last night’s
recklessness. He woke up to this scene with a frail recollection of reality and
a reluctance to accept it. A broken smile.
She moved the minute his head made a rustle
against the pillow. Light sleeper. Yes. And turned her head towards him while
the hair still covered her face. Her slender fingers reached out from under the
sheets to give her a clearer picture of him and parted her hair from her face.
She saw the smile. Amused she asked, “What? Was I snoring?”
“Nope! Purring rather”, he
replied as he approached to catch her waist and pulled her closer to himself.
“Hey look!” she said softly, “Don’t get me wrong but, I need to leave now.” She
slowly moved his hand away from her waist and pulled herself up and sat
crouching on the bed like she was praying. The sheet was shrouding her slender
figure and he could notice her breathing deeply. The smile slowly faded and
reality started setting in. She carefully crawled out of the bed to get her
clothes and started dressing up. Not once did she look him in the eye while he
was lying there on the bed staring straight at her. Now on his back with his
arms folded behind his head, he was carefully observing her while she got
dressed. Not even a glance his way. There was no hurry in her demeanour and she
took her time to wear her jeans and t-shirt that she usually slips into like a
Russian magician quick-changes her dresses.
“So, what time’s your flight?” he
asked, to force her to break that uneasy silence. “Hmmm? Oh it’s in the
afternoon” she said, “But I need to get home and make sure that I have
everything packed and ready.” “Do you need help?” he asked. He knew what the
answer was going to be, but he was a sucker for a better reply. “Nope. I’m
good!” and she finally looked at him and smiled. “You can enjoy the rest of
your day. You don’t have to waste it around me. I can manage.” Somehow her
words and her eyes just never spoke the same things. He had noticed this too
many times before and how that smile was used to mask the dissonance. She
reached for her bag, took a final look in the mirror and was probably going to
say bye.
“Hey why don’t we go for a quick
breakfast and then you can come back home. I’m famished. Care to give me company?”
she said instead. The smile was back on his face beaming brighter than the sun.
“Of course. I’m hungry too and I could kill for some pancakes” he said jumping
up in his bed. “Our last breakfast together. Let's make you some breakfast.”
“Pancakes sound decent” she said
with a smile that brought a sparkle to her eyes. He was out of bed even before
she completed her sentence. He made the breakfast while she lent a hand with a
few things that he let her help with. He hated people invading his cooking
space but that was not important now. It was a perfect breakfast of pancakes, apples and some coffee with the
regular banter on the side. Not once did last night appear in the conversation, though it
was constantly on their minds. The regular nonsense was just to distract from
last night. There was desperation to fill in the awkward silences. No one
wanted to discuss last night or maybe that’s all that they wanted to talk
about.
They finished their meals and
washed the dishes together. Soon it was time for her to leave. "Could there be
more reasons for her to stay?" both of them thought. The moment they reached the door, she turned and hugged him tight. “It was awesome” she whispered to him and he
could almost hear her smile in his ear. “Yes, it was” he said. She looked at
him and beamed... and slowly let go of him. She opened the door, gave him one final glance and
said her final goodbye as she walked out on the pavement. When she turned back one last time, both waved
at each other. He took his time to close the door behind her while she walked away.
She trotted down the quiet lane, kicked a stone lying on the ground out of
her way and continued walking to her house.
This is an entry for a contest by the British Council on Indiblogger.com. For more details, please visit: http://knowledgeisgreat.in/
After recently completing my MBA
in communication management, my next quest was to understand ‘Subliminal
communication’ as a subject. Having presented an award winning research paper
on the topic at one of the oldest universities in India, Banaras Hindu University,
I finally identified my calling.
A subject that merely gets a page
in communication management books, or barely a one-hour lecture in most
business schools, definitely means more to me. Moreover, the lack of awareness
on the topic in my country made me run after it even more. Currently pursuing a
career in communications at a reputed branding and communications firm in
Delhi, I realised the pressing need to pursue this subject more aggressively.
Hence, began my quest on researching options in the subject abroad.
A quick search on the top communications
colleges in the world to pursue this passionately was the first step. The
countries that topped my list for this were US, UK, Netherlands and Australia.
These countries were selected on the basis of various factors like college
rankings, weather and culture, opportunities for foreign nationals, suggestions
from friends and relatives, etc. That’s when I learned about the University of
Westminster and the research options available in my field of interest. The research areas
available in Communications and Media Research; and Research and Education in
Art and Media were exactly what I needed. After a little more seeking,
I learned that their media research was previously awarded an excellent (5 out
of 5) rating in each of the three past Research Assessment Exercises.
