Auld Lang Syne

I was woken up last night by the wistful cry of the friendly neighbourhood koel. There seemed something deeply eerie and haunting about that cry which rent the still night. Like it wailed for lost times, memories in which it both rejoiced and mourned. Like some deeply entrenched emotion in the darkest recesses of it's being had been released and all it could do was coo in response.
It was an epiphany of sorts for me. Nostalgia struck. I thought about seemingly unconnected things- things which were important once or had touched me or affected me deeply, but had been since forgotten. So, should old times be forgotten...

For Donna di. I remember how you were the only one (except Bubun da) who came to watch me debut in my 10th standard school play. You made it a point to come for my play since my parents were out of town.You said Christmas Carol came alive for you with my "Ghost of the Christmas past" (hideous wig and make up and all). I remember how I stayed at your place for a while when Ma and Baba were out and we listened to country music on 107.1 till 12 a.m, how we experimented in the kitchen with random masalas. I remember how you kissed me on my cheek (right on the street, I might add) the day my 10th standard results came out , happy with my performance.

For Bubun da. Thank you for scaring the bully in my class who used to torture me and call me names, when you were 8 and I was 5 (then I became the class monitor and got back at him.) We barely speak anymore, but I will remain forever grateful to you for teaching me how to burst Diwali "crackers" (atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, lavangi etc) and for introducing me to your delicious "banana cream" and Table-tennis. You were the one who accompanied me on my first day of engineering college and even paid the travel fare!

For Tinks. Am not going to use your real name out of respect for your privacy and because I'm too ashamed to admit my flaws. You were one of my best friends and I don't remember ever having as much fun as I did with you. Yet, I went ahead and betrayed you quite wantonly, for perverse reasons of my own which I'm neither too proud to admit not too strong to forget. You are my greatest regret. Not a day goes by that I don't think about the pain and hurt I must have caused you. I never remained in touch because I was too ashamed to do so. But the golden girl that you are, you forgave me for my transgressions and even called me before you left. You wanted to meet the one person whom you considered a friend and who gave you betrayal in return. How did you come to be so generous?

Unspoken words. I wish I had the courage to say these when it mattered.

Karmic Carousel- Part 1

I don’t know if you have heard this song by Justin Timberlake, but don’t judge me unfavourably for knowing of its existence. It’s just one of those annoying songs that stick in your head steadfastly until another equally or more annoying song substitutes it. I was listening to FM Rainbow (107.1 in Mumbai, to the uninitiated. The only station worth listening to if you ask me). They were doing this one-hour Elvis special on the King’s birthday and I was glued to the station much before the special began, lest I missed my favourite tracks. That’s when this Timberlake song assailed me (right before Blue suede shoes assuaged my wracked nerves). I have never liked Mr. Timberlake and have never bothered to follow his career graph; in fact I thought Timbaland was just Timberlake misleading people into buying his music by changing his screen name (I don’t listen to Timbaland either, come to think of it). Anyway, the song had an eerie, prescient quality to it- in a totally different context though. It was something of an omen, a forecast of certain events about to unfold in my life.

(Following are the excerpts from my recent B-school interview.)

I was interviewed by a panel of three- a middle aged lady, flanked by two youngish people-one male, the other female. The Holy Trinity, ha. The lady in the centre looked oddly familiar and just as I was about to say “Good Morning”, realization dawned- she was in the interview panel last year when I had made a thorough fool of myself. Dear G, please let her not remember me, please, please, please. Even if she did recognize me, she wasn’t letting on much. Deep breaths, deep breaths, deep breaths. May be she doesn’t remember. Yeah, not everyone has a good memory. Just get me through this G; just this once and I promise that I won’t ask for anything ever again. Having got the obligatory social niceties out of the way, we proceeded towards the raison d’etre of the panel- the grilling of JD.

(All three started at the same time. Sheesh, there was such an enthusiastic, violent alacrity to grill me that they were all vying for first place. Anyway, the youngish female (YF) won by dint of a high pitched voice)

YF: So what made you switch from IT to an NGO?

Me: (smiling inwardly. I had rehearsed this answer at least a zillion times)
Blah, blah and blah, blah.

YF: (confused into silence at the profusion of words that came out of my mouth. Hoo-ha, take that! Score: Panel -0, JD-1)

OF: But you left a high-paying job for a pittance?

Me: (High-paying? Ha, hardly. Yeah, like the simple arithmetic never occurred to me. Duh.) Blah-blah. (Some noble, self-righteous jazz. And then some more. God I hope she buys it.)

The Only Man (TOM): So, which was your favourite subject in college?

Me: (Holy &@!%*$. It’s been two years since graduation and they still expect me to remember stuff that my memory retained only for exams. I don’t even remember what I had for lunch three days ago. Jeez!) Er, (smiling sheepishly) I don’t remember very well. But, I’ll try to answer. OR was my favourite. (I said tentatively, mentally gauging the depth of the shit I was in)

OF: (Finally in her element) Ah, ok. What is Linear Programming? Give me an example.

Me: (Phew! Easy-peasy. I knew this.) Blah-blah.Bl-

OF: (interrupting me with an imperious wave of the hand) You are complicating things unnecessarily. Give me an example.

Me: (the cockiness waning a little. Good thing I remember) Blah-blah. Blah-blah. And that’s how we solve it.

OF: But why only the points of intersection? Why is that the optimal solution?

Me: (stumped) Blah-blah. (Squeamish, tentative answer. 1 all)

OF: (leaning back in her chair, purring satisfactorily. She had had her fun with me.)

TOM: So, tell me. Do you remember anything in Thermal Engineering?

Me: Sir, not really. (again hoping he’d buy the smile. JD-1, Panel-10)

TOM: Ok. Can you tell me about the Narmada Bachao Andolan? And which side won?

Me: (Won? What was this, a cricket match?) Blah-blah. Blah-blah.

TOM: (not too pleased at my answer. Panel-15, JD-1) But, I though you work in the social sector. So you must have more than a lay-person’s opinion about the issue?

Me: (Damned ignoramus. Social sector, yes. But I work for children’s education. And it’s not as if we have a secret network of all NGOs and are totally up to date with the details of each and every NGO. Gawd) Sir, my involvement is with the education sector.

TOM: (silenced. As if education was not as meaty as dams and bhook-hadtals. Damnation. JD-0, Panel-20)

OF and YF: (In a ghastly jugalbandi of sorts, tag-teamed to ask me questions. One fired and the other glared. Then the roles were reversed) But why an NGO? What compelled you? What was your motivation? What are your plans? Why MBA? Where do you live? Why an MBA after working in an NGO?

