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.

Out of body. My body. My mind.

The weather irritates the shit out of me. Mojitos and messages quench some of my thirst but leave me wanting more. I am constantly needed to be more out there, talking, presenting, talking, presenting…and even sharing my “journey” and my “tpov” as if I am one of those stuffed-shirt successes. No siree…me no have checklist for life, me no have apartment, me no have kids in school, me no fit into conventional success mode. Nice people talk, or at least they open their mouths and I hear something. But I don’t really catch it. Like I said, the weather irritates me. I am genuinely happy for Sonali, I wander around in that space looking at the pictures and smiling vacantly, hurrah for mr. effective networker. And after that year’s ban, I am back on the long glasses of poison, thanks to one of the most horrifying conversations I have had in 9 years.

Just emerging from a Californication marathon, I am unable to stop wondering. Can I just be an asshole? Can I be a flirt? Can I (please please please please please please) just know the right, witty things to say? Can I just screw up every relationship around me? Can I just be horrendously sexy? Can I indulge multiple talents and nurture them, grow them? Can I get truly, crazily drunk and get thrown out of a bar? Can I pierce my body in multiple places? Can I make my body the focus of my life? Can I tell people what exactly I think of them, in the most humorous manner possible? Can I just take decisions that get me more money, and more money, and more money? Can I have intelligent conversations without meaning a single word I say? Can I switch my phone off sometimes and switch it back on a few hours later, and check on the missed calls? Can I cast a veil over my eyes that not a single person can read, letting my wit do the bonding? Can I make a 20 point action plan for my life? Can I systematically sleep through the blue world? Can I just have fun, and never look in the mirror? Can I be funny, and smart, and witty, and disappear the next morning? Can I dig, dig, dig and truly become an expert in some area?

Can I? Can I? Can I? Can I be someone else? How would it feel to be someone else entirely? To not be me. Me. ME.

HMV

Words, expressions, gestures, tone, language – I don’t trust them. They can be manipulated. They are manipulated. Not maliciously, not always intentionally either. Just at the behest of our inner logic, the one that tells us what we want to project, what we want to be, what we are. Irrespective of reality.

The truth is – the reality is usually more attractive. The real us, the real self, the real voice is a compelling vision, that absorbs us in its honesty, its directness. No shame, no pretensions. Just the way we are. Stark.

And that’s why we are attracted to some stories, the way we aren’t to others. We over-intellectualize it, figuring out why we like a certain picture, a certain poem, a certain book, a certain film, a certain song. But, unless you are looking for something specific and different, what usually makes us like something is the way its honesty speaks to us. Somehow, what the creator has said, or is trying to say honestly, connects with what we think or feel or how we view the world. We are able to hear the voice and we like it.

This voice tends to get lost in the cacophony that surrounds us. Every single moment of every single day, all our senses are assaulted. With hundreds and thousands and millions of images, sounds, words. They rush around us, into us, dizzying us with their scale and frequency, forcing us to spend most of our time filtering, organizing and making sense of all this. And all the while we are getting duller, tired out by this daily exertion. Clutching at vacations to help us regain something we know we have lost, but can’t figure out.

But…once in a while, we come across that special something that makes us pause, clear our minds and hearts and look upon it with absorption and interest, feeling an emotion that’s pure. A pattern in a textile, a poem circulated by a friend, a romantic comedy on a date, a peaceful sunset on a beach, a sunrise on a chilly morning, a 16th century painting in a crowded museum, an amalgamation of phrases from a conversation, a book read late into the night…the triggers are many, we just need to be alive enough to find them.

And…even rarer…we come across that special someone whose voice we hear. Beyond the goodness of the looks or the specialty of the talent or the charm of the words, there’s that voice. A voice evocative of the individual. Pure and clear. Passionate and chillingly objective. Romantic and cynical. Witheringly insightful into the world around and then turning that same gaze inwards, mercilessly examining each emotion and action and putting it out there. The voice of an intelligent rationalist. The voice of a poet filled with dreams and anger and love. Mingled into one unique strain. The strain that calls out to me.

ek aur hafta...

