We (Must) Matter

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The one thing we are all afraid of, deep down - however we try to mask it with trivial and flashy occurrences of daily life or by exposing ourselves to desperate acts - is being irrelevant, becoming insignificant. Of passing through life without achieving anything of significance, without leaving a trace behind. Of reaching the end of our journey and wondering what we had done with the time we were bestowed. What extraordinary thing had we done that justifies our time on this planet? Or even, how exceptionally well did we perform the ordinary tasks of life, if at all our life wasn't meant to be remarkable? Something must stand out. We must be content at the end - that is our expectation. We must have mattered, to someone, somewhere. Our presence must have made a mark in someone's life. Preferably for the better. Sometimes even that is not enough.

All our antics are aimed at proving to ourselves and to the rest of the world - whoever be watching, whoever be remotely interested - that we are not immaterial, that we do leave a scratch behind, deep or negligible, that a grain of sand has shifted because we existed...

If everyone shifts the same old grains of sand, our efforts become ordinary, compelling us to begin again, a short distance from where we had started, and add to our efforts to edge forward, rolling up huge globes of clay without seeming to, pushing them up the hill and letting them roll back down... often without a spot of hope. Because each life matters; must matter... we must make a difference...

Everything we do boils down to this unconscious, and sometimes glaringly conscious, dread of being moored, through the relentless passage of time. Of being motionless when the World, in its infinite hurry, passes us by.

A Fear of Having Done Nothing.

A Fear of Not Making the Best Out of This Life.

A Fear of Not Grabbing Opportunities as They Flashed Past.

A Fear of Not Having Knocked on Doors Hard Enough.

A Fear of Regretting Doing Nothing.

"The Cab is at the Door. The Letter is in your hand. All you need is a touch of Courage..." 

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Fear of Change is worse than Change itself

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It's not that you were not expecting a Change. You have been, for years. Even so, it must be admitted that you were not exactly "prepared". Even when you know what's coming, (and you hope it isn't) you deny the possibility of it ever happening, and so you're never quite sufficiently ready.

You knew it was bound to happen. Eventually. Eventually was so far away that, when it did happen, you were almost taken by surprise. 

All these years you had scraped by, because you had fallen between the cracks and gone unnoticed. 

Suddenly the Change you feared looms before you like a huge, dark, undecipherable shadow. All you want to do is turn tail and vanish. But running away is not an option. 

The only way is forward.

A long dark tunnel appears. You don't know how long it is going to take for you to emerge on the other side. Perhaps days. Perhaps years. Perhaps this lifetime. 

You lived your life right, according to principles. According to morals. You held on to integrity. Honesty. You followed all the rules. If there is such a thing as Destiny, then maybe the tunnel will not be that long. Because you lived right. You can only hope. 

You see clearly before you - how your own choices in the past have brought you here. If anyone is to blame, it is yourself. With the veil before your eyes that prevent you from seeing tomorrow, you did the best you could do. If one could see tomorrow, one's choices may be different. But then, the tomorrow you foresaw would no longer exist.

In spite of your correct decisions, you were taken by surprise by the twists and turns of life. 

There is nothing to do. Pause; and reflect. Are you making the best decision based on everything you know, at this moment? Then, open your eyes wide and step into the darkness. Your eyes will adjust. There will be a light at the end. (There has to be. If not, there is nothing you can do, anyway.) You can take that crucial step only by telling yourself that you did the best you could. Courage comes from that firm belief.

From there on, there is only one thing left to do. 

You keep going.

One step at a time.

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Deep Side

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Do you feel the lure of the Deep Side?
An irresistible yearning to explore the unseen?

The treacherous waters that others have crossed,
Over there, just an arm's length away; far, but near.

It's deep, it's dangerous, it looks ominous.
I'm safe, I'm protected, I'm content.

The Deep Side is for the Adventurers, the Explorers, the Brave.
I'm none of the above. Not now, anyway.

I'm safe where I am.
Here, in my world that's shallow, controlled and secure.

But that's never enough, is it?
Contentment is only temporary... We're never satisfied.

There's always the desire for something more, something exciting.
A thirst that no amount of money can quench.

The Deep Side dwells, calm and indifferent.
It beckons with its evident lack of interest.

It turns its back on me, callous,
In a way I cannot reciprocate.

What pulls you apart, from your safe nest?
What tugs at your heart, calls you a coward?

What new goals have you found to wreck your peace?
What unsatisfied longing gives you sleepless nights?

What is your Deep Side?

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We all need appreciation

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At the end of a work-related conversation, I said to my friend, “What you did regarding [a certain task] was great. Good job.” 

It was not a rehearsed statement; I had just remembered it in passing. Perhaps it was my unconscious intention to end the chat on a nice note. I was about to move on, when she stopped me and said, “No one else had said a single good word about it. So, thank you.”

I was taken aback. Half-hearted though my appreciation was, it obviously meant much to her. I would have ignored what she had done, just like everyone else did (it was her job, nothing more), if we hadn’t had a reason to talk that day. I wasn’t planning on the appreciation; it had slipped out.

Everyone needs appreciation. I know I do. But do I give it away as much? I doubt it.

It would not be too far-fetched to say that people turn to social media in search of appreciation in the form of Likes and comments, for some form of approval and validation that we do not get in real life. And generally, they find it there too – because it is easier for most of us to hit a ‘Like’ or post a happy emoticon than to call them up and say, “Great job.”

Why do we find it so much easier to shower appreciation on little children? Their beaming face, their eager, proud eyes, and their efforts to impress us again? As children grow up, they consciously lose these tell-tale signs and learn to confine themselves to a stiff “Thank you”, as though appreciation means nothing to them. They – we – also decide that some people are worth appreciating; others are not. We become stingy with the congratulations.

An experienced writer I used to work with asked me once if I liked a recent article of his. I said in surprise, “Of course, sir.” It was a reader’s delight, as all his pieces were. Nothing short of expectation. Outstanding, as usual. “Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asked. I had no answer. I stammered something about he being a great writer and who was I to make comments on his writing, and so forth.

He took a deep breath and said kindly, “You must say it. If you like it, whoever the person is, however famous, you need to tell them. They need to hear it.”

Everyone needs appreciation. This statement is worth repeating. This is a note-to-self as well as a reminder to anyone who reads this.

Today we blame the social media for taking us away from real relationships and real connections. But what if, we were already withdrawing into ourselves that the arrival of social media was exactly the medicine that the patient needed? It was the door that opened at the right time for us to vanish into.

There is a recent advertisement on TV in which a couple sit together to watch a film on a popular movie app. Soon, each realizes that the other had watched the movie alone, earlier. I probably shouldn’t read between the lines (it is a cute advertisement), but it seems to be exactly what we are doing these days – confining our world to our palm. Television used to be a family activity. But it was only a matter of time before that too became part of our aloneness. We are all so used to hiding behind our screens that the only sights we can appreciate are the ones that exist within the bright rectangle of our handset. We can see and communicate to each other only through our gadgets. (Except old people and very small children, who still prefer real company of real people over anything else. Let’s not forget them.)

These days, there is a great deal of talk about mental well-being. An alarmingly large group of people are on the verge of – or already drowning in – depression. Feeling worthless is a major cause. “Whatever I do, however I do it, goes unnoticed. Why do I do it? For what purpose do I exist?” Which in turn leads to, “all my doors are shut; there’s no way out”. I am not fantasizing. It is the truth.