(Good thing my sex allows me multi-tasking capabilities and a general verbosity. I wouldn’t be badgered. I wouldn’t perish. I’m a survivor played in my head. Damn, why always the songs I don’t like, why never the ones I do like? Why? Why? Anyway, I did manage to out-energize them, but was the worse for wear.)

YF: (the first to recover her breath) So, you are from West Bengal?

Me: (What are you, Raj Thackerey??? I have lived in Mumbai all my life, so what does that make me, huh? West Bengal, my left eye-ball.) Well, Ma’am, I was born and raised in Mumbai. (smiling sweetly) But, yes my parents are from W.B.

YF: So, what do you think of the happenings in Nandigram and Singur?

Me: Blah-blah. Blah-blah. Blah-blah.

OF: (wounded at being left behind at this modern day, B-school version of the Spanish Inquisition.) Which are the neighbouring countries of India?

Me: Blah-blah.

OF: Which is the link that connects Sri-Lanka and India? And what’s the controversy surrounding it? What are your views?

Me: Blah-blah.

OF: (looking very bored suddenly. Maybe I wasn’t sufficiently moronic for her predatory tastes. Sigh.) Ok. Thank you.

TOM and YF: (smiling in unison) Thank you.

Me: (a little unsure. Is it over??? I couldn't believe it) Thank you. (attempting a smile)

I came out blinking at the abrupt ending of the grilling. In fact, it wasn’t even a grilling. It was more like a light sauté, tenderly done- something which ended even before the heat could be turned on. Sigh. I can never evaluate these things. Was I to feel good or bad? Were the smiles welcome-to-our-college ones or hell-no-we-plan-to-keep-you-out ones? I can never tell. Inscrutable humans. Damnation.

P.S.-Panel-?, JD-????

The randomness of JD

I made friends with this really, really sweet American girl, Calamity (ok, she’s not accident prone or anything, but her name rhymes with the word) from California, who finds herself slap bang in the middle of Mumbai slums teaching under-privileged kids. Mumbai slums via war-torn Afghanistan. Well, obviously don’t ask her for holiday destination advice. Calamity and her husband W (who was a journo) shifted base to Mumbai and now live in a non-descript suburb trying to make sense of “mystical” India. Thankfully, they aren’t the tie-and-dye hippie types, or ISKCON adherents, or Rajneesh/Maharishi XYZ spouting weirdoes, or the white-blubbery, stringy clothes wearing Goan tourists whose major draw is cheap booze and other things we don’t mention in polite conversations- they answer to no stereotype, but are normal people who believe in this cause we are working for.

They shop for refrigerators and furniture and rush to Pantaloons’ “up to 50% off” sales, eat in Indian restaurants by pointing out to the waiter the unpronounceable food items (much like we would in French restaurants), go to the local darzi to alter their clothes and relish onion and tomato uthappa, well, atleast Calamity does. She digs the accompanying sambar and the coconut chutney. She joins Conifer and me for our “Five-star fruit and nut after lunch” ritual. She digs the “Five star” too. Yes, they are that unremarkable. But, it’s so cool to see her discovering everything in India for the first time- the Mumbai local trains, BEST buses, kirana stores, udipi restaurants, speaking Hindi, the unavoidable Roadside Romeo gaze- things which function in the background or are like second nature to us Indians, but must be so novel and exciting and even bewildering to her.

But the woman stumped me. We eat lunch in this small room called the “pantry” (a misnomer, considering it has no food). The sink in the pantry was clogged because someone forgot to unplug the metallic cap thingy from the sink-hole. So, Calamity thrust her hand in the murky, yellow coloured water of the sink and unplugged the cap- when I just wrung my hands daintily in the background. But the stumping part came when she told me that the tiny black ants which swarm her living room through crevices in the walls freak her out. Apparently, groping about in a filthy, putrid, clogged sink is harmless, but black ants mean the bubonic plague or something. Go figure.
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Learnt an important lesson in the adage “Practice what you preach”. Only about .003% of all the humans to have ever walked the earth follow it. And they are all dead. I realize that it is very easy to pontificate and power-point your way through to instant office stardom, and have people ooh and aah at your wisdom and spirituality at the seminal slides with seminal messages that you show. But, you can’t fool all of the people all of the time. So, dear pseudo, “example is better than precept”. You don’t read this blog, but if you ever do, I hope this makes you blush. I can’t believe you could meet my outraged stare after your abominable behaviour. For all your revolutionary ideas, you aren’t even worth the corn in Che Guevera’s dead and decaying left pinky toe. Yes, I’m naïve enough to think this is revenge. Ha. So, I should just stop expecting civility? Yeah, I bet you’ll quote The Bhagvad Gita about expectations. Guess what finger I’m holding up?

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Wunderkind is a sweetheart- a sensitive, discerning male of his species with an exceptionally high EQ and a silver tongue to boot. We loves him, my precious. But, platonically and all. (Nothing scandalous please.This is a PG-13 blog, states my priggish antaratma). He was nice enough to talk to me when I thought I’d burst. I owe the averting of an impending brain aneurysm to him.

Ok, so you saved me again from brain aneurysm through some human agency of yours i.e. Wunderkind. But, why did you have to break the mould? Your sense of what counts as decency is appalling. You should go see someone about it. Oh, right. You can’t possibly have shrinks where you live. With the tidy packets they make, they must have got a more tropical climate for their Eternal Rest. You don’t think things through, do you?

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Learnt another important lesson about first impressions and how stupid and simplistic it is to judge someone based on an off day they may be having. I seem doomed to be simplistic and stupid- I never learn from my past wherein I’ve had to change my impulsive judgments of people, much to my mortification. So, here’s what I’ll do- if I don’t know somebody or just barely know them and they are lousy to me, I’ll just be a lamp-post with no opinion, turn the other cheek and smile sweetly. They may just be having a bad day. If someone I know well is crappy to me, God help them.

Confessions of a closet bigot

Did someone say “sugar and spice and all things nice” make girls? Ha, this should teach you to be wary of stereotypes, especially those in nursery rhymes. A case in point, Tommy Stout may have been nicer than Tommy Thin, but not all those with adipose to spare are jolly. Look at Idi Amin. Look at the woman who nearly pushed me off a running bus. (Ok, mean-fat-people examples are getting scarcer and scarcer with our “size zero” fixation.)

