The vicious cycle of mandatory attendance

A friend threw a question at me yesterday – “Should attendance be mandatory in undergrad colleges?”

It takes us to the fundamental input vs outcome-linked model. Let’s break that down.

If books can teach everything and the teachers in class and debates between students add little value, while the exams are linked purely to the books, then there is no true worth to attending a class.

If books can only guide students to learn while the teacher can take it a notch up and help in the application of those learnings, encouraging debates and discussions in class, whether or not the exams are linked to mugging up the textbooks or are application oriented, there is merit in attending the class.

In college, all of us have gone through both these types of classes – the ones where the teaching is only a verbalization of the book and the ones where the teaching is so many notches higher in giving insights that the textbook becomes only a supporting guide.

So, the onus is really on educational institutes to be able to provide quality teaching to attract students to the class and get quality outcome. Reducing learning to an input based, mandatory attendance model is detrimental in the long run.

And do you know how detrimental? Let’s move on to the step after college. These students become office goers, the two types there. The input-focused ones and the outcome-focused ones.

The former exhibit and inculcate a culture of spending time in office, putting in long hours, staying till lights go off, speaking about how they spend 14 hours in office because life is a ‘desk-sitting’ competition, analyzing every other colleague from that perspective.

The latter work towards outcomes, have sensible meetings when required, stretch hours if there is an urgent team delivery involved, pack up and go home when the outcomes are achieved, and take flak from the input-focused team for leaving in ‘half a day’ when leaving at 6 pm.

So, perhaps it is time to start at college, to help students understand how value addition needs to be measured so that we can build better team leaders, managers, business heads, and CEOs. Who fill focus on adding value to their clients and shareholders rather than increase the OpEx with an extended use of electricity and pantry in office.

What to wear or not to wear

I came across a tweet today from a person who calls themselves a corporate leadership coach – a photo of someone in their pyjamas at breakfast in a ‘business’ hotel, with a narrative of how there are etiquettes on what to wear to breakfast at a business hotel, in the business lounge where there are numerous others having breakfast meetings in their business suits. Someone else responded to it with how a woman comes in pyjamas to the lake where they go for a run, and they feel like having a chat with them about the attire.

Got me thinking.

I was born and brought up in super conservative and traditional Chennai. But, somehow, for all the rules and discipline my parents enforced upon me, they never really thought much about what was appropriate for me to wear. I myself was not (still am not) super comfortable with my body, large made as I was (am), so I ended up dressing in clothes that covered me up, if not in the traditional sense. That is to say, I didn’t own even a single 'pavadai thavani', but I did own a lot of nice long skirts and pretty tops, even super cool long dresses.

So, this was early adolescence, and I was on a roll as far as the Veena playing was concerned. My teacher believed I was going to go places* (hey, it’s ok to brag sometimes) and my parents (who thought the world of my teacher, easily the best Veena teacher in town) lapped up her words instantly. Chennai being Chennai had multitudes of music competitions across the city, and my parents would take me to contest in them, whenever I could. Which wasn’t too many times, because, it had to be a Sunday, no tests / exams the next day, daughter shouldn’t be looking ill else it will tire her out etc etc. So, some limited competitions I attended. And always in dresses I liked to wear. Which would inevitably be my ‘lucky’ dress, the one I wore when I won the first prize in a competition for the first time. Anyway, this one time, I think it was in a competition conducted by the Tambras Foundation, the organizers had a problem with my attire. “Why isn’t she in traditional wear? How can we let her go up in this?”, they said. Incidentally, I was wearing a salwar suit that day (my lucky dress having gone through significant wear and tear). Dress codes hadn't been mentioned in the rules and regulations, so after a bit of back and forth dialogue, I eventually played in the competition. But, I didn’t win. I have wondered forever whether it was because all the others were in traditional wear while I wasn’t.

It was a strange moment for me, this whole dressing-up-in-a-certain-way-for-a-certain-thing thing. My parents had never told me that. They had only told me to practice well and perform on stage, they had never told me there was a costume code. They, of course, didn’t know. Anyway, that incident made me mighty defiant, and to this date, I have tried not to wear something traditional when am doing something traditional, like playing the Veena (whether playing the Veena is just a traditional affair is fodder for another post). Today, when I look back, I have more clarity about why I was and am in the right. I had gone to play the Veena, and I went dressed in something that would give me comfort, so I could give ‘playing Veena’ my best shot. I wasn’t there to give my best shot at role playing a traditional sweet looking girl posing for a photo op with the Veena in hand.

