Show the middle figure to 2012.

Weighed down by the enormity of the issues that plague the world around, confused by the contrasts between my actions and what I believe my personality to be, overwhelmed by the sheer turnover of events, apprehensive about the changes to come, saddened by what I long for but cannot be, tired by the steady stream of problems to be solved, worried about my loved ones...it's so easy to slip into that inviting abyss and let the darkness take over.

But I won't. Because there's a lot to be thankful for. I am loved...and more importantly, I love. Money, health, career...yes, there are issues everywhere but I have come a long, long way from where I started. There are a lot of good people around, I just need to look into their eyes. Good books are being written, good movies are being made. No, life isn't perfect and the world around me isn't either. But, god help me, I have my brains intact and my spirit is still in fighting condition. And as long as I have that, I will survive. 2013 - bring it on. 

To heal

It's been such a chaotic year. And so heavy, within and around me. Right now, I am just muddled. And tired. And a little depressed. I want to write so much, I have so much to say, to craft into words...but don't have the energy to do it. And my trigger for that expression...well, he hasn't got that energy for me either. So I am just sitting by myself, pretending that I don't express what I am feeling. But I think I do. That's why D sensed something and is coming over. For an afternoon of entertaining images, solid food and companionable silence. Maybe that's the healing touch I need. For I am wounded. 

The death within

Written by V (as a reflection on the reality we are confronted with in the aftermath of the Delhi rape case)...


When moments broke down and time cried for help 
When the weeping reality hung its head in shame
We failed once more...
We failed once more to hold that child's hand

Once more. 
And shattered what she dreamt 
Once more we let our character fall apart 
Shattered in millions that didn't matter

We had never mattered
Never mattered to ourselves
Or our conscience
Never mattered that our lives are nothing but a shred
A shred of cold heart that beats no more
A shred of hand that hold no more
A shred of soul that died long ago

Death is not uncommon
But painful it is
When you die a thousand times
When you die for twenty minutes each day
When you shift the blame for heinous crimes
When you refuse accountability
When your collective mindset kills, disfigures or rapes a society.

You kill
You kill the hope, the trust...
The part of you that beats

Rediscovering beauty

Gentle, provocative and emotional. Very rarely do we get to use these words together for movies nowadays, but Memories of March was one such piece of art, sure to stay in my mind, and heart, for a long time. Particularly due to Deepti Naval’s performance as a mother who’s suddenly bereaved and goes to her son’s home & city and discovers that he’s gay…the layers and nuances of the performance left me breathless and emotional.

This is yet another part of my current mood of wistful reflection…and all books, movies, songs appear to complement each other and heighten the feeling. Or maybe it’s the reverse.

Antaheen… a muted drama about love and loneliness and loss. It had been a long time since I had seen a movie of that nature…and Barfi doesn’t count because it was a great entertainer. This one wasn’t…it was a simple offering. And I liked it.

A couple of songs from Agneepath that became my favorites recently.  O Saiyaan is this plaintive cry of someone who’s madly in love and is also conscious of the pain and loss that awaits her. Abhi mujh mein kahin speaks of the discovery of humanity within the self…the stirrings of emotion that tell us we are alive

Which led me to relisten to older songs that are perfect companions to my driving…Tanha dil…Justuju jiski thi…Yaara seeli seeli…Rubaru…Ajeeb dastan hai yeh…Waqt ne kiya. I love driving as I listen to these songs…the cacophony of the world retreats into a background blur and while my instincts keep me driving, the eyes of my mind are somewhere else as I absorb the lyrics and the voices.

Books too…Colm Toibin and his examination of the lonely life of the immigrant is so dispassionate yet so detailed that I have no option but to get completely wrapped up in their lives. And Alexander McCall Smith’s sweet and gentle stories of the lady detective in Botswana helps me remember the fundamental values and principles we cherish…or need to cherish.

And so these days pass…as the year comes to an end, and frenetic activity combined with irritation and frustration characterizes my days, a part of me has detached itself and is spending time rediscovering some depths which I had forgotten existed.

The diatribe of a very messed up person, pun intended

In one sudden moment, to be repeated several times over, all that thought and emotion and reflection and introspection merge with the remains of the oil and the spice and the salt and the flour and find their way out of my body. Eyes streaming with the water of guilt, head throbbing with the pound of adrenalin, I survey the world around with in a gaze of curiosity triggered by unabashed self absorption. I dig deeper and deeper into myself, questioning every single decision I have ever taken in my thirty four years of existence. Each spoonful of sugar that added to the waistline, each utterance that left a heart broken, each act of conspicuous consumption that burdened my wardrobe, each penny I contributed to the temples of gluttony, each instance I missed to make someone's life better, each speck of dust I left untouched - let all the sins be accounted for! Let them all stand in line and confront me with my own baseness, so I may touch the ground with my head and beg for understanding, wait for that light to shine from above that reveals the complicated machinery that is driving this destruction. But I beg in vain, I wait in vain. Because there is no light. There is only darkness, where all the sugar and the spice go and wait for their companions to join them. As this darkness grows and envelops all, I notice how the walls don't look so white any more, how the red of the curtain appears to have faded into a duller hue that reveals as much as it hides, how the smiles look forced and how the eyes are actually shut all the while they are open. Am I surrounded by blindness? Is this some sort of fantastical existence where all the light has been merely my desire to run away from the darkness. And when finally the moments of truth, as they are so passionately evoked by the authors who write books of a thousand pages, do finally arrive, do I realize that this light is as worthless and as transient as the shimmer of the diamonds in the sky on Diwali night, creating an illusion of light and magic that only the very stupid or the very blind would believe to replace the reality of the darkness? There's that boy planning the first threesome of his life, anticipating the excitement of love (!) at both ends. There's that woman systematically planning the impulsive, emotional arguments that will slowly drive her loved (!) son to the destination that she firmly believes he needs to reach. There's that girl who has finally arrived at the answer to the critical question of life "what do you love (!) to do?" and is now going to make a "go for it", in the language of the self-help books she read recently. What madness! What blindness! Or are they the ones who see the darkness and accept it, evolving with it so their eyes can see in the dark, and help them to hunt, and eat, and survive, and grow stronger? While there are us...the idiots who bump their knees, their elbows, their ankles...anything that evokes the howls of pain...and then attribute the pain to the process of "growing up" and "learning about life" and, like Calvin's dad, "building character"? Well , there's my character now, a pile of pastel colors on the floor, the regurgitated remains of my inner blind self, raising a stink that can unblock the most stubborn of noses, supreme even in its messiest avatar. 

Perking me up

When I say books are my best friend and the anchor of my life, that's really true in every sense and not merely a symbolic statement. And as it is with all such anchors, they have the ability to influence not just my mood from day to day, but my entire outlook and mindset for a much longer period of time. Recently, the discovery of Ravan and Eddie gave me a high that I haven't felt for quite a while...the joyous rambunctiousness of the writing took me by surprise and I wasted no time in getting the sequel which got released just a few weeks ago. Two weeks of very happy reading!

And even my second love - movies - gave me cause for celebration. Four good movies within a few weeks of each other - Barfi, English Vinglish, Premium Rush, Argo - was truly like gorging on chocolates and ice cream for several days in a row! The icing was of course the successful resurgence of my all time favorite actress, Sri...which sparked off many fun conversations with fellow admirers and some detractors too.

Then, out of the blue, I made a new friend, R (or Minty Mystic as I like to call him). Eerily identical tastes in some areas (Sri, Hitchcock, Lamhe etc) and yet a vastly different personality converged to 3 extremely pleasant evenings within just one week. Not sure if this will continue or build further but for now, it's always nice to make a new connection and discover new worlds through others.

