Archive for the ‘Personal’ Category

I have seen mighty minds crumble, the sane go insane, and the resolute losing their temper, the brave becoming wimps, faces being forgotten and children absconding. Now that I think of it, all of it has happened around me. When I dip my head into retrospection, I notice all the fingers point to me. It feels like an epiphany, a revelation:

It has been me all along!

Sometimes I wonder if I am at the bottommost layer of the human emotional evolutionary chain. That I think too much and that maybe it would one day be the reason for my passing.

How are others nailing it so well? How are they able to laugh through it all? Why are they so unfazed?

I feel I am very hard to live with, that I push people away. Unknowingly but voluntarily, I often end up forcing myself into my very own fortress of solitude. No wonder I choose to live alone in my dusky lair.

It is almost as if I seek grief deliberately. That I have always headed towards a disquieting pit ahead, and no amount of saving could actually save me. My downfall was written in the stars, and this is how I was meant to go. Sulking over spilled milk, lost under a countless what ifs, with a mind brooding over different outcomes and a body playing out different stories.

I have often heard people talking, how if there were no bad times you wouldn’t know how to appreciate the good ones. Then I wonder what if I like bad times? What if it makes me feel alive, makes me feel what people feel when they talk about living on the edge. What if I am more of me in its company? What if I am trying to forever seek a tearpit hammock to rest?

I might like this waning, the bittersweet demise of my body that gradually takes me away into the oblivion. What bothers me the most is my blunt malignancy whilst getting there. The repercussions that emanate therefrom hurt others in the process. That’s what is killing!

When I see all those fallen people around me, I can’t help but curse myself:

What have I done?

In my brazen meanness to get what I want, I end up doing the despicable. I end up torturing them, burning them down with my pathetic rancour.

What did they do to deserve me in the first place?

Insecurities follow me like little ducklings around and they mess up everything good going on in my life. They smear my face with its kohl making me beyond obvious. What a tragedy to be me!

Only a fool would wish to stay. To knowingly entwine their lives into mine and welcome their slow death. I can’t do that to a person. It’s a cost that would go down really heavy on my head.

All this contemplation often directs my thoughts to other grief-stricken souls in the world. In my very own private moments, I often think out loud:

Are there others like me?

And if yes, how are they still alive?

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I am livid at my parents for messing me up. I am angry at the society that they call themselves a part of. There is nothing likable about it. All their rules, their self-proclaimed laws are decadent and morally so hurtful that if a fully aware and grown person were to live it, he/she would give up thriving under the awning of their care.

A lot of my thoughts and actions were highly predisposed of their ideas about the world. I have done a lot of things in my life that they thought were right, and it wouldn’t be wrong to say that it had cost me a living. If only I had reckoned it then, by not considering their word as the final say, I might not be as much in a deeper muck that I find myself today in. Not just them, but the times too, like movies literally defining our thought process and ideas. I blame them all for making me unpalatable.

There are so many wrongs hidden in my parent’s daily dose of routine that if you had tasted even a morsel of sanity in your life, you would always end up in a squabble for talking sanely to them. I had listened to my father’s advice throughout my life, and I have come to realize there have been so many occasions where he was outright wrong, and yet I followed all his preachings eyes closed.

I have also come to accept that it wasn’t his fault. It was this place he lived in, the habitat that surrounded him that had carved him the way he is. Whispers the wind brought in the form of neighbours, friends, and families, came with stories that made him extremely watchful and vigilant. He was simply protecting me with all the things he had, and all the things he thought in his head were right, and I appreciate that. Yes. But in doing so, he was slowly carving a monstrous plaything that he had no clue about. He was inadvertently messing with my very own timeline and now I don’t know how to live with the changing times just as he has trouble understanding the generation today.

All those little things he did fail to justify his actions. I feel sorry he was a part of such a crooked society, that a big chunk of his brain was influenced by societal thoughts, and not his very own.