Coming back to the tweets I read today, I would apply the same logic. The person who came for breakfast didn’t come for a business meeting. He/she was just having breakfast. So what if it’s a business hotel. As long as the hotel didn’t enforce any strict rules on what to wear to the spaces outside the rooms, it didn’t matter. If people were getting distracted from their breakfast meetings to look at the person wearing pyjamas and clicking a pic to post to Twitter (which is a bigger and graver mistake than wearing pyjamas to breakfast in a business lounge), I would wonder how focused these attendees were on their own meetings. And as to the person jogging by the lake, if we could only focus on our running and jogging, we wouldn’t really notice or bother even if the rest of the world is taking a naked sunbath by the lake. Jogging in a public space is no private moment, so our dressing sensibilities cannot be imposed upon others.

*Cheap insert: I have resumed Veena playing after a long time. You can listen to some Filmi music on my Youtube channel

W for Words

Words,

Potent like poison,

Can bite, seep through, make a mark, spread like wild fire.

Words,

Empty like air,

Can swoosh through people without so much as a tremor.

Words,

When used right,

Convince, confuse, jolt entire worlds.

Words,

When used as fillers,

Get ignored like the ad in a YouTube video.

Words,
Action following them,
Are difficult to combat, let alone ignore.

Words,
All words and no actions,
Are difficult to digest, let alone revel in.

Words, words,
Short, long, simple, complex,
Meaningful, nonsensical, deep, shallow,
Not just a bunch of letters but
A whole load of emotions and attitudes.

P. S. This post is the twenty third in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.

What I lost this year

No. This isn't a post summarizing my year, so you can safely continue reading beyond this point. Also, it isn't a rant about losses I might have faced this year. Safe still.

I have had a complicated, rather hate-filled relationship with religion for many years now, rituals particularly. I am convinced that religious rituals were introduced and improvised upon by greedy pundits to create and sustain a growing revenue stream for themselves and their progeny, so it hasn't been without disdain that I have walked into places of worship and participated in religious ceremonies (mine own wedding included). Also, schooled in an Arya Samaj educational institution made it hard for me to believe in idol worship, for the Samaj was particular about teaching us that there is only one God and (s)he doesn't live in idols and random rituals. So, the hurdle of losing belief in places of worship was crossed very early on in life. What remained beyond that was only belief in God, a supreme being.

And then 2016 happened.

I am not sure what snapped the brain, there was no big event that made me look differently at the concept of God. Perhaps, it was just too much intellectual masturbation with S or trying to see things from different points of view as part of Ze Salon. Things changed over the course of the year, and here I am, at the end of it, having lost my belief in God. Contrary to opinions I may have held in the past, that hasn't made me a happier person.

The belief in a greater God gives a sense of hope, the optimism that things will be alright even when the odds are completely stacked against one's favour. There is that teeny tiny open space beyond logic and rationale that one can fall back on to, because an unknown, abstract larger-than-life figure may potentially influence outcomes. What I have lost isn't the loss of belief in God, but that loss of a sense of irrational optimism, hope and security that I may have possessed before. It has become impossible for me to not over-analyse a situation, sit back and relax, and say "God may still wave his magic wand in my favour". It has become impossible to wonder with joy at events thinking "Miracles are possible". It has become difficult to trust in luck, chance, fate etc. In fact, it has become hard to tread that fine line of believing in random events without believing in someone trying to orchestrate the randomness. Because, the mind isn't able to process how a random event can happen, it isn't able to accept random for randomness' sake. 

This loss of belief in God could have been the worst thing to happen to me in 2016, because it has left me a lot less hopeful and a lot more cynical than I already was. I do wish I never set out on this quest, to begin with. But then there is no reversing the past, there is no way I can go back and convince myself to start believing in God now unless a big miracle happens. Or something like that.

Perhaps, 2017 would throw open a few more answers beyond the "Believe in yourself. You are your own God."

Happy New Year everyone!

A polish, quadrilateral

I was not a "make-up" person as a child. Or as an adolescent. Or as a young adult. I am not sure whether I found it terribly boring, or I considered myself too cool (the cool word for nerdy) to devote time to make-up. Also, it did not help that my parents were strongly against the very idea of make-up, and I never did want to disappoint them on any plane (my grades stand testimony to that). However, over the years, my views on make-up have changed. I have learnt to respect people who love themselves enough to spend time on and with themselves. And, looking good always makes one feel oodles better. Now, the years are all lost, and I have nothing to blame but my own laziness for not having loved myself enough. Though realization has hit me late rather than never, it hasn't really changed anything on the make-up side. I still don't own any make-upy products, though it ain't for lack of trying. 