Social media steps in. Virtual adulation is the thin straw that we clutch at, to drag ourselves out of the darkness. 50 Likes. A handful of “wow” smileys. Some of it may make us feel better. No, it is not as shallow as it seems; it might be a life-saver. “Maybe I am not so worthless, after all. Maybe there is something worth living for.” But what happens when social media ignores us as well?

Let’s say a good word when we can. We have nothing to lose. We do not know whose life it is going to save.

You ask me if I practice what I preach? 

I’m trying, my friends, I am trying.

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തലവേദന, തല പൊട്ടും പോലെ...

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ഒരു തലവേദനയ്ക്കു വേണ്ടി മോഹിക്കുന്ന ഒരു കാലം വന്നു ചേരുമെന്ന് ഒരിക്കലും ഞാന്‍ പ്രതീക്ഷിച്ചിരുന്നില്ല. എന്നാല്‍ അങ്ങനെയും ഒരു സുദിനം വന്നെത്തി.

പൊതുവേ, മൈഗ്രെയിനിന്‍റെ സൈക്കൊസിസില്‍ നിന്നു തുടങ്ങി നാഗവല്ലിയില്‍ എത്തി നില്‍ക്കുന്ന ഭയാനകരൂപിയായ തലവേദനയാല്‍ അനുഗ്രഹീതമാണ് എന്‍റെ കുടുംബം.

അയലത്തെ പറമ്പില്‍ കൂടി തലവേദന ഓട്ടോ പിടിച്ചു പോകുന്നു എന്നു കേട്ടാല്‍ കട്ടിലിന്‍റെ കീഴില്‍ അഭയം പ്രാപിക്കാന്‍ താല്പര്യം കാണിക്കുകയും അതില്‍ അഭിമാനം കൊള്ളുകയും ചെയ്യുന്ന ഒരു കുടുംബം.

അങ്ങനെയുള്ളപ്പോള്‍ തലവേദന വേണമെന്നും മറ്റുമുള്ള തലതിരിഞ്ഞ ആഗ്രഹങ്ങള്‍ എങ്ങനെ?

സംശയം സ്വാഭാവികം.

എന്നെ ഉള്‍പ്പെടുത്തി, എന്നാല്‍ എന്നോട് അഭിപ്രായം ചോദിക്കാതെ, എനിക്കു താല്പര്യമില്ലാത്ത ഒരു പരിപാടി കുറെപേര്‍ കൂടി പ്ലാന്‍ ചെയ്തതാണ് കാരണം. എന്നെ കുറ്റം പറഞ്ഞിട്ടു കാര്യമുണ്ടോ?

എന്നാല്‍ തലവേദന എന്നോ മറ്റെന്തെങ്കിലുമോ ഒരു നുണ പറഞ്ഞു രക്ഷപ്പെട്ടു കൂടായിരുന്നോ എന്നു നിങ്ങള്‍ ചോദിക്കും. അല്ലെങ്കില്‍ ‘എനിക്കു താല്പര്യമില്ല’ എന്ന ദുഃഖസത്യം തുറന്നു സമ്മതിച്ചു പിന്‍മാറിക്കൂടെ?

ആവശ്യം ഉള്ളിടത്തും ഇല്ലാത്തിടത്തും 'നോ' പറയണം എന്നു പ്രസ്താവിക്കുന്ന ഒരു സമൂഹമല്ലേ ഇന്നു നമ്മുടേത്? പിന്നെന്താ നോ പറയാന്‍ ഇത്ര സഭാകമ്പം??

ഉത്തരം എളുപ്പമാണ്.

വെറുതെ നുണ പറയുന്നതില്‍ എനിക്കു തീരെ താല്പര്യമില്ല.. ശരിക്കുള്ള ഒരു തലവേദനയുണ്ടെങ്കില്‍ സത്യസന്ധമായി നുണ പറയാമല്ലോ – തലവേദന കാരണമാണ് വരാന്‍ കഴിയാത്തത് എന്ന്. സായിപ്പ് പറഞ്ഞതു പോലെ... ലൈഫ് ഈസ്‌ കോംപ്ലിക്കേറ്റഡ്...

പിന്നെ, നോ പറയല്‍ അത്ര എളുപ്പമുള്ള കാര്യമല്ല എന്നു നമുക്കെല്ലാം നന്നായി അറിയാം. "നമുക്ക് അരി മേടിച്ചു തരുന്നത്" ഇവരാരും അല്ല എങ്കിലും... പലരെയും ചൊടിപ്പിക്കാതെ ജീവിക്കുക എന്നത് നമ്മുടെ ഒക്കെ ഒരു ആവശ്യമത്രേ...

ഇങ്ങനെയൊക്കെ ആണെങ്കിലും, ഉല്‍കണ്‌ഠയോടെ കാത്തിരുന്ന ആ പരിപാടി അത്ര മോശമായിരുന്നില്ല എന്നതാണ് സത്യം. മലപോലെ വന്നത്... അതങ്ങനെയാണല്ലോ. നമ്മുടെ ഭയമാണെപ്പോഴും യഥാര്‍ത്ഥ്യത്തെക്കാള്‍ പതിന്മടങ്ങ്‌ ഭീകരം. ഒരു വിധത്തില്‍ അതു തീര്‍ന്നു കിട്ടി എന്ന സമാധാനത്തില്‍ ഇരിക്കുമ്പോള്‍ പിറ്റേ ദിവസം ദാ വന്നെത്തി... ആറ്റുനോറ്റിരുന്ന ആ തലവേദന... വിത്ത്‌ അപ്പോളജി:

സോറി ഫോര്‍ ദ ഡിലേ...

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ഒരു കന്നഡ ടാക്സി യാത്ര

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ബാംഗ്ലൂരില്‍ താമസം തുടങ്ങിയിട്ട് തുമ്പ കാലമായെങ്കിലും കന്നഡ മാതാടുന്ന കാര്യത്തില്‍ വളരെ പുറകിലാണ് ഞാന്‍. ഇവിടെ മിക്കവാറും പേര്‍ക്കു ഹിന്ദിയും ഇംഗ്ലീഷും മനസ്സിലാവും എന്നതു കൊണ്ട് കാര്യങ്ങള്‍ എളുപ്പത്തില്‍ നടക്കും. അതുമല്ലെങ്കില്‍ നമ്മള്‍ ചെന്നു കേറുന്ന സൂപ്പര്‍ മാര്‍ക്കറ്റ്‌ ഒരു മലയാളിയുടെതാകാന്‍ സാധ്യത വളരെ കൂടുതലുമാണ്.

കഴിഞ്ഞ ദിവസം അവിടവിടെ തട്ടിമുട്ടി കുറച്ചു വാക്കുകള്‍ എടുത്തു കാച്ചുന്നതു കണ്ട എന്‍റെ സുഹൃത്ത് (ആന്ധ്രാക്കാരി) “ജീനയ്ക്ക് കന്നഡ അറിയാമല്ലേ?” എന്നു ചോദിച്ചപ്പോള്‍ നന്നായി സുഖിച്ചു. എങ്കിലും കുറ്റം സമ്മതിച്ചു: “ഒരു പത്തോ പതിനഞ്ചോ വാക്ക് അറിയാം. അതു വച്ച് ഒപ്പിക്കാവുന്നത് ഒപ്പിക്കും. സ്റ്റോക്ക് തീര്‍ന്നു കഴിയുമ്പോ ഏറ്റവും അടുത്തുള്ള മറുഭാഷയിലേക്ക് ചാടും.”

