The possible idealist

 

What kid, after returning from a Sunday picnic full of fun, proceeds to request for another one, and then describes in exact detail how the perfect picnic would be like? Arav, that’s who. “Mama”, he says, “we should go for a picnic again. But this time, it should be a proper picnic. There will be no dirt and no garbage…there will grass everywhere…it will be sunny with a few clouds…and no flies, only butterflies and bees.”

As I heard this and agreed, I was reminded of the many times I have been in a situation which I have refurbished in my head to a degree of perfection. Looking out from my balcony on a cool, rainy day, I would wish to be transplanted to a lawn, possibly of a resort, seated on a white chair made of cane under a large umbrella, looking out at a vista of rain drenching vast stretches of green, against the backdrop of hills, next to a table laden with tea and books. Or, watching yet another movies whose reality belied expectations, I would craft a parallel film in my head, where the script is cleared of the discordant notes, the casting is corrected, the pace is evened out, the production and costume design fit and the music enhances the narrative.

When I do, I am conscious that my companions are sensing that I have drifted away for a bit. If I am comfortable enough, I usually share these thoughts and invite the usual responses, ranging from an exclamation at my idealism to a knowing smile. Considering I have known many friends for a long time now, the latter is more common now.

I often wonder how other people don’t do the same. Isn’t it natural, when confronted by the incompleteness of reality, to pick up a brush and fill in the blanks, making it “picture-perfect”, so to speak? Or does a healthy chunk of inherent realism prevent most people from doing so, knowing that their imagination will always produce something that will inevitably lead to disappointment? If that’s the case, how do I survive? I don’t live in a perpetual state of sulk (as I know many people do), comparing the as-is with the as-it-could-be and brooding over the gaps. In fact, people often comment on my ability to just accept things as they are and move on, while colleagues/ friends/ family take their time. I draw an equal amount of response on the lines of “yes that’s how things should be, but it doesn’t always happen that way”.

I would like to stay that I display an healthy proportion of idealism and realism, but I suspect that’s yet another of my survival techniques of staying in the middle of the road and avoiding the dangers of the extremes. To be truly, truly creative and move the world forward, one needs to see an imagined perfection and seek it, artistic depression and trauma be damned. And to be truly, truly adjusted, one needs to accept daily realities and maybe tweak them a little bit. The middle of the road is liable to keep you skipping as you avoid large vehicles that threaten to main, and possibly destroy.

As he continues to read and travel and fuel his already sharp imagination, I wonder which part of the road Arav will finally take. And as I wonder, I try and subdue the worry I feel, as my instincts for protection take over and I imagine, ironically enough, a vision of both the pain and pleasure that greets

When it didn't come up trumps...

When I am down and out, I try all sorts of tricks to get myself back up again, but normally reserve the trump card for the rarest of circumstances, because I know how precious it is – i.e., just connecting with loved ones. The peace I get just listening to the voice of someone who genuinely cares…believes…loves…heals me.


Except now. With that terrible hollow feeling in the middle of my stomach, I spoke to several people over the weekend, starting Friday evening to now. No difference.

Maybe it’s because this hollowness springs entirely from within, with very little relation to the surface. An all-time low on confidence. This is the first time in my life, I think, that I feel completely “un-desired”. Desire is a fanciful word but I use it deliberately. I have always felt wanted and desired. By colleagues...by team members…by business partners…especially by my bosses…by friends…by acquaintances…by lovers…even by strangers. I am not saying that I was like a superstar…but at any particular moment in time, when I suffered a crisis of confidence, I could think of someone who desired me. Who wanted me.

I don’t mean to particularly sound like a self pitying victim, but that’s just not the case right now. Both at work and my social life, I have never felt so decimated, so mediocre. Like a member of the large masses who angle for a piece of the juicy cherry but need to remain satisfied with lesser fruits. And being a part of the large masses…now that’s a new feeling.

So maybe I set in motion more things than I had anticipated. As I deliberately threw myself out of a so-called “comfort zone” at the beginning of the year, I knew I would feel challenged, depressed, lonely, frustrated at different times for different reasons. But this – the decimation of self – is not something I had thought I would encounter. I didn’t want it either. I have a feeling this could lead to something more permanent. Something deeper. And not something I could swing around and give a silver lining. There’s no silver here. Only grey.

Mixed Feelings

Confidence levels oscillate...usually between the low, lower, lowest levels nowdays! The desire for warmth and love is held at bay with the fear of vulnerability. The need to withdraw is unacted upon, for practical and immediate reasons. I draw upon the equity I have built over the last few years, unsure of how long it will last. New places, new people, new feelings excite me, and also intimidate. Assumptions get questioned, and then quickly reaffirmed, which is unusual. The Capricorn ghost hovers. Baggage holds me back, and yet gives me strength.

So when someone asks me "Are you happy?", I am stumped for an answer. And have to settle for the ultimate cop-out cliche...it's a mixed bag.

I wish...I think...I wish...sigh....

I think I am going to have a nervous breakdown.


Or let me correct that – I think I wish I was going to have a nervous breakdown.

Oh….what bliss it could be! To gaze up at curious well wishers with hooded eyes and a puzzled expression…and after a moment’s pause, declare my own condition. How would it be, I wonder? To not be governed by the clock and, horror of horrors, not stick to any schedule? I could actually get up in the morning and just decide not to work, asserting the independence that I thought I had earned after 12 years of working but in reality had given away.