So the last few weeks, despite the worries and the heartbreaks and the boredom, turned out pretty well. Today I was trying to search for a poem and started to trawl through the thousands of mails I had exchanged with V to find it. It was like reading through old letters from another life. They made me pause and wonder at the magic. A good reminder of why I am still on that rollercoaster. I do like the highs, even as I survive the lows. 

What's the point of living with so much fear?

I am afraid of looking directly into the mirror because I may see traces of the person I didn't want to become. I am afraid of digging deeper into myself because I may unearth memories I would rather avoid. I am afraid of scrutinizing my own motives because I will probably realize that my drivers are not what I thought they are. I am afraid of analyzing my future career because it will force me to go back to past decisions. I am afraid of stepping up because I don't know if I have the knees to support it. I am afraid of stepping out because I don't know if I have the wind beneath my wings. I am afraid of thinking about the current deadlock because I might get into the superstitious zone. I am afraid of dissecting the relationships because I will realize how little control I have. I am afraid of thinking about people because I might need to acknowledge feelings I had pretended didn't exist. I am afraid of thinking about the wider circle of my influence because I will have to confront the negative impact of my existence. I am afraid to let my emotions show because I might scare someone away. I am afraid to be myself because people are looking at and up to me. I am afraid to let myself go because there is a persona I am bonded to. 

The trial

It was the black bag that did me in.

Till then I was on auto pilot, fully into a stream of activity that kept me distracted and engaged – party till late night, get up, get ready, mails, chase taxi, figure out location, get there, hug, greet, smile, offer to help, help, chat, eat.

I finally sat down for a few minutes at a stretch and the conversation with a fellow-guest petered out. Lulled by the carnatic music in the background, the noise around me dulled to a hum, I gazed lazily around, my eyes arriving at the mandap. And the little black suitcase. As Sonal pulled it open and took out assorted bags being used for the rituals, it suddenly struck me and the memories came flooding back.

The bag on the floor of the bedroom, packed neatly with DB’s clothes and toiletries for his weekend recruitment trips. Over the years, the bag (which I had initially got from Manila as a last minute purchase to stuff all my shopping) got steadily threadbare, causing me amusement and irritation in equal measure, especially when he would do his “I am so middle class” routine.

Well, middle class it certainly was, this sad-looking bag sitting on the corner of the pandal with its glorious orange, white and yellow theme. Little knowing what it stood for – the memories, the moments, the future. Little knowing what it caused…my mind to suddenly wake up and look at everything around me in a new light.

DB sits on the pandal, going through the never-ending rituals, a fixed smile on his face, occasionally looking towards us with a glance of recognition, his face unreadable except when he would make a grimace to signal his exhaustion. I am surrounded by his friends, people from another world, who were a little like mythical creatures to me, and now they were finally real, flesh and blood standing in front of me, looking and behaving exactly as they were described for the first time six years ago in the drive to Pondicherry, at the end of which he paused, put up his hand in that usual melodramatic gesture and said “main toh thak gaya!”

Today there’s no melodrama. The emotions are under a leash, getting frowned upon whenever they try to break free. There’s plenty of back and forth to do between the hall and the room where a lot of stuff is kept, and which is supposedly for him to rest and change in. I accompany as P & his wife, who are primarily responsible for all this. I am a little like a well dressed assistant, happy to tag along, and help wherever I can, not really making a difference, but being appreciated all the same. I am happy to just keep doing something, and comforted by the company of someone who I knew understood the reality, accepted it, and maybe even sympathized a little.

On of my trips back to the hall, I catch his mother’s eye and she smiles at me, obviously happy at the event but somehow also acknowledging my presence there. Or was I imagining that? Would her reaction have been very different if she had known the truth? Or did, as I have always suspected, she always have an inkling of the reality? How many secrets do we carry with us, sometimes for the sake of our own sanity, sometimes to preserve someone else’s dignity or wishes. So much baggage.

We were in the corridor again, going back this time when DB had changed into a tasteful dhoti & kurta, the latter cut short, in his typical style. The three of us stand in a lift, and I joke again about his father-in-law’s stinginess in giving gifts to him. I notice the silver colored watch and ask him if he wants to exchange it with my green one. He looks at me, strangely I think, and says its Tommy and someone else gave it to him. It doesn't strike me for a moment and then I remember. I don’t know what I say…maybe I just smile. Because my stomach had just plummeted as the echoes of another “tommy” played in my head.

P wants to talk about careers. He’s shifting gears for the second time in as many years and wants to make sure he joins the right place. As I give my usual HR advice on the subject, part of me goes back to the day when I folded up that admission letter and put it in my drawer (or did I just tear it up). What a different course my life would have taken if I hadn't done that. Or that mail I wrote. “So you are into stars”, or something like that I said. Sparking off an exchange of mails that snowballed. Or the moments when I kept quiet, wanting to let my guard down, but my ego not letting me, building so many walls around me that he finally couldn't even see through. Or that evening when I got bored and said “what the heck, let me make that profile and check it out”. Small…big…moments that shaped life forever.

I wonder if that’s what he’s thinking. His past, his present and his future are in this room, around him. They are not really that linked and don’t flow into one another. The book is more like a set of short stories with some linkages, rather than a series of chapters. To move to the next, you have to firmly end one. What if you want to revisit? But can’t?

R & I probe me – am I really ok? They can’t believe it when I laughingly tell them I am fine; there’s some sense of irony, but no emotion. “We were and are friends first”, I tell them confidently. I know others are worried too, but they know me too long, and so are not as bold and carefree as these two. They sent me careful texts, and I reply as carefully. There are others who don’t remember, or don’t care, or just don’t know what to say. Not surprising. I always know who’s standing firmly by me, in person or in spirit, as I go through the trials. And I know who aren't or won't. 

In a few hours I am standing below the stage, looking up at them. Arranging for tissues and water as they sweat their way through the greetings and blessings of hundreds of strangers. I wonder if I am being too forward in doing that, in talking to them, in suggesting actions. If I am being too forward in just being there. My aim was, and is, to comfort, to calm and to support. But is that what’s happening?

There’s heat, and humidity. And then some air conditioning. I am restless, wanting to go out and see how he’s doing. Sonal looks at me a little weirdly. I realize my guard is beginning to drop. It’s time to go. I say a hurried goodbye, there’s enough confusion around to not make that look unseemly. I avoid getting on the stage, the formalities would be too tiring. I say a few words of goodbye to his mom, P & S...thanking them with my eyes, even if I couldn't say anything.

I am heading back on the drive, when a voice calls out “Ralhan!” I turn back, he’s standing across the bushes, smiling a little, his face gleaming with sweat, the clothes shiny in the spotlight, his eyes soft and questioning and maybe even saying something. I know I am in the darkness. I don’t remember what we say. But I do manage to say bye. I wave my hand and move away, his face blurring. I keep waving, walking down the drive and then turn away completely. The dark interiors of the car are what I need, my refuge. 

A question in the morning

I am surrounded by a melee of colors and sweet, synthetic smells as I hang clothes out to dry. The warmth of the day is just beginning to make itself felt and I look forward to the many activities lined up with a mix of anticipation and mild irritation. A conversation with a loved one loops in my head as I turn to get back inside from the balcony. A movement catches the corner of my eye, makes me pause and look around. In the balcony of the house next door, a small boy is sitting on his haunches, his back towards me. From the clothes and the way he was sitting, he is probably the maid's son. Something about his stillness catches my attention. As I keep looking, he turns a little and I can see half his face. Every limb of his body is stationary, as if frozen by a spell. His little hands rest on his knees, his feet are glued to the floor. The unlined lips are half parted as if he is about to say something, but doesn't know what to. The eyes are quiet as well, though not as still as the rest of him. They are looking intently at the pram and toy scooter standing next to him on the balcony; the blues, whites and reds contrasting with the faded pallor of the T-shirt and shorts he is wearing. Several moments pass. There is ambient noise from the road and other apartments, a bead of sweat trickles down my back, a plane roars somewhere overhead and there is a rustle in the curtains of the apartment where he is sitting. He remains still, then suddenly gets up to go over to the other side of the pram. He bends down, I can't see what he's holding. Then he rears up again and comes back to his original place, holding a colorful ball, the kind you give to babies. He sits down again, holding the ball, his limbs back to their stance, his eyes quiet again, looking at the pram and the toy scooter. I turn away finally and go back into the comforting darkness of my bedroom. 