കന്നടയിലും ലാലേട്ടന്‍റെ ഹിന്ദി പോലെ പാളം തെറ്റാന്‍ തക്കത്തിന് കുറെ ഗ്രാമര്‍ ഉണ്ട്. അതു കൊണ്ടു തന്നെ എന്‍റെ കന്നഡ പ്രയോഗം തുടങ്ങി ഏതാനും നിമിഷങ്ങള്‍ക്കിടയില്‍ ഇങ്ങോട്ടു ചോദ്യം വരും: “മാഡം ഹിന്ദിയാണോ?”

മുഖത്തെ മഞ്ഞളിപ്പ് മറച്ചു വച്ച് അന്തസ്സായി പറയും, “അല്ല, മലയാളം.”

കഴിഞ്ഞ ദിവസം സിറ്റിയിലേക്ക് പോകാന്‍ ടാക്സി വിളിച്ചു. സുമുഖനും പ്രസന്നവദനനും, അതിനു ചേര്‍ന്ന പേരിന്‍റെ ഉടമസ്ഥനുമായ ഒരു ചെറുപ്പക്കാരന്‍ ഒരു വെളുത്ത കാറുമായി എത്തി.

രാവിലെയായതു കൊണ്ട് ട്രാഫിക്ക് ഉണ്ടോ എന്നു കന്നഡത്തില്‍ ചോദിച്ചു. അറിയില്ല, ഞാന്‍ വീട്ടില്‍ നിന്ന് നേരിട്ട് വരികയാണ്, വീട് ഇവിടെ അടുത്തു തന്നെയാണ്, എന്നു മറുപടിയും കിട്ടി. ആദ്യത്തെ പ്രശ്നോത്തരി പാസായതു കൊണ്ട് ഞാന്‍ ധൈര്യം സംഭരിച്ച് ട്രാഫിക്കിനെ പറ്റി ഒന്നു രണ്ട് അഭിപ്രായങ്ങള്‍ നിരത്തി. ഉടന്‍ തന്നെ “മാഡം ഹിന്ദിയാണോ”, “അല്ല മലയാളം” എന്ന സ്ഥിരം ഡയലോഗ് ഞങ്ങള്‍ കൈമാറി.

ഒരല്പം ചമ്മിയെങ്കിലും വിട്ടു കൊടുത്തില്ല. കൈയിലുള്ള പത്തു വാക്കും എടുത്തു പയറ്റി. പിന്നെ കുറെ നേരം ഫോണില്‍ നോക്കിയിരുന്നു. മുക്കാല്‍ മണിക്കൂറെടുക്കും എത്തേണ്ടിടത്ത് എത്താന്‍. അതു വരെ ഈ പത്തു വാക്കുകള്‍ കൊരുത്ത് പ്രയത്നിക്കാന്‍ കെല്‍പ്പില്ല.

അയാള്‍ ഇടയ്ക്കിടെ എന്തൊക്കെയോ പറഞ്ഞു. കണ്ണാടിയില്‍ കൂടെ എന്‍റെ റിയാക്ഷന്‍ നോക്കി. അയാള്‍ ചിരിച്ചപ്പോള്‍ ഞാനും ചിരിച്ചു. ഇടയ്ക്കു തലയാട്ടി. ഇടയ്ക്കു “ഹാവ്ദാ?” എന്ന് ആശ്ചര്യത്തോടെ ചോദിച്ചു. ദൂരെ പാലം കടന്നു നീളുന്ന ട്രാഫിക്ക് നോക്കി അയാളെന്തോ പറഞ്ഞപ്പോള്‍ ഞാനും ‘ശോ, എന്തൊരു ട്രാഫിക്ക്’ എന്ന അര്‍ത്ഥത്തില്‍ തല കുലുക്കി. അടുത്തു കൂടെ കടന്നു പോയ വിലകൂടിയ വണ്ടി ചൂണ്ടി കാണിച്ചിട്ട് അയാള്‍ പറഞ്ഞു, എല്ലാര്‍ക്കും ജാഗ്വാറും ബി.എം.ഡബ്ല്യുവും വേണം, റോഡിലാണെങ്കില്‍ സ്ഥലവുമില്ല. അങ്ങനെ തന്നെയാണോ പറഞ്ഞത് എന്നെനിക്ക് യാതൊരു ഉറപ്പുമില്ല, പക്ഷേ അതു പോലെയൊക്കെ തന്നെ തോന്നിയതു കൊണ്ട് ഞാനും നീട്ടി മൂളി.

കുറച്ചു ദൂരം കഴിഞ്ഞപ്പോള്‍ പ്രസന്നവദനന്‍ കണ്ണാടിയില്‍ നോക്കി എന്തോ പറഞ്ഞിട്ട് ചിരിച്ചു. ഞാനും അങ്ങോട്ട്‌ നോക്കി നല്ലവണ്ണം ചിരിച്ചു കഴിഞ്ഞപ്പോള്‍ എനിക്കൊരു ചിന്ന ഡൗട്ട്.

“കുറെ നേരമായല്ലോ ഞാന്‍ പറയുന്നതും കേട്ടിരിക്കുന്നു. ഒരു വസ്തു മനസ്സിലാകുന്നില്ലെങ്കിലും തല കുലുക്കി ഇരിക്കുവാ അല്ലെ” എന്നായിരിക്കുമോ അയാള്‍ പറഞ്ഞത്? അതിനും ഞാന്‍ നല്ലവണ്ണം തല കുലുക്കി ചിരിച്ചു കൊടുത്തിട്ടുണ്ട്.

പിന്നെ കൂടുതല്‍ നാണം കെടാതെയിരിക്കാന്‍ ഫോണില്‍ സഹപ്രവര്‍ത്തകനെ വിളിച്ച് ഒന്ന് രണ്ടു കാര്യങ്ങള്‍ മലയാളത്തില്‍ ചോദിച്ചു. പിന്നെ ഫോണില്‍ നിന്ന് തലയുയര്‍ത്താതെ ഇരുന്നു. വാട്ട്സ് ആപ്പില്‍ പോലും ഒരു മനുഷ്യന്‍ മിണ്ടുന്നില്ല. എന്നാലും അതും നോക്കി മുകളിലേക്കും താഴേക്കും സ്ക്രോള്‍ ചെയ്തു കൊണ്ടിരുന്നു. എനിക്ക് ഒരുപാടു പണിയുണ്ട് എന്നു തോന്നിക്കാന്‍ മുഖത്ത് ഗൗരവഭാവം വരുത്തി. പുറത്തേക്കു നോക്കി ആലോചനയില്‍ മുഴുകി.

ബാംഗ്ലൂരില്‍ സ്ഥിരതാമസമാക്കുന്നതിനും എട്ടോ പത്തോ വര്‍ഷം മുന്‍പ് ഉഡുപ്പിയില്‍ കുറച്ചു നാള്‍ താമസിക്കാനിടയായിരുന്നു. ഒരു ദിവസം മുടി വെട്ടാമെന്നു കരുതി ഒരു പാര്‍ലറില്‍ കയറി. പെട്ടെന്നു തീരുമാനിച്ചതായതു കൊണ്ട് തലയിലെ എണ്ണമയം കഴുകി കളഞ്ഞിട്ടില്ലായിരുന്നു.