But I digress. A few days ago my nerd-dom was firmly established and now I discover that I’m a bigot too. This is adding insult to injury, I tell you. Now that I’ve been found out for the unusual hybrid of a Ku-Klux-Klan member and Steve Urkle, my mum’s groom hunting has received a setback of biblical proportions, quite unbeknownst to her, poor dear. Us digressed again, my precious. Us has to stop running pell-mell. Where was us now? Oh yeah, bigotry.

My biases are many and varied. Some are not even logical or rational. They just are. Evidently, I’m a pathological bigot. And all this while, I’ve been pretending to be a purist or whatever-else-ist. But let’s not mince words. In the spirit of “outings”, let’s call a spade just that.

Sample my bigoted views.

Music bigotry
I judge people based on their taste in music. I will hang up on a person if I don’t like their caller tune. Heck, I won’t even be polite to them. Let alone fraternize with them in broad daylight. And I will air my disapproval quite overtly. Anyone who likes techno, trance or stuff that goes “dhichak-dhichak” is no friend of mine. People’s ringtones have to be tasteful too, or else. Who think Himesh Reshammiya is God’s gift to those with sound aural faculties- “I heartily invite such birds, to come outside and say those words”* .Those who go into whirling dervish trances on hearing the pretty boys from 98 Backstreet, Britney and her ilk, Shakira and her ridiculous lyrics, Enrique etc , had better stay away from me. I wouldn’t put unspeakable acts of cruelty past me, should the opportunity present itself. The list of those at whom I would crinkle up my nose is long and going strong.

Book bigotry
This close friend of mine once lent a guy Five Point Someone and a Wodehouse. The guy had the audacity to think the former funnier; he saw no humour in my beloved P.G.W. creation. Wodehouse compared with Chetan Bhagat. The nerve. This girl told me that she thought Catcher in the rye was trash, “Don’t recommend this to anyone ever again”, she said, right after going gaga over God of Small Things. Bloody murder, cried my inner Nazi. This is what I’m talking about-those who read Nancy Drew, Mills and Boons, Daniel Steele, Sidney Sheldon and such atrocities and call themselves discerning readers and actually, and this is rich, recommend these books and then maddeningly enough compare a Sidney Sheldon with O.Henry. It’s like comparing Marlon Brando with, oh I don’t know, Adam Sandler may be? I am busy thinking up something violent and macabre for such criminal ignorance.

Food bigotry
Veg. Manchurian (which in itself is a mongrel of sorts) with Naan, Tandoori chicken/paneer pizzas- another hybrid, diet/sugar-free mithai- either eat these the conventional way with tons of ghee and sugar or don’t eat at all, papad with everything (lasagna and papad, falafel and papad, fries and papad), adding dollops of ketchup to food- it kills the inherent taste of whatever you are eating, insipid and diluted coffee, cookies/biscuits with no character-plain bland varieties not worthy of human consumption, non-chocolate candy- totally not worth the empty calories and sugar rush (Rich, dark, chocolate? ummm, now you’re talking!). These push my buttons in so many ways it’s not even funny. Gas chamber? Impaling? Firing squad?

Film bigotry
Those who think that a film is good just because it’s in a foreign language (read: English), not only have a colonial hangover but also have cheese for brains. So these people catch a C-grade English flick with Paris Hilton in the lead and then brag about watching an English film, “Oh look how sophisticated we are”. Engage them in a conversation about quality cinema (they have never even heard of The Godfather) and they will look at you like you are the interloping square egg and label you arrogant. One tight slap!

Language bigotry
Don’t even get me started on this one. This is where I am an inexorable purist. The normal, everyday language that we speak is peppered generously with words borrowed from other languages. I speak a curious mixture of English, Hindi and Bambaiya with my friends. Fair enough, ‘coz let’s face it, regional languages express some ideas more succinctly and beautifully than English does. My problem is with hybrid words- marofying, talofying, fekofying; take a verb in Hindi, suffix a –fy and voila, you have a stylish (?) new word. How I wish I could tolchok these words and their progenitors into oblivion. Also, copious usage of the word “like”- aaarghhh. I see those in the entertainment business lacking adjectives; almost anything can be qualified by the oft-repeated ones- “rocking”, “mind-blowing”, “amazing”, “awesome”, “sexy” (why, but, why?). I plan to buy them all their own personal copies of The Roget’s Thesaurus, even if it results in my bankruptcy.


I have made new enemies, haven’t I? Sigh.

*Borrowed from Dorothy Parker. She said this of Charles Dickens:

“Who call him spurious and shoddy
Shall do it o’er my lifeless body.
I heartily invite those birds,
To come outside and say those words!”

Borrowed from Anthony Burgess’s A Clockwork Orange

It's official. I'm a nerd.

There. I've said the taboo words. There go my mum's chances of ever finding me a groom, at least no male who reads this blog (assuming that there is such a person) would be suicidal enough to be yoked to me. Er, but those perusing my blog form a microscopic minority anyway, so Ma don't move to the Himalayas yet.

I have always had this sneaking feeling about my nerd-dom. It was always the wart I tried to camouflage with make-up. It was a side of mine always hushed up or spoken about in muffled undertones. It was always the chink in my armour. But now I'm outed and don't know where to hide. Political correctness be damned, I don't like being a nerd. Period.

I should probably begin at the beginning. I took these two quizzes that my friend had sent to me- "Which character from Friends are you?" and "Which Harry Potter character are you?". And I took these quizzes on two different days, so there was an outside chance of getting a cooler personality evaluation (don't ask me why, I thought these are like fortune cookies or Orkut fortunes- totally arbitrary and your evaluation is randomly generated). But no. Never try to second guess online quizzes. Here's my evaluation (drum-roll, please)

1. You are Ross Geller. You are the most intellectual of your friends and you know it! You're a realist who knows rational thought and doesn't get carried away with the moment. While people may view you as slightly uptight, most people find it to be a sign of responsibility and maturity and when the time is right, you definitely know how to have a good time!
(Yeah, right. The "good time" bit was only to handle my achy breaky heart with kid gloves. I'm a nerd you know, don't insult my intelligence)

2. You are Hermione. You're a bookworm always in search of answers. When pressed, however, you can always be counted on to put away the books and help your friends.
(see how they use the euphemism "bookworm" instead of "nerd". Damned kid-gloves again.)

And did you notice the imperious declaration? "You are...". Why not say, "You seem to be.."? At least then there is a tacit admission of the possibility of erroneous or faulty assessment. But no. We have to rule on people with booming, authoritative voices (in this case bold font) gavel and all.