Quite a weird week.

Created and presented a solution. Exciting stuff. This is why I continue to work. The chance to create, to shape something that I know will endure.

Chat. Eat. Gossip. Plan. Eat. Drink. Drink. Coffee. Did the usual routine with Shw. We maintain that distance, yet manage to sustain a strong and soothing connection.

The soothing connection helped. The on/off/on/off act nearly got on my nerves. The fact that it got on my nerves irritated me further. Which actually made me calm again.

I realized I work more on others’ to-do lists than mine. So got tough a couple of times. Then felt bad. Then got tough again.

I am glad Arav is happy. Mum seems better too. Don’t know about Anjan & Dolly. Though I am a little ashamed to say it, I am a little relieved. I think I needed a break too. I just want to be human.

Did the many drinks/ loud music/ pleasant company (P) thing after quite a while. Perfect. Don’t remember how I drove back though.

Went for a meeting with someone from the global team. Ended up taking her shopping. Thiagi would have got a deck out of her in that time! What a flooze I am. Not to mention half a day’s work gone.

Friends with Benefits. Thoroughly enjoyed it. And I continue to like Mr. Kutcher. Hot stuff. My love affair with rom-coms continues. Oh well. Lets check in at 43.

And then – “I die a little and live a little when you touch me”. I have NO clue where that came from.

So…quite a weird week.

Describing Ms Daisy

I couldn’t stop laughing today when V referred to me as being made of “clay”. That’s of course in the very specific context he and I share but even then, that’s one description I haven’t yet heard about myself. Especially over the last few years as I have got constant feedback about how I am just too resistant to others’ persuasions, or too set in my ways etc etc.

Interestingly enough, the feedback at work is usually different – my so-called versatility and adaptability is my strength. That makes me wonder, yet again, how our personalities are essentially one though we try and compartmentalize them; also, sometimes I feel the insights and feedback I receive at work are usually much more astute and deep than the ones I get from people in my personal life. That’s probably the objectivity and relative distance at work – these factors do lead to a better judgment. Unless you are D. When you can deliver devastatingly astute judgments without battling an eyelid. Or L. When your compassion doesn’t make your eye, or tongue, any less insightful.

The weirdest feedback I got recently was after the release of Zindagi Na Milegi Dobara. Mum, DB and a couple of close friends told me that Hrithik’s character reminded them of me. Since this was right before the time I was going to take off, they heartily endorsed my decision and felt I too needed to “unwind”, “slow down” and “let go of my baggage” like Hrithik did. A couple of days, 2 more people also told me something similar – except that they said Farhan’s character reminded them of me! These were friends who weren’t really that close, which probably explains the difference. But even, the gap is very stark. And puzzling. Yes, we are different people to different people, but we cant be THAT different – or can we???

Apparently I can. V (again!) had sent me an extract from my orkut profile a few weeks ago, which made me cringe. It was essentially a list of adjectives used to describe me. I immediately deleted that profile, but I do remember the time when I wrote it. I actually listed down all the adjectives my close friends have used for me, and so many of them contradict each other. Yes, descriptions are usually situational but even then, I am sometimes a little surprised by how differently I am perceived by several people.

But considering that I believe contradictions are a part of my (and nearly everyone’s) personality, I am not as bothered by these differences, as I am amused and puzzled. What really gets me is when someone who I like or respect or might potentially do so, describes me in a way that is completely NOT what I am. I still remember that pinch I felt when LC told me Vishal thought I had attitude. Though she quickly clarified and sorted it out, I still remember that awe struck moment! Or malicious. Or patronizing. Thankfully I haven’t had many such instances but even the few and far ones are inscribed in my memory. Call me the worst of names if you like, as long as there’s even a kernel of truth in them. But don’t call me what I am not; and yes, I do know what I am not. Even if sometimes I tend to get blurry about what I am.