Oh yes, I have attempted to walk into fancy shops in high end malls selling the latest in make-up, but always paused at the entrance, my feet growing colder by the millisecond. What will I ask for? Wouldn't I look dumb if I didn't know a foundation cream from a foundation lotion? Wouldn't I seem stupid if I didn't know what tone of face powder suited my skin? Would that good looking beautician over there look down upon me if I told her I don't know how to apply mascara? And, so, I would drop the idea, and quickly walk out of the mall, congratulating myself on saving money than spending it on make-up I don't understand.

While make-up has been, is, and will continue to be an elusive dream, I do have one vice (or virtue) that makes up for the lack of make-up. I love nail polish, always have. And, mind you, no disapproving glances from the parents have turned me off the allure of the polish. The only problem is, I don't get the damn thing. I mean, not get as in find or buy. I just don't have a very healthy relationship with it. The polish doesn't turn into an elegant show of beauty on my hands and feet. Ne'er has, and looks like ne'er will. 

Countless are the times when I, as a 12 year old put it on, smudged the whole thing on all my nails because I wanted to walk immediately to the bathroom and wash my hands and feet, and then removed it impatiently with the nail polish remover. Typically, by the third such cycle, I would be done for the day, only to resume a few weeks later. Strangely, it has never bothered me that after all that investment of time and polish, my nails would be colorless. 

Now, as a grown up, it is no better, though I have learnt the art of approximately fitting some color into the almost-quadrilateral surfaces my nails are, blowing hard and strong at each nail for a good 2 minutes after the application, and then resume my walk to the bathroom. Also, I have learnt why I apply nail polish, without bothering about the inelegance of the outcome. I like the idea of coloring my nails, and the time I am doing it keeps me happy. It doesn't seem to matter that the end result wouldn't be beautiful in the socially acceptable sense. 

How liberating to know that I have always loved myself in my own little way, applying quadrilateral polishes to my hands and feet, if not skin-tone foundation and sky-blue mascara to my face!

The new normal

I have never spoken much about it, but the floodgates opened today when I read this. No tribute this, nor a structured essay. It is a raw note, that may serve no purpose I am aware of. 

It was April '01. I was in school and my dad didn’t come to pick me up. Instead his friend and my aunt came to pick me up, driving down in my dad’s car. How strange a partnership, I told myself. But, I didn’t want to face reality just then, it was just a short distance home from school, and any horrible event could wait those 20 minutes. There was an ambulance leaving the apartment complex when I got home, albeit empty. Just a coincidence, I told myself and I went up home.

After that, life has never been normal again.

I was 15 when my dad died – neither here nor there. Not young enough to forget the normal and get acclimatized to the new normal. Not old enough to have already charted out a normal of my own. Well, that can be argued in different ways. Death alters the living irreversibly, no matter what age we are left at, after all.

All we talk about when someone dies is how we miss that person, how they leave behind a void, how we yearn for happy memories etc. Yes, I have gone through and still go through all those emotions. But, something more fundamental changes when someone close to you dies.

The biggest change when someone close to you dies is that nothing is something that only happens to someone else anymore. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night to put my ears to the lungs of the person sleeping next to me, to make sure they are still breathing. At other times, I get paranoid when my mother doesn’t pick up the phone even when I call her 2-3 times in a span of ten minutes, and I promptly start calling everyone else she knows in the city to track her down. When I see an ambulance in the apartment complex, I am not able to brush it off any longer as happening to someone else; it could very well have been summoned for my house. Anyone calling me out of the blue is no longer a social call. It only means something has gone wrong with someone close to me that I am being called to be informed about.

In every scenario, in every next step, in every otherwise normal situation, death figures as a highly possible outcome and that’s how the normal changes. Living with this paranoia of facing death of a loved one again is the biggest punishment that this life has bestowed upon me. I think, no, I know that I had much rather die than live through the death of a loved one ever again. 

Whenever I am depressed with life, I tell myself that my dad’s death made me stronger, made me more resilient to face life’s challenges, geared me up for chaos and unhappiness and the transience of life. And then, the other me screams from within, “I didn’t want to be resilient. I just wanted to be normal and happy. I have no tangible use for this experience.” I have no answers to myself in those situations. Life can be led happier when there are no harsh lessons to learn, perhaps.

Most times, I feel guilty that I am not doing enough justice to my father’s memory. I do not necessarily miss him for the person he was. I only miss my own normal life that can be no more. But, seriously, think about it. It has been almost 15 years now since I last saw him in flesh and blood. Memory is a bitch, and I do not remember his smile, his facial features, his idiosyncrasies, his weird handwriting, in totality. I remember those things in bits and pieces, in individual situations. For instance, sometimes I sense the strong presence of his perfume. Not always though. 