The clarity in instructions on their official website for
research applications was more than impressive. Since
each college has its own requirements for research programs, exploring research
opportunities that fit one’s bill can be quite a tedious process. The
step-by-step instructions on their official website were extremely helpful. Moreover,
the new QS Worldwide University Rankings places Westminster above the London
School of Economics in the UK, second only in Europe and number 19 in the
world. These ratings are based on the university’s reputation among academics
and employers and citations to published works. There was no doubt that this
was going to my list of most sought-after colleges for research opportunities
abroad. The university receives more than 20,000 students from over 150 nations
and has been continuously encouraging new developments, research projects and
new ideas. All this makes this university unerringly one of the best media research
hotspot where I want to flourish.
CREAM – Centre for Research and
Education in Arts and Media is one of the UKs leading centres for research in
visual and media arts, design and music. Being a connoisseur of music and
wanting to streamline my research in the subject around the music industry,
this was the best place to be! I have been strongly influenced by music and
arts since childhood. With a strong background in Indian classical music and
dance, I slowly meandered into western styles of music and dance. This is how I
got acquainted with the music scene in the UK. Especially Indian artists who
found great reception in the UK and other countries were awe-inspiring.
Understanding subliminal expression and messaging in the music industry has now
become more of a habit than just an aspiration.
CREAM’s members include
internationally renowned artists, filmmakers, photographers, ceramicists,
theorists, critics, historians, designers and musicians. CREAM focuses on
critical and cross-disciplinary approaches. Whilst its individual members cover
a wide range of subject areas and expertise, they do encourage cross-connections
between areas. It is also home to a range of research centres and projects
including: Africa Media Centre, Ambika P3, Ceramic Research Centre, Documentary
and Experimental Film Centre, India Media Centre and Screenplays. With all this
information, I can already see an opportunity with CREAM on my subject turning
into an obsession that I’ve been losing my sleep on, for the past one month.
All that’s left to do on my end is to make that cutting-edge proposal that they
can just not say no to. The rest will be a dream-come-true with a fairy-tale
ending!
'Ink-n-head' has always been a space that has been very personal and has always carried content that has been purely exclusive. The following post has not been written by me but every element in this commencement address makes me want to share it with every person I know and/or can manage to reach through my blog.
Tim Minchin’s commencement address,
University of Western Australia, Perth
upon receiving an honorary degree of Doctor of Humane Letters
September 17, 2013
In darker days, I did a corporate gig for a big company who made and sold accounting software. In a bid I presume to inspire their sales people to greater heights, they forked out twelve grand for an inspirational speaker who was this “extreme sports” guy who had had a couple of his limbs frozen off when he got stuck on a ledge on some mountain. It was weird! Software sales people, I think, need to hear from someone who has had a long, successful and happy career in software sales, not from an overly-optimistic mountaineer. Some poor guy who had arrived in the morning hoping to learn more about sales techniques ended up going home worried more about the blood flow to his extremities. It’s not inspirational, it’s confusing. And if the mountain was meant to be a symbol of life’s challenges, and the loss of limbs a metaphor for sacrifice, the software guy’s not going to get it, is he? Because he didn’t do an Arts degree, did he? [laughter] He should have — Arts degrees are awesome, and they help you find meaning where there is none. And let me assure you, there is none. [laughter] Don’t go looking for it! Looking for meaning is like looking for a rhyme scheme in a cookbook — you won’t find it, and it’ll bugger up your soufflé. If you didn’t like that metaphor, you won’t like the rest of it.
Point being, I’m not an inspirational speaker, I’ve never lost a limb on a mountainside, metaphorically or otherwise, and I’m not here to give career advice, because I’ve never had what most consider “a job”. However, I have had large groups of people listen to what I say for quite a few years now, and it’s given me an inflated sense of self-importance. So I will now, at the ripe old age of 37.9, bestow upon you nine life lessons, to echo of course the nine lessons and carols of the traditional Christmas service, which is also pretty obscure. You might find some of this stuff inspiring, you’ll definitely find some of it boring, and you’ll definitely forget all of it within a week. And be warned, there’ll be lots of hokey similes and obscure aphorisms that start well and end up making no sense. So listen up, or you’ll get lost, like a blind man clapping in a pharmacy trying to echo-locate the contact lens fluid. [turns around] Looking for my old poetry teacher…
Here we go! Ready?
One: you don’t have to have a dream. Americans on talent shows always talk about their dreams. Fine — if you have something you’ve always wanted to do, [funny voice] dreamed of, like in your heart, go for it. After all, it’s something to do with your time — chasing a dream — and if it’s a big enough one, it’ll take you most of our life to achieve, so by the time you get to it, and are staring into the meaninglessness of your achievement, you’ll be almost dead, so it won’t matter. I never really had one of these dreams, and so I advocate passionate dedication to the pursuit of short-term goals. Be micro-ambitious – put your head down and work with pride on whatever is in front of you. You never know where you might end up. Just be aware, the next worthy pursuit will probably appear in your periphery, which is why you should be careful of long-term dreams — if you focus too far in front of you, you won’t see the shiny thing out of the corner of your eye.
All right? Good! Advice, metaphor — look at me go!
Two: don’t seek happiness. Happiness is like an orgasm. If you think about it too much, it goes away. Keep busy and aim to make someone else happy, and you might get some as a side effect. We didn’t evolve to be constantly content. Contented homo erectus got eaten before passing on their genes.
Three: remember, it’s all luck. We are lucky to be here. You are incalculably lucky to be born, and incredibly lucky to be brought up by a nice family that helps you to get educated and encourage you to go to uni. Or, if you’re born into a horrible family, that’s unlucky and you have my sympathy, but you’re still lucky — lucky that you happen to be made of the sort of DNA that went on to make the sort of brain which when placed in a horrible childhood environment would make decisions that meant you eventually ended up graduating uni. Well done you for dragging yourself up by your shoelaces, but you were lucky — you didn’t create the bit of you that dragged you up, they’re not even your shoelaces. I suppose I’ve worked hard to achieve whatever dubious achievements I’ve achieved, but I didn’t make the bit of me that works hard, any more than I made the bit of me that ate too many burgers instead of attending lectures when I was here at U.W.A. Understanding that you can’t truly take credit for your successes, nor truly blame others for their failures, will humble you and make you more compassionate. Empathy is intuitive, but is also something you can work on intellectually.
Four: exercise! I’m sorry, you pasty, pale, smoking philosophy grads, arching your eyebrows into a Cartesian curve as you watch the Human Movement mob wind their way through the miniature traffic cones of their existence. You are wrong, and they are right. Well, you’re half right — you think, therefore you are, but also you jog, therefore you sleep, therefore you’re not overwhelmed by existential angst. You can’t be Kant, and you don’t want to be. Play a sport, do yoga, pump iron, run, whatever, but take care of your body — you’re going to need it. Most of you mob are going to live to nearly a hundred, and even the poorest of you are going to achieve a level of wealth that most humans throughout history could not have dreamed of. And this long, luxurious life ahead of you is going to make you depressed. But don’t despair! There is an inverse correlation between depression and exercise. Do it! Run, my beautiful intellectuals, run!
Five: be hard on your opinions. A famous bon mot asserts that opinions are like assholes, in that everyone has one. There is great wisdom in this, but I would add that opinions differ significantly from assholes, in that yours should be constantly and thoroughly examined. [laughter] I used to take exams in here! It’s revenge. We must think critically, and not just about the ideas of others. Be hard on your beliefs — take them out on the veranda and hit them with a cricket bat. Be intellectually rigorous. Identify your biases, your prejudices, your privileges. Most of society’s arguments are kept alive by a failure to acknowledge nuance. We tend to generate false dichotomies, then argue one point using two entirely different sets of assumptions, like two tennis players trying to win a match by hitting beautifully-executed shots from either end of separate tennis courts. By the way, while I have science and arts graduates in front of me, please don’t make the mistake of thinking the arts and sciences are at odds with one another. That is a recent, stupid, and damaging idea. You don’t have to be unscientific to make beautiful art, to make beautiful things. If you need proof: Twain, Douglas Adams, Vonnegut, McEwan, Sagan, Shakespeare, Dickens, for a start. You don’t need to be superstitious to be a poet, you don’t need to hate GM technology to care about the beauty of the planet, you don’t have to claim a soul to have compassion. Science is not a body of knowledge, nor a belief system — it is just a term that describes humankind’s incremental understanding through observation. Science is awesome. The arts and sciences need to work together to improve how knowledge is communicated. The idea that many Australians, including our new P.M. and my distant cousin Nick Minchin believe, that the science of anthropogenic global warming is controversial, is a powerful indication of the extent of our failure to communicate. The fact that thirty percent of the people in this room just bristled is further evidence still. The fact that that bristling is more to do with politics than science is even more despairing.
Six: be a teacher. Please, please be a teacher! Teachers are the most admirable people in the world. You don’t have to do it forever, but if you’re in doubt about what to do, be an amazing teacher. Just through your twenties, be a teacher. Be a primary school teacher, especially if you’re a bloke — we need male primary school teachers. Even if you’re not a teacher, be a teacher. Share your ideas, don’t take for granted your education, rejoice in what you learned, and spray it.
Seven: define yourself by what you love. I found myself doing this thing a bit recently where if someone asks me what sort of music I like, I say I don’t listen to the radio because pop song lyrics annoy me, or if someone asks me what food I like I say I think truffle oil is over-used and slightly obnoxious. And I see it all the time on-line — people whose idea of being part of a subculture is to hate Coldplay or football or feminists or the Liberal Party. We have a tendency to define ourselves in opposition to stuff — as a comedian, I make my living out of it. But try to express also your passion for things you love. Be demonstrative and generous in your praise of those you admire. Send thank-you card and give standing ovations — be pro-stuff, not just anti-stuff.
Eight: respect people with less power than you. I have, in the past, made important decisions about people I work with — agents and producers — big decisions, based largely on how they treat the wait-staff in the restaurants we’re having the meeting in. I don’t care if you’re the most powerful cat in the room, I will judge you based on how you treat the least powerful. So there.
Nine: finally, don’t rush. You don’t need to already know what you’re going to do with the rest of your life. I’m not saying, sit around smoking cones all day, but also, don’t panic. Most people I know who were sure of their career path at twenty are having mid-life crises now. I said at the beginning of this ramble, which is already three and a half minutes long, that life is meaningless. It was not a flippant assertion. I think it’s absurd, the idea of seeking meaning in the set of circumstances that happen to exist out of thirteen point eight billion years worth of unguided events. Leave it to humans to think that the universe has a purpose for them. However, I am no nihilist, I am not even a cynic — I am actually rather romantic. And here’s my idea of romance: you’ll soon be dead. Life will sometimes seem long and tough, and God, it’s tiring, and you will sometimes be happy and sometimes sad, and then you’ll be old, and then you’ll be dead. There is only one sensible thing to do with this empty existence, and that is, fill it. Not “fillet”, fill it. And in my opinion, until I change it, life is best filled by learning as much as you can about as much as you can, taking pride in whatever you’re doing, sharing ideas, running, being enthusiastic. And then there’s love and travel and wine and sex and art and kids and giving and mountain climbing, but you know all that stuff already. It’s an incredibly exciting thing, this one, meaningless life of yours! Good luck! And thank you for indulging me.
“Even a bad cup of
coffee is better than no coffee at all.”
-David Lynch
It is a shame if you never
realized that you know how to make the best cup of coffee on this planet. Maybe
even in this universe, but I would not like to say that, since I’m not well versed
with the ways of the universe. And there is a great possibility that out there
is some all encompassing power that controls how we make coffee. So, for now,
let’s just stick to this planet and plane where we assume to have complete control over our affairs.
How you love your coffee is
completely your business and nobody else’s. If you know how to live your life
like a pro, then you can very well make yourself a good cup of coffee. You can
brew it, boil it or even burn it! Maybe even sleep with a bag of coffee beans. You are your own sensei for coffee.
Don’t tell me you don’t like
coffee. ‘Coz you do! You just didn’t give it enough time to fall in love. You never
gave it enough permission to infuse its strength onto your taste-buds. Maybe you
were too stubborn to let it overpower your senses. Just let go.
There’s the regular espresso and
the latte. Take it with a pinch of chilli or infuse it with a cinnamon stick. Lap
it up with some whipped cream or brew it with a little ginger. It’s happier
than vanilla and potent with flexible magic. Just give it some love and pour
yourself a cup. You don’t have to move mountains to deserve it.
Osira stood at the edge of a
cliff with her toes eager to take off. She could feel the wind sustaining her
intention on her back. No shivers. No fears. Afterall, the wind could not be
wrong. Her long black tresses curtained her face like a head covered before an
execution. Whispers in the wind sang out to her and called her names for being
a coward... in good humour of course. The dark curtain on her face hid a smile
that screamed of dares and adventure. She was about to listen to her friend –
the wind.
She nosedived. Neck cracked.
Blackout.
Drop 2
The wind was still calling her
names while she stood delicately this time. The face was still curtained behind
her wildly flowing locks. No smile.
The toes were curled and firmly gripping the edge. ‘Osira, you nitwit! Don’t
you believe in anything I say?’ howled the wind. She slapped her back
strongly against the wind. A broken neck was her recent trophy. With clenched
fists and rehearsed dynamics she jumped.
Got swept away and hit a rock.
Broke her legs.
Bloodied vision.
Drop 3
The wind felt somewhat stronger
now. Not that it was. ‘There has to be a
better way’, thought Osira. She leered over with her head hung low - trying
to map her way down. Blood trickled down her hair. She loved watching the drops fall and disappear after a while.
The wind cackled and gave her
little nudges this time. It was delightful to watch.
She had to figure it out right
away. Flung herself over.
Crash!
Drop 4
This needs a strategy. There’s
definitely a better way to do this. Osira is sitting with her legs dangling
from the edge of the cliff. Stooping and wondering. There has to be a better
way.
The wind’s name-calling is mere
noise now. She is swaying with it. It soothes her muscles and numbs her pain.
She is observing the blood
trickle down and disappear.
‘There is a better way’, thinks Osira while she is waiting to heal.
All I could think about was how
to survive the week while I lugged my tired body back from work. Scrunched
between two burly ladies with my face nearly shoved into the belly of another
jelly being, I could not have been the cheerful self that I’m famous for. There
was no way any happy thought could have managed to pursue its way through those
sandwiched bodies inside the tiny metro compartment. The noises were loud. The
smells were musty. Happy thoughts do not venture in such regions. They avoid
and disappear. Poof! Did someone just fart near me or was that the last bit of
happy thought leaving my aura?
I sat on my seat and waited to
reach somewhere; talked to myself and almost started an argument. My head hung
low and my conscience tried to focus on the music that was playing in my
earphones. It would have taken more than a ‘nuclear fusion gone wrong’ for me
to lift my head and look anywhere other than the train floor. Not that the
train floor had the best view at that moment. There was a dried orange
peel, a toffee wrapper and some ugly feet that kept me occupied for a while.
But something managed to pull my attention and made me look up. I took a last look
at the hundreds of faces that occupied the metro compartment. Each face had a story
to tell, but I was hardly interested in listening. Breezing across the countless
faces, my eyes stopped at one.
I must have imagined a huge Buddhist
gong go ‘Bong!’ in my head at that very moment. Time stopped. Smells disappeared.
The music in my ears faded into a vacuum. There stood in all her glory a woman
so attractive that she hardly felt human. Short hair, bony face, round deeply set doe-like eyes and the perfect lips. There was no smile on this face but
it promised happiness. Those high cheekbones were capable of carrying a winsome
smile to those twinkly black eyes. I had never seen her smile before and yet I
could feel my heart skip a beat when I pictured her breaking into one.
My eyes slowly trailed down to
her neck. Slender and long that disappeared into a possibly beautiful collar-bone
which was irritatingly hidden by the collar of her shirt. She was so lost in her book while her short hair flirted with her face. That’s when I almost
smiled at her beautiful fingers that were trying to tame her hair. I also noticed the
shiny silver ring she wore on her finger. That’s when I took a break
from gawking at her. Took a quick glance at my own hands and played a little
with my silver ring. The train floor suddenly seemed so boring.
She was so thin yet so strong. She had broad
shoulders that framed her bust. There was a sense of accomplishment in that
face - a confidence that could not have been acquired at birth. She had earned
it. She had earned that attitude and that peace with which she stood against a
pole and read a book in the middle of chaos. She was not the kind who would use
the fact of being a woman as an excuse. She exploited it. She suddenly looked up
and my heart skipped a beat again - this time with the fear of getting caught
staring at her.
I heard the train announce my station
name and something sunk inside me. The moment was about to pass. I had to leave
this perfect moment and go back to my world of lesser adventure. I didn’t even
get time to find out what her name was. She didn't know me. Time was running out
and I forced myself to get up from my seat. The moment before this, my being didn't even care to be recognized. I never wanted to exist; I just wanted to be
present. As I ruffled a few feathers around me and got up from my seat, something travelled across
those million faces and brushed against that beautiful face. She looked at me.
She kept looking and didn't even blink. We maintained eye contact for what
seemed like a lifetime and I almost felt naked at that moment. Did she know?
Was she aware the whole time? It couldn't possibly be. I started walking
towards the door and took one last glance at her. The object of my admiration
was still staring at me! Had the roles suddenly reversed? I may have
unintentionally slipped her a smile because I almost saw her break into one.
But before I could ravish myself in her smile, the crowd pushed me out of the
door and I was left standing on the platform in no time. I struggled to look
back through the window to catch a last glimpse of what could have been. But
she disappeared within seconds as the train started to move.
I stood there on the platform trying to compose myself and prepared to walk out of the station. This time my
heart was heavier than before. It was like losing a part of me that was good. A
part of me that was promising. A part that screamed out happiness. A part that
was gone! As I reached the exit of the metro station, my lover received me with
a hug and a kiss on my cheek. I managed to give a faint smile when he said,
“My my! Don’t you look pretty today! I wouldn't mind waiting a lifetime for a girl like you.” We walked away together in silence with his eyes constantly on me;
adoring me the same way, like I did a few minutes back in that little compartment of pure
bliss.
Wait! Before that, you need to learn
about his recent disappearance. I don’t know how many of you are already aware
of his unstable behaviour, but this time he jolted me out of the customary
acceptance I had grown for him.
For new visitors, Monkey is my gnu.
Not your average people pleaser and famously sucks at small talk. He seldom
talks. I had gotten used to the rolling eyes and the occasional grimace that
usually form his emotional fibre.
I found a job. It pays me enough
to keep me alive, kicking and handle Monkey’s occasional tantrums. The only
problem is that it’s a real job. Gnus are not built to slave and toil for
survival and he loathes the idea of toiling for a few pennies of slavery. An idealist
by nature. Therefore, he ends up being the preferred prey of the Serengeti. To
add to his anxiety, the concrete jungle didn’t turn out to what he had expected
it to be. There was no grass there.
He hates bothersome blabber and
when a bad day at work makes one prattle, Monkey runs for the hills. That’s exactly
what happened. He disappeared one day without a word. Initially, it hardly made
a difference. I was much better without the cynic in a lot of ways. Not that I’m
a believer myself, but the episodic rants and sighs to my issues were not
supportive. We hit it off very well in the beginning because I gave him a
corner in my life where he could remain in the shadows and not be bothered. Not
many noticed his presence around. But the ones who did didn't quite recognize
the peculiarity of his existence and that was just perfect for his sustenance
in my world.
Lately, my intrusiveness had
started riling the wildebeest and drove him to scurry towards peace. ‘Good
riddance!’ - was my initial response, till the emptiness of the shadow started
irking. The Monkey that kept my dreams real, the Monkey that kept ME real was
gone. Probably...for good. Growing up with a strangely stable brute like him had
made me who I am - The fighter. He left when I stopped fighting and gave in.
The realization of the loss just dawned upon me and the storm was back in my
eyes. Blood curdled at the thought of defeat and unrest approached me again. While
I tossed and turned in my sleep, the shadows kept reminding me of the dweller.
There’s a reason why he chose to
leave the wild for the corner in my life. He used to feed off the unrest and the turmoil
and in return, gave me the vigour to battle. Just when the awareness approached
me, Monkey marched right back into his favourite corner with a wicked smirk
drawn across his face and I just unruffled myself while I waited for the war to
begin.
It’s a bold statement to make but
true and I drew these words out of my hilt while meaning every bit of it. For
me, champions are the ones that rise out of dust and shine like gold. Champions
wear their hearts on their sleeves to terrify cowards who fear to show their
own. Champions cry their fears out and waste no time in lament henceforth. They
drive their thresholds to peak each day of their breathing existence. They have
nothing to hide and are shrouded in their nakedness. They have scars. They have
wounds. They have fought.
Cowards, on the other hand, will
hide. Hide behind excuses. Hide their tools of torture. Hide the tools that
shaped them...into cowards. They have secrets. They have reasons for not being
there. A reason for each day, each moment and each millisecond of their
pathetic existence. They have reasons why one should have a reason for the sky
being blue. They need proof and evidence because they are too scared to
believe. This is my ode to all those
cowards who take pride in the stop signs that halted them in their tracks.
You can’t change them because
they lack belief. Do not try to make their lives better because that will never
happen. They have given up and do not possess the will to rise. Masochists in
true nature who enjoy their pain and writhe in misery. They fear to allow
anyone else the luxury of hurting them and self-inflict themselves to torture
of a different kind. The world is onto them and will never allow them to emerge
as winners. They believe winning is for losers – there’s no need to make an effort. Tears
and begging don’t work on this kind because their hearts are safely locked
somewhere deep inside, catching dust and turning into stone. Some might have
even thrown their keys away. Black holes of every human effort that will just take
and give nothing in return. All of this
and more makes them a true spectacle worth ignoring. Ignore the minute you
sense a coward near you. Run for your life the minute you sense their presence
and never look back. Take my two pennies worth of advice and avoid a coward the
minute you sniff its stale presence. It’ll save you a lifetime worth of happiness and
effort that's better put to something far more productive.
Because, seriously I cannot stand
anyone less than a champion!
A beast was born on a cold winter
dawn of the 10th of December. The newborn lay combating the ruthless unforgiving wild amidst thorns and bramble in the outskirts of a small village. It bellowed its first sound into the world which was a deafening
howl that echoed and thistled through the wild growth - letting its presence
known. Mortal existence around the affair heard and felt it. Goose bumps could be sensed
erupting on calm skins. Most of them blamed it on the chill in the air and closed their windows. An intolerable pity dawned when no human could recognize the wonder that had just landed amongst them. Because a wonder was beyond their
conceivable beliefs and nurturing, the phenomenon was brushed aside as a mischief of the silly North wind.
The beast entered the village in
shadows and sensed fear in every corner. The animal inside the creature was fed
off the abhorrence of the civil. His vicious talons and hypnotic gaze was
discomfort at an arm’s length. A misfit. An outcast. With no past and a non
existent future, he toiled. It was the beast’s curse to not know what he could
achieve. The curse that brought him here. He could have been an idea at the
most. Or a figment of the village idiot’s imagination that no one wanted to
fructify. The truth was that the beast was sinister. He was like a bad painting
hidden behind drapes. A painting that revealed too much and absorbed the
onlooker’s engrossment. It made the audience too uncomfortable within their own
skins. It was cursed!
The fact that he was born to reign was forever kept from him. He had the invincible power to do whatever pleased him. The
village knew this even before he was born. There were stories told at bedtime
of a beast so vicious that he could rid a soul of its will to exist. Children
were threatened to never share these stories outside their rooms. Every kid grew
up with the story buried in his heart and never uttered a word about it. The
beast grew up smelling this fear and never questioning it. He was doomed to live
in the darkness and never realize his capacity to conquer. He toiled away his
youth earning for his daily meat. Earning for himself. He lived for himself and wanted no
more.
As time passed by, the talons
lost their shine. The hypnotic gaze faded and gradually in the village’s fear
the beast was tamed.
Nor am I into anniversaries or Mother’s Day or Father’s Day
or Forgotten Distant Uncle’s Pet Dog Day. I do not call myself a cynic, though
many of my near and dear ones (N.AN.D.Os) would disagree. I might come across
as a recluse, which I clearly am not. You can check with the same NANDOs. And no, this
post is not about what I like or dislike or about who I am. Even my pet gnu ‘Monkey’
wouldn’t be able to define who I am. Trust me, Monkey knows me very well!
Better than my NANDOs. But then, Monkey himself is going through an identity
crisis of sorts. Ah! Leave Monkey out of all of this. He hates being dragged
into debates.
Now, my saying ‘I am not a Birthday person’, does not imply
that I hate the fact that I was born. It simply means that it’s no big deal.
There’s a big difference. If every thing living on the face of this earth
started throwing a huge birthday bash every time they reach that time of the
year, imagine the amount of confetti and birthday waste we will have to take
care of. I’m not kidding. You don’t want confetti falling on your head the day
you get fired just because it’s that familiar pigeon’s birthday that keeps
dropping little presents on your car everyday. I always felt that humans ended up celebrating the wrong occasions in life. Jesus Christ has a right to
celebrate his birthday. He is the son of God! I don’t think I’m ready to take
up as much suffering for humanity as he did. So, I choose to be left out of it. Surprise
me with gifts on a random day if you wish. Now THAT’s a surprise!
Monkey ends up feeling a little left out on my birthdays.
Not like he is the centre of attention all the time. As a matter of fact,
nobody notices him and he’s fine with it. He doesn’t age in the same fashion as
I do and it disturbs him that people celebrate when I get old and he doesn’t. He
loves cake and hates it when nobody offers him a piece and instead waste it on
my birthday facial. The aggression of my NANDOs on my birthdays confuses him to no end. He has
started reading up a lot on affection and aggression. Might explain the
identity crisis. Monkey doesn’t even remember my birth date. His birth date is
a mystery too. He keeps changing it every time you ask him. I don’t think he remembers
it himself. Gnus don’t have a fabulous memory. I think it works to his benefit.
So, I asked him when his birthday was (again) for the umpteenth time today.
That led to a discussion on birthdays followed by a heated debate on the whole idea of
celebrating birthdays. He hates debates and arguments. Starts huffing like a
wildebeest when riled up. So this post is dedicated to you Monkey! Hope you’ve
cooled down now. Chronic boredom drove me into pawing at you. Guess, defending
my NANDOs is just not worth your short temper.
Once I owned a Vase. Owned it with my heart and soul.
Everyone had a vase of their own. One girl I knew bought it
at the flea market because she could afford one. Another one bought it because
she felt bad for the lonely piece which no one would buy. I also knew a guy
who bought one every month. He was a connoisseur - of vases. They all had one.
The one they could call their own. Even had their names engraved on them. I heard that the couple next door recently lost theirs. They were speculating
the idea of buying a new one. The missus of the house hates a house without flowers.
They all had a reason. They all knew what they wanted.
I was never into vases. It was not something I would buy; for
myself or for anyone else. Not even for the couple next door. I was not looking for
vases until I met her - The Gypsy from Andalusia.
She was on her way. I never bothered to ask where to. I doubt if she knew the answer herself. She stayed over. A company like hers would never
disturb me. The vase was a gift from her. It wasn’t even a vase. More like a
jar.
Each morning she woke up earlier than the sun and waited for
the first rays to hit the ground. With the first sparkling rays she packed a
pinch of sand and sprinkled it into the jar and quietly brought it back inside.
A pinch a day. Everyday. Till the jar was full and it was time for her to
leave. The last day of her stay was a celebration. Just the both of us with good
food, a beautiful rendition on her guitar and light chit chat. She left the next morning after thrusting the vase in my hands without saying a word. That’s the
last time I saw her or heard of her.
The jar was painted pretty red and filled with sand from my
backyard. I kept it like a handsome knight in front of my army of books. The
very first to wake me up and the very last to put me to sleep. They said it’s just a jar full of sand.
What good could it bring? Some suggested I grow a plant and some wanted to put
flowers. How silly would a knight look with a plant or flowers in its head? I
chose to let it be. A jar full of sand is what I wanted. A jar full of ‘Sunshine
sand’. I grew a fondness for the jar while it stood on my bookshelf motionless
staring back at me. The more people despised the handsome knight the more I
developed a pride in ownership of this vessel. It was mine. It had potential to
be so many things. But I loved it to be the Sunshine jar. Many told me, “It’s
not even a Vase!” I agreed. I never wanted a vase. The Sunshine jar was doing
its work. I smiled. I worked. I was happy.
Till one day. That one wretched day when I disturbed my army
of books. The jar fell right off the shelf and got smashed into a million gut
wrenching pieces. Pieces I wish I could put back together. But the sunshine got
scattered all over the place. I scrambled on the floor to save my
sunshine. I gathered all the sand I could and put it in a plastic bag. The sight
was painful. Warm tears were soaking the sand now. I could feel the sunshine
escaping. The shards of the broken jar had to be saved. Some cut my fingers.
But who cares about finger cuts when your sunshine’s escaping. I put the
remains of the jar in an old shoe box. Spent the entire night staring at the
dead knight and crying. There was no one to put me to sleep. Maybe this was a
nightmare or maybe I just woke up from a dream. I lost the sunshine that could
never be owned.
I was never into vases. I never wanted a vase. I would never
buy a vase. Not even for the couple next door.
What if your entire life could be lived in one day and you
have just one more day to learn from yesterday? The second day is frozen in
time and doesn’t seem like it will pass anytime soon. You’re frozen with a day
where yesterday is just an overwhelming thought.
Allow me to simplify this thought. An entire day spent
panicking over the idea of time running out can only be productively ended with
a cathartic attempt at emoting this fear. I’m not critically ill or facing a
death sentence. I have a fairly good immune system and if all goes well I have
a good chance of making it to a healthy 60-65 (Yes, I have calculated my life
expectancy). But, I woke up today with a sinking feeling. The feeling that my
entire life so far, was lived in a day. I asked a few friends if they've ever
felt the same, just to confirm if I was still sane. Apparently not. No, they
have never felt this way and no, I’m not sane.
Anyway, I progress through the day bumping into incidents
that replicate incidents from my past. Like a vivid recollection. A revision.
It all happened yesterday. No time has passed since all my firsts. And I stand
today waiting for the day to get over which seems like the longest day I have
ever lived. This is almost sounding like paranoia. Maybe it is. I tried to
sleep through it. Woke up to find the sinking feeling burning through me faster
than before. What have I learnt from my one day of being alive? Did I try
enough? Did I make the most out of it? How much did I lose every time I said no
or gave up? No answers and the paranoia just got worse. Also, made the mistake
of sitting and comparing achievements and my present stand in life. Things got
worse.
Sigh! It still feels like yesterday was my entire life.
Today is sealed in a vacuum container waiting to be let out. And as soon as it’s
opened, game over! Scared is not even a fitting word. Till it wears off, staying
still like a humming bird flies.
"Trust and faith in your fellow man has no equal. If you have experienced trust you will know its
strength.
You must know yourself before you know others."
I lived through a mellow high, as if sipping wine. The piece starts pouring into a rhythm while it tries to
catch up with the beats that tenderly start picking on the strings. I’m sitting
with my eyes closed and almost imagining the guitar doing a waltz with the
beats. Slowly forgetting what I was thinking and the guitar almost preparing me
for some light blues. Just when the beats got me used to them, Toure pitches in
with words far from understanding. The haunting appeal of his voice drags
across the piece playing with my imagination.
The first sip rich in Malian
flavours being nudged by the subtle blues and the beats keeping me high. The coarseness
of the vocals adding the depth that I just don’t want to let go. Toure pulls
me down and leaves me floating back in space. Just when I realize he’s
playing with my longing for the flavour to return, he comes back to flirt
with the melodies of Mali
again. The wanton camaraderie of Malian rythm and the blues bringing a sudden
melancholy while I feel an unbearable lightness. A mere seven minutes that
could explain humanity beyond language. Just emotions. Pure music.