ചീകി തുടങ്ങിയതും മുടി വെട്ടുന്ന പെണ്‍കുട്ടി എന്തോ എന്നോടു പറഞ്ഞു തുടങ്ങി. കന്നഡയില്‍ എനിക്ക് അക്കാലത്ത് ആകെ അറിയാവുന്ന വാക്ക് ‘ഉഡുപ്പി’. മുടിയെ കുറിച്ചാണ് ഇവര്‍ പറയുന്നത് എന്നു മാത്രം മനസ്സിലായി. ഞാന്‍ മുന്‍പിലുള്ള കണ്ണാടിയിലൂടെ അവരെ തന്നെ തുറിച്ചു നോക്കി. എന്‍റെ മുഖം കണ്ടാല്‍ ആര്‍ക്കും മനസ്സിലാകും ഞാന്‍ ‘കുന്തം വിഴുങ്ങി’ ഇരിക്കുകയാണെന്ന്. പക്ഷേ ഈ കുട്ടിയാണെങ്കില്‍ എന്നെ നോക്കുന്നതേയില്ല. കുറെ നേരം എന്നെ ഉപദേശിച്ചു. “എനിക്കൊന്നും മനസ്സിലാകുന്നില്ല” എന്നു പറയാന്‍ പോലും ആ പെണ്‍കുട്ടി എനിക്ക് ഒരു ഗ്യാപ്പ് തന്നില്ല. അവസാനം ഒരു വിധത്തില്‍ മുടി വെട്ടി തീര്‍ന്നു. പൈസ കൊടുത്തു ഞാന്‍ അവിടെ നിന്ന് ഇറങ്ങി. കുറെ നേരം കഴിഞ്ഞ് ആലോചിച്ചു നോക്കിയപ്പോഴാണ് മുടിയിലെ എണ്ണയെ കുറിച്ചുള്ള ലെക്ചര്‍ ആയിരുന്നു അതെന്നു മനസ്സിലായത്. പത്തു പതിനഞ്ചു മിനിറ്റോളം തലകുലുക്കുകയോ മറുപടി പറയുകയോ മൂളുകയോ ചെയ്യാത്ത എന്നോട് അവര്‍ നിര്‍ത്താതെ വര്‍ത്തമാനം പറഞ്ഞതിനെ കുറിച്ച് ഇപ്പോഴും എനിക്ക് അത്ഭുതമാണ്.

45 മിനിട്ട് കഴിഞ്ഞപ്പോള്‍ പ്രസന്നവദനന്‍ എന്നെ പറഞ്ഞ സ്ഥലത്ത് എത്തിച്ചു. എന്‍റെ കൈയില്‍ ചില്ലറ ഇല്ലാത്തതു കൊണ്ട് രണ്ടു രൂപ കുറച്ചാണ് കൊടുത്തത്. അതു മതിയെന്നും, അങ്ങോട്ട്‌ ഡോര്‍ തുറക്കുമ്പോള്‍ വണ്ടി വരുന്നുണ്ടോ എന്നു ശ്രദ്ധിച്ച് ഇറങ്ങണമെന്നും പറഞ്ഞ് സന്തോഷത്തോടെ അയാള്‍ യാത്രയായി.

അയാള്‍ എന്നെ കളിയാക്കിയതല്ല എന്നും കൊച്ചു വര്‍ത്തമാനം പറഞ്ഞ് യാത്ര ചെയ്‌താല്‍ ട്രാഫിക്ക് ഒരു മുഷിപ്പായി തോന്നില്ലല്ലോ എന്നോര്‍ത്തായിരിക്കും എന്നും എനിക്കു നല്ലവണ്ണം അറിയാവുന്നതു കൊണ്ട് ഞാന്‍ അയാള്‍ക്ക് ടാക്സി ആപ്പില്‍ അഞ്ചു സ്റ്റാറും കൊടുത്തു.

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A Consequence of Dreams

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It was the enormity of his dreams that terrified me. And why would it not? He was aiming for the highest of the branches - higher than even the best of us could achieve.

I look into his eyes, they are burning with excitement. I see stars shining in them. His optimism is heart-breaking. No one has done this before, he says. In his eyes, he is a winner already.

I've been there. So I know.

But what I know about him makes me cautious.

I know oh, so well, the path is long and the journey is not easy. Years would pass before we reach anywhere worth mention. But if the journey has to begin, one has to first get into the vehicle. Or start walking. Take baby steps. It is easy to conjure dreams; it takes a great deal of effort to make them come true. The struggle is romantic only in stories or in movies. Or in retrospective; after you've made your mark.

He is a dreamer, always has been. But he forgets the hard work that has to go with it. He makes excuses.

True, some of our dreams are absurd. They have to be. But what makes them remotely possible is the effort that we are willing to put into it.

Do I tell him that his dreams are too fantastic? Do I advise him to be more practical, and take one step at a time? Do I warn him about the Rejections he is going to face?

Will that destroy his motivation? Was that even the right thing to say? Or do I encourage him to keep his eyes on the distant goal so that he can work towards it? No one can ever tell which way a creative person will swing on the face of criticism. That, I know very well too.

Who was I to judge or advise? Not so long ago, I myself, bursting with excitement at my first 'success', was confronted with the ridicule, "Have you nothing better to do?"

I took weeks to recover.

Crushing dreams is a simple enough job. A flick of the finger, a snap, a mocking laugh, an unkind word - sometimes these are all it takes. It is up to the dreamer to find the strength to shake it off, rise from the ashes of despair, pick up the tools again and fight the constant fear of failure. And display the confidence that one does not feel.

Weighing everything in mind, taking the cautious route, I ask: Have you started working on it?
My heart sinks at his answer.
No, he says. But one of these days, I will.

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"If you were to have one super power, which would you choose?"

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"The Green Lantern's watch," replied my son without a moment's hesitation. Little children. They know exactly what they want. (Read this old story - Twitter of the Linkedin.) As they grow, somehow this certainty fades and they learn to stray between this and that and in between.

Apparently, using the watch, the Green Lantern can do pretty much anything. Which is really cool because the super heroes I used to know had certain definite types of skills - like flying, super-strength to bash up the bad guys or to stop trains, thought-reading, crawling up walls, swinging from spider webs, manoeuvring a flying car, and so on. These days a watch is enough for all this and more.

Anyway, a few years ago when I was asked this question (in a public forum, no less), I said, "I guess I would like to be invisible." Clearly an answer that was delivered with no thought behind it. I assumed that if I gave some answer then they will move on. They didn't. "Everyone wants to be invisible," they said. And within a few minutes, my "dream" super power was reduced to a creepy idea that I wanted to be invisible so as to overhear what others are saying, see what they are doing and so forth.

Actually the answer is (then as well as today) that I don't want any super power. Think about it. I am a Mom who loves her tea and writing and books and movies, and who needs to hug her son and listen to his tales and yell at him everyday. I don't want to be out in the sun with my very own super strength to bash up bad guys. (Though, I must admit, a little Taekwondo training for self-defense is a good idea these days; just in case.) No crawling up the walls, no flying cars, and I definitely don't want to be overwhelmed with everyone else's thoughts in my head, à la Superman.