Well, what the hell? I'll be a nerd. The geek shall inherit the earth. To Nerd Pride. Hurrah.

P.S. Shouldn't I get brownie points for willfully inviting public humiliation? Can I then be Chandler and Dumbledore?

Ring out the old, ring in the new

I quite steadfastly resisted the devil of dissecting the year that was and sharing acquired wisdom (such as it is), but I realize that introspection, soul-searching, and such psychobabble, are made of sturdier stuff.

Most of us buy into the great indulgence of January 1st- checking-off the fulfilled resolutions from the previous year and making new resolutions. I tried to convince myself that just because one has transitioned through 31st December 2007 to 1st January 2008, taking stock is not in order. In fact “stock-taking” can be satisfactorily indulged in on, say, 17th May or 25th July of any year. Heck, it can be done everyday. Commerce does it on the 1st of April every year. My friend takes stock after each boyfriend. My mother does so on birthdays (my birthdays. For further information, read previous post).

Fate seldom plays fair and, as I said, stock-taking comes from hardier, well stock! Just when I was scoffing at people who make resolutions on the first day of each year and then suffer through the humiliation/frustration of not achieving their goals and are then reduced to embittered souls driven down the vale of depression (ok, I exaggerate), I came across the list of my new year’s resolutions from 2003, buried in the pages of Gone with the wind.

I had used the list as a bookmark. I have forgotten why I stopped making resolutions; perhaps because unattained resolutions reminded one of one’s foibles, of the innate weakness of not staying the course. Wondering why now, of all times, it had to surface and why I never threw it away, I went through the list. After the overwhelming nostalgia subsided, I too slipped into self-examination mode, exorcising demons and ghosts and basking in the afterglow of triumphs, as they were.

Ok, demons and ghosts first. Shrinks call them “lost possible selves” or “alternate versions of oneself”. What we could/should have been. “I wish I had taken singing and guitar lessons more seriously”. “I wish I still spoke to the friends I have left behind”. These reflections are almost always tinged, nay, always have generous dollops of regret/remorse/penitence. Past mistakes or missed opportunities, vie for your attention. If only I had. What if I had…? I wonder what he/she is doing now. And so on. We wish we could do things differently, turn back Time and redress the past. I try to have an optimistic view of regrets; that they come with expiry dates. “Regret” ceases to be “regret”, when you view it in the context of the joys you have now. May be getting what you wanted then would never have resulted in this present happiness. Perhaps, with the benefit of hindsight, regrets just become the roads which you didn’t take, so you could go down the path you have chosen for yourself. Seen in the grand scheme of things, gains outweigh regrets…er, maybe.

And then there’s the good news. Events, things and people I’m grateful for. The gains which outweigh regrets. The joys, triumphs, goodnesses, mercies, favours and blessings that came your way. “I got a raise”, “My son has a job”, “My health has improved”. Things that fill you with hope and happiness. Knowing that you braved the storms with fortitude and emerged undefeated and stronger, and not worse, for the wear. The skills you gained, the new friends you made, the places you visited, the smiles you brought, the tears you wiped, the adventures you sought and the lessons you learned. You can then greet the New Year with open arms and a toothy grin, and get ready for yet another roller-coaster ride.

Happy new year everyone. Bust your ghosts and count your blessings.

Happy Birthday! Let’s get you hitched.

(Excerpts from an imaginary conversation between a twenty-something Indian, female and her mother on her (i.e. the twenty-something Indian female) birthday)

Mother: (sulking) Happy birthday.

Daughter: Thank you! It is nice to see you so happy that I’ve lived to see another year.

M: Sure, make jokes. You’ll see, all the nice guys will be snapped up before you know it.

D: (aside) With the sex-ratio so skewed in favour of guys, I doubt that’ll ever happen. It’s probably 3 guys to 1 girl. OMG, what a dream- one to cook, one to clean and another to carry all the shopping bags, pure bliss. (Aloud) Don’t worry Ma, you’ll find that someone special.

M: (marking a newspaper matrimonial in red) This one’s good. Listen, CA guy, lives in Singapore, wants engineer, doctor or MBA girl from our BB (don’t even ask) community.

D: (ever the artful dodger) Ma, don’t you want me to live nearby? Why ship me off all the way to Singapore? (aside) That’s right, play the emotional blackmail card; the tears welling up were a nice touch. If she picks a local guy, say you want to see the world and are looking for a global life-partner. I love mind-games. (aloud) I wonder if I should buy those shoes I saw yesterday.

M: (momentarily distracted) The black and silver ones? They should be a perfect fit. (Peering into the newspaper) Hmm, sounds reliable, good family, well-educated…

D: Are we still talking about shoes?

M: You are approaching your (shuddering and almost in a whisper) mid-twenties. Mid-twenties. Mid- twenties. Don’t be so flippant about these things. Your aunts, uncles, their second cousins and the neighbours and their cousins are looking too. Can’t you cooperate a little?

D: By “cooperate” you mean “don’t kick and scream while you are being led to the gallows”?

M: Don’t be morbid. Look at your cousins, they are so happily settled. (eyes averted heavenward, probably in a reverie of seeing D married)

D: (aside) They didn’t have the spirit to stand their ground. Given a chance now, I bet they’d rethink their decision to get hitched. (aloud) I’m sure they are. Ma, I want to live my life. Is that so bad?

M: There’ll be plenty of time to live your life after you are married.

D: What about my career? What if I have to relocate? How am I to be sure of the guy? What if he moon-lights as an axe-murderer? What if…?

M: Of course, it has its risks (as though conceding a minor point), but you’ll learn the ropes.

D: Ropes? Ropes? It’s my life we’re talking about! How did “ropes” enter this conversation?

M: It’s different for girls. It would be so good for your father and me to see you settled.

D: (humming No Doubt's "Just a girl")

(Enter, the father, a.k.a. the voice of reason)

Father: Why’s the newspaper marked in red?

D: Ma’s on a man-hunt. (winking)Right, Ma?

F: Again? Let D be. She needs to figure out her life before taking the …ahem, plunge, so to speak.

D: (aside) My hero!!!!!! (aloud) My hero!!!!!!!!!

My brown-eyed girl

Their eyes met across the dimly-lit, crowded room. She was with her gaggle of friends, finishing the last remnants of a cheese cake. He was alone, as usual- the lone wolf, strong, silent and rugged, moving with a quiet grace.

