Happiness quotient

Last night, two of my colleagues-turned-friends asked me what makes me happy. This was before they answered the question for themselves. One said something about visiting his countryside back in his native Portugal while another said something about getting recognition for his work. In my defense, i said i love talking to people. Unbelievable as it may sound, i do love talking to people. But i've noted that my level of communication drops as soon as i get familiar with a given person. My finest interactions have taken place with random strangers whom you meet and then never meet again. The absence of baggage on how i should behave or talk like or whatever with such people is a unexplainable relief. I guess that makes me happy more than anything. 

Related: A friend from Ahmedabad once told me that we are here to leave behind witnesses that we were here once upon a time. In that sense, i think i'm just happy collecting more and more witnesses who don't really matter but still do. 

Midnight tryst

If the world were to end tonight at 12, who would you like/want/need to go to? Who shall be that person whose heartbeat you'd like to listen to with your ear pressed against his/her chest? Will you waste your breath on words? If yes, what will you say that the person doesn't already know? Where will you like to spend those moments? Under the sky? On the terrace or balcony, letting the mosquitoes have their Last Supper while you are at it? Where else then? What will you cook or order for dinner? Or would you skip food to make tea for two? What if there are more than two involved? Will you huddle? How would that appear like? Silence doesn't suit a crowd, now does it? Who will be the first to break down? What will happen then? Will the TV be on? Would anyone take out their phone to see what the timeline says? Will there be pictures taken too...you know, for souvenirs? Awkward, eh? Thought so. 

Getting well soon

I'm not really keeping well. Some ache or an underarm lump or gastric discomfort always emerge from time to time. Top of the chart, it's been about nine days since i've been living-in with a neck sprain. The epicenter of pain keeps shifting from one point to another...secretly...behind my back. I even stopped using pillow but due to nocturnal gymnastics, not much changes for me during the daytime. It hurts. That said, some mornings are better than the others, especially those whereof i haven't woken up in the middle of the night to shit blood. I guess my days of blissful sleep are long gone anyway. And that must explain the bulging dark circle. I won't blame the shift in city though. If your system is inherently weak, you shouldn't go around blaming the environment. Moreover, Gurgaon has been relatively good to me even though i'm not really fond of it. The ugliest part about having poor health is your mind is never at peace. You stop thinking and start imagining stuff. That never did anyone good except John Lennon. And he TOO was shot! 

PS: To those who think, i need to see a doctor, i don't. I've seen more than enough of them. They are generally unkind, immensely capitalistic with minimum patience for what you've got to say about your feelings. In fact, i should visit a shrink for my emotional problems but i won't. 

PSS: You know what a group of doctors is called? Profit.

PSSS: Can't wait for this month to end. It's like a bad April Fools' joke that dragged on and on and on and on.

People syndrome

People are assholes by default. But not all of them. I know this because i am people. There are more than 7 billion of my kind on this planet and one can safely assume that quite a lot are terrible beings. They succumb to human frailties like ego, envy, anger, gossip and such exciting but ridiculous energy-consumers on a daily basis. It's a way of life to be concise. However, despite all things bad and worse, people are wonderful too. One of my excuses for continuing to believe in them. Because if i give up on strangers-who-could-be-admirable, then there's no point in assuming anything. If i can assume that there are terrible people, then i should also assume that there are really nice ones too out there. Those who make you want to believe in random individuals without expecting too much. If people don't believe in people, who will? 

Give and takeaway

You feel bad for the beggars at the traffic signal, don't you? So, what do you do about it? 

Let me take a guess.

1. You offer money hesitatingly.

2. You offer money promptly.

3. You ignore them.

4. You keep looking at them without paying them. 

Yes, the word is pay in case you haven't noticed it yet. We pay them off because we feel guilty. That's the price we pay for being better off—strictly comparatively speaking—with the vehicle we are in/on at the point of confrontation. But there's a mighty catch in place. The so-called beggars are thorough professionals. They take their work seriously. Just like any of us would about a career. Do you REALLY think they'd go back to not being beggars if they hit a jackpot in their daily/monthly/yearly collections? Unfortunately, going by the NGO records, they won't. At least that's not what happens in Indian cities. However handicapped or disparaged they appear, they know they are simply making a living on the kind-cum-unkind roads. And it's totally up to you whether you'd want to part away your hard-earned/not-so-hard-earned cash. Because either way, it's not a guilt trip as you like to believe. Both the parties are merely doing their job. 