I would like to vanish into thin air only when I have royally embarrassed myself in front of someone.

I would also like to erase some memories from some people's heads while I am at it.

I certainly don't fancy flying over Bengaluru with my hands outstretched and my cape flying behind me, just because I am stuck in the traffic jam and there is somewhere I need to be. Or swinging from one building to another over the heads of people. (I won't mention the outrageous costumes here.)

I suppose it would be politically correct to say that if I had some super power (i) I would try to bring all the criminals in the world to justice and (ii) I will fight for global peace and (iii) I will try to reduce global warming and close the ozone hole with my very own fingers, and (iv) I will put an end to poverty and suffering and illnesses, but if we really think about it, even the known superheroes have been able to do nothing much about poverty or illness. (Most of them haven't even seen real poverty or suffering, as far as I can tell; they being generally confined to the other side of the globe.) Besides, if all the human evil in the world was eliminated, what would organizations like Human Rights Watch do? Heck, what would the superheroes themselves do? See the massive lay-off looming in the horizon that will bring in more problems, more unemployment, more poverty, more starvation? (Oh, how in the world can a poor superhero rest in peace!)


Putting all those powers (and jokes) aside, let us look at what we dream of every day. Yes, there are certain things that we all wish would happen to us. Put a thought in someone's mind (someone who is influential enough) to show us a bit of kindness. Push our file / email to the top of some important person's inbox at the right time. Allow a critical someone to accidentally see our work. And if we are less talented, make them think highly of us for no reason. Ever heard of Bruce Almighty?

We might like to call it a miracle - such a coincidence! - that we were noticed by The Someone. We would narrate it to everyone - she saw it just by accident! I was so surprised when he called! I had no idea my work was this brilliant! Oh, I am so darn lucky.

But deep inside, we would know. It's called cheating. Maybe it will be smooth sailing for a while. But then we would need more such miracles if we are to keep up the show. Do we really want that? Think Bruce Almighty again.


Mothers are usually known for juggling too many things and trying to be SuperMoms, and for feeling guilty despite everything. We would certainly appreciate it if Superman could go get the groceries or look after the baby or do the chores while we rest our backs, but I'm afraid he might consider those tasks beneath him. We merely need some human support (sometimes as little as a kind word!). Or some magic wand that erases the misplaced feeling of guilt.


So the answer is that there is no real super power that can really help me the way I want to be helped. When a person is given a superpower, he is not expected to use it on himself (think Bruce) but to help others. How selfish of me to think only of myself.

But, wait.

Maybe this can't be called 'super', but I would really like to have a power that helps me with my son's studies. I mean, it was one thing to pass my own exams, but now half a lifetime later to be confronted with the same old questions? I could really use some super-human help to keep me from going insane, as I struggle to first understand the stuff myself and then explain to him.

What? That kind of super power is not in the market these days? That's a pity. A real pity.

I guess I will have to tackle life as it is, then.

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Into the darkness and around the drain

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A depressed person is a very depressing person.

What do people do when they need to face a person who has been depressed for a long time - not for hours, but days, weeks, months or even years?

Quotes doing the rounds in the social media space advise you to stay away from 'negative people who make you miserable'. Most people would rather keep away than see how they can help. True that it is better for those who lead a joyous or pleasant life to run away than to delve into the chasm of another's misery and ruin their own days. It is indeed a lot to ask to go sit with them and chat with them for a while, because of the radiating gloom.

A depressed person could be a very depressed person.

It is their suffocation that comes out as negativity or accusation or explosion. They know what they are doing to others, but they can't help it. They're choking on it.

Some of them may be twirling in the darkness dangerously close to the drain, wondering what it would be like to let go. Perhaps they need help to not be washed away. Perhaps you could throw them a line and pull them out. Because their life matters, too.

Maybe no one can fix their problem, but knowing that someone cares or having someone to talk to may get them out of the darkest place. It may not happen in an hour or a day. Walking away definitely does not help. Waiting for them to ask for help doesn't either.

'You must find your own happiness' is probably not the best comment to make to them. Clearly, they are well past that stage. They believe they're beyond help.

When others keep away from them because the darkness is contagious, they are adding to the frustration.

The depressed person doesn't want to be depressed either. They want to be happy too. They may be afraid, miserable, coping with grief, angry or stuck in their past.

They may appear happy one day, or laughing out loud or looking quite normal. Don't assume that they are out of the woods. Maybe what you see is their flailing arms appearing above the surface for the last time.

And if they look gloomy again the next day, the silliest question to ask would be, "Now what happened?"

Don't mock them. Don't call them insane. Don't isolate them.

Throw a line.

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Judging

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'Why did you do that?!'
'What a foolish decision!'
'You must do this now.'
'Don't you know it will become this-or-that?'
'I could have told you that would happen.'
'Did you do this? Did you do that? Did you do this after that, or did you do that after this? Why?'

The moment we talk about a decision in our lives, or an illness, or a casual daily affair, there are people who respond immediately with comments like the above. They believe that as a responsible citizen of this wonderful country, it is their duty to point out others' errors and to move mountains to fix those errors. They are also convinced that we know nothing about how this world works and it is upon them to teach us a few lessons based on their vast experience. They also like to gloat a wee bit later that 'I told her to fix it this way.'

We flinch, and ask ourselves why in the world we had to start talking about it. Our murmured replies cement their conviction that we are ignorant folks who only add to the woes of the planet.

Those who know us better - even when they may not know the exact circumstances that led to our situation - may give us the benefit of doubt. Their questions - delivered kindly - are at least based on the belief that we can also think like they do, and  that maybe we have considered all options, and that maybe we are intelligent enough to figure things out when the time comes. They take care to put their responses in a certain way so as to make sure that we are not plunging into a mistake out of ignorance. To be fair, if we like them, their queries are okay; if we don't, they aren't. In other words, we like them if they know how to respond kindly; we don't, if they don't.

Yes, everyone is well-meaning in this world, the only difference is how you make yourself appear in the light of a situation.

Why do we talk to those people who make us feel small? Sometimes it is duty. Sometimes we need advice - and those people are experts in their area. Sometimes we have to visit them for the sake of preserving social niceties and such, and one conversation leads to another. There could be many reasons.

Until a few years ago, it had been difficult to explain this feeling. You feel wretched after each dose you receive, but you could never reduce the entire episode into a single word. You could not quite decide whether your attitude and actions were wrong - or did they jump to conclusions?

Until.

Among the many things that the West has bestowed on us in the recent years is a small but significant word that had slipped past us unseen, unnoticed. A word that we hear in movies, shows, talks, everywhere and is increasingly entering our lives and falling out of our mouths. A word that just by its existence tells us that we are not the ones who are wrong; we are not the ones who should feel guilty.

And that word is - judging.
(Often followed by a flood of Unsolicited advice.)

She was judging me.
Why are you judging me?
Don't judge me!

It is a relief to know that that well-known feeling of wretchedness goes by a clear, definite name. In that single word, we can compress the entire episode, and the listener would know what we mean.

We all judge others - openly and secretly. It's in our flesh and blood. At one point in time, I am sure judging helped our species survive subarctic temperatures and such. But it is probably wiser to keep the art of judging to ourselves or to people closest to us. Today it might not quite help the cause of survival. 