What have we done to have a little boy whose limbs are still and eyes are blank?

Waiting

The headiness of the year is coming to an end. Perhaps hastened by the slew of unpleasant news. Or the inevitable resurgence of harsh realities in the face of sweet denial. Looks like it's time to take decisions. Cut through the clutter, go back to basics, examine your core values, look around you to assess impact...and decide the road you want to take. Or...you could just ignore all this and close your eyes and know what you want and...plunge.

But that's the crux of it. Is this about what we want? Or has it become about what we need? Or even more, what's the right thing to do? The egoist in me refuses to concede and stakes claim to what I believe is rightfully mine. The realist in me advises to look for what we need...especially in the long run. The humanist in me forces me to look at the right thing to do.

Even as the head and heart aches with the processing of so much of thought and emotion that accompanies each of these questions, I am aware that, thankfully, I don't really need to decide. The decisions will be made for me. The family will chart their own journey and I shall observe. The kingmakers shall provide me opportunities as they see fit and I shall follow. And Vik will sort out his mind and his heart and tell me, verbally or otherwise, where he is going...and I shall retreat or accompany, as the case may be.

Again, the egoist in me rebels at the thought of the course of my next few years being in the hand of so many external hands. Yet I remind myself - it's not the events in our life that shape us, its what we do with them and how we react.

So...my destiny remains in my hands. I shall just wait for the events to unfold. Eyes closed, fingers crossed. 

"Its just a bad time"

I find it eerie how some weeks just beg for this description. Like last week, when a spate of bad news flowed in from each direction...friends, relatives, team members...mostly related to health. A team member's cancerous condition returned and required immediate surgery; a close friend's brother suddenly developed an abscess in the back and needed surgery. One friend suffered from a fortnight of allergy induced cough & cold, while another friend's relatives went through a shocking third death in the family within a period of 3 months. Each day I heard something new, spent some time thinking about it, possibly reached out the concerned people to offer my prayers or support, and then resolutely went back to the minutiae of daily life. 

Till Friday, when I received the panicked call from D about the accident involving his parents. It was a nightmare come alive. My heart bleeds at the thought of what they have already gone through, are going through and will go through for quite some time to come. I can't even begin to try and put myself in their place...or for that matter D's, whose worry for them is eating him alive. Yes, I am carrying on with my so-called "normal" life...worrying about program launches, catching up on friends' lives, eating, drinking, preparing for Vik's upcoming trip. But the knot remains. And I am just praying and hoping that "this bad time" will be over soon. 

Random Realizations 1

Think. Analyse. Dissect. Lay bare under the light. Tinker. Observe. Think. Analyse. Lose the magic.

I want the magic. I want to believe in Santa Claus. I want to believe in karmic connections. I want to believe in hope.

But..if I indulge the intellectual, I kill the romantic.



Those who can't, teach, I have never believed in that, but I wouldn't deny that there's a germ of truth in it.

Is that what I am? A teacher? A good coach, counselor, enabler but not an achiever myself?

I sit with a blank sheet in front of me to write my "story" for FY13. And I am blank. Nothing to say, no vision, nothing to achieve. That's me.



Nice lines from Alexander McCall Smith's book - "Beauty triggers interest because we yearn for the beautiful. We want to possess it because it represents harmony and resolution - things that we all need, whether we know it or not."

Suddenly it crashed around me....

Will my family fall apart? Will I be able to help everyone through with dignity and sanity? How have I contributed to this? Could I have taken different decisions a long time ago? Have I been irresponsible? How much pain can Mummy go through without giving in? How much does Dolly need to bear? Is this something to do with us as a family? Are we inherently dysfunctional, under the guise of unconventionality? Are the others right? Would Daddy’s being around made it better? Or worse?

A drive to office. Irritating mails from the idiot. Potluck with the team. Laughter. Food. Cake. A mock-fight with Nithya. A spontaneous decision to bunk office and watch Barfi. Immediate booking of tickets. Appreciating the ones who got the food. Keeping spirits high. An sms exchange with Mum.  Then the movie. A muted implosion of thought and emotion, a rumination on love and loss. Too many uncomfortable parallels. Leaves me in tears. Which I cant show.

What am I doing? In the name of “connect” or whatever fancy word we use, is this the right thing to do? Or is this to be embraced and experienced, as long as it feels right? Can the feelings itself be trusted? How about betrayal? How about trust? How about the guilt? Isn’t that valid too? Can I distance myself from one but not the other? Am I making a fool of myself? Or of him? Have I been the cause of someone else’s pain? Am I heading downhill? Or is this like a glider…flying high, yet fragile, about to crash? Have I even experienced what I think I have?

A drive back home.  Unable to talk to Vik. A show at home. Of normalcy, of calmness. See the gifts purchased. Enquire after logistics. Assure and reassure Arav. Read a book blankly. Check mails. Work. An sms from UP, a mail from Becky. A heavy dinner, a cup of tea. Some silence in the balcony. Desultory conversation. More mails. Get some of the emotion out, write about Barfi.

Where is it going? Can I keep trusting that thing I call “destiny”? Does everything actually happen for a reason, or is that a consolation? Is it ok to not get irritated or frustrated and adopt the “all at the right time” approach? Am I just being unrealistic? Am I also part of the current brigade that has an inflated view of their own abilities and value? Am I also a frog in the well? Am I being unfair, or are Becky/ UP and the others? Do I continue to trust my instincts or let the thought process dictate my decisions?

Finally, bed. Toss and turn. And finally drift into another disturbed sleep. Teeth fall out, he makes love to me. And cries. I wake up sweating. What does this all mean?

Lessons in love and tragedy

Across a palette of painstakingly detailed scenes unfolds an enchanting play of tragic comedy in Barfi. The unfair blows of fate and the pain of unrequited love are juxtaposed with Chaplinesque sequences and the flames of romance that warm the heart as much as it aches.

Ranbir continues his spree of bravura performances with the portrayal of a boy who, despite being deaf and mute, is practically all sunshine and laughter. If the concept seems unbelievable, Ranbir injects it with just the exact note of melancholy and self-deprecation to avoid going over the top. This performance is right up there with Sanjeev Kumar of Koshish, Sridev in Sadma or Rani in Black.

The foil to him is Ileana, the new girl from the south. Though her porcelain complexion and wide eyed wonder brings back echoes of Manisha from 1942- A Love Story, she helps us quickly forget that comparison by expressing a surprising level of depth as her characters evolves. 

But the surprise is Priyanka. In a role that has less screen time and scope for physical beauty than the other two, she plays an autistic girl, unloved by her immediate family, with a gauche awkwardness that appears as real and appealing as some of her recent performances appeared robotic. Without the pressure of being made to carry the film on her shoulders, she acts the perfect third angle to this “triangle”.

The story moves at its own pace, cocking a snook at the recent spate of frenetic melodramas. The screenplay goes back and forth across decades and cities (Kolkata and Darjeeling) with consummate ease and a solid knowledge that the audience watching this movie will not get irritated by complexity and in fact may welcome it. The same confidence is displayed by presenting the turning points of the movie in some of the most sublime moments ever seen on the screen – whether it be the death of a loved one or the unification of lovers.

Through all this, the music often takes the place of dialogues, communicating light-heartedness and pathos with equal intensity. The production values are classy, playing with colors in a muted way, yet not restraining from giving us a panoramic view when the screenplay deserved it. The verdant hills and the chaotic streets look equally appealing, yet never in a plastic, re-touched way. Each element of the movie forces us to question our fundamental assumptions about love and tragedy, and and our own experiences, leading us to that all-too familiar question - Have we loved at all? And if we did, what did we lose? And if we didn't, do we have the courage to?