She had heard about him, his fame had traveled far and wide. Legend had it that he had survived a nuclear holocaust. His struggles had made him cynical, world-weary. He had seen turbulent times- she could make out the ever-so-slight limp with which he walked.

In the room, crowded with so many eligible, sprightly young males, she had eyes only for him. She was drawn to his wry smile and odd manner. He liked her wide-eyed innocence, her naiveté, the demure way she stole glances at him and how she hung on to his every word. It was love at first sight.

They would meet in secluded corners, away from prying eyes. But she would scurry away frightened, when daylight washed over them. Times were lean and resources in short supply. He would save her a slice of stale pizza, hardly gourmet material. But in the first flush of love, even such slim pickings seemed a lavish feast.

Theirs was a whirlwind romance, the stuff of legends. Soon, they settled into connubial bliss with sanction from the elders of their community. The going was good, at first. Then came trouble in paradise.

The exacting demands of life and parenthood, took their toll. Her wide-eyed innocence became jaded. He realized that she was no longer was regaled by the tales of his adventures. The harder he tried, the remoter she became.

She no longer had eyes only for him. He saw her ogle the new guy in town, nonchalant about the effect her betrayal was having on him. He realized that “fidelity” was a dirty word and monogamy, a myth.

He sometimes wished he were an elephant or a sparrow and not a cockroach. Filthy mammal and bird though they were respectively, and proud as he was of his insect heritage, elephants and sparrows were known to practice monogamy, unlike cockroaches whose affections tended to be fickle.

There she went, antenna-in-antenna with her new found love. He played the helpless bystander, his heart broken to smithereens. He would be no match for this young, alpha male. He would not even try to win her back; he had too much dignity. So what if he was only a scavenging cockroach. She had not even spared a thought for the kids.

Whoosh! He scampered under a couch and into a nearby crevice as fast as he could, his head just peeping out of the tiny aperture. New guy wasn’t so lucky and, had caught the chemical spray right in his face and collapsed in a heap.

He hoped she had the good sense to run away. He would take her back and all would be forgiven. Wishful thinking never pays. He heard her scream and all was quiet. So, this is how it ends, he thought. Well, Karma’s a b****, he smiled wryly.

No woman, no cry, he sang softly as he crawled out of his hiding place, when he deemed it safe.

Their eyes met across the dimly-lit, crowded room...

The best things in life are free…

…Or don’t burn a huge whole in your pocket. For instance:

1. The smell of freshly cut grass.

2. Walking on fresh dew early winter mornings.

3. Curling up with a nice book and hot-chocolate on a rainy afternoon.

4. Talking the night away with your best friends.

5. Making perfect rotis for the first time.

6. A child’s laughter or smile at something you said or did to make her happy.

7. Getting wet in the first rains of the year and tucking into piping hot bhuttas, coffee and pakoras.

8. Singing to yourself when you drive to work.

9.Basking in the full moon’s light, which floods through the windows of your room.

10. Playing on the swings you barely fit into.

11. Burying you feet deep in cool sand.

12. Waking up to your favourite song.

13.Meeting an old friend with whom you haven’t stayed in touch.

14. Having your mother fuss over you when you are ill.

15. Watching a cricket match on TV with your family and friends.

16. Waking up before your alarm rings and realizing that you still have 15 mins of sleep.

17. Reaching the end of a torturous trek, the exhilaration at enduring the rigours and finally making it to the top, where the view is breath-taking.

18. Visiting a place for the first time and being mesmerized by it.

19. Having your parents narrate their childhood tales.

20. Your culinary ventures being mistaken for your mother’s.

Feel free to add to the list.

I figure:

That I’m always going to be a cry-baby/wet-fish about unattainable things and chase after mirages and elusive goals. Also, I will always have someone to drive up the wall with my incessant whining.

That the grass will be greener on the other side. People I meet will keep getting younger, smarter, thinner and richer and, I will wonder what I have been doing with my life all this while.

That I was wrong when I thought that one automatically grows up and turns wise when one starts earning a living. Man, was I wrong. I figure there will be enough heartbreaks, disillusionments, loves, losses, victories, sorrows and you will always do some growing up with each.

That I will regard lightly that which I get easily and take it for granted till I have lost it. And then I will kick myself for the sheer idiocy of the situation.

That I will envy those who say that they would change nothing about their lives and live the same way if given another chance.

That I will always seek adventure but then my life will be staid, hassle-free, mundane and …you get the drift.

That I will never have interesting stories/life-changing circumstances for the benefit of posterity, unless I stop being so straight-laced.

That I will never be able to dance with gay abandon (although I am a trained dancer) just for the pure joy of dancing and will never be able to wander aimlessly.

That my parents will always bail me out, regardless of my age.

Phew!

The folly of Modi’s operandi

Not that I’m unaware that Modi bashing is en vogue, but, clichéd as it sounds, this is different. This isn’t about outrage expressed at religious bigotry, or an argument in favour of Mr. Modi, or scrutinizing the validity of his claims of development in Gujarat, or about advocating a change of government. I have two very specific points of contention, which have left me non-plussed.

First, how could a shrewd politician like Mr. Modi tarnish his election campaign, that too at the fag end, by raking up the Sohrabuddin issue and justifying the brutal, cold-blooded killing of Sohrabuddin and his wife? Wouldn’t it have served his interests better to have concentrated on his success at moulding Gujarat into a preferred destination for private investment and if he had let sleeping dogs lie? With his trusted aide and star campaigner Vanjara behind bars and being investigated for the murder of Sohrabuddin and Kauserbi, the disapproval of the post-Lyngdoh, toothless EC notwithstanding, the move to capitalize on the Sohrabuddin killing was singularly maladroit and uncharacteristic of a political stalwart like Mr. Modi. A neophyte politician could be forgiven for this gaffe, but it is simply unacceptable coming from Mr. Modi. If he thinks that whipping up frenzy in the rabble by painting an innocent man a terrorist would translate into votes, then he is seriously off the mark. Culling collective conscience in the last elections may have worked, but the situation seems different this time. Mr. Modi should just have used the “vikaas”(development) defence and be done with it. His charisma, even though some consider him a mass-murderer, should have tided him over.

