Epitaphs

Walking around in the graveyard, little flowers peeked underneath the grass. Long blades of grass. Shifting in the autumnal breeze. The ground underneath didn't bear thinking but it should. The flowers. The grass. The stones. The tombstones. Underneath lies rotting carcasses. Bones of death. Flesh decayed. Molten fluid surrendering to the fresh earth. I walked on the grass, crunching mud under my sneakers.

There it was. The one tombstone I was looking for. It was mine.

RIP: Today.

That was it. There was no date. I looked at it. I wondered what lay dead under Today. Memories? Friends? Foes? Thoughts?

Frantic to know, I bent down. On one knee. Dug the earth. Bare hands. Knuckles scraping. The tombstone seemed to be mocking me. Scrabble more. And then it happened. Worms. Wriggling. They crawl onto my hands. My knees. I jumped up. A wordless scream that scrapes my insides. More and more worms. I glance around. The skies have darkened. I run. Away from Today. Glancing back, I see that the tombstone almost seems alive. I run. Faster. And then I stop. In front of me lies Tomorrow. And I..see...that there is no difference. The worms exist here too.

Read more...

Turning Around

I haven't been able to write in a while. I don't know why - I have travel stories still moving around in my head, turning the corners of roads I have already been. There are life stories that invite me to fall back on memory - there are stories that need no category, that are so unimportant yet they present a little moment in all of life's infinite moments. There are all these and more, yet only the unimagined brings up life to me. I cannot write, and I cannot think, but I can only dream.

And that's where it all turns around...these days that go spinning by faster and faster, and slower and slower, till you don't know the difference between the two.

Read more...

Click Click

I have had a long weekend. Friday was a holiday, and it was a welcome recharge. I was asking a good friend of mine - how are you happy every day? Or rather not being sad in this the 21st century itself is a sign of happiness, is it not? "I just get through each day," she said in reply. I think about this now. And it makes me sad. Like this little cancer has set in our soul - we just want to get through each day? There are so moments in each day - and yet we have no time for the moments. Is this the balm of this decade? That we just survive? And that is good enough to get through life?

I know not these answers. Yet everyday, I feel like there is this heaviness in my chest - a golf ball or perhaps a cricket ball even that has lodged itself in my chest, and every time I swallow mediocrity in existence, it gets entrenched even more.

Another friend of mine told me that she reads - to escape the darkness. It is a sentence that has been swirling in my head ever since I read those words. I read too. But my darkness? It swirls around me - my shadow that fads with the light. I cannot escape it, I must embrace it. And in doing so, get through each day.

Read more...

A Post That Can Have No Title

There are times when I think that I ought to write in this blog everyday. But then, I wonder, why make the effort? No one reads this anyway. Why would I want to post virtually anonymous ramblings of mine on a disjointed medium? Surely, there are friends to talk to than a computer? And yet, on days like today, when the weight of a seemingly meaningless world shifts its entire self on you, that is when you turn to the anonymity of a keyboard.

It's this mediocrity I have surrounded myself in that traps me in ennui. Flighty as my thoughts are, I know that I cannot seriously contemplate a life that I spend ticking off the next rung on this ladder of corporate wisdom. Every single day I spend in a job, I know that a little piece of my soul quietly dies. It doesn't grumble much, my soul, but it does chafe. How many more years will I look at Fridays with happiness and Mondays with dread? A day has more than 60,000 seconds, or so I read. Multiply that in a week. What can't change in a second? Everything. And nothing. Yet, I waste them all, while I think of all the things in my reach, and then swat them away because dreams are expensive, and I am poor.

Read more...

Cannons of a Mind

These days it appears I write little. On the contrary, I wrote in a frenzy. I finished 40,000 plus words for a book and now I don't know what to write. It's like the thoughts that gave way to that writing burned themselves out. I search for the embers, the flickering spark amongst the dead remains that I could call my words, and find that I can bring none to life. Is it the ennui at work? The sheer boring lethargy of trudging through each day?