We used to go out once every month for dinner – Mom, Dad and I. Same restaurant, same table, same orders, same waiter (yeah, they were called waiters then). A ritual.

We used to have home-made pooris and mushroom for dinner every Saturday – Mom, Dad and I. A ritual.

We would drive down to random places, right from East Coast Road to Pondicherry to Bangalore, mom and dad in the front, me sprawled at the back of the car. Random trips, no planning, no outside food. All food cooked and packed by mom, the entire journey driven around by dad. As familial as it can get.

And that’s what I lost with the death of my dad. Not money. Not a cushy life. Not that sense of protection that a male presence brings in. Because my mother has always made up for all that and been more than what my father could ever have been to me. 

I lost the feeling and sense and notion of being a family, and that’s something irreplaceable, and irreversible. That’s something that doesn’t heal with time. It never heals. And that's death's contribution to my life.

Where art thou?

Normalcy, normalcy, where art thou?

Right by you, in the aisle seat on your row.

Normalcy, normalcy, is that common?

There is no definition for me, often.

Normalcy, normalcy, but I want peace

One man’s peace is another’s grief.

Normalcy, normalcy, I seek thou in vain.

Seek me forever and nothing you shalt gain

Normalcy, normalcy, but I need you by my side

I am by you, always by you child.

Seek me not, in pursuit of an end,

Seek me not, wanting to amend,

Actions set, to a wheel of motion,

For those are done, those are frozen.

You will sense me, when you lie down,

Take a deep breath and lose that frown,

With a book in hand, love on your mind

You will forget to cry, and smile unconfined.

The Jungle

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

The tiger and the lion, they hunt the live,

Vultures and hyenas, on the dead they thrive,

Night and day, they merge into one,

Territories are sacred, and breached at every turn.

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

The fruits and the roots, abound around,

The flowers they bloom, on trees and on ground,

The rain god smiles, every once in a while,

The leaves they rustle, never do they die.

In the jungle, the deep dark jungle,

Where secrets die soon, truths never win

Where man and beast, alike they sin,

I sing with joy, and I dance away,

For fear maketh courage, and courage lets me play.

The Game

“Lucky fellow!” we holler, when we want to congratulate a guy who has landed a beautiful wife.

“You need to be lucky to get through that exam,” we say, in morbid self-doubt, when we haven’t performed as well as we should have in a competitive test. 

Whenever something goes wrong, attempting to camouflage our own short-comings, we cry out “Shucks! Rotten luck!” 

Luck is our one word explanation for all things good that happen to others, and all things bad that happen to us. 

My dad was a great believer in the concept of luck. Perhaps, it gave him the confidence to win. He believed his lucky number was 8, a number shunned by the uber-sensitive, luck-driven industry he did business in. At production releases, he always picked up stocks labelled 8, or adding up to 8, because no one clamoured for those anyway, and he could get away without having to put up with a long wait. As I write this, I wonder whether he truly believed in lucky number eight, or was just being crafty. 

I used to believe in luck as a kid. I had my own lucky color, lucky dress, and, most importantly, lucky pen. I also had an unlucky pen that I didn’t have the heart to throw away. I would use it for writing my name on entry forms in art competitions, which, given my artistic prowess, I had no hopes of winning even if Fortuna were to take control of my soul. And, in case you are wondering, I participated in them only because they were “away” competitions with half a day off from school. 

I still believe in luck. That is, I believe in the concept of an external entity helping me win. It could be a shirt or a suit or a pen or a piece of accessory. But, that belief seems to have waned over the years. I don’t feel the same charge of energy and confidence when walking into an important meeting in my luckiest shirt as I used to, walking into an examination carrying my luckiest pen.

Perhaps, this is what growing old means. We believe less and less in Utopia, the world of the magic wand, the skies with the flying carpets and the genie granting us wishes. We lean more towards rationale, logic, the inevitable end, and the moribund years of life. We wonder whether luck really exists, for, it is just plain, unadulterated chance that we are sitting here playing this game of life. We refuse to accept that the Universe might have conspired to do us a good turn.

We play at life like it is a game. We fight tooth and nail to live another day, if not literally, at least figuratively. Every time someone wins, we say they are lucky. And, we get a little more despondent, pondering over our ill-luck. Every time we win, we become even more despondent. For, our self-benchmark just went up. 

In the Game of Thrones, you either win or you die. There is no middle path. 

In the Game of Life, we just trudge on. If we win, we trudge on. If we lose, we trudge on. The trudging on is worse than death, for we are anticipating loss at every turn. 

For, we no longer trust that the Universe is looking out for us, that something worthwhile might come out of all this after all, by hook or by crook, or some luck from the nook.