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Road to Liberation: Why can't we?

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Another Women's Day has come and gone. All the right words were tossed in the right places - liberation*, equality, feminism, empowerment and such glorious words that generate goosebumps all over the place. All the right questions were asked in the right forums -  including, Will women ever be really free? Wherefore art thou, Romeo? To be or not to be? and such pertinent ones. After the fun was over, everyone left: the people went to have dinner, the chickens went home to roost and the cows went home to probably catch up on their nap. Until the next women's day or the next time liberation is set on fire.

A few days ago, I read a tweet (unfortunately I lost its trace) which said that in Saudi, the laws that restrict women are typically upheld by older, traditional women themselves. Frankly, I don't find that surprising at all. It is not because the older women are jealous of the youngsters (or such rubbish). It is a very simple (and well-known) fact that if we grew up believing something, it is not easy to change it. Allow me to take a few detours.

One day, in the nineties, I was watching TV with a woman as old as my mother. Let's us just say that she had not quite caught up with the developments in the entertainment industry. After watching a song-and-dance sequence from a movie, she asked me if 'they were all really women, or if they were men dressed as women?' I replied that the dancers were really women. She didn't comment, but I believe she was wondering how women could actually wear such clothes and dance, in front of so many people. Today we have gotten used to the idea (and worse). The shock has since worn off. But on that day, I don't think the lady approved of what she saw. I don't think the notions of 'liberty' or 'equality' or 'empowerment' were at the top of her mind; she merely found the sight distasteful. Given a chance, she might have suggested that these dances be banned. Of course, I am speculating now. She had not said a word.

Another scene. There was a cultural program in our college. As the evening wore on and the latest hit songs were being played, boys began dancing in the auditorium and some of the excitement caught on to us girls, too. We don't need booze to get high, we just need the appropriate music and an incessant pounding in our ears. Some of us got up from our seats and began dancing. Needless to say, there were many eyes on us but we did not care. We had to dance. There would never be another chance. Naturally, some people thought we were doing it to attract attention. To their cramped minds, any other possibility does not exist.

The next day, we had an audience with the Principal -  a few of us who were 'responsible' for the rest of the ladies were summoned. He asked us about the previous night and informed us that it was very irresponsible behaviour. He did not know who the 'culprits' were, he said, as he looked at me pointedly. I did not blink. He wasn't harsh or anything (and I now wonder if his mind was completely in it), but warned us of the consequences, should it happen again. Yes, I apologised on behalf of the girls (though I was not one bit sorry for having a little fun), and of course, it never happened again. I wonder if he went and said the same things to the boys too. Maybe a general warning was issued, which, he knew, will never be followed. After all, boys will be boys.

Truth is, there never was another chance and there never will be. I don't think I ever had (or will have) the guts to get up and break into a dance, anywhere else. What would people think? I would rather squash all thoughts of 'having fun'.

Those who have watched The Namesake might not remember a fleeting scene in which Tabu peeks over the crowd to see the first ceremony (probably naming) of her infant son. Her son! And she, the most important person in the baby's life, is standing a few feet away, straining herself to catch what's going on. She does not look sad, she is happy for him, but anyone who could really see through the mother's eyes would know how much she would have liked to be right there, holding her son.

It seems strange that for a long time we never even thought about questioning anything, because that is how things have been. That was tradition. That was how it was done. We get used to the idea.

I grew up hearing that girls had better keep a low profile and dress properly and stay out of sight, for their own safety. And if anyone was a little too 'forward' (however exciting it appeared to me), I saw that she was frowned upon. No, I did not grow up in a 'repressed society' or anything. My generation will know what I am talking about.

Somewhere between then and now, the idea began to seep in: Why can't we? It's our right.

What? We have rights?
You mean, we can actually do what we like? Dress the way we like? Go to places we like, when we like? We can actually dance in an auditorium, without having to explain afterwards? 

It was new and it was huge. It was difficult to believe it; but once we wrapped our minds around it, it became like an addictive book - you can't put it down, and you are hungry for more. But not everyone can get adjusted to the idea. It goes against everything we have been taught and believed since we were born.

Cue, the tweet on Saudi. We blame the older women for wanting to 'uphold values'. But that's what they have been brought up on. It is not easy to suddenly shift from a lesson that has been etched in, for centuries, to a more 'liberal' view. Change is not easy for anybody. It is easier and simpler to cling to what we were taught for generations. We were brought up right; and we were safe. We hid behind the numerous constraints and we did not mind. Why can't you do the same? You make changes, and you are going to regret it.

It's not only about right and wrong. It is about trying to change mindsets that have become as hard as granite. I too find myself occasionally struggling to check the urge to say, "Be careful. Don't do anything that will get you into trouble."

Things will change, but we have to struggle through many more such layers of inertia and resistance, and many more phases of unlearning and re-learning. There are many battles to be endured and many damages to be borne and many barriers to be broken and many mindsets to be changed.

Things will change, for better or for worse, because they must. 

_____
* Is anyone else reminded of Nithya Menon in Kerala Café when they hear the word 'liberation', or is it just me?

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Your person(s)

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I don't know if this is important, or what the answers would mean. But I have often wondered.

If you are watching a great movie, who do you call/text to say 'you need to turn the channel on right NOW' - because you know they will enjoy it as much as you do?

If you are reading a great book, who do you recommend it to as soon as you finish reading or even while you are reading?

If you heard some astonishing news, who do you rush to inform?

If you heard that someone famous died, who do you call up to ask, 'Did you hear??'?

If you heard that someone close to you died or is ill, who do you call up to share the shock and grief?

If you have just been delivered some devastating news, who do you talk to, just to talk?

If you are ordering pizza for the night, who do you text 'Pizza for dinner!' for no reason at all?

Who gets to hear your good news first?

I know my answers. Do you?

Wait. Did you just say 'Facebook' or 'Twitter' to most of the above?

Worse, did you say 'No one'?

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A story that inspires me

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I heard this tale over twenty years ago. I guess the effect it had on me is evident that I remember it so well, even now. Truth be told, it comes back to me every now and then. There is more than one message in it; and every time you look at it with a new perspective, you find something new shining out of it. It's like opening the Bible or the Gita to find answers. Or maybe it's all in my head.

Though I call it a story, it is a real incident. There are two boys involved; I have never met the first, I barely know the second. The story was narrated to me by a person who knew both of them well. It does not matter if every single thing about this story is not true.

So, this boy, let's call him K, completed his school and got his admission to the National Defence Academy. Naturally, there was a lot of celebration in the neighbourhood for the soldier-hero-in-the-making. When the time came, K said goodbye to his friends and family and went off to join.

Anyone who knows anything about Defence knows that the training at NDA is by no means easy. It's gruelling and brutal and bordering on cruel, and it takes nerves of steel to survive. How can it not be so? - the kids will soon be sent to a place where kindness and love become mere memories. A lot of young men and women who enthusiastically join, hoping to serve Bharat Mata, soon decide that they can also serve her by working in corporate offices or by participating in sports, and quit. The honour and the glory were all great in theory and in pictures, but were not for them. The Academy leaves its doors open to allow them to run. They don't need deserters. Better they run now than later, at the battlefield.

It wasn't long before K ran back home.