My mother too, like every other conventional Indian, believing her place to be in his feet and in the kitchen, has a hard time understanding why it is alright for a man to get involved with household chores. She still believes it would be a disservice if the man of the house worked in the kitchen if the lady is hale and hearty. She has been fed it as a sin, and people like her often have a wont of following things blindly.

I tried to feed them the new age thinking, a little bit of equality and feminism, and they were vexed with its sheer logic. How could a rebellious idea like that exist? So they thought. It was asking too much from people who have been following a certain way for ages. Forget about change, they don’t even concur to what was said.

My father had once stopped me from playing with girls when I was really young and I had never understood why. I had questioned it, just as I question everything in life, and all I got was the following reply:

You are a boy, you should play with boys.

There are certain things you never forget because of the way they reshape you. When you try to change a habit because of a thing your parents said, and want from you. You try to become someone else then. To win his heart and blessings in every form, at any cost, I dictated myself out of a game I was only beginning to enjoy.

I remember how I had completely left Hopscotch that I had once found intriguing. Even before I wanted to try my hands at that game, I was lanced for playing a girl’s game. How do you tack a game to gender, I have never really understood. A game should be played for the fun of it, for the heck of it, and for the challenge it tags along. To entail politics in it takes away the very sanctity of its existence and the whole point of engaging with it in the first place.

I have given up on so many things in life that had made me jovial for a while, just because it didn’t please my parents. It is too late to realize that now since that curious child is no longer curious about the things he was once curious about. Now I know that a person should live for himself and not allow the reins of his life to be squeezed into the hands of others. But why didn’t I know it back then? Why did I allow myself to be herded?

There are hundreds of instances that flicker in my mind now that I think of it. How and where my parents had gone terribly wrong with their parenting.

But then I think of all the good stuff too, and I realize they did alright. They did fine, for I turned out fine, despite the parochial approach that tried to turn me into them.

If it were not for all the ugly stuff that bound me with all the mental manacles, I wouldn’t have learned to appreciate all the good things in life. And for that, I would forever be indebted.

Corpse

Posted: January 23, 2019 in Personal
Tags: , , ,

I don’t rule out your possibility, never have. All the things they say about fate, gives me butterflies knowing how mysteriously I have been picked up and placed on foreign land as if I were some part of a big plan, that I had a part to play. It gives me goosebumps knowing I could be the protagonist of this story. So I somehow find you. Even so, if that’s a trick of fate, I must say, I am pretty impressed by this diabolical concoction that beats me and beats us all. How marvelous! Supersedes everything human.

corpse image

How you did not let me feel it all this time, and then suddenly you did.

I can’t ignore the presence of this divine intervention knocking at my door. But I can’t help but wonder, how I have this usual wont of fucking up every good thing in my life. That this too might end up with blood in my hands, and no matter how hard I try to be careful around you, I might break you because I am a rock solid corpse, and you are fragile around everything that’s dead.

Slaves Are Us

Posted: September 12, 2018 in Life, Personal
Tags: , , , , , , ,

What is the definition of a slave? I Google it and it says “a person who is the legal property of another and is forced to obey them”. In my head, it wasn’t any different either.

In ancient times, Pharaohs had people do their job for them. In return, they would be given food or shelter – their idea of a currency.

So let’s say they had a Sphinx planned up in their next quarter. To build that up you wouldn’t see a Pharaoh bringing rocks from the bottom. No. He is the apex, the CEO of his company. He doesn’t move. But sits in the most comfortable chair the planet has, with his hands steepled as he overlooks the progress.

Right underneath him stands the Vizier, the Vice President, the next guy you wouldn’t see bringing rocks. He is a Pharaoh-whisperer. Then come the nobles and the priests. The higher level management, the delivery heads and managers, who make sure the job is being performed correctly. It’s hard not to imagine a guy with his hands behind his back as he monitors people from an unsafe distance. He wouldn’t get his hands dirty but he doesn’t mind occasionally stabbing someone in the back when he perceives leniency.