Second, why didn’t Mr. Modi try to quell the dissension in the ranks of his own party? Why didn’t he clip the wings of his rivals within the BJP and try to address the causes of dissatisfaction? In India, people vote for personalities and not ideologies. Mr. Modi, the crowd-puller, simply has no equal worthy of mention in the opposition parties. So winning the elections would have been a veritable cakewalk for Mr. Modi, if only he had tried to do something about Kesubhai Patel, his biggest, most vociferous critic in the BJP. Mr. Modi places too much credence in Hindutva and Hindu fanatics. Besides, even among the proponents of Hindutva, Mr. Modi has become quite a villain for his policies which seem to have ignored the interests of certain sections of Gujarat. I think this oversight and complacency may well be Mr. Modi’s undoing in these elections.

We are like this only

Not to be unpatriotic or anything, but we, by which I mean Indians, take ourselves too seriously. Our sense of humor and our indefatigable optimism is what delivered us from the British oppression, the Emergency, assorted bomb blasts, wars, riots and what have you. I think we have lost our sense of humor. How else would you explain the following:

1. Manoj “Bharat” Kumar taking umbrage at a spoof made at his expense in OSO
and threatening to file a defamation suit against the film-makers.

2. Madam Mayawati calling for an all-India ban on Aaja Nach Le, because she felt that the lyrics of a song in the film insinuated caste distinctions and would definitely hurt sentiments.

3. Violent protests against Tasleema Nasreen’s book. The same Tasleema of mediocre talent and her books soft-porn, at best.

Whatever happened to tolerance. Lighten up people!

Unteachable

I’m told that I’m too old to start learning how to drive. I am something of a veteran learner, having gone through four and a half trainers. The “half” is for the weak-hearted, lily livered coward who made a run for it when he realized that I was, ahem, “unteachable”. The rest of the brave hearts stuck their grounds, but advised me not to get rid of the learners’ “L” in a hurry. So, this is the tale of my stigmata (read: “L” sign).

The funny thing is that I’ve had a drivers’ license for more than two years. Not that being awarded a license by the RTO (Regional Transport Officer) really certifies your driving skills; in fact anyone can get a license. You are required to drive some hundred metres and take a U-turn and voila, the drivers’ license is yours, unless you have a dodo’s IQ and your motor nerves are as coordinated as a six-week old baby’s. It is as simple as that. (And we wonder why we have so many road accidents.)

My dad, aware of the lame rite of passage for a certified driver in our great city, decided that my brother and I needed a stricter, more rigorous initiation into the world of driving. In the interest of public safety, unless the trainer appointed by him gave us the go-ahead, we couldn’t be trusted to drive a four-wheeler. He claims that his concerns were public safety and the safety of his own flesh and blood (not necessarily in that order), but I suspect the caution had more to do with preserving the erstwhile pristine status of his precious white four-wheeler. (Dad, S needs fifty stitches and I broke my neck, but the car’s fine). I’m sure the word “erstwhile” tipped you off. Now, our car wears yellow and black stripes it earned in a battle with a yellow and black pole next to our parking space. My dad, who was driving at the time, claims that his driving was faultless. The impudent pole got in the way.

So, we went through trainers in quick succession, because none of them gave us the much-coveted green signal, all too afraid of my dad’s ire. I suppose we just wanted a second (and then third and then fourth) opinion. I must admit that I was an indifferent pupil and played hookey on the driving lessons quite often. Lazy as I am, I was quite content to have my brother chauffeur me around. For the record, I’m “unteachable” not because I lack the requisite skills but because I simply didn’t care enough to learn. And for all those who think women can’t drive, I have this- sexist pig (no, it’s not a gender slur. A slur on the pig may be). I can drive, only I didn’t like the idea of road rage, of colourful abuses when the driver behind you cuts you off, of back-seat driving by the aforementioned simpletons who think women can’t drive, of traffic jams, of crowds, of speed-demons, of little kids/stray dogs/kittens who rush out in front of you from nowhere and you hit the brakes, your heart going at six-hundred beats per minute, or of the constant danger you are in when you drive.

Now I have a new trainer and he seems nice and amenable to giving me the go-ahead. Only, he seems baffled that I wait for cyclists, dogs, kittens, tortoises, snails etc to cross the road. Also, he can’t, for the life of him, see why I panic on seeing stationary HMVs fifty miles away and hit the brakes in a wide, spacious road. Slowly, but surely I am getting over my reluctance to drive and a bad case of nerves everytime I see another vehicle hurtle down at me. See, I have this picture of myself driving a convertible (with its top down) at a great speed, my hair flying behind me, the sun in my gleeful face and my passengers not praying for dear life. So, until such time as I can fulfill this dream, training it is for me.

Anatomy of a Bong

No, this is not about the pipes used for smoking narcotic substances. So, read no further if you misinterpreted the title (I guess anyone could be mistaken. No one I know, but still, we make allowances, we are tolerant.)

The Bengali (Bong, for short) has been widely caricatured in Hindi movies (Of course, not as widely as the Madrasi- a member of the populace which lives south of the Vindhyas. No Malayalees or Tamilians, just Madrasis. Strangely enough, Madras is not even the valid name of a city anymore). The Bengali is a portly, paan-chewing, philosophy-spewing, jovial, lotus-eater, rather incidental to the storyline and introduced primarily for comic relief, which his hilarious accent and very Bong intonations are intended to bring about. As with most stereotypes, this picture is somewhat incomplete.

Now, I assume that you are eager to know the distinguishing features of Bongs, in case you ever encounter one and find yourself at a crippling loss for words, (which is fine, for during most of the conversation you won’t be able to get in a word edgeways) and wish you had spent more time learning about Bongs than you wasted on your loved ones. Never fear, I always champion worthless causes. See, being a Bong myself, I can poke fun at them. You on the other hand have no such privilege, so do arrange your facial expression to one of dignified neutrality- which means you can’t snicker, in the event that I pull off this intended humorous piece. Well, here’s the lowdown on Bongs:

We love food: And food loves us, which explains our ever expanding girth (Corpulence is a sign of opulence, is what we console ourselves with). Of course, a Bong’s culinary preference starts and ends with macher jhol (curried fish). All Bongs eulogize their mothers’ macher jhol. Secret family recipes are handed down from generation to generation and stored in a vault with the family jewels. Imagine a lawyer reading out the will of a rich, recently deceased Bong- “To my eldest son I bequeath the estate worth a gazillion dollars. To my younger son, I leave the family recipe of the macher jhol”. You would think that the eldest son would rejoice and the younger one would curse his fate. Au contraire, people would have to work like beavers to console the crestfallen eldest son and the younger one’s happiness would know no bounds. I bet wars were fought over macher jhol. Bongs tend to be touchy about fish, which would make me a faux Bong. When I tell a Bong about my impeccable record of staunch vegetarianism, he/she does the Ally McBeal eye-popping and jaw-dropping routine. What? No fish? My mother still cries silently into the night, pained about my affliction and prays for full recovery. If a Bong ever takes you out for a treat (which will be seldom) or invites you home, do not turn down the invitation, come what may. You will have the most exquisite, lavish food of your life. Bongs don’t believe in skimping when it comes to food and even the most scrooge-like Bong will turn generous in a restaurant.