We

We think too much.

We know what’s best for us and we don’t need other people’s advice on how to run our lives.

We know what’s best for the world, for we have answers to all of the world’s problems – governance, terrorism, economics.

We are sure-footed in our decisions, unfailing in blaming some other party for our failures.

We know that everyone else around us is dumb or hypocritical or both.

We believe we are entitled – entitled to jobs, holidays, peace of mind, respect.

We also believe we are enlightened, that we have it all sorted out, from now until death.

We think too much. Of ourselves.

A fine art, or maybe not

As babies, our lives were quite easy. Or, perhaps not. We cried, when we needed food. We cried, when we needed a diaper change. We cried, when we needed attention. Crying was enough. Crying was the sign, whatever the reason.

As kids, we were expected to speak only when spoken to, to answer only when we were asked questions. It was an easy role to play, and we were restricted to executing tasks assigned to us.

As adults, a lot of things started changing. And, the biggest amongst them was the mounting responsibility thrust upon us – to handle our own lives. I guess it wouldn’t have been half the Herculean task it is now, if only our lives weren’t dependent on communicating with a million individuals around us. And that really is a problem we cannot wish away.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I over-communicate, whether I have been overtly vocal about my thoughts. Sometimes, I wonder whether I should have waited patiently for the tide to pass, rather than jump the gun.

And, then I look around at this world. And, I realize that half the world’s problems are because we don’t communicate enough, or at all. We are perhaps scared to communicate. Or, we do not think the fight to communicate is worth it. Or, in most cases, we believe the world thinks the same way we do, and so there is no need to clarify what we are thinking.

How convenient would that be? A set of homogeneous and telepathic people. Bliss! But, the Universe has other plans for us, and so we are left to deal with a set of heterogeneous and pathetically self-centered morons (who by the way must be describing us the same way elsewhere).

I don’t know whether communication helps resolving our issues, or blowing them up further. I don’t know the fine art of communication, the skill that will get our work done and yet keep us in the world’s good books.

What I do know is that when I communicate on something that matters to me, to someone who matters to me, I love myself a little bit more. For having gone the extra mile. For having given the chance to someone to try to understand what I am thinking and feeling. For having given myself the chance to express better.

Trust me, it is a chance worth taking. 

The Lone Chair

It was a swanky restaurant frequented by the nouveau riche and old money alike, in the middle of that very fancy mall. There was a waitlist at the front-desk, with the maitre d’hotel trying to optimize table assignment, while serving complimentary drinks to appease the ones waiting.

A family of very well dressed guests occupied the corner table, possibly reserved for regulars. One could see they were at home, for they conducted themselves with poise and yet managed to keep the hotel staff at their beck and call.

The spectacle was enjoyable, for little does one get the chance to observe such dignified richness in these times of the ostentatious.

That is when I noticed Her. She didn’t seem to belong with them, but was hovering near the table, carrying a beautiful little baby boy swathed in velvets. A chair was brought in and placed next to the table. The lady of the family indicated the chair to Her, while continuing a possibly important conversation with the rest of the family.

She sat there, holding the baby in Her arms, clucking softly in hopes of putting him to sleep. When that didn’t work, She walked around, always near the table, in order to placate the child and make it a fun evening for him. Eventually, he decided to reward Her patience, and conceded to sleep, with a smile on his face. She seemed relieved as She set him down in his pram and walked back to her designated seat near the table.

As She sat down, She realized there was nowhere to look, for She had been taught as a child that it was uncouth to look at people while they ate. She bent down and started staring intently at her callus-ridden palms, while the regal family continued its dinner in peace, speaking in grave tones, about issues of possibly great social importance.

The Artiste

I once painted a beautiful scenery.

My friend advised me that I should erase out the sun because it affected her sensibilities of how “round” is defined.

I erased it, out of concern for my dear friend. As if sceneries can’t function without sunlight, I consoled myself.

My brother took a look at it and suggested that the river should not be as blue as it impacted his long standing fear of the dark.

I lightened it up till it was paper white. My brother was important to me, alright.

My neighbor said that such a dense bunch of trees seemed to signify closure, and it was a wrong message to send to the masses.

I couldn’t question my neighbor’s logic, so out went the bunch of trees.

I was left standing with a clean sheet of paper.

My friend made a paper boat out of it, while my brother threw it around like a makeshift paper rocket, and my neighbor, in a scramble for cleanliness, spit out his chewing gum into it and threw it into the garbage bin.

I was left standing, looking at the scene, thinking about my scenery, wondering whether I should move to a secular household, where my scenery will be left alone, with me and me alone.

Ref: The controversies surrounding the release of the movie Viswaroopam in January 2013.