I asked a friend of mine the same question and her answer was simple : Happiness is fluid when it is a state of mind. And I think about it. Indeed.

I realized through my struggles at work the past few months that happiness and harmony is the H2O of my life. When either one of these is out of sync, I feel like a disjointed wheel running helplessly on a deserted highway. Sometimes, even that kind of disjointedness can be called freedom. But not when the wheel knows no other paths but straight. Roll on. So I keep searching everyday. And I convince myself everyday too. The moments of happiness are exquisitely brief. My challenge is to find a way to make them stay. Or rather to convince my beleaguered mind that I am. Really. Happy. Or perhaps not. Ach. There I go again.

Read more...

Uncertainties

It's been a while since I wrote here. Time plays such a cruel hand, I am sure if Time plays poker, we know who holds the aces all the time. But it's not lack of time that has stopped me from writing here, but rather lack of something to write. Over the past two months, I have spent on average 10 hours at work, 3 hours learning Chinese taking online Skype classes with my adorable Chinese tutor, working on my book of short stories (150 words a day, no matter what) and at least 60-90 minutes of the highest intensity workout you can imagine. I made this commitment to myself that I would do the things I want to do - and Time shall not own the things I want to do. It can own anything else, but my desires are my own.

So, if I want to spend an hour exercising every day, then I do so. No. I do not FIND time to do so. Time sits passively. We give Time various meanings, and then despair when it doesn't fit our understanding of it. If I want to spend 2+ hours learning Chinese, then I do so. I came to realize that in the end it is possible to do so. True, there were days that I wanted to throw my shoes and myself at the trainer whose DVD I rigorously follow. There were times when I wanted to close my eyes and sleep, but instead find that I have to do homework. Or write. This is not a look at my I am so great post. Rather, it's my belief now that we can really do the things we want to do.

Now, the only thing I wish I can understand is Life itself. I sit at the crossroads, and that's where I am stuck. Not because there are too many paths to take, but that rather baffling, there are none. There are always choices, so I like telling myself. And there are. I think to myself though why we choose what we do. What experience am I calling on myself if I hate these 9.5 hours of my day? Endurance? Fortitude? Just what is it. And so I sit, and watch the sun set and long after the moon rises, and till the sun wakes up, and the stars crowd under its glare - so I sit and watch...

Read more...

To Converse or Not

The past few days I have been having an interesting conversation with a blogger friend of mine, one who I have never met. A conversation through emails. Discussions about the risks/benefits of taking a career break, about the crutches that women need to identify themselves with, and about the difficulties in leading an unconventional life in conventional society. It was a conversation that I enjoyed, even though the thoughts moved through Internet cables and the only sound I could hear was the sound of my own listening.

Ah, listening. And conversations. Today, where have these twins gone? One cannot truly exist without the other, yet so many conversations today seem to be one-sided. I observe in my friends, people I meet, an intractable need to speak. To be heard. Over the years, I have used my natural shyness in conversation to my advantage. I use shyness to listen. So as people talk, volubly, and often incessantly about their lives, I provide the only crutch they require - an ear to hear. And listening doesn't just mean lending an ear. It's also about asking the right questions, to coax the person to talk more, to be genuinely interested in the person who is talking. And surely, we have to be interested in our friends, right? Or else, what are we friends for? Yesterday, I spent an enjoyable day with an old friend. She was understandably excited about her new job as a Project Manager in a suitably big company (yayay for her), and much of the talk revolved around that. I didn't mind - listening to people offers me fascinations that often translates itself into writing. And sometimes, understanding. She has worked hard to reach this position, and reaching this position means a lot to her.

I am different. If I had pursued the cold hard path of corporate materialdom, after 8+ years, I would not be without a job as I am right now. I would have been as many of my friends are - drawing the big salaries, talking the big talk about corporate metrics, climbing the way on to the next rung on the ladder. These days, my sister often asks me why I left my job. I am sure it's a question that many of my friends also would have left unsaid. HR managers look at my CV askance - just what I am doing in life? Two years teaching English in China, four years in an investment firm, a few other years here and there in content management - surely, don't I want to settle down professionally? I don't laugh at them - I laugh at myself. It's a sorry career path. Yet, I cannot and will not regret it. I have grown more through these experiences I have sought than I could have sitting at a desk. These past few months in China gave me beautiful friendships and more cherished experiences. Still! How few of my 'friends' here in India have really wanted to ask me about this? I don't believe in talking about myself, or about my life unless I am asked about it. There has to be interest from the other. Nearly every other friend has asked one standard question. "So, how was it?" To which I reply, " Oh! It was great, superb, fantastic. Made a lot of good friends." I stop. I am waiting for the other person to resume the little art of conversation - the little nudges that make a person go on. I would think, maybe then the friend would ask, " so tell me, about them, your friends..." Sadly, no one did. They take that one-liner as the end. And continue with talking about their life. Sometimes, I wonder. Really, is this conversation? Since when has this word come to mean self-aggrandizement? Self-promotion? A rattle and prattle about the self? Why can't we have conversations where we take and give a little from each others lives? To me, that's the real deal. The in-thing. The real management of friendships. And conversations.

PS: This isn't a rant against friends, they are all dear to me. This is just a wonderment that perhaps we really ought to revive those lost twins of listening and conversation.

Read more...

Comfort Zone

Yesterday I received my standard daily newsletter from Craig Ballantyne. I hate that guy. After each of his workouts, my one wish is to hunt him down...and...well, I don't know what I would do if I meet him - but he is freaking awesome. Intense workouts are here to stay, hate it as I must. Anyway, yesterday he exhorted "do me a favor, get out of your comfort zone." I don't know why, maybe it was because I was particularly down that time, and my mind wasn't in the 'reject everything' mode that it normally is, but this sentence struck.

I thought about it. How do I get out of my comfort zone? It's as simple as doing something different. Being something different also counts. For long now, I realized I have been comfortable being unhappy. I wear sadness like a shield. Its darkness is comfortable, cozy, and warm. I feel at home. When I am unhappy. Harsh as that sounds, it's true. So I decided then to cut the umbilical cord to unhappiness and be happy. To be happy is to get out of MY comfort zone. Every time I found myself thinking of shitty people who are not worth a moment's thought, I pushed it out. That too was getting out of my comfort zone. To not brood. Gosh, that is serious non-comfort zone territory for me. I watched a movie in the afternoon. Simple thing. But not my comfort zone. I usually watch movies in the late evening. At the gym, I switched my usual hit intensity interval training from the one I usually used to do. My body struggled with the change, but non-comfort zone. I did every single damn mountain climber I could. Till then, I used to think I can't. I lifted heavier weights. And the funny thing is I loved it. I went ahead and told my parents my future plans, which I had been dithering about.

Maybe there is something to it. Each time we challenge our mind and body, it responds. It may appear difficult, but I think it makes the soul spring alive.

And I loved this poem I came across in the movie I watched. Still trying to understand it though:


One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Read more...

Some Days Are Like This Only

I have had a very happening day. It's odd how we spend days together seemingly closeted in a little space of inaction, and then there are days like today where it seems that all of life's clowns have gathered together to pull your ears and twist your elbows and dive their fingers through your nose.

The morning was fairly uneventful. I had had a dream in which I was back in class, except it wasn't class, but the office, and I was irritating my manager in varied ways - including rattling my desk, against which he was sitting in his chair, and opening the newspaper in such a way as to cover his head. Naturally, he was irritated, and naturally I think to myself what's eating him! There is a strange character in the real office, who I have taken a fond dislike to. My good friend at work is fascinated by her weirdness. But me thinks that considering that this new gal is occupying an old throne of a colleague who was the weirdest of them all, you can't expect much different. At breakfast, I snatch the comb from the pockets of an unsuspecting guy.

After lunch, on our usual walk, my friend and I are accosted by India's own special characters - eunuchs. One eunuch followed us for a while - but he/she was relatively mild. Her friend who came along clearly was hungry. He/she tugged my friend's shirt. My friend moved away, or rather tried to. "I have nothing," I protested showing my empty hands. "Give me your trousers then," aggressive eunuch asked. It seems so funny now, but back then we were just irritated. Just how a society can allow open extortion in broad daylight is beyond me. We shook them off, but it was a sour end to a good lunch. But then the wheel swung again! I was so happy to know that something I was waiting for so long had arrived! In my mailbox! Then the wheel moved crazily - I didn't know what to do with what I was waiting for, because I still have to wait for another to arrive in my mailbox. Horribly confused is a state of mind I hate.

As if that isn't enough, I was to go on a trip over the weekend. Then again, I wasn't. Oh, now I can. But no, the resort is full. So shut the case on that for now. On the drive back, Bangalore has well and truly entered the World Digging Competition. The rules of the game are simple. Dig as much as you can. Wherever you can. As wide as you can. As deep as you can. As messily as you can. Dig. Dig. Dig as if your life depends on it. And the last I checked, we are right in the Top 10 of the Competition. The prize of course is the well-deserved and coveted label of being called the Worst Jokers on the Planet, as well as the Only People Who Can Systematically Destroy Whatever They Have Built, and the title of City of Diggers. So I meander through narrow lanes that have sprouted huge mounds of earth on either sides, navigate through treacherous swamps, and come home thinking that I don't need a trip to wild Wayanad. This is as wild as it gets.

Come home, still confused about Dilemma One Regarding The Possibility of Waiting for More Waiting. Hurry through my workout, then buy vegetables from the shop downstairs. Quarrel with the guy at the counter who tells me that the vegetable I want is over, even though I have seen it myself, simply because he is too lazy to fetch it himself. I give the guy at the other counter an earful, but nothing seems to work really because this is also the Land Of The Great White Scam Called Customer Service. Did you not hear about it? Those damn Pakistanis have taken all the Customer Service we had! Drat! Interfering Pakis!

Read more...

2011

And so it has happened. It's supposedly another year. I woke up not feeling any different. Raucous music from a club nearby kept me awake till midnight, and then fireworks kept me awake for another half an hour. I could hear the screeching. The hooting. Screams as I lay in my dark room with the light from a weak street lamp for company. And I can't help but think of 'new years' in the old past gone by.

The first New Year I spent abroad was in China. I remember me, a Scottish friend of mine; Sherry, the Chinese international office director of the school I worked for, and William, the driver sitting around on a freezing night in Lianyungang. The heating was not on. A policy of the school to switch it off when you need it the most. We huddled close to a small portable heater, watching programs on T.V. The Chinese were palpably bored. This was not their New Year. We made some desultory conversation, and it was obvious that the Scot was missing home - the West where we borrow this concept of New Year from the most. The clock ticked over. Everyone heaved a sigh of relief. We wished each other. Hugs. And it was over. I stepped outside, and the draft from an open skylight hit me. The wind howled. I went back to my room, and looked over at the mountains that graced Liangyungang. It was bitterly cold. And somehow, I felt everything was really new. It was to be a New Year. In my life. Not just a day on a calendar that someone devised centuries ago.

Then, there was the New Year in Thailand. Having reached Thailand on the day the tsunami struck, my friend and I just slept through the night in the country's north - Chiang Mai. I had slept deep, tired from a long day's journey into Asia's own triangle of Laos, Vietnam and Thailand. I remember feeling a bit disappointed, although I wasn't the party person, I didn't want to sleep through a new year either. But then, with calamity around you, there wasn't much to celebrate. It was a strange time.

Two years later, I was once again in China. This time, I was determined not to spend it staring at the T.V. There were 3 of us - me, an Indian friend, and an American. There were fireworks promised by the Bund. Stuck in a small provincial town in China, the American was craving for a wild night of partying. We weren't quite so sure - that is me and my Indian friend, but it was Shanghai - that seething seductive mistress of chaotic lights and unabashed richness. We were game. The Chinese were curiously excited this time - the government was celebrating a date that means nothing to the Chinese, but it was doing so to show its willingness to open up to the world, as it has so famously done in its economy. We got a few beers, and already the Bund was full. It wasn't a raucous crowd. It was obvious that the Chinese still didn't get it. But they were willing to try anyway. We sat by the Bund, staring out at the spectacular promenade that has never failed to move me. After a while though, we turned around, NOT facing the river but the street where traffic swirled slowly by. We talked about life. We abandoned plans to go to any nightclub. The American got some street kebabs. I was hungry, but I knew I couldn't afford to buy anything. The countdown began. Rather muted. The police stood nervously. The Chinese government hates gatherings of any kind. We turned around, stood on the parapet. And the fireworks began. It was a small drop compared to the massive display I have seen during the Spring Festival. We watched for sometime. And that's it. Another year slipped into the past, and 365 days stretched out.

And there was the New Year against the Petronas. I was in mixed company - friend, strangers, and my Dad. I don't remember much of it. The fireworks must have been great, but from my point, I could barely see it. I was thinking what am I doing, crammed in this sweaty space with masses of strange bodies for company...and I think that my thoughts weren't on the year ahead, but the year gone by. And as always, a lump rises in my throat, and my eyes sting with all that is dead and buried in the past. Memories. People. Moments. So much a year holds. So much it gives away.

I wonder now if the promise of a New Year was something that was a cherished gift from naive youth. Yesterday, I was just irritated with the noise, wanting to sleep. I know that there is no difference in today from yesterday. I wonder if I have become less of a romantic and more of a realist. I wonder if I have lost that spark in the magic of a New Year. But I know that of lesser stuff are dreams made. Each time, the year falls back, I know that I stand again at the threshold, like an eager child wanting to know just what chocolates Life will hand me. As long as I have that curiosity to dream then I know that I am alive.

Read more...

Wonders of Thoughts

There are times you go wondering if you what you meet is what you want, or what you want is what you meet. I am not sure what I mean by that myself. But I have noticed that the people I have met in the past few years have corresponded exactly with what I thought they would be. Was it my thoughts that produced such encounters? I read in this book that a thought is the picture that life takes. I liked that line. I kind of feel like I am a celebrity on camera all the time with life being the paparazzi. So may be I think it is my thoughts that led me to the path of thoughtless people.  I was completely deceived by the last such person I can honestly say I despise - this person was more of an angel's darling who no one will ever suspect of having the coldest heart.

But over the past few days, I have met some wonderful people. Those who make your heart come alive. Those you sing the song of life with you. Those who you can laugh with. Those you can trust. Those who have the grace to humbly seek your forgiveness if they think they have hurt you. Those who are just above everything, wonderful people.

Read more...

The Miracle of Running

There is something so primordial about running. Maybe it's in our ancestral genes. I don't know. I don't know who passed it on in my family, but it is in my genes, for sure. Last year, when I was watching the insides of my left knee, which the surgeon was kindly slicing through, I had only one question. He paused in the middle to show me something that was cottony and fluffy, which definitely did not look like what a knee should like. If only perceptions were reality! I asked him the question then, during the pause. "So when I can run?" He looked startled, that razor in one hand. "Three months," he said, back to the monitor. I nodded. Content. Three months, I can take. Three months flew by. "Can I run?" I asked. "No," he said. "You have an ACL injury. Don't run at all." Apart from a rather long list of other donts. I went to another doctor. He was more sympathetic although he couldn't fathom either why I would want to risk everything to run. I am not a professional athlete. I am not a sportsperson. Why then, should I want to run?

But the second doctor told me something I never forgot. "Listen to your body. If there is pain, it's your body talking to you." And so I went back. I learned to listen to my body. I worked on improving strength and fitness. Then slowly, towards the latter half of this year I started to run. Body didn't tell me to stop. So I ran. 20 minutes 3 times a week. And then, one Thursday, I didn't stop at 20. I was angry that day. I think it was last month. So angry that I felt that I needed to get it out. Anger, if nothing, is corrosive. I finished 3.10 km in 20 minutes. And then finished 5km in 28 minutes. You know why I love to run? Because of this. When I run, I don't think. It's just me and my body. Try running when you are distracted. You find that you cannot. In that sense, running is meditative. It can block out thoughts. Completely. For those few moments, I can be at peace, not in this vortex my mind occupies all the time.

Last week was enervating physically. The cysts I have leave me with a dull ache most of the time, and then they sap me of all energy. On Saturday, I had to pause, take a break at just 10 minutes while running. I hated that. Today was no different. A migraine and nausea ate away. That dratted tiredness too lurked like a monster. I got on the treadmill with trepidation. And that's when I thought. Sometimes, I ought not to listen to the body. Because there is something way more powerful than the body. The mind. So I told my mind to do what my body didn't want to do. It was slower. More painful. But at 34 minutes, I finished my 2nd 5k run. This sounds very self-paenish. Yet, beyond the culled remains of each day, it is wonderful to know that the mind can obey you where the body cannot. And that miracle of running is what I crave. Each time.

Read more...

Urban Myths

Living in a city, people say, is death for the soul. The urban chaos of modern living makes life so enervating and consuming. But look closer, and we find that the rural pastoral scenes we spend thousands to travel to can also be obtained here. How difficult it is though to open our eyes and see something new in the every day matter. "We are strangers unto each other," Eliot famously wrote in his play The Cocktail Party. I think we ought to treat life so - to wake up each morning, and greet the strangers we are.

In the morning, I was woken by the screech of a myna. I walked to my sister's house to pick up my lunch. In the kennel, her German Shepherd dog gave a sleepy greeting. Outside, six cows stood, waiting for their owner, their job of milking done, and now the more difficult part of the day to come - finding food. As I took my lunch and came outside, the cows set off. Fresh dung littered the roads. Dung on wet roads is an enticing rural aroma.

Out on the roads, a tractor trudges along. Further along, six or more dogs fight with each other to get the spoils from the milk van. On the flyover, a dog is standing on the safety barricades, and peering down at the police grounds below the flyover, fascinated. Near the market, a row of kites stand patiently. They perch on that one building, waiting for their meal that comes from the fish mongers in the market. And then, a cockroach walks over the car's windshield. Rural life? We live in it every day. Strangers as we are.

Read more...

The Ant In The Car

Just the day before I killed an ant by inaction. Now, I have an ant living in my car. I saw this ant two weeks ago actually. On the dashboard. Before I could reach out and flick it away with little respect for its dignity, it had already scampered inside. Inside where? I don't know. The engine?

It appeared again on Friday. This is not a small ant. But a big red one. We have a different word for that in Kannada, but in English I think an ant is an ant, regardless of size. Once again, it disappeared before I could catch it.

Today morning, there it was again. This time taking a walk on the windscreen. I was on one of Bangalore's busiest roads, and in between trying to avoid screeching horns, scampering pedestrians, and irate motorcyclists (Why irate? Bangaloreans just like to drive in a rage, for some reason), I could see this ant walking merrily across. I had to smile. This fellow is something of a survivor. I wonder if I have a family of ants living under the car's bonnet. He hovered for a while, and then disappeared into the AC vents. I drove without company after that. But it makes me smile. To have an ant for company. Considering the quality of human beings I have met recently, I will take them any day.

Read more...

The Ant and the Loofah

Today, I caused a death. It was a slow, painful watery death. The death of an ant. As I was showering, I took the loofah. Clinging to the loofah, I was this red ant. Without a second thought, I vigorously shook the loofah. Said ant fell down. I thought it would crawl away to safety. As I stood there watching, water was also flowing. It was one of those moments when you know you can and you must do something, but inaction and inertia force you to remain inert.