We love sports: I think an amendment is due here. We love watching sports, or khela. We have seen every game, know every little detail, every little trivia about every sport, but mostly cricket and football. We know the history of cricket and football, right from the days they were conceived. Again, I’m only a farzi (fraudulent) Bong. I’ve only recently been able to distinguish between Test and one-day cricket and only after India’s twenty-twenty victory have I realized that normal cricket matches are fifty overs long. My knowledge of football is limited to the fact that a ball is kicked around by some men and the point of the game is to kick the ball into a netted thingy. A conversation between a real Bong and me would go thus:

R.B: So, what do you think of David Beckham’s move to L.A?

J.D: David Beckham? Is he related to Victoria Beckham, a.k.a Posh Spice of Spice Girls fame?

R.B: (going on, regardless of my ignoramus status. Turns out, R.B just wanted to show off his own sharp observations) I think….


We love politics: The Bong is a very political animal. He will know even about the most obscure regional parties. He will tell you exactly why someone should win or lose the general elections and will brook no difference of opinion. He will become tremendously hot under the collars while discussing politics and hold a lifelong grudge against you if you don’t support his political party. The homegrown Bong will extol Jyoti Basu and the rest of the reds. How the Commies have managed to stay in power in the state of West Bengal is a mystery, since Bongs are acutely aware of class distinctions and would uphold them at any cost, something contrary to communist ideologies. The Bong will tell you why India is going to the dogs and sit back smugly with an I-told-you-so every time his dire predictions come true and they generally do come true. The Bong will be a Machiavelli in the office arena and get away with playing politics, given his rotund face (it’s been scientifically proven that people trust round faces more easily than other face types).

We love culture: We love books, music and films. Bongs start quoting Nietzsche, Dostoevsky, Kafka etc at a very early age. Name a book and they have read it. Ask them something as innocuous as “Who are you?” and they will tell you what deconstructionists, post-modernists and so on theorize. Music means Robindro Songeet, every thing else is noise or distraction. Uttam Kumar was the greatest actor that ever lived. Bongs watch films which are scarcely heard of and will look at you askance if you don’t recognize a film from Kazakhstan which won an award in East Timor. Bengalis are a proud community and will name a Bong of consequence in every field. For instance, say you are discussing a particular enzyme produced by the Dominican Republican sea-gherkin. The Bong will name a third cousin who has a doctorate in the field. Bongs like to think, dream and articulate their ideas, which brings us to their next trait.

We love to talk: The Bong institution of adda has been immortalized in a Manna De song. The word adda has no English or Hindi equivalent that would do justice to this great Bong pastime. The word conversation would suffice, but even as I write “conversation”, the potency of adda is diluted. Bongs simply love to talk. What do they talk about? They talk about any of their aforementioned passions. They will catch hold of hapless pizza delivery guys and advise them on ways to improve the efficiency of their deliveries. They will discuss art with the fellow they just met on the bus or train. They will discuss politics with the taxi driver. The Bong’s milkman, postman etc have all been at one point blessed by the Bong’s verbal largesse. When two Bongs meet, their conversation could fill the pages of the Encyclopedia Britannica and still go strong. They go to great lengths to make their addas gratifying. There’s almost always food, comfy cushions, sometimes alcohol but always a profusion of words.


I know that I stand an excellent chance of being disowned by my own family and being ex-communicated, after this blog. But, I hope some community will adopt me with my vegetarian credentials. Any takers?

Noxious Vapours

See, I’m mostly quite a docile ewe-lamb. I shy away from conflicts. I let myself be bilked of a coupla bucks (without so much as a whimper), by crooks of autowallahs who shrug “Chutta nahi hai” (No change, to the uninitiated) when I hand them more than the fare money. I don’t wish a pox on the house of the #$%&* who steps on my toes while squeezing his way to his seat in the theatre, without so much as a quiver of a lip in my direction, by way of an apology. I don’t even protest when a generously endowed middle-aged woman, barrels right through me in a crowded public bus and takes the seat I had been politely waiting for a nice, old gentleman to vacate. But, I do draw the line at being rudely roused from the rare, fortuitous nice dream I may happen to have. I mostly have incredibly dull dreams, so you’ll understand my annoyance at being woken up before it could get…er, interesting.

There I was, dancing with Hugh Jackman(of X-men fame, without the hideous Wolverine sideburns, of course. Sheesh, what do you take me for?), to the tango theme from Scent of a woman; dancing the slow, sweet tango (suitably altered for a “U” certificate. I’m an incorrigible prude, you know). See, it doesn’t matter if you are snorting now because you think Hugh and I can’t dance. That was my dream and this is my blogspot, so shut your yapper. (And please, please, please read on). And pop! went my dream. (Oh, Hugh don’t go!).

It is one thing to be woken up by the invigorating smell of freshly brewed coffee and quite another to be shaken awake from your R.E.M sleep by cigarette smoke. I knew the perpetrator of this egregious crime. It was the grungy fella who lives in the apartment below mine- his teeth bearing tell-tale nicotine stains. I rubbed my eyes, no not in disbelief, but because that’s what people do when they wake up (Geez!) and because my pupils were dilating. The blasted fellow had the gall to smoke at 6. am. 6 a.m., no less. I sleep with my windows open (I’m a fresh air fiend, so sue me) having become wise to carbon-di-oxide (or was it carbon monoxide from burning lamps? Why take a chance, anyway? Di- , mono- , are the same to me) poisoning very early in life. So the smoke had found its way out of Grungy’s windows, up one floor, in through my windows and into my unsuspecting nostrils. Dear God, can’t a girl get her eight hours of shut-eye without needing a gas-mask?

While still on smoking, what gives? Discerning, intelligent, educated adults fall prey to a cigarette’s smoky, seductive charms. You would think that the frightening consequences of smoking cigarettes (cancer, emphysema, hypertension, to name a few) would sufficiently deter would-be smokers and impel present smokers to quit. But we vertical walkers, the most rational beings on this planet need to be warned by messages- “Statutory warning- Cigarette smoking is injurious to health.” An amoeba has better survival instincts. Those mute, lower life forms know which animal of prey or plant to stay away from. I’m rather attached to my healthy lungs, so do feel free to enlighten me if I don’t understand why cigarettes are cool. It’s like being the only one not in on an inside joke. What am I missing here? Why do people think it’s alright to smoke in public places when passive smoking kills more people than actual smoking does? What right do they have to treat someone else’s life so cheaply?