One tight slap

The noise is waning down. The Twitterati is starting to focus on other pressing #theekhai trends. The blame game is on, a few high level suspensions inclusive.

Armchair enthusiasts have finished reading all available internet literature on the subject. Some of the enterprising lot have also opined long and strong on personal blogs and Facebook posts.

Coffee table conversation is moving on to Sachin’s retirement, amongst other worldly items of interest.

I, for my part, have “liked” Faking News’ many a dig at the administrative atrocities. It has been a mechanical job, really. There has been a sense of shame and guilt for not participating enough in the protests, either virtually or physically, but I can live with it. I have lived with the guilt of non-participation for long now.

Grey’s Anatomy is on, a repeat of last night’s telecast. I switch channels, landing on a Tam serial. The scene focuses on a young-ish middle class couple, the woman in question telling the man he hasn’t bought her enough gold jewels in four years of married life. The man seems bugged, has no patience to put up with the nagging and slaps her right across the face. The woman shuts up, just making a wry face, as if this is a natural way to end an argument and continues cooking. The man walks out, having achieved win-win. No crying, no drama. It looks like just another day in a normal household.

I switch channels again, landing on a Hindi serial this time. Two apparently vile ladies are spreading rumors about town on how the heroine in question should take up widowhood, wear a white sari, and sit at home without participating in any celebrations ever afterwards, as her husband has been missing for over two months now and is presumed dead.

I am a little more than disgusted by now, but relentless in my pursuit, switch channels again, this time landing on news. The transport minister of the AP cabinet is just remarking that, India getting freedom in the middle of the night doesn’t give Indian women the leeway to roam about the roads in the middle of the night.

I begin to wonder whether it might be a good idea to have warnings similar to “Smoking is injurious to health”, before movie screenings and during serial and news telecasts. Something on the lines of “Respect women as equals”, “Slapping women is injurious to mankind”, “Raping women will send you directly to hell” is what my mind is on to.

Meanwhile, the victim is still battling for life, on and off the ventilator, losing her organs in complicated surgeries, every other day. Elsewhere, a few more women are being raped, one every eighteen hours, just in Delhi, if news stories be believed.

I am already thinking whether traveling alone by cab in the middle of the night is sensible any more. I am also questioning whether I would have the balls to file a complaint with the police, if I am sexually assaulted or worse still, raped. Even if I tried to, I guess I would end up in the wrong police jurisdiction and be hammered around quite a bit before I can figure out the right place to file a complaint in, in this complicated country.

Perhaps, it would be a prudent idea for every Indian woman to sit at home as a nagging housewife without roaming around the streets in the middle of the night and get slapped if she speaks out of turn. At least then, the woman can only be raped legally and not otherwise. And, there is so much more honor in that.

Some advice, or maybe not

Have you ever experienced that weird and painful period of time when you sit around in office with absolutely no work to do, feeling only a teeny weeny guilty about all the time in the world going straight down the bottomless pit? Have you ever spent such time, not scouting for work or pretending to look busy, but actually walking around randomly unfocussed, only to settle down to prepare copious hand over documents?

If you haven’t, perhaps this post will prepare you for such a time you may eventually face in your life time. If you have, you already know what I am going to talk about.

I have been meaning to write about this for a really, really long time now, but not exactly in the format it has ended up in. In fact, I wanted to make one of those fancy lists that B-school alumni are coming up with these days and title it to the tune of “Top 10 things you need to know about blah blah blah.” However, I realized I am too emotional to ever be a matter-of-fact ‘listy’ person. Oh heck, who am I kidding? I realized that I do not have even three, forget ten pieces of advice for you. So, let me just ramble on, as is my wont. 

I remember the first ever time I quit. My notice period was pretty cool, and I was all “ha-ha”ish, if you know what I mean. There was excitement about the new journey and some sense of genial well-meaning towards all and sundry. The world seemed to be shimmering brightly, with the heavens shining down upon me, while I wrapped myself in rosy dreams about a successful and flourishing career spread over the next few decades. I even wrote an all-happy blog post in sync with my mood. 

One of my worldly wise colleagues warned me then, “You will never feel this way again. Enjoy it while it lasts.” I argued with him, gave him one of those “I don’t believe you, old man, but will still humor you” smiles and walked off. Over the years, I have learnt to humbly acknowledge that there couldn’t have been truer advice.

After the first time, the excitement wanes down, the trepidation increases. And, the trepidation, while being largely centered on “Am I doing the right thing this time around?”, is not strictly restricted to that, what with lower level details like even PF transfers looming up large and incomprehensive. The youthful fervor of “looking forward to” is replaced by cautious, unavoidable and limited optimism, if only for the lack of another tangible emotion. The world looks a realistic, suspiciously murky place, with unknown demons lurking just around the corner. 

I think I am slowly getting into that exaggeration mode now. Perhaps, it is time to stop.

You will know your emotions, when you get to that bridge. You will know whether you should cross it or not, whether it is worth the effort or not. You will know how you should cross it, without burning it. You will know that some bridges cannot be saved, but you still tried to save them. Even if you do end up crossing the wrong bridge, the wrong way, you will learn from it. Nothing pays like first-hand experience. Nothing pays like learning from a mistake you make. And, you will learn to appreciate the experience, for, when all else fails, you would have the satisfaction that you at least learnt not to repeat the mistake. 

P.S. This post has been in the works for a long time now, and has nothing to do with any current or imminent changes in my life.

Perhaps...

I just read an almost-hilarious article on Firstpost about Tamilian peculiarities in pronouncing certain English and Hindi words. At a point, the article speaks about how we are incapable of pronouncing ‘F’ because the concept does not exist in our mother tongue. Immediately, my mind raced back to a peculiarity Dad had in saying his ‘b’s, ‘p’s and ‘f’s. It is something funny, I know. But I am not able to recollect exactly what. And, I have no way of checking with him now. Perhaps, that’s what they meant when they said “Time heals everything”. It erases memories.

I am trying to work hard. But, I know my heart is not in it. In fact, I even know where my heart is. And, I even know why I am still here. And, I also know that I shouldn’t be here. Peace matters sometimes, well, in fact, most times. Peace matters in the larger scheme of things. Only peace matters actually. Perhaps, that’s what they meant when they said “Money doesn’t matter”. Not so much at least.

Whenever I drive, I am in a race. With the guy driving in the next lane, with the car that’s trying to cut into the road up ahead, with the cow that’s trying to cross the road. When I am not in a race, it only means the road is empty and I have no push to prove anything to myself or anyone else. That’s when I am sanest; and saddest too. For, there are no milestones to achieve any more. Perhaps, that’s what they meant when they said “Life is a race”. I don’t think it should be otherwise.

I was not bestowed with the purest of hearts, or the purest of minds. Yes, I believe the heart and mind are two different things. I have done my fair share of RGing in this life, broken hearts, under-cut, played foul, to different pockets of people at different points in time. In return, I have had it done too, sometimes having recognised before the foul, sometimes during and sometimes after. Perhaps, that’s what they meant when they said “Karma is a bitch". I didn’t know I was a believer in Karma.

The only thing I feel like saying right now is “So long and thanks for all the fish”. Trust me, that’s not the most random thought to have entered my head this week.

Up in the air

I was flying through the clouds on my magic carpet waving to the twinkling stars. My hands were just about to reach out and touch the moon when a gust of wind threw me off the carpet. And, with a thud I woke up. I had rolled off my bed in my sleep.

It was the Half Yearly Examination of 1993. I hardly remember that 8 mark question in the English paper now. It had something to do with writing a story. And this is pretty much the long and short of what I wrote. I got a 7.5 and much praise from Mrs.JS, my most favorite English teacher of all times. My friend wrote about some houses made of chocolate that children could lick whenever they felt hungry; he got a 7 on 8. I personally liked what he wrote much more than what I wrote.

And, I think that is the last time I did serious creative writing. Perhaps, it stems from a huge lack of imagination and a fear for dreams. I have never thought about it much.

Yesterday, I was on an early evening aircraft for a change. The sun was going down, and the sky was clear. The aircraft was almost empty and I was looking out of the window in a long, long time – not reading, not dozing off, not cursing the delay but just looking out. And, there was a sheet of clouds beneath me and clouds all around me. I was trying to imagine huge white cloud castles in a square shape, a tall tower on each corner, and a clown face with a gleeful smile at the gateway. I was building castles in the air, almost literally. Sometime then, I must have dozed off. For, when I woke up, it was already dark and we were landing. And, I think I felt alive in a very childlike way then.

It is nice to build those chocolaty homes and fly through the clouds with angelic wings, and live a fairy tale life, sometimes. It is nice to forget those concrete jungles, stressed out moments and robotic lives, sometimes. Perhaps, it is just nice to dream sometimes.

Seven

My kid cousin turned 18 yesterday. Which means she is not a kid any more. Or that is how she must be feeling right now, am sure.

That is how I felt when I turned 18.

The whole ‘becoming a major’ part was a big turn-on. Just imagine! I could vote, drive, tell off people with an “I know what am doing” look. The opportunities were endless. And, my silly mind waited and waited for grand 18 so that I could finally be free of those undefined shackles of childhood while my friends plotted behind my back to make it special. Special it was, I remember vividly. It still remains special, though I wonder whether life would have been a tad different and perhaps much better had it not been special.