The second character of the story, let's call him Z, was a year or two younger to K. It so happened that he was also keen on NDA. After K returned and shared the harsh, inhuman routines at the NDA to every excruciating detail (he must have naturally exaggerated it a little, I am guessing, so that people won't consider him a weakling), the neighbourhood was shocked to learn that Z wanted to join too. His parents pleaded with him to reconsider. Z was a quiet and gentle boy but he could be firm when he wanted to. Seeing his determination, his parents reluctantly gave their consent.

K went through a host of emotions when he heard the news. On the one hand, Z was his friend, and he wanted to stand by his decision; on the other, he had never quite gotten over the fact that he could not survive NDA. He suspected that people laughed behind his back for his cowardice. He could imagine the comparisons the society would make now that Z was headed that way too. He prayed that Z would not get the selection, but he did. Under pressure from these thoughts, K behaved just the way any teenager would. While Z was busy making his preparations to join the Academy, he strolled over and said, "I don't think you would last much at the NDA. Life is too tough and you would run away just as I did. Maybe even earlier."

Z stiffened, smiled and went on with his packing.

After Z joined, his parents got one letter every week from him. Each letter had the thickness of a newspaper - he wrote pages and pages about his experiences, the brutality, the unkindness, the ragging, every bit of it. I suspect his mother shed a few tears on reading these. She might even have asked him to drop it and return. But he wrote, "I know. I want to run away. But if I run now, it will only prove that K was right, and that I am just as weak as he said I was. I will stay. I can take this." He wrote this several times, in several letters.

Every time he wanted to vent, he wrote to his parents. Every time his resolve weakened, he thought of K and that gave him the strength to face one more day. As weeks passed, the size of the letters began to decrease. He began to complain less. (I doubt if K would ever have imagined the power his words held. In fact, Z might have given up just as easily if it were not for him.)

Z never quit. He battled the most trying years of NDA and beyond, clinging to his determination to prove K wrong. Today he is an officer in the Indian Air Force, serving somewhere in North India.

I wonder if he recalls any of this. But every single time I hear his name, I remember this story.

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"How is work-from-home treating you?"

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I was asked this question recently.

When faced with a situation like that, you get about two seconds to figure out the intention behind it, and one second to frame your response. (During which you take a deep breath and say 'errr....' for their benefit.)

The first thought that crosses your mind is, She is jealous. She thinks of the road, the traffic, the dust, the heat, the nasty boss, the creepy colleagues, the tasteless food, the stressful work, the meaningless meetings, the late hours, the countless reports and - then she thinks of you working from home. She is jealous, of course, that you get to sit at home, walk around the rooms with your laptop, watch television when there is a good movie on, work at night or day whenever you please, make reports only when you want to, skip meetings when you are bored, eat or make tea when you want to, watch the rain, meet friends, do pretty much anything when you want to without having to answer to anyone. God, she is jealous.

Quickly the idea is replaced by the thought that maybe She thinks you are a loser. She thinks you do not have the courage or competence to go out to an office and work. She thinks you are pathetic that you chose to work from home with surely a meagre pay and not have fun with colleagues; she thinks you miss the daily gossip, the vending machine tea, the month-end get-together, the appraisals, the promotions, the bonus, the challenges, the teamwork, everything. She thinks you are lonely at home and not earning much, and you have to chase the laundry and do the cooking and supervise the maid, and you are merely putting up a brave face that everything is fine. You see yourself through her eyes - one hand tapping the laptop, the other shoving food down the throat of your child, one foot inside the laundry bucket, the other stirring the pot on the stove and your face contorted while yelling at your maid. She thinks you are jealous of her.

Then you think, maybe she isn't even curious. Maybe she isn't thinking about you at all. Maybe she is just making small talk. You're sitting opposite each other in awkward silence, waiting for someone else to arrive. She just had to say something.

A milli-second later, you wonder if she was thinking of giving up her job and working from home. She has an infant whom she leaves with a maid. You know very well the pressures and worries that come with it.

The question may sound simple but it isn't easy to answer.

And as the three safe seconds following the question fall to a close, you say: "Well, I get my siesta," and shrug.
Whatever that means.

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In Messi's shadow

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There is one in every team, every group, every classroom, every community:

The Lionel Messi who overshadows everyone else; whose brilliance blinds teachers and coaches and peers alike, and even scares them a bit. The Messi, who would shine bright in the pages of history and before whose dazzle every Romero, Higuain or di María would fade into oblivion. The Messi, whose name makes rivals break out in shivers.

Everyone across the world, even those who do not follow the rules of the game, know the name: Lionel Messi, fondly called Leo. The epitome of perfection. The owner of the powerful left foot.

You may be smart, average or below-average, but you are known as "a member of Messi's team." You may be di María, who scored the winning goal, but you had "scored it out of Messi's perfect pass."

Either it was Messi's goal, or it was Messi's pass.

Years later, at alumni get-togethers, others come to you and frown in concentration. "You were in Messi's class, weren't you?" At job interviews, you are asked: "Messi is a genius, what are you?"
"I..." you stutter. "I once scored a goal."
Against the blazing sun, the stars stand no chance.

There is a lot of expectation from Messi. One is painfully aware of all the attention he gets. He cannot falter. He cannot fail. He knows all the answers - the free kicks, the headers, the corners, he knows them all. Which is why he is the most marked man on the team. Others look to him for inspiration, for ideas, for the team's success. Commentators, spectators, praise his abilities, note his every movement. Did he smile? Did he frown? Did he look tired? See the way he stares at the ball?

Oh yes, there is jealousy. Lots of it. Right under the skin. Thick and pulsating and threatening to break through. But you say, "Yes, we're proud that he is a part of our team. No, I do not fear being in his shadow; it is an honour to be."

As for you, you may struggle all you like, in your own corner, enjoy whatever attention your feeble attempts manage to raise. A few claps here, a few smiles of approval there. You're a mere shooting star. You can succeed, you can fail. Against the enormity of Messi's achievements, you are a dot. One that will vanish in no time - unless you are the next Messi in the making. In which case, you have large shoes to fill.

Once there was Maradona, and there was the Hand of God in 1986. One remembers pretty much nothing else, no one else. Like I said, there is one in every team.

Either you are Messi; or you are in his shadow.

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Very, very spoilt

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We are becoming exceedingly spoilt, with all the options available at our fingertips. More confused, perhaps, and less tolerant. And very, very spoilt.

I remember when I discovered Myntra a year ago (and with it, opened the door to online shopping). For several days, Myntra had been tormenting me with their ads in TV. Finally I decided: let me just try. Once. The star attractions were ‘cash-on-delivery’ and ‘30-day return’. Then, you know how Myntra pampers us with all their attention and their warmth and their SMS-es: ‘Your order is packed,’ ‘Your order has checked in,’ ‘Your order is now getting its security clearance,’ ‘Your order has boarded and is now switching off,’ ‘Your order has now landed’, ‘Your order is picked up by the delivery guy, he has just stopped for a cup of tea and will be on his way soon!’ ‘Your order and the delivery guy are turning in at your gate,’ ‘Your order is right outside your door – ting tong!’ And you feel as though you have just hit the ‘purchase’ button when the delivery guy knocked on the door – the delivery guy with his pleasant smile and bowing to the ground ‘Thank you Madam’ and everything. And what’s more, the two kurtas were even better than I had hoped for.