The ant tried to move away. In vain. The stream of water from my shower was a force too much for its little body to bear. Its feeble legs beat against the current. And then it was still. I stood there for a while watching the little body. Then some more water. And it was gone. Into the drain. I wondered about its life. Did it think that it had a minute to live only when it landed on my loofah? Could I have saved the ant in any way? Yes. I know I could have. Why did I then, allow it to die? What can I learn from this? That inaction is the greatest bane to life. It's nice to relax when we have too much to do, but sometimes we think that really it's just an ant. Why bother so much? Me? I care for the little things. I really do. Rest in peace my little ant. I am sorry, may we meet again sometime. In another life where waters don't rage in a small bathroom.

Read more...

When A Thought Slides By

It's funny how some memories come unbidden. There are things I would love to remember clearly - my brother's face for example. How we used to fight. Long physical fights. Scrawny me. And big muscular him. I remember it. But it's like being at the back of a very fuzzy lens. You try to focus. Sharpen the picture. But it's always watery around the edges. Memories like that are frustrating. And then there the ones that stay in your mind. You are never sure why. But they creep up on you when you least expect it.

Like today, for instance, I was watching the cricket match. And reading. I was reading more than watching. The phone was switched off. And then it suddenly flashed. Me walking into an office on Old Madras Road, Ulsoor. I had taken the bus there. From Koramangala. The office of a few months old magazine called Bangalore Trends. Thick and glossy it was. I wasn't sure how I obtained the interview. Did I apply? I don't remember. But I walked in to the office. I met a guy there. We spoke. For a while. He was the editor and publisher. I wasn't sure about the job. Clearly, he wasn't impressed with me. I remember him saying 'right, we will get back to you.' That time, I honestly thought that means they will get back to you. I exited his cabin, and there was this girl waiting for me. By her desk. She stood up as I entered. She was everything I could never hope to be at that stage in my life, fresh from graduation. Smartly dressed in a chic salwar with a matchingly chic haircut. Dark green. That was the color of the salwar. "Don't believe him," she said, startling me, referring obviously to the man I just met. "He just has lots of promises. Talks a lot, but doesn't pay. He has not paid us in two months. Don't join," she said, half smiling and half challenging me. I don't remember what I say. Perhaps I just nodded in shock.

I left the building. And really, at that point, decided not to take up the job if it ever came. It's a rather useless memory to have - I would rather have clearer brothers - but isn't life just still as wonderful. Maybe we need to give space for these memories - for the memories of loved ones - they don't exist in our minds, anyway.

Read more...

Touch

RIP the Internet, gently suggested a headline. I didn't read the article, but it made me wonder. I have known life without the Internet - but I will be the first to say that the Internet has made my life indeed better - materially. I have also benefited from its enormous reach - it helped me maintain friendships that otherwise would have deteriorated into nothingness. It has offered an extra dimension to life - indeed, my very job would not exist if it weren't for the Internet. So yes, I welcome it, and if it ever died, I would say RIP -Return If Possible.

For some reason, I thought also of the times when I didn't have a mobile phone. Oh yes! Those days too! Now, I have justified reason in feeling old, but really technology has advanced faster than I have aged. I remember long conversations on the fixed phone line in full range and vision of all in the family- but these days, I shut the door, move away from the window, and use my mobile phone only when I know no one can hear. Why is it so? I don't know...since when did privacy become such an integral part of my life? It's strange how we use the past limitations to impose fresh ones in our present.

And rewinding the tape further, what about those days when neither phone or Net existed? Those days when physical touch was the only means of 'keeping in touch.' That phrase! Like the word 'sorry,' ' keeping in touch' is one of the most abused ones in the English language. What is touch? Impossible to define - so it seems if you look at the dictionary, which produces volumes on this one word. I will just take the first one:

1.  To cause or permit a part of the body, especially the hand or fingers, to come in contact with so as to feel: reached out and touched the smooth stone. 

And those days before the phone and the net were just that : you really had to reach out, and touch the other person. And isn't touch the most intimate of human gestures? The most soothing? No wonder, I always feel peaceful when I think of those times. However much the phone has brought us closer, it has also pushed us away. The phone cannot be a medium for touch, although we can be 'touched' by what someone says on the phone, it is just that : words. The real physical art of human communication is what has died. And to that too, I would like to say Return If Possible. 

Read more...