But, that is not a story for this blog. Let’s move on.

Today, when I am 25 and have still not figured out life, I look back at those 7 years – 7 long years. And, I want my 7 years back.

No, I don’t want to reverse things, however good or bad they might have been. In fact, I am quite OK with how ‘life’ has turned out.

In these 7 years, I have run around like mad, chased behind things of no consequence, been rude and impatient and angry over little events, fretted over that which would never have been mine for eons together.

I wish I had not been so hard on myself, I wish I had taken it a little easier while I still could have. I wish I had been happier than I was with all the things I had, and not been consumed with bitterness over things that I did not.

I wish I had enjoyed the chocolate without worrying about how to dispose the wrapper.

My not-so-kiddish-anymore kid cousin would never read this. At least not presently. She is way too impatient and consumed with her life right now. Just like how I was then. But, perhaps, she would handle her 7 years much better than I did mine.

Perhaps, I will handle my next 7 years better than I did this. Or, at least I won’t write about it like how I have.

Maybe, I won’t be writing anymore then. After all, this blog did not exist in the last 7.

Ruminative remembrances

As the years whiz past,
I look back at my acts, small and big
The follies, they seem to be vast
The feats just a minor swig

I rue over missed chances,
Fret over one too many a blunder,
the good fortune and time’s advances
That slipped past me in a flicker

Perhaps am being hard on my soul
A little cynicism, some more pessimism
Has made me cruel
And left me in a chasm

Some day I will reminisce
Those feats, worthy of much adulation
And hail them for my life’s bliss,
good fortune and gratification

Some day, my friend, I will reminisce
Those sweet memories and acts of innocence
That had caused much of my bliss
And bountiful joyance

But, even then, I wouldn’t understand
Whether it was folly or feat
The silly exploits of a child-like mind
That were cause for many a glorious fete.

Fear of GOD

I have many a time wondered how easy it is to scare people.

Terror strikes, bomb scares, kidnapping, homicides – all these sure put fear in to people’s heads. But, they are coupled with in depth planning or extensive damage to public and private property or both.

What is the easier way to put that fear in to people? To keep them on tenterhooks, not knowing what would happen next? To make them look around with stricken eyes, restless thoughts and a readiness to bolt and run at the simplest sound?

Call a strike.

In a span of two years, I have had my fair share of strikes in this city. The reasons have been many – fuel price increase, arrests of noted political personas, regional disfavors. However, the result has consistently been the same.

Fear and panic.

So, whenever I have got into a vehicle during any of these occasions, the driver has always asked me, in rare concern, ‘Akele jaa rahe hai aap?’, and then proceeded to bolt all the doors from the inside and roll up the windows – even those rickety old taxis where locking is of no use and the windows no longer roll up.

I very badly need to digress here to provide some unwarranted information.

I hate dependencies. For instance, I hate having to wait for someone to pick me up and drop me. I would much rather prefer getting out of my house and finding some public transport that would take me wherever I want to go. That is one big reason why I love Mumbai much more than, say, a Gurgaon.

On a similar note, I hate having to curb and foil my plans, ‘voluntarily’ of course, because someone decided somewhere that normal life should be disrupted. I become fiercely defensive at such times. Wanting to rebel and prove a point to no one in particular, one of these days, I might just step out despite all warnings and go wherever I am scheduled to go, as if nothing is wrong with the world at large.

Today, despite not being crazy enough to do something like that, I had some other reasons and more importantly, the right support systems, to venture out and, as a result, got a chance to write this –

The roads were empty, sunny and wide
But, there were policemen on the side,
And, a bandh with no taxis to ride,
And, a bandh with no taxis to ride.

I also got to see that fear again in people’s eyes, the same one I saw on television during 26/11 days. Yet, it did not take much doing. No guns, no bombs, no terrorists taking the sea route, no demolition plans. Just one simple ‘Bharat Bandh’ to show “solidarity”, a solidarity that would ensure that stones are pelted on transport systems, shops are shut down for no rhyme or reason. And, that 10% of Mumbai's populace which has traveled defying all odds would be shivering inside office cabins, not knowing how it will get back home.

Then again, we need to be rational and reasonable. Life is full of trade offs and we get only an assorted deal if we want to enjoy the luxuries of a developing, democratic country. Like how we are entitled to elect our favorite candidates, write and speak whatever we want to and migrate freely across the country, unlike some of our dear Asian neighbors, we are also at liberty to call our own bandhs and strikes and ensure general disruption of life.