Guilt could just be another word in the dictionary. Not that heavy feeling I carry with me the entire day, a realization that I am a much lesser son, brother, lover, friend, professional…indeed, person, than I could be. And those little cells in my brain…they could finally do what no amount of willpower has been able to do the last few months. Make me stop worrying. About the pain that loved ones are going through. About their hassles. And their worries. And their complications.

What if I have taken my life in a direction that has no destination? Doesn’t matter! What if I don’t succeed in meeting my own challenge? To hell with it! What if I am just a puffed up ball of moist air? Who cares?! I don’t! I am in a nervous breakdown, remember?

I could sink, sink, sink…towards that attractively dark looking place under the sea…where the noise of the everyday world recedes into an irritating hum and my own tears fall freely without being judged by my mind. Grief will not be contained, regrets shall not be buried, irrationality shall not be feared. I will let these stones drag me down, down, down…because I know someone, something will get me up again.

How?

There would be soup. Nourishing soup. And freshly cut fruits. And hot chocolate fudge every day. Calming cups of tea, accompanied by hot samosas. Steaming momos washed down with iced drinks. Wine would interfere with the medication. But I will live with that. Because my hair will stop falling. And my back wouldn’t ache. My skin would look and feel fresh, not like a floor mop doused with phenyl.

Seen through the haze of deliberately slowed reflexes, the world would be calmer, slower and maybe happier too. And, if despite all these efforts, that little nagging voice in my head tells me I am being selfish, I will plead for it to be silent for a little while longer.

While I indulge.

A chapter closed

At exactly 6:20 pm on 18^th Jan 2013, I felt my safety net slip away from beneath me. I stood at the helpdesk, turning over the green plastic card in my hand, observing details I hadn’t noticed earlier, wasting time on the little stuff, because I didn’t want to think about the bigger elephant on the table in my head.

I acutely remember the trepidation and the butterflies I had in my first week here. Sitting at that desk in that little bay in Bang 1, trying to disappear into the background as I watched the more tenured colleagues stride about, having incomprehensible conversations. And then the events…the community events, the inductions, the employee initiatives…that terrified me when they happened, but left an afterglow of satisfaction.  The joy of sitting across a business leader and anchoring a conversation that made a difference; the frustration when it didn't. My team at AFS, my first taste of the headiness of growing, nurturing, driving people. My fumbling introductions in Manila, averting my eyes as I felt all others’ eyes on me. The little scrapbook at the end of that assignment, something to treasure always. The long, indulgent, self-revelatory chats with the people I worked for and the balancing act amongst them. LC’s tears, genuine and touching. The weird employee cases. The awe at St. Charles, the pride of being part of something great. Coming across a practice and template created by you at a desk several years ago, still used and relevant. The points of decision, sometimes swayed by the interests of the people around. The long hours, falling hair, expanding waistline. The long coffee and phone chats with friends that made it all worth it. The anger at the misuse of the system, at the multiplication of mediocrity. And yet the sense that it all came together finally, something bigger than the sum of the parts. People I adored, people who adored me. People I detested, people who detested me. Dancing, sometimes just a quick spin…sometimes till my feet ached.  Large events, expensive give-aways. A line by a leader, heard in a session, stored and remembered forever. My first “tpov” session, laughing at my own pomposity, sobered by the attention of my audience. The knowledge that I was looked at, looked up to. Learning to be careful about my expressions, facial and verbal. The culture of offsites, many boring, some fun…the Bollywood night in BPO for example. The first salary review, so incredibly satisfying; the last one, so shocking! The irritation with the delayed promotions, the anticipation of new roles and jobs. Farewell messages. Beautiful poems. Interesting out-of-office mails. People who didn’t have a life; people who were all life. The beautiful madness of 2012 when I got on that rollercoaster. Emails; all the time. Getting corrected on communication…and then paying it forward. Mind numbing processes and procedures…and lightning shortcuts through relationships. Decks. Fancy notebooks. The delight of an award won…and again…and again. Making a difference to someone, earning their respect.

A quiet entry. A noisy farewell. Love and respect. My safety net, woven carefully and diligently over nine and a half years. Slipped away as I handed in my id card.

You and I, caught in an unexpected cycle of pain

What am I doing? Why am I being so cruel? Or am I sulking? Or is this a tantrum? Or am I hurt? Or am I tired? Or am I sad?

What does this silence hide? Can it hide the thousands of words that flow from me to you? Can it blank out the shared universe we inhabit? Does it shield us from intrusive glares of a world that may judge, and even condemn? Is silence my response to the emotion that consumes to such depth that it leaves me speechless?

There have been so many laughs, so many smiles…chuckles, grins. It’s not been fire and brimstone. Instead it’s been easy companionship, aided by an electrifying chemistry. Am I insisting on paying the price for this happiness I have received, anticipating and pre-empting a demand? For what is the easiest way to burn and torture myself, than to see you suffer? Each iota of pain in your mind doubles as it makes its way to me. And that is the equation I rely on for justice to be served, at my cost and yours.

I long to talk, to hug, to love, to caress. But I know that’s not possible. So maybe I am throwing the kind of fit a child would…either I have it all...or nothing.

That is not sensible. I know that. But nothing of this is sensible. That’s what conventional wisdom says. But I want to lay that convention down and screw it upside down. The last year has meant giddy happiness and a transformation of the soul. That, in any language, is sensible.

But what of right now? Am I suddenly turning sensible, and causing my own destruction in the bargain? Or am I being cruel? Or sulking? Or throwing a tantrum? Or retreating in hurt silence? Or getting tired? Or just being plan sad?

I don’t know. All I know is that I love. And I am silent.