Then come scribes and soldiers who have chosen their jobs very carefully. They didn’t want to be a part of higher level management because that would mean being in direct contact with the Vizier and the Pharaoh, in short, a lot of balls. But they are fine with taking orders. Because what they get is what they deliver to the bottommost strata. You know, maintaining the order of emotions.

The team leads are in direct contact with the bottommost level. They are the merchants who report their produce to the lower level management. Thus keeping them in the loop about what’s being done, whether or not the rocks have been lifted and what are the problems and challenges being faced while execution of the job. They work alongside the slaves thus confusing the lowest level people about their stratum. They are not on anyone’s side. They are two-faced serpents who can twitch on either side, dissing you nevertheless on encountering slightest of pressure from above.

Finally comes the slaves, the farmers and the craftsmen who are at the bottommost level of this whole job cycle. The order has been passed that a piece of bread will be given to everybody if they work hard. They work the hardest, despite the weather. Getting their hands dirty in the muck for a job that is not going to give them anything but a piece of bread. They are whipped by the lower and higher level management if they do something wrong, flailed if they fail and replaced with a stronger hand. So even if they are constantly crumbling under immense pressure, they stand up nevertheless with the heavy rock and carry it like it’s the only salvation they know.

They are treated like insects, because hello! Aren’t they at the bottom already? They are the ones who actually do the job. In our world, the one who perseveres is the one who is scorned at by everybody. Are we so blind that we don’t see it? That despite the apparent flaw in this age-old system, we are still following it, eyes closed?

In my six years as an employee in IT, I have felt no different. I am an insect, treated like one. Pushed around holes that I never wanted to enter. I can’t get out because my life depends on it. There is nothing else around that pays the fodder that I can have to go on without hiccups. It is an “honorable” living in the minds of the society.

I am bound by this invisible contract with the company, the pharaoh, that I lose my importance the moment I wish to quit. Even if I did, there would be yet another pharaoh in line waiting to dig his dirty hands in me. I go from one Sphinx to another, but nothing changes. The face on the Sphinx remains the same. The slab that I put in this gargantuan edifice gets lost among a bazillion others. And I have no clue if I contributed something. Scorns and insults have become a part and parcel. While the upper order earns their fat checks, they throw down bones at us to feast upon.

You might think there is a way out if you stay good and play everything by the book. But no! The longer you persevere, the more experience you get at perseverance. They give you one grain at a time and then ask you to keep moving for another. And you do, like a brazen person, because you have no choice. You can’t go anywhere. They have you by your balls and they will squeeze it the moment you try to throw a tantrum.

I cannot call that sphinx my creation at the end of it, because it wasn’t my dream, to begin with. I didn’t know why I was gathering rocks apart from the fact that it was ending up becoming something that fed me. I cannot call it mine because, Hey! It was everyone else’s effort. When it got built, the Pharaoh turned toward the world and said he made it. He even branded it with his name saying it was his property. That it was his hard work that paid off. Now the world will remember it as something that’s his.

Then I can’t help but imagine what if the Pharaoh is good and he decides to feed all the people working for him? You know with perks and incentives.

Here take a bite from this awesome fruit and then pass it down the line.

By the time the fruit reaches the slaves it has been devoured so badly that the poor slave could only have its seed. And then the slave decides to grow one for himself using that seed. Because you know slave is, after all, a human brain. He is smart! He sows it in his backyard. But then he has no time to look after it, and the plant eventually ends up dying because in the morning when it needs the sunlight and water to grow, the slave is out there toiling.

But then somehow the plant grows despite a world trying to stop him. Its growth happens slowly, so gradually that the slave sees the toughest of all times. By the time he is ready to have his fruit, he realizes he is left with no teeth to truly enjoy it.

Slaves are us. We have been