After losing his way with the big budget Kites, Anurag Basu returns to the world he had got us familiar with in Gangster and has now polished further – a world where each gesture speaks a thousand words, and where hopeless romanticism blooms in a world of commonsensical reality, reducing us to tears in the midst of laughter. 

My encounter with my poet

On a fine Sunday morning, I felt restless. And sensed something was afoot with my beautiful poet. He had been cheery and productive for the last week. Which was great. But I know that the man lives on two levels. And if its happy and cheery on top, it's obviously coming at the cost of something below. Like someone drawn towards the depths of the sea it admires and fears, I probed. And I got a series of messages in return. Which elevated, provoked, disturbed, saddened, alarmed, frustrated, enamored and absorbed me, sending me on a whirlwind of thought and emotion for the rest of the day. 

Most people stay in one space, and I adjust my thinking and reactions to that. My conversations with Darshan are as practical as they are whimsical with L. I laugh at Wendy Holden's chick-lit, and delve into the intricacies of humanity with J.M. Coetzee. I enjoy the straight forward, well paced story telling of The Pirates of the Caribbean and lose myself in the magic of Before Sunset. 

But what do I do with someone like Vik who straddles the worlds with an apparent comfort that would shame people of intellect and character? The answer is - nothing. I can do nothing,  I control nothing. For the first time in my life, I subsume my ego to the complexity and circumstances of another person, and all I can do is react - laugh, love, fear, retreat, reach out, plunge, extract, laugh, love, fear - and expand my intellectual and emotional reaches to accommodate and partly absorb the words and energies that come my way. 

This is what my came my way today - 

Creatively I draw a blank…or actually…I have nothing to tell the world…I have a huge blank and myself and my people

I’m blank…and don’t have anything to offer the world and that is painful for my existence. My mind gives direction to my will…and my heart does some preliminary ratings…emotions are a cauldron in suspension, my desk has taken priority

Your locus of control is external…which will always keep you charged and excited and effervescent, except for the days when your discussions are dominated by idiots, then you get angered. But you are good at making good of a temper.

I am all internal…and what can grow on an island, where deserts rule, cacti, and floods, extremities. Very few people can survive me. And that’s the bitter in the sweet pill, the fear that people have – that one day I will turn around and shut myself out of their lives, towards my own extinction.

The fear that you probably have too…you bring out the artist in me…and that artist suffers every day by own consumption…of what it does not service or be a part of…the wanderer needs the roots of wandering, but how can a wanderer grow roots. But the roots grew and the wanderer did not; what belonged to the world, belongs to lust now.

All that I said will not lead me out of my predicament. I cannot obviously renounce the world. All of this is mental masturbation, which is classified as lust driven. Lust driven by the origins of lust…the wanderer still hurts for its lust of withdrawal from all things permanent and seeing the world, its depths for its own sake. That is the allure…and that is not lust, since lust is insider and allure is outside.

I cannot take two years off and live the dreams that are distant. For that I have to be born again and different. And sometimes I question this life’s worth…pennies I guess.

And with that, I will work towards my make-believes. 

Musings in the week of Aug 21

Each year, my birthday brings with it its own share of reflections, ruminations and resolutions. Somehow the period around it is always active, always rich with fodder for thought and emotion, that I usually chew on for days, turning it over and over until the sharpness of taste is distilled into a more acceptable evenness.

This week too, there's a lot to think about, and I suspect some of it will remain for a long time to come. Like the passing of Anjan's nani. Even in her death, she has preserved that nobility and dignity of spirit that I had come to symbolize with her. For the last few months, she had been quietly letting go of all her possessions, distributing them to the people around her. During her last moments, she clearly expressed her wish that everything should proceed as it was, including Arav's birthday celebration. And she donated her body to research, a commitment she had way back in 1988. I remember the gentility of her soul and the strength of character, the artist in her. In that one meeting during the wedding, I had been deeply affected by her, and shall continue to be so.

And then there's the other extreme in ages. During our trip to Wonderla, I was so impressed by Naveen's children and the generosity of spirit they displayed towards Arav. They meet him not more than a couple of times a year, yet the affection and care they bestow on him is unparalleled even by the standards of the closest of siblings. As Arav would put his in theirs and look up at them with a trusting smile, and then follow them into the most daring (and for him, most unlikely) of places, my heart would melt and swell with an unnatural mix of wonder, pride and gratitude. Maybe that's why one always equates the very young and the very old - their purity of intent.

But life maintains a balance and it's been painful to see the turmoil and heartbreak that Sonali is going through and the serious depression in Unni. Sonali's situation also forces me to acknowledge uncomfortable parallels with mine, that make me think again, what am I doing? And she...she doesn't deserve it...so much intelligence, so much character, so much style...and yet something like this has changed life for her, at least for now.

Unni's another matter. My weird, umbilical connection with him has ensured that I feel that I am perpetually on a see-saw where he is concerned. I can sense the downward spiral he's getting into, and I know from past experience that there's nothing much I can do except hold the net out and pray. Especially when I am thousands of miles away.

Speaking of umbilical cords, I don't know where things are with V today. I know that one day the rollercoaster will get to me, and I will get tired of the dance of intimacy and retreat. And that one day the negatives for him will win over the positives. But, surprisingly, its survived. Every time I feel that it's over or about to get over (like the last ten days), suddenly arrives a day when the connect and intimacy is restored. Until next time. So I dont know...continue to take each day as it comes, starting afresh.

Same with career actually. Dont know where it's going or even supposed to go. Being a little fatalistic, adopting the attitude of "I have done my bit, now the rest is up to..." ...Fate? God? I don't know...but I still believe that ultimately things that are meant to happen will happen, and everything happens for a reason. So whether it be my career...or V...I shall just try and remain true to myself, and trust in the higher order. 

Tired eyes

Becky said my eyes look tired. Which they are. So this is a random collection of thoughts and questions that are making me tired right now...

When people ask me how I am, can I just look at them and say that my heart broke? And that too for the second time in five months? And that its more than I can handle?

So many people around me are going through such severe stress and changes in their life that it hurts. Particularly as there's only so much I can do to support and help...many of the issues are completely their own.

V's comment on a closed room today made me confront the room I have locked myself into. Immersed in living from day to day, yearning for more, yet not able to create that time and space for it. Or not wanting to. Which is scarier.

The more I walk, the more I stay where I am. The more I do, the more I do of the same.

The energy, the joy, the exuberance of the first half of the year is gone. I have retreated again, a little puzzled, a little hurt, and hopefully a little wiser. To the comfort of an absorbing work life,a caring family, lovely friends and instant gratification. Keep the person inside under control.

Am I out of the woods yet?

Ironically enough, I feel as if V's trip in May was the last time I was truly happy and at peace. Since then, all I can remember is a whirlwind of confusion, pain, worry, doubt, apprehensions, vulnerability that has enveloped me. The series of death anniversaries...DB's decision and announcements....V's low period...Foni mama's health debacle...Anjan's continuing turmoil...uncertainty over the career...an underwhelming series of work days...maybe I am getting into a self pity mode, but I am struggling to remember the last time I genuinely felt...good. About myself or my loved ones or even the world in general. Or even the last time I was able to express anything I felt. The fixed smile is starting to hurt now. So are the platitudinous responses.

Well...the period of May and June is usually like that. As I hesitantly and hopefully emerge from the woods, I just pray for simplicity of thought, peace of mind and freedom of expression. Let the beautiful moments of the first half of the year get captured and reappear. 