Forget the confusion arising from a million kurta options - we can wallow in confusion for hours - it's so much fun (and probably healthy). We can even dream throughout the night of wallowing in kurta-confusion, what better dreams can you hope to have?

Some time later, I purchased something on Flipkart. (No, I was still a loyal Myntra-buyer, but some products could only be bought on Flipkart.) After the process was over, I called up my friend and whined, “They charged Rs.40 for delivery, and took one week to deliver.”

“You are spoilt,” she said. “If Rs.40-and-one-week-delivery was the only option available, you would have said, ‘This service is amazing, I don’t even have to budge from my home, they deliver it to my door within a week!’ But now that you have experienced something better, you will never settle for anything less. And it only gets better and worse. One service gets better in your eyes and the others become worse, in comparison.”

True, I thought. Not far off was the time (well, it is a little far off in technological time scale – a couple of decades or so ago) when my parents took me to buy dresses for special occasions or festivals. There were about two shops in Trivandrum that we frequented. They offered dresses that were affordable and comfortable, with bored, uninterested sales people and limited options. I would pick one because I had to, not because I was excited with it. And it was okay – something was better than nothing. Once, the kurta I chose was slightly damaged, but we never bothered to return it or anything, thinking of all the trouble we would have to go through for a mild stitching defect.

Yes, indeed, I had become spoilt with all the options thrown at me - door delivery, unimaginable discounts, cash on delivery, return and exchange policies, complaint resolutions, customer pampering, and so on - that I could not tolerate any lapse or neglect from their side. I am the customer, and I am always right. And totally spoilt. Where's my candy?

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The Vacation Situation

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For all the brave face that we put up, we Indians aren't very proud of ourselves.

We (proudly) claim to be the largest democracy in the world, which only means that in area we are much smaller than the United States, and in terms of population we don't have an inch of free space left in the country.

There are more people crowding offices, there are more children in schools, there are more unemployed, there are more beggars on the street, there are more roadside vendors, there are more of everything.
There is such a thing as the poverty line and there are a huge number of people struggling under its shadow. The gap between the haves and have-nots is large.
There are too many people and too less services to cater to each. There is little to be shared, so the first ones to get to it takes it all. There are too many vehicles on the road vying to get ahead and too many pedestrians shoving forward, because no one wants to get stuck forever. There are too many bad roads than anyone can fix.

We have no option but to find ways to dispose of the garbage within our own country and by polluting our own air, and by dirtying our own seas.

In the crowded, humid scheme of things, frustration and annoyance and rage does escape even those of us who normally are in the best of behaviour elsewhere.

We are located towards the warmer zones of the planet through no choice of our own, but that has gifted us some of the most picturesque places in the world. We have a rich culture, we have many religions, we have several languages, we have an outstanding history, we have more good men and women than any of us care to remember (or admit).

We have a fairly good education system that churns out millions of bright kids every year.
Some of these children go abroad to put their education to good use and make better lives for themselves and their own. We send them. We tell them, Go, show the world who we are.
And then.
And then, they come back for a week every year to visit their homes and relatives.
And then, they complain about the bad roads, poor governance, vanishing greenery, stifling traffic, heat, illiteracy, unclean food, mosquitoes, toilets, rooms, water, air, sky, land and the people. The people, most of all, the unbelievably unbearable people.

We, who live in India, might whine like a child complaining about her mother. (Or a mother about her child. But if a stranger utters one bad word about her child, you can see how fiercely the mother could turn against them.) We live here, we are a part of the system. We can whine, and we will whine. That's one of the rights of the resident citizen. But when we hear you, our blood boils. And in the crowded, frustrated, helpless, distressed scheme of things - you know what happens to the best of us.

Please, please, go elsewhere for your vacations.

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30 minutes on Facebook

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The day is going to be hectic. Let me begin it by going through my Friends' updates on Facebook. That'll make me happy. 

30 minutes spent on Facebook:

News link shared by a "Friend". Read the title. Can't read more. Like.

34 Photos of a Friend and family vacationing in a beautiful place I will never visit in my life. Damn. Some people have everything. Like.

Philosophical update from a Friend. Read. Didn't understand. Must be something very very profound or clever. Worth a Like.

Profile update of a Friend who updates profile three times a week. Not again! Self-absorbed. Self-something. Boring! It's time I updated my profile picture. Comment: You look cute.

Status update from a Friend who has a million Friends on Facebook. He has updated three minutes ago, and there are already 247 Likes and 30 comments. Miniature celebrity. He could do without my Like or comment. Though I should admit, what he says does make sense. Ugh. 

Political mud slinging from this party to that. Nice. Pass.

Hilarious update from a Friend. Chuckle, chuckle. Clever guy. Like.

Fanatical religious update. Why did I make this person my 'Friend' on Facebook, again? Can't remember. Pass.

Blog from a Friend who blogs twice a week. There she goes again. Who does she think she is? I had Liked her post last week. I will skip this time.

Big discussion going on about the upcoming elections and the top parties. Eeek. I hate politics. I hate these people who taint my wall with politics. Scroll down.

Suggested Post. Facebook, please. You know everything about me. Don't you know I can't stand advertisements?

Someone has published a book or made a movie or done something creative. Damn, Damn. I am here too, God. Have you forgotten? Like, dammit. Like. Like. Like.

Friend has posted picture of his daughter winning an award. Cute kid. Brilliant. Like. Wish there was a better word than 'Like'. 'Delighted', perhaps. Or 'Excited'. Or even, 'Proud of You'?

'Friend' whom I barely remember bought a new car. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Great news. Who cares?

Fanatic Friend has posted something offensive again. Get a life, dammit.

Scattered a few comments here and there, I hope I got them all at the right places: Beautiful. Wow. Cute. Thank you. Welcome. All the Best. Really? Great Job.

Damn. Why does everyone have such exciting lives, while I just sit here hitting Likes, Waiting?

Let me go post some brilliantly stupid, philosophical nonsense. Hah. Type, type, delete, type, edit, type.

Hit by a wave of depression.
Close Window.

Let me get back to my @#$%# work.

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The Politics of Collaboration

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There is politics everywhere. Alarming, but true.

Wherever two people come together to collaborate and make decisions, whether money is involved or not, there will inevitably be politics - as soon as the honeymoon period (as some call it) is over. Actually, the politics begins to function during the honeymoon phase itself, during the days of trust and understanding and openness.

Later, each one begins to have their own small dreams that could go side by side, then cross a few times, and then clash. There is a limit to giving in; both need to find their way.

Sad. But true.

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Of Being Wrong, Now and Forever

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To dive straight to the point, none of us like the feeling that we are (or have been) wrong.

And what of the feeling that we have been wrong for a couple of decades, that every decision, every thought was based on a certain assumption that was not true? That whenever we wondered why things went wrong, it was because our foundation was based on half-truths, we were well and truly mistaken, we were unimaginably misinformed and had misread the clues all along?

No, I don't want an answer.

If this were straight from Bollywood, we could have easily (and profusely) apologised wherever apology was to be rendered, and we would have acknowledged the fact that our assumptions were wrong, shed a tear or two for the road, and then life would have resumed, with everything else intact - except that we are not arrogant any more, we are not blind any more, we are not wrong any more.

But Life's not like that.

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