Why pay the big tobacco companies your hard-earned money to slowly poison yourself to death? Here, I’ll do it for free.

MOVING ON...

Right. They (they, again!) say that there are five stages of grief- denial, anger, bargaining (the grieving person may make bargains with the powers that be, asking, "If I do this, will you take away the pain?"), depression and acceptance. I would like to think that I’ve gone through them in fast-forward mode- something I do with annoying, fit-for-rickshaws songs in a DVD. I would like to follow the unscrupulous Scarlett O’Hara- I’ll not think about it now. I’ll think about it tomorrow when it doesn’t hurt so much. I would like to think that acceptance has come, suspiciously prematurely, but is here to stay. Acceptance, not resignation, mind you. The world moves on and so must I. I would like to think that this newly revived hope will float.

To kill a mockingbird is my favourite book on earth. And Atticus Finch my favourite character(only after Scout, of course). And he helps me again in this dark hour, like he had ages ago. He refuses to be trumped by pessimism and strives to trounce Luck and Fate and Destiny. He does not agree with me. Well, I’ll admit that the ramblings of the previous post were dark and sulky- but I’m coping. This too shall pass. And as for Atticus, well, I have this- You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it. Besides, it’s rather creepy to have one’s parents adopt the expression of people visiting the terminally ill. It’s sheer selfishness to put them through this, to drag them in your misery. So, I put an end to this once and for all. The show must go on.

I tried, but I failed and that’s that. I’ll let Rudyard Kipling sum it up for me:

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those impostors just the same.
(If you can )watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it.

Amen.

"I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin but you begin anyway and you see it through no matter what. You rarely win, but sometimes you do."
- Atticus Finch to Jem Finch (To Kill a Mockingbird, Harper Lee)

SHIT HAPPENED…..

It’s like losing a child. Actually, that was a singularly insensitive statement. It cannot possibly be commensurate to a mother’s grief on losing a beloved child. But how do you measure the pain when all your dreams come crashing down? What is an appropriate analogy? May be being impaled by a dull knife, twisted by an invisible hand? Or being two inches away from the finishing line and having the line pulled farther away from you? You are bludgeoned by Reality. Your sense of self worth crushed to nothing, watching all your ambitions become impossibilities. The tantalizing reality becomes a distant dream- an illusion that you had about your capabilities. When you told yourself, “I can”, you merely lied to yourself- a lie which cost you dearly.

You are told that hard-work and dedication are all that are required for achieving your goals. But no-one talks about the X-factor. I wish I knew what that was. Whose propaganda was it? Who taught you to dream? Who gave you hopes? Ha, but you did it yourself. You were the one who invested your blood, sweat and tears. You could have taken the easy way. No one else impelled you to take this step. You are a big girl. Surely, you should have known what you were doing? You gave it life, nurtured it, watched it flourish and Poof, saw it being snuffed out in one, quick motion- as spontaneously as you had gambled. Ever heard of hedging your position? Ha, fool. What price all the fuss?

So shit happened. It has been happening for the last two years. Not that I mind- I am enlightened about ying- yang. There is balance in the world, they say. They must know. Most cocky sayings have been attributed to “they”, after all. Sure, give me eighty percent of the shit in the world- hell, I feel masochistic, give me the whole hog. But I wouldn’t mind it so much if it were interspersed with non-shit, once in a while. If there is balance in the world, why don’t the scales ever tip in my favour?

Ah, but that is life. C’est la vie. They nod wisely (And yes, let’s not forget Que sera, sera. We don’t want to be accused of playing favourites). Clichés,all. Designed to make you more fatalistic, to explain away all the shit, to make you feel all noble and forged in the righteous fire of glorified suffering- like the saints burned at stake. Hell, I ought to be Beatified. Makes you hate life even more, doesn’t it? Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you. All this is supposed to make you stronger, build character (although, I doubt if anyone spouting the virtues of suffering ever felt so much as a pin-prick) or effect something equally abstract, that none ever understands or attains. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from advocating misery for character building.

That was just a dream, just a dream, just a dream...dream.

P.S- Quite a departure, from my usual non-Saturnine self. Oh, well.

Musings of a weird chick.

The balcony of my house quite lends itself to philosophical musings and is quite inviting to budding Platos. You see verdant wilderness, broken here and there by the ubiquitous concrete buildings, everywhere you look. The recent rains have rendered the barren hills dark green. Wispy clouds waft over the said hills; I am pensive. Rainy days and Mondays always make me blue. Yet again, I have given up cold comfort for change. Yet again, my life careens towards some undefined, uncertain, nebulous goal. Yet again, I have left things to chance. Yet again, I have gambled.

It is quite uncharacteristic of me, this risk taking. I have always lived within the boundaries that people draw for themselves, crippled by self-doubt; one bird in hand is worth than two in the bush. I would say it is better than the two in the bush. I wonder what happened to playing it safe. How lightly we regard that which we obtain easily!

Am I just so blinded by the obsession to attain these impossibly high standards? Is there a larger picture that I’m missing? I wish one had all the answers to uncomfortable questions. I wish taking a chance had some sort of collateral, some insurance. But I do know that I would kick myself years from now if I chose not to explore this chance given to me, that the point of life is to test your limits. You rage against the unfair hand that Fate deals you and you make your own destiny. You don’t go with the flow. You are not satisfied with what you achieve and you strive for more. Do you not cease to exist when smug complacency sets it?

But where does it stop? Is there a logical conclusion to this endless war that you wage? Are you ever content with what you have? I know these answers will evade me. Or life wouldn’t be as interesting. Neither would you hold on to life so dearly, if you understood its meaning or essence. Life would be simple. You would take it for granted, as you take those closest to you. If you knew all of life’s secrets and mysteries, life’s outcome would be predictable. But where’s the fun in predictability? We are drawn to that which we don’t understand; it’s almost a challenge to decipher the inscrutable. It is triumph we feel once we have solved the mystery. That’s what I am aiming for, anyway.

Stormy days lie ahead, full of both possibilities and disappointment. I hope I marshal the strength to get through each day.

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, Martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out and screaming "WOO HOO what a ride!"