MO: When i have two coins with me and there's a beggar in front of me, i give one away and keep another to myself. That way, both the beggars are happy. 

Worrior

When in doubt, he worries—and vice versa. He keeps worrying what if whatever good he has fizzles out. Slip slowly out of his hands without him even noticing it. After all, hasn't it happened before? What if he doesn't wake up feeling like he did today? What if he wakes up as a different person altogether? What if the one he wakes up next to doesn't see in him anymore what she claims to see? Come to think of which, that wouldn't be as bad as him not seeing in her what he has become so used to by now.

Of course, these are just worries.

Lame thoughts at best and brilliant nots at worst.

But at the same time, he can't get over the pattern in place. He once assumed he won't be able to do without certain things but as time passed by, he managed to. He changed, didn't he? Or things changed? Or was that how it was meant to be? For all his eidetic endeavours, he can't really remember much, does he?

One of the many questions why waking up everyday hoping nothing changes has become his greatest worry of late.

Hopefully, this too shall pass. Like everything else did.

Shit happens

Creativity

is

me

making

sure

you

somehow

spend

your

not-so-valuable 

time

on

reading

this

lame

attempt

at

writing

a

blog

post

when

there's

nothing

to

share

about

because

i'm

too

busy

thinking

about

my

future

that

my

present

is

blissfully

blank

and

i

don’t

give

a

fuck

about

it

either. 

N.B. Sorry but this shit happens when you're so darn excited that even Monday starts having an identity crisis. 

When twain meets

Sometimes all you need to do is stop yourself from turning into someone you are not. Although it sounds doable, it isn’t. Many a times, the difference between who we are and who we’re trying to be is so minuscule that we keep slipping between the two entities. We say certain things because we happen to believe in them. We do certain things because they happen to make us feel better. What’s lost in the deal isn’t discussed—at all. And before we know it, everything becomes a matter of success and failure. As if we’re wise enough to understand the distinction between the two. Who can accurately predict our past? As far as the present is concerned, we are what we are. But at the same time, we will be what we will be. And in some parallel universe, both are the same person. The whole point being what George Clooney told Amal Alamuddin this morning from top of that stage was incredibly beautiful.

In the middle of everywhere

Every now and then, there's a periodic hue and cry about who we are as a people and what we truly represent. Are we Indian enough to call ourselves Indians or are we those who are basically disappearing? Are we so deep in disguise that we don't even recognise the sound of our fading away into homogeneity? The sun may rise in the east but it settles in the west. OK. That was a lame attempt at metaphor. But if you think you've got nothing to do with Western civilization, aren't you mistaken? You may lay claim to all the precious knowledge that Vedic India gave birth to even though you don't know the difference between Sanskrit and Prakrit. One (hailing from our country) can always blame our colonial baggage for this misplaced pride. It's like being in an elevator with the phone dipping in and out of network coverage. You're connected but still disconnected. A simpler method would be to call oneself a citizen of the world. But then, how can you do that if your range of geographical curiosity is limited to your city marked by sporadic vacations? More so, if you've become your favourite place and don't really bother to explore? In such a context, what exactly are you? You look very much Indian although it's quite difficult to classify Indianness by appearance. Some of the fairest people are found in South India and some of the darkest in the north. Our diversity is almost ridiculous. We've come to a point where we may prescribe to certain ethnicity or race or religion but our civilization seems very Western—if not completely American. Take a break and look at yourself. The clothes you're wearing right now have nothing to do with India nor the gadgets that have come to define your lifestyle. Your thought process and your wish to lead your life the way you want without paying the price of responsibility has Made-in-USA—if not Hollywood—stamped all over it. The way this world is built and functioning owes almost everything to the industrial revolution that kickstarted two centuries ago. We can be nostalgic about our glorious past but our present is remarkably rooted in the TV series that we can't have enough of. Our urbanity is going to be our species' downfall but aren't we enjoying the bungee-jump? Even our sense of humour is nursed by foreign memes. And if you still believe that 35% of the scientists in NASA are of Indian origin or that NHS is primarily run by desi doctors, you're actually attesting to the rise of a civilization that has proved itself to be more embracing than the one we are supposed to have come from. Yes, we enjoy Indian food because to put it bluntly, our kitchen has seen innovation like no other sphere. Not science. Not mathematics. Not business. Nothing. It's OK though. We are only aping the world like the rest of the world is.