Goodbye

Tum Kyon Chale Aate Ho
Har Roz In Khwabon Mein
Chupke Se Aa Bhi Jaao
Ek Din Meri Baahon Mein
Tere Hi Sapne Andheron Mein Ujaalon Mein
Koi Nasha Hain Teri Aankhon Ke Pyaalon Mein
Tu Mere Khwaabon Mein Jawaabon Mein Sawaalon Mein
Har Din Chura Tumhein Main Laata Hoon Khayalon Mein
Kya Mujhe Pyar Hain Aah
Kaisa Khumaar Hain Aah
Kya Mujhe Pyar Hain Aah
Kaisa Khumaar Hain Aah

Goodbye

Cloud of pain

For the last five minutes or maybe more, I have been sitting looking at this blank screen. I am waiting. I am not sure what I am waiting for. I do, actually. I am waiting for the words to come out. For the purge. The release. Letting go. Getting it all out. Whatever the right phrase is, I guess I am just looking for just some plain simple relief from this toxic, heavy mix i have been carrying inside me for the last couple of days.

Ever since I had that weird dream, I knew something was wrong. And every chat, every message I got confirmed it. Not explicitly. But just a sense. And I knew I was right. But that's the wonderful thing about us and our circumstances. The silences speak louder. The truncated sentences are longer. All I could do was quietly send whatever positive energy I could. And, less quietly, provide pleasant distractions.

But this wall has gotten to me now. I want to bang against it, lean against it, hug it. I want to reach out beyond it and send all I have to heal, to cure. And I cant. Can there be a more helpless feeling in the world? Of feeling the pain of a loved one and being unable to do anything about it. I know that at the end of the day, we are all alone, but I would at least like to have the choice of being there for someone, of giving a hug, of just being a presence that acts as an affirmation.

Even as I try and live with the knowledge that that's not possible, there is also a rueful acceptance that even if these constraints didn't exist, even if I could surmount the wall, it wouldn't really make a difference. It wouldn't. More than any other instance over the last few months, this has brought home to me how much on the periphery I really am. How I don't really have any control, any impact, any meaning in the larger picture at all. For all the depth of the connect, the beauty of the moments, I don't really matter.

While the helplessness is something I have felt before with other people, and in some way have become familiar with the pain of it, the knowledge of my own insignificance is a new and unfamiliar sensation.

So all I can do is swallow this horrible pill, and try and to not think about the pain that I know he's going through. Instead, to block, to stonewall, to distract, to dull. Except for talking about it directly with someone (how's that for irony), I tried it all this evening. Some random shopping. A pleasant dinner with a close friend, chatting away to glory. Drinks. A horror movie in a theater. A long drive with booming music. Then a shorter one with soothing music. P G Wodehouse. Work.

Nothing worked. It's sharp as ever, making me wince as I say anything, do anything. I know sleep won't come easily...and when it does, it will be anything but peaceful. So I wait here. In front of this screen which is no longer blank. Filled with words that express what I feel. This is my release. But it's not enough.

I will just pray. For him. For me. 

Fury

I walked closer to the shore and felt as if I was in a silent movie. The rustle of the trees in the wind, the cry of the animals of the night, my footsteps on the slushy path, or even my own breath - I was conscious of each one but couldn't hear a single sound. All I could hear was a deafening roar, the kind of roar that penetrates to your very being and digs out every single fear you have ever had and drags it to the front.

The shore itself was an extension of the theme of a movie. Or maybe pretending this was a movie was the only way I could keep my fear at bay. Black rocks glistening with moisture stretched endlessly to my right and every couple of minutes, a tongue of white would make its way up and lap at them, steady in its intent to erode and corrupt. The moon, full and high, shone on the sea far into the distance and I watched with a glimmer of foreboding as a silver line formed at the edge of my vision and slowly moved forward, timing with precision my heightening emotion. All thoughts were erased from my mind as the line of white became larger and larger with every passing second, resolving into multiple parts, each more ferocious looking than the other. Just as it rose into a wall of white fury, a spray of mist blinded me momentarily and I just sensed, but didn't see, as it crashed into the boulders that stood between it and me. In that split second of silence just after the crash, I could hear the trees swaying behind me as if consternation. Or maybe a warning...after all, they had been around much longer and seen the damage and tragedy this fury could create.

Even as I backed away, I knew and understood that there was no malice. This was relentless ruthlessness, a way of life. And tomorrow, it will give way to calm, deceiving us into cheerful thoughts and pleasant moments, till it decided to turn colors again. In the black. In the night. 

Standing Up

Like Govinda movies and Harry Potter books, I have discovered another great leveller recently - stand up comedy. A roomful of people of disparate backgrounds, religions, occupations, sizes, shapes and aesthetic sensibilities get together in an atmosphere of forced congeniality, usually lubricated by alcohol and fried food, and then laugh their guts out for the next ninety-odd minutes. Well, there are worse ways than spending an evening.

Especially an evening where the main entertainment is usually young or youngish men, good or at least reasonably decent looking, with a sharp or nearly-sharp sense of humor. At least they try and make you laugh. And look nice while doing so. They also hit all the right buttons - disgust at our politicians, irritation with over exposed celebrities, condescension towards our lesser-evolved countrymen from Haryana and the like...and the mother lode of them all, Delhiites. I have been to at least eight or more stand up acts over the last year and  a half, and it is incredible how nothing unites this nation more than jokes about Delhi and its inhabitants. I of course shy away from identifying myself as one of "them" and therefore enjoy the jokes as much, if not more, than anyone else.

As much as the jokes themselves, the comics who deliver them are equally interesting. Some are clearly cutting their teeth, at the cost of our sanity. Bursts of nervous laughter, pauses that last for just that nanosecond too long, too many filler words...it's easy to spot those. What are less easy to spot and tend to mislead are the ones who are still coming up the curve, but have learnt to disguise that fact. They start out with a couple of really good ones and just as the crowd is warming up, deliver a flat joke. The laughter's a little less now, the applause more subdued. Then there's again that pause and a flicker of the eyes betrays that all is not as it seems. The smiles become a little frozen and the loudest applause is when he steps off the stage. And makes way for the one or two who are clearly the stars of the show. And stars they are. After a few minutes of watching them, it's easy to realize that it's not really the material that's making you laugh, but the person. The pauses, the twinkle in his eye (or the poker face), the hand gestures, the interaction with the audience...this is clearly a performer. And  like any natural performer, would have been good at whatever he had taken up - whether it be comedy or dance. Some people are meant to be on stage, entertaining others.

But why not women? I can understand the low ratios of women in other areas, where an industry or a vocation has been built over decades. But for a field which is relatively new and brash in our country, why aren't more women on that stage? Are women funny? Yes. Can they be natural performers? Hell, yes. Then why don't we have more women as stand up comics? Maybe it's do with the natural ruthlessness that a comic needs to have, an honest eye that seeks out the bullshit and just throws it away, with a grimace and a laugh that the audience joins in with. Many women may not be that ruthless...and even if they are, much of the audience may not accept it in them either. Even now, I see several people forcing laughter out when topics of a sensitive nature are being pilloried, or when abuses are being thrown about (which most stand-up comics seem very fond of doing, a slightly teenager-ish touch if you ask me). Their reaction to the same from a woman will probably be to just walk out. And that's bad for business.

But maybe the business needs to evolve. And it will. Today, everyone goes for comedy, even the ones who may not like it that much. And they all go for all kinds of comedy. Over a period of time, I see segments getting formed...of comics who are clearly identified for a certain brand of comedy, and of an audience that knows what it wants and goes for it.

Till then, we will continue the trial and error method. Sometimes, like tonight with Vir Das, we will get lucky. Sometimes, with some budding non-talent, we won't. As they say, anything for a laugh.    