Pearls from friends

A dear old friend of mine (who's not in touch anymore as is the case with most of my dear old friends) once told me how negativity is trapped inside the cobwebs in our house. He was basically suggesting that we should clean the corners of our home as religiously as we clean our armpits. 

A dear friend of mine (who's in touch with me but only twice a year i guess) once told me the reason why we feel peaceful as soon as we enter a religious place. According to him, the fact that people visit it with open heart and no malice whatsoever forcing the energy to stay nothing but positive.

A new dear friend of mine (i can only hope we are in touch forever) told me recently that negativity thoughts have a very bad habit of getting absorbed easily. Apparently, even the furniture take them in. The whole point being cynicism spreads easily because it makes itself home everywhere.

Pay attention to what they were trying to tell me because i clearly wasn't.

A reel for changing realities

At the risk of generalizing everything, i firmly believe everybody needs an escape. Some do the needful by leading somebody else’s life because theirs is unbearable while others remain true to themselves but plunge into addiction. It could be anything from alcohol to cigarettes to kissing the sky at night. I’m not particularly proud of myself for staying away from stuff that’s supposed to distinguish a child from an adult but i have my own key to escapism. People call it cinema. I call it reality. The reason being, whatever we witness on the big screen is real. The process is real and so are the intentions. I don’t see any difference between a movie and a life that’s led by norms. If you think waking up and going to office although every single cell in your body refuses to is a reality—not a movie—think again. Aren’t you following a script there? If not, what exactly are you doing? Aren’t you a puppet too without the privilege of seeing the director? There was a time when i was warming up to world cinema, watching everything came my way, worrying very little about subtitles—or the lack of them—because everything was so fucking new. And amazing! This was about a decade ago. Today, i’ve watched quite a bit and Kubrick knows i’ve much more left in my dull eyesight to absorb. However, this journey filled with a series of memorable as well as forgettable pieces of cinema has brought me closer to the realization that perhaps what’s happening on the 70mm celluloid is far more real than what’s happening on the opposite end. Maybe the crunching noise of popcorn or the slurping hiss of coke or the frisking fingers of your lover is not letting you notice it.

Funny but real

There’s a scene in Kung Fu Panda (2008) when the rotund protagonist drags his poor ass up the long stairs. By the time he reaches the plateau—where the fair is going on—everybody gets in and the massive door closes on his face. Needless to mention, the heaving loser is incredibly frustrated. So he tries to get a peek of what’s going inside through a peek-hole window on the doorside. To his misfortune, an acrobat kicks a ball in such a manner that the window too shuts down on our hero’s face. If that wasn’t cruel enough, an announcer inside screams about the acrobatic performance to the audiences, “You haven’t seen anything yet!” Our dear panda outside the door resonated with that line the way nobody else did as he said, “I KNOW!”

There are days when life is like that. Only you haven’t seen anything. And only you know it.

Undone endlessly

Does it bother you that glass is made up of sand and we are made up of stars? Our bones, nails, hair, teeth, nose bridge, earlobes...beg us the question: aren't we marvelous? Won't the universe be taking delight in who we are? We are certainly not the most superior beings to have left behind a footprint but we are fascinating. For good or for bad, we're growing at an astonishing rate too. We can feel others' pain. Each one of us is splendour personified. Able or crippled, visionary or blind, black or brown, arrogant or humble...contribute to God's social experiment on a daily basis. Dawn can't escape night. Raindrops won't evaporate before hitting the ground. Koalas shall remain cute. Humans? We're going to be unpredictable. A script? Thanks, no thanks. We might not be colourful. Darn, we can't even sing like a nightingale! But we create music out of wood and wind. That must count. We've got our abysmal weaknesses to deal with too. We somehow survive. We get by. However, the harshest of sun or the coldest of breeze seldom come in the way of our aspirations. Building happens to us as naturally to us as destroying. Conserving is as habitual as poaching. Whales can't stop us from carrying goods in the deepest of oceans while spiders scare the shit out of us. We barely think of donating blood to a needy whereas mosquitoes have their fill at night. We are fascinating indeed. No other creature comes close. No, not even dolphins. We may not understand cosmos but the cosmos must know by now what's going on. Perhaps we are waiting for the end because there is no end to us. We haven't been around a quarter of the time dinosaurs enjoyed. The planet isn't done—yet—with us. All the prognosticators can take a break. We aren't going anywhere. Everywhere we are. All of the time and all of the space is crowded by us and our thoughts. Does it bother you as to why we are so weird but still transparent?

A born editor

Have you ever wondered why the days from your past look so gorgeous? At times, even your school days appear as if there were no homeworks whatsoever. Why? Of course, i don't have a clue as usual. Perhaps Ghalib did. In one of his many poems, he wondered what would have happened had a given incident not taken place. His lines captured the lost-in-times essence aptly. Being conscious beings, we keep shuffling our weary mind between the present and the past. Future is fictitious and out of reach. Regardless, a brain does what it's programmed for by the Master: trick us into believing there's no such a thing as miracle. Because of which, you conveniently overlook the fact that you're the finest thing that ever happened to you. The way you breathe, the way you feel, the way you think... is unique. Nobody can replicate you. You're cheating death. Now. And that's why you look back in time once in a while trying to understand how you survived all that ever happened as well as the stuff that didn't. Explains why you edit out the crappy stuff and focus on the innocent bits. The way a survivor ideally should.

On the extreme

It's not that this city doesn't sleep. Just that she won't sleep with you. Unlike what Aamir Khan's character in Dhobi Ghat labeled her, she's neither a muse nor a whore. She is something else. Someone with a very high level of tolerance for iniquity. She has what it takes to give. Something she has been at since the days Baghdadi Jews figured out that Bombay could be a capitalistic jewel someday. Of course, she's more than that as of today. She has certainly exceeded all plausible expectations, economical or otherwise. The only trouble is way too many people are leeching her without offering much in return. Without going into the environmental specifics, suffice to say that time is basically running out on our grandkids. Not us. Them. Because the sort of waste we are leaving behind, they won't have much to rejoice in this rubble of a city. The public parks are shrinking at an alarming rate. The seawater has a colour even Photoshop can't correct. The air is what makes Pune so damn pleasant. Roads and gutters are in an immoral relationship here. Litter is a way of life. Too much neglect and way too overdependence has brought us to a point where we escape into a mall pretending everything is all right. It's not. For a place that has given so much to so many in such a limited time-frame, she merits a change. A kind of public awareness that might gift her moments to rest instead of rot any further.

I, me and old self

Every muscle in my body is sick of this sedentary lifestyle that i'm presently leading. I can almost hear myself fatten. I used to be very lean, quite fast and energetic. No, not like Cristiano Ronaldo. I had my reservations about turning into a machine. But then, he hasn't chased a local train—let alone struggled his way into one—so there's no way he'd know how inhumanly unfair life can be. Silly analogies apart, i'm getting old the way i thought i never will. In my head, i was supposed to travel, meet new people, learn something unforgettable on my journey and never ever settle down. Not that i'm settling down anytime soon but still. Turns out i didn't turn out the way i pictured myself at the turn of the century. I used to be 14 once and I remember running around a lot. I didn't mind the sun or the heat or the humidity. As a backup, i just wanted to complete SSC and get myself a job in an Udupi hotel as a waiter. Of course, that was a secret dream and things were to change eventually. Nowadays, when i look out of the window during working hours, i can't help blaming that boy for being so damn naive. Moreover, i can't help blaming this man who has nothing against greying and decaying but who refuses to grow up.

Vocational hazard

Over the years, i've had several thoughts about what i really want to do with my life. Because i know one thing for sure—even if i'm mistaken about everything else—this existence as a human is not a fluke. Each one of us is here with a purpose. However, very few manage to find theirs. Like i mentioned earlier, i've had thoughts. Real, deep, futile ones but still. Sharing a few that took form of words, is all.

Me: I want to be a fisherman. 

ABC: Try Pacific Ocean. Indian Ocean's isn't THAT deep.

Me: I want to be a teacher. 

DEF: What are you going to teach? How to become the prime minister of Pessimism? 

Me: I want to be a film critic. 

GHI: Devere! Just because you're an expert at downloading movies illegally? 

Me: I want to be an engineer. 

JKL: You're going to make a fine clone of a lower middle-class Indian who pretends to be an upper middle-class Indian. No offence, just kidding!

Me: I want to be a poet. 

MNO: For real? Hmm. If i'm hearing you right, you want to die of starvation? 

Me: I want to be a photographer. 

PQR: Last checked, the world hasn't turned completely blind. 

Me: I want to be a farmer. 

STU: Are you out of your mind? Or are you forgetting that sun is usually out of the cloud? Or both?

Me: I want to be a writer.