Yearning

The strains of "o re piya" reverberate through my mind...for the last few days, the wistful notes of this song have permeated my entire day, mingling with the subdued desires and the unexpressed disappointments to create an overwhelming atmosphere of melancholy that I find intensely self-indulgent and irritating. My energy levels continue to be low, the reasons for which I am not interested in dissecting. The books I have read, including The Swimming Pool Library, exacerbate this mood and the lack of any sustained interaction with people who would normally perk me up prolongs it.

Every few hours I look up at the colors of the sky, where the blend of grey and brown makes me feels as if the collective miseries of the populace have drifted upwards. The sense of oppression, of bearing a burden, deepens.

I long for a cool breeze, a splash of water, a vista of green, a smile of love, a hug of affection, an exchange of stimulants, a gesture of respect, a symbol of achievement, an expression of art, a moment of reaffirmation. I want to be alive again. 

turnaround...

After a wretched, numb week, some relief. A couple of pleasant chats with V, an unexpectedly stimulating conversation at work (but what insights! I was freaked), an evening of beer and laughter, a late night peaceful conversation over Monopoly - got me feeling more like myself. So, despite the continuing doubts, questions and pain, this weekend will hopefully be a relatively nice one. 

I just want to be me

Why cant I just be myself? How is everyone else allowed to be grumpy, low, depressed, snappy, tired, switched off, confused, irritated, off, angry, disappointed, disillusioned...while I start feeling guilty, or am made to feel guilty, as soon as I display any of this for more than a few moments at a stretch? So...more for the sake of others than myself...I get up every morning, and put on a smile and some brains at my dressing table, enough to last me the day and its interactions and conversations. But finally I am alone. And if I want to think about the horrible month that May always is, I will. And if I want to get angry at people, I will. And if I want to feel sorry for myself, I will. And if I want to swim in the past, I will. And if I want to not think about tomorrow, I won't. And if I want to scream, I will. If I want to drive with music blaring, I will. If I want to cry, I will. If I want to sit in silence, I will. I will be myself. 

Bittersweet? Or nothing?

Its funny how things work...and how all the disjointed parts seems to fit together in the end like a parable.

I am not sure where it all started...maybe with my long vacation-cum-renaissance? And then the calmer, more aware, and possibly more receptive me. And receptive to...that fateful morning at Golden Palms. A few days, I am still struggling with the implications for my Goa trip with DB, as Deepa and L ask me fundamental questions - if your mindspace could be taken over, maybe it wasn't occupied? if you haven't moved on, can he?.

Coincidentally, it was L who had acted as the catalyst for my change of heart in 2006 too. Anyway, so there I was in Goa, striking a much delayed conversation with DB, causing and feeling some awkwardness, some pain and some relief. I came back in tears.

And then two stories unfolded. Mine has no middle and no end, and is more a rollercoaster ride than a journey.  His was a conscious saga, of reflection and sanity, and possibly peace too. Borne of pain, it is nevertheless a positive step.

I didn't know his story of course. Till today. The long chat, the news of his impending marriage. I shared my thoughts, my questions, my concerns, my genuine wishes. I know what he was waiting for. My feelings. But, like the last few years, I stayed quiet. I really don't know what I feel. 

Restless sleep and a tearful day

I spent more than ninety minutes on Deepa’s couch tonight, a fitting metaphor for the day. She could sense my restlessness, my fluctuating mood and the detachment, and asked me about it. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to bring forth the simple thing that was at the root…it’s the day Daddy passed away.

While our family and I don’t believe in them, I wonder if that’s why we have all these rituals on such occasions – to distract and soothe? Like any other day when I have something on my mind, I spent the day at two levels…conducting normal conversations, going about my normal work at one; and going through a tougher set of thoughts and emotions at another. Maybe just immersing myself in mindless rituals would have calmed me down…like gardening. Anyway.

I remember my primary emotion in the few months immediately after the event in 1997 was not grief or shock, but worry. A few weeks before he passed away, he and Mummy had made a painful, irritating, expensive and useless trip to Delhi, the true reason for which got revealed by Mama later – that, in a hotel room, Daddy had asked Mama and Masi to take care of us if/when something happened to him. I know that he was worried about us, knowing very well our financial and emotional condition at that time. And I am superstitious enough to believe that a soul that has so much attachment and worry, can never find peace or release.

So my mantra over the next few years, every time I thought of him, was “We are ok…don’t worry….we are ok”. I never allowed the depressions to last too long, never allowed the feelings of helplessness to overwhelm me. Chin up, doing what I like, being as happy as I could on a day to day basis, I could just assert my message.

Today as I look back, I think I succeeded to an extent. Or rather, we succeeded. From the rubble that our lives were fifteen years ago, we have managed to build something that, we believe, is strong and sustainable. Of course, one never knows what tomorrow holds. But at least these fifteen years have seen many moments of growth, joy, love, happiness…and most importantly, independence. Something we lacked for many years and craved.

But am I happy with myself? Have I truly done what I should? I love so many, I am loved by so many…but have I always been there, supported, eased the lives of all those people? Betu, for whom I know Mama was terribly worried when he passed away? Mummy, whose inner loneliness has just increased her clinical state of depression? L, who continues to face challenges in the face of all justice? Shalini, who struggled with fundamentals throughout with a smile on her face? Unni, who tries to balance his inner demons with the harsh realities of the world? Dolly, who truly made every single effort for Nanima? Nanima herself, who tried to speak to me much more often than I did?

I could go on and on with more names…but I know there’s no use in that…this will just become an exercise in self-pity. So I will stop. And just let this mix of grief, worry, disappointment, relief, pride, contentment, discontentment take me over and lead me through another night of restless sleep. 

Care to get on a rollercoaster?

The easiest response to a question around how you are doing is to mention that you are on a rollercoaster. Most people either smile knowingly or sympathetically, and sometimes nod their heads in commiseration or make gentle clucking sounds. A few of them will clutch your arm and lean in for more information. That’s because everyone believes their life is a rollercoaster, even the ones who are seated comfortably on rides that might appear grandmotherly to you. The theory of relativity applies here too.

Relative or not, I do liken my life to a rollercoaster quite often, as any perusal of my blog posts reveals. This is not because I have any love for them. In fact, my oft-repeated desire is also to lead a quiet, stable life. I do suspect though that within me lives a little gene who disagrees vehemently and plots marvelously to ensure that as I am making my way to the pink candy stand in the corner, I suddenly find myself about to embark on a rollercoaster. And once you are at the gate, and the gatekeeper looks at you with an expectant gaze, you cant help but shrug and board the damn thing.

And considering that I have boarded the damn thing all too often, I may as well give something back to the world, my own mini-tutorial for boys and girls who have embarked, or are thinking of embarking, on a journey on a rollercoaster.

So here it is, my “Top 10 things to remember when riding a rollercoaster” –

1. The rollercoaster will always start with a jerk, pun unintended. Don’t expect a smooth take-off, this will be sudden, it will be quick, and it will leave you breathless. What it will not be is out of your control, you did take the decision to sit on it in the first place.
2. The dread that you feel as it starts is not a figment of your over-active imagination, but your well oiled instincts kicking in. And they are right. You are in for a “ride”. And it’s too late to get off, so you may as well sit back and grin. Weakly or otherwise.
3. The ride will gain pace at a rate that will leave you questioning your judgment and looking longingly at those happy-looking people sitting on those rides far, far below you. Just don’t blame the gatekeeper for ushering you in.
4. While your terror is yours and absolutely yours, it is also shared by many others who are around you. They can’t help you, they can’t even give you a hug, but they feel the same way and that should count. After all, misery loves company.
5. As you reach the peak, and feel the burst of exhilaration that comes with it, keep in mind the sharp drop and sinking feeling that will surely follow it. Not that knowing it will help you prevent it or even be prepared for it. Its just that knowledge is armor. Of a kind.
6. The good news that is the corollary also holds true. As you hit rock bottom and want your life to end (or your brains to blow themselves out), a little part of you will provide that much needed silver lined thought that an upswing will follow soon.
7. When the rollercoaster turns to the left, you will need to swing a little to the right to balance it out. And the reverse too. If you want to bring some stability into the ride, and into your veins, follow this little trick.
8. However tough your seatbelts are, however tightly you hold on to the sides, you will still feel as if you are falling in space and there’s nothing, and no one, to hold you together. Which is not altogether untrue. Remember, you are alone in your terror and the knot you have in your stomach. But yes, if you were sensible enough to put some seatbelts in the first place, you are inherently safe.
9. There will the screams of your fellow passengers, the twisting & turning blur of the surrounding landscape, the screech of the ride’s wheels and assorted other forms of sensory overload during the ride. To retain sanity, shut it all out and focus on your heart, even if its beating at an inhuman rate. The steady beats and what they tell you will even you out.
10. And finally, your heartbeat will slow to a normal pace as the ride slows and comes to a halt. Even as normalcy returns and you feel that you might live again, don’t be surprised if you find yourself questioning if that life is worth living at all. Especially if the halt is sudden, which it usually is. You will get off, and totter and twist and maybe even fall down in a heap.

But later, once a suitable distance has asserted itself, you will talk to someone about the ride and say “it was worth it”. And it is. 

All around me

Every smile, every touch, every gesture, every smell.

The stream of lights, the extra bean bag, the empty bottles of water, the pink movie cover, the tissue box, the strip of medicine, the half-dry towel, the pummeled pillow , the unwashed mugs

The moments, the words, the music, the dance.

Within and around. Everywhere.

V

In the deep lurks an immense reservoir of senses, where emotions past and present mingle to form a complex compound that is as opaque as it is fluid. Each experience is distilled to its purest form and flows into this vast space, and is returned as a learning, a judgment or a belief.

The walls appear solid and near impossible to breach, and shimmer protectively whenever confronted with corrosive situations and souls. But it doesn't take long for the wind to flow in reverse, and the vitriol to seep into the reservoir. Over a longer period of time, as it accumulates, the vitriol starts corroding from within and makes it way outwards. And the world around a seemingly peaceful depth is surprised by this, not realizing that this is the same acid that they had sent in the first place.

At the surface, the eyes twinkle and laugh and yet pierce effortlessly through the fake armors of the world around, laying bare the insecurities, the hopes, the aspirations, the subtle desires, the machinations, the aggression. These follies flow back and contaminate the very soul that looked upon them askance earlier, leaving the eyes dulled and in pain.

A joyous soul tries to find harmony in the world around, balancing the deeper needs of that reservoir with the practical need of the surface, trying to build relationships that last, to find meaning in the mundane. And every so often, the joyousness starts feeling a little forced, and the balance goes awry, and the puzzlement and confusion shows up, translating into a maelstrom of words and thoughts that create art. 

The mind is that of a man, the heart of a child. The push and the pull continues to a point where the soul tires itself out, and then halts, leaving in its place a silence and an emptiness that can heal and desolate.

Beauty is relative. And a state of mind. Harmony is a desire. Emotions are the baggage. Art is a prison and a liberation. And love. Love is stimulus. Love is relief. 

Combiflam & Coffee

Since January, life’s been giving me little nudges, little winks, hinting at times to come. There would be a spurt of energy…and then it would settle down into a hum. There would be a mad encounter…and then routine would take over. But the energy levels gradually escalated, manifesting themselves in impulses and decisions that in turn stimulated more energy, both of the positive and negative kind. And similar spurts of activity and irritation at work gradually increased in frequency.

And the music reached a crescendo the last few weeks – and how!

Key work milestones rolled out in regular succession, each bringing with it a cycle of attention, discussions, communication, reviews and some celebration too…

A devastatingly disappointing conversation at work got me to fall off the wagon and re-enter the world of Long Island Iced Tea…

Days stretched…sometimes the gaps between when the day ended and the next day began were too less even to partially switch off…

The silences increased, punctuated by an occasional conversation from one end and a poke through sms from another end…a poke that would sometimes draw a response, and sometimes not. Foreseeable, yes. Understandable, partly. Acceptable, no. Avoidable, no.

And I had barely learnt to cope with one rollercoaster, when another one threatened to take off, as if confirming that the first was just a trailer. One weekend spent in intense discussion…and then a week of the struggle between mind and heart. Five minds & hearts are dealing with this…and will deal with it for a while…

Catalyst, my “baby”, reached a conclusion point. Frenetic activity in the preceding weeks couldn’t hide the emotion I felt.

All this within a few weeks…and the coming days wont be much better, I have run through a strip of combiflam and god knows how much caffeine. Exercise is very occasional. My eyes look dull, my hair’s dull, and my skin’s terrible. Yet somehow I have done all the right things, said all the right things, smiled and laughed at the right time, and demonstrated or shared positive energy with the right people. Because its not as if I am unhappy, even if there have been some low moments.

I. AM. JUST. VERY. TIRED. 

The ego of mice...

The best laid schemes of Mice and Men
oft go awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Robert Burns, To a Mouse

I don’t know why we even bother. When we make elaborate plans for our life, when we construct watertight compartments for our mind, when we loudly declare our likes and dislikes, when we categorically state what we shall never do…all we are doing is pandering to our ego…and tempting fate.

I am all for individual will and I truly, honestly believe that our state of happiness, and maybe even gratification, lies in our hands. But that doesn’t happen because individuals are able to shape the events in their lives, it happens because individuals can respond to the events in their lives, and by the sheer force of their will or optimism quotient, remain on top of the events, rather than the let the events submerge them.

But what do we mere mortals care about the difference? We confuse one with the other, and are constantly seeking to determine our destiny through careful plans and predictions.

Eighteen years ago, I had my first lesson. Nan lived close by, I had started thinking of a career in journalism or the administrative services, and even started planning out the areas I would want to live in. We suddenly moved to Bangalore and life changed forever.

People that I relied on, treated as an anchor, would one day not be there. Leaving me shocked and gasping for breath.

Sometimes it’s not as dramatic. For many years, I had scorned the concept of a wash basin outside the confines of a bathroom, usually installed near the dining area. For four years, I lived in two houses which had that.

And even at work. A proposal, detailed with the painstaking craft of a Tanjore painting, wouldn’t see the light of day. It was either just not the right time yet…or it dragged on for so long that the right time passed us right by.

What I find particularly amusing is when friends and colleagues try and compartmentalize their lives, usually employing the statement “I keep my personal and professional lives separate” to laughable results. Six years ago, Mum told me I had become unrecognizable as a person, and I knew where that was coming from. A happy me has always been a productive me. We aren’t a machine with multiple compartments, where we can deploy different personalities depending on whom or what resides there. We are people. And there will be leakage.

But our ego and, to be fair, our desire for security and predictability, prevents us from acknowledging that, much less believing it. We keep asking ourselves (and others) the completely futile question “where do you see yourself five years from now?” That could be better worded as “if you continue to have control over your life, where do you see yourself five years ago?” of course, that would make the question redundant. When faced with this question, from colleagues, interviewers and assorted well-wishers, I am tempted to reply “the way the world is going, and how my finances are, I might just be sucking cock in the trenches of Taliban”.

But I desist. This is not something we can help. We will keep making plans, and God will keep disposing of them (hopefully, God shall also forgive me for using so many clichés in this post). Less than six months ago, I confidently told my close friends that, the ambiguity of the current relationship aside, I am quite happy as I am and certainly am not going in for anything that even remotely resembles anything that has potential to be emotional or serious.

Famous last words. 

Mama-shaadi and black holes

Mum found the “mama-shaadi” video (as we used to call it) on their computer, and copied it and got it here. This video was a regular source of entertainment for our family…one of the first to be taken, and since we were one of the few people to have a VCR then, this video was replayed countless times for visiting relatives.

Each time, there was a comforting regularity around our observations and comments, chief among them being the lamentation that the “idiot” videographer hardly took any coverage of our family, which incidentally has turned out to be a pattern since then! Then there were the usual comments about what people wore, the laughter at Dolly’s antics, the irritation at my refusing to get on the ghodi and being replaced by “some child”, the not-so-subdued murmurings about the “chaalu” looking faces on the other side, the amusement at the height difference between the couple, and the sneaky pleasure of rewinding the tape and watching people taking food out of their mouths!

For so many years, this video’s been missing . We watched parts of it again today on the laptop, in its bruised and battered state. But the emotions didn’t change. Daddy standing tall, with a drink in his hand, quietly organizing stuff. Nanima looking devastatingly beautiful in that light blue saree, which was such a favorite of mine. Mama looked quietly happy, chatting, eating, glancing at Mami often. And us. Mummy’s sparkling eyes, without the pain that would dull them in later years. Dolly’s exuberant chatter and constant activity. And my simple acceptance that my lot was to be at Mama’s side throughout the evening, even sitting at the mandap with one arm on his knee, even as all the other kids played.

Yes that was my lot. To love so unconditionally and so simply that I didn’t know any other way. Nanima, Mama, Mummy…my three anchors, so unalterably a part of my life that till date when I nurse a bruised ankle or a high fever, I long for their touch. And Daddy…always fourth, yet he made his presence felt only his absence.

I continue to feel that yearning and that sadness as I think of them. But yes, the pain is better. At least I don’t live in denial anymore and can think and talk about them without disappearing into a temporary black hole. I guess that’s healing.

I have a dream...

...that all people who work with and around me will attain a P1 proficiency in basic oral and written communication skills, as well as professional etiquette

…that, by a sudden stroke of wisdom, our people will actually learn to register the fact that has heavy traffic and its not an aberration if it happens every single day for several year and it just means we need to leave home ten minutes early

…that our meetings will start and end on time

…that men will not wear shirts made of rayon, nylon or polyester or in prints that remind one of giraffes or tablecloths. They will also not wear pants that are tight enough to be a ballet dancer’s leggings or are loose enough to be a spare tent. The pants will neither sweep the floor, nor will display multiple inches of sports socks that we would rather not know existed.

…that women will apply restraint in the face of the relaxed dress codes they have to deal with. There will not be more than 6 colors at any point of time on the body, and that includes a color of hair that’s not black. The tinkling sound of the jewelry they wear will not exceed 20 db. They will also wear clothes that fit within 25% guessing distance of their actual measurements.

…that our elevators will be free of the coconut oil fragrance

…that our meetings follow a regular bell curve – 30% of the participants will drive the meeting, 60% will contribute, and not more than 10% are wasteful laggards – instead of the reverse.

…that our leaders will stop working QSQT (quarter-se-quarter-tak) and instead actually apply some of the stuff they read about in those leadership books stacked in their cabins. Or maybe I can amend that to – actually read some of the books.

….that everyone will know everyone’s salaries as soon they are fixed and no one will spend 25% of their working time speculating/ cribbing/ debating salary levels

…that all “publicly visible” leaders will be voted in only after a referendum with the larger population that shall use fundamental parameters to validate initial recommendations – intelligence and character

…that I shall replace Martin Luther King as the next visionary as the world changes as a result of these progressive achievements…

Quiet suffering

This is the second time I have done it. Heard a sustained level of commotion and raised voices, stepped down, rang the bell and politely enquired if everything was ok. The first time I knew I had thankfully interrupted something serious; the guy's white, apprehensive face told me. This time, I dont think so. Anyway, the commotion stopped. Or more probably, just got more subdued.

The thought of the quiet suffering that so many people go through on a daily basis is so immense and huge and frightening, mainly because it is invisible and immeasurable. Only the suffering that finally ends up as a significant tragedy gets to be seen and measured and tracked. Every day the papers have a new horrific story to report, one which you dont want to read, but cant take your eyes away from. The children thrashed and fractured, the maid abused and beaten, the baby smothered, the woman tortured, the parents blinded, the family burnt...and as one's heart bleeds for these people, I cant help but thinking of the many, many more who havent yet reached this point but exist and survive somewhere in that awful purgatory where there's no relief and no release.

While one does feel intimidated at such times, I do believe that as individuals, not everyone has to go out there waving flages or working in ashrams or slums. If each one could try and redress the injustice or alleviate the suffering of the people immediately within our control, its a start. The flow of decisive action and positive energy is the only way to counter the more dramatic and speedy flow of the negative, especially in a society like ours where every problem is compounded many times over by the sheer scale and lack of infrastructure to manage it. Mum is a great example of that...the amount she has done to truly help and uplift the people around her, is more than I have seen many so-called activists do.

So yes, that's how I try and approach it and let it not absorb too much of my thought and emotion. But once in a while, like now, I imagine I can just hear the anguished cry of a someone's soul in distress. And my stomach contracts in pain. As past and present collide.

A wish list

When someone puts me on a spot and asks me to say something witty or sexy or even gossipy, I am hit by a state of performance anxiety so acute that it’s surprising that I don’t enact the staple of most B-grade Hollywood movies and clutch my stomach, looking wildly around for the closest washroom. Needless to say, the moment passes and I am greeted by either polite silence or a polite change of topic. Of course, the moment the topic changes, I am struck by the most wondrous things to say, things that could make you blush or laugh or throw your mouth open in ape-like astonishment, as the case might be. That is soon followed by an abject sense of disappointment with self, and then a realization that I could place the blame elsewhere – my fate and my genes. Either way, its time for a self-pity session which, if conducted with friends, could actually yield some of the entertainment that started the whole thing off.

Once in a blue moon (note to self: google this expression and figure out what it means before the next time you use it), I am actually able to respond immediately to such a request. Unfortunately, that usually happens in the virtual world when I feel less distracted and pressurized and am able to assume a personality that I know I have no business misleading anyone with. Nevertheless, a recent question from someone “I am going to get a bouquet for you…tell me your wish list of what you want in it”, yielded the immediate response…

Rainy, cloudy, windy weather. Not so rainy that it floods the roads, not so cloudy that it becomes gloomy, not so windy that it spoils my hair. Just right.

Fat-free versions of Mojitos. Or whatever it is that’s my flavor of the month – LIT, white wine, martinis…(I could extend the same principle and ask for “angst-free” versions of relationships, but that would be a bit too unreasonable I think. Also, some bit of angst is good...unlike the sugar in Mojitos)

Home-kit for permanent hair removal. With no unpleasant, long term side effects. Fragrance free.

A lifetime voucher for unlimited spending at all LVMH brands, plus Zara, Kenneth Cole and Issey Miyake. Or a simpler way of looking at this could be to have this voucher applicable at all stores of the top 10 malls in India. And New York.

A personal assistance to take care of all bothersome transactions of life. That includes paying all bills and taxes, filing tax returns, maintaining the house, booking movies, keeping the car running, arranging for emergency evacuation from boring dinners/ dates/ meetings, carrying along an alternative set of clothes & accessories wherever I go, and clearing out crowds when I am going sight seeing or shopping

A service orientation and grooming management program for all waiters and salespersons across watering, eating and shopping holes that I frequent. Competency and proficiency levels to be approved by me, also the assessments. This will clearly be a social service masquerading as a solution to an individual whim or fancy

A personalized, friendly, good looking guide for every technological device I am expected to or want to manage. This would include specialized tutorials on how to download movies, and how to brush up your photographs to make yourself look better. The learning architectures would all be personal coaching, delivered by guides described earlier.

And finally, a flirt detector. Who’s interested…or not? Who’s flirting…or not? What are they interested in….? And (O Lord) why? A simple device that tells me all this. The device needs to be of a matt finish, in a color that’s not too boring. It could be an over the top conversation starter or a subtle accessory.

So this is my wish list. And I am proud of myself. Now get me the white wine.