VWX: Going by your blog, you can't write more than 350 words at one go. 

Me: I want to be a prophet.

YZA: Now we're talking, my bipolar friend.

Liquid state of reincarnation

After toying with the idea of what exactly is sacred, i've reached a conclusion today while brushing: Raindrops are indeed sacred. Never mind the air pollution or the depletion of ozone. Every single droplet is a manifestation of ultimate patience followed by altruism. It moves as if it knows what it's up to. Except that it doesn't. Hypnotized by gravity, it goes down only to rise again. And for what? Suicide. And for whom? Strangers. Absolute strangers.

Mind games

You never forget your first-ever headache—especially if you are me. It's like your brain losing its virginity. Or something fancy like that. The month was February and i was in my sixth grade. We were in Shirdi and that's when my head begun to burst. Very literally. I could feel the pain so intensely that it outmatched any other kind of discomfort i'd experienced till then. I always thought i was special but my debut with headache was not what specialness meant to me. Having skipped breakfast that morning and with the sun dancing on my head, it was one heck of a horror. The lunch didn't help my case either. Medicine was out of question "for a little boy". After tolerating the day, an hour before sunset, a miracle happened. We reached Panchvati and my amma asked me to step into the cold water of river Godavari and splash my face. Believe it or not, the headache disappeared. Just like that. I can still go back to the relief i felt that evening. As (annoyingly) usual, she was right. This piece of memory is so ingrained in my head that that splitting headache has become a sweet sketch of my wandering mind.

Cut to 2014. 

Of late, i've been experiencing this tinging sensation in the centre of my head. As if someone is hammering a particular point again and again with a needle. The pain is sharp and seldom lasts for more than a minute. It's not migraine. My physician believes i think too much and unnecessarily stress myself with the task of making sense out of everything that's happening around us. This is the same guy whom i thought was a dear friend 10 years ago. Turns out i shouldn't have had all those freeflowing conversations with him. He has clearly given up on me. Moreover, it's difficult to trust a patient who initially hated body art and is now carelessly tattooed. Yet, i tried telling him that i used to be fabulous with my memory, with names and dates while I fumble nowadays. That glorious era of being quick with data looks like archived for good. He thinks i think too much (again). Maybe it's plain karma for all the people i've disappointed with my wayward behaviour. If not, then it's just another phase where my brain decides to reassert itself. Everybody, including wetware, needs a break. I can only hope it doesn't tamper with my memories. Memories so sharp they'd cut you in half. At least the rare ones in which miracles indeed took place.

Questions you read...

I think my husband is going to cheat on me. My boyfriend doesn't take a bath. She wants to be always right—even when she's wrong. My neighbour is hitting on me while i'm hitting on another neighbour. My boss is promoting himself again. I'm 13 and have lost my heart to a 12yo boy. Is love a myth? I'm yet to reconcile with my breakup. Is he going to ditch me for his mother? My brother-in-law is gay. Who is responsible for my misery? I don't want to die but i don't have a reason to live. My parents are forcing me to marry a girl of their choice. I'm a Hindu and her dad is a former Hindu who converted to marry her Muslim mother. Is there any law against breaking hearts? She wants kids whereas i want pizza. My son thinks i'm a terrible mother. What's your best relationship mantra? Our class teacher will be remembered as a sex offender. My dad is having an affair while my mom is planning their wedding anniversary. If only i could move on and never look back. Divorcing my husband of nine months was the worst mistake of my life. It was our first time and she cried and i moaned. I want to quit this city and move to Kasauli. My penis is too small and heart, too big. How come you have ALL the answers? I'm into movies and she's into theatre. My lover is not proud of my skin complexion. She sings like a crow but doesn't know. I fell in love with an idiot. I want my mother to remarry and lead a happier life for a change. She doesn't reply back in time but gets angry when i do the same. Her family is a circus full of assholes. We haven't been on a holiday since our honeymoon. My body odour is keeping my enemies away. Are long distance relationships short-lived? She has a 4am friend even though i work night shifts. I don't wish to marry her or anyone else in my life. Isn't marriage passé? I want to live it up and live in. The liar is in love with my boobs. Which way is out? I like painting my metrosexual nails. She wants to know everything about us. If it were up to me, i'd have changed her life by not changing my mind. Why are we doomed to disappoint? He's a narcissist and i'm in love with him. She totally believes she's perfect. I hope i don't end up lonely writing a letter to an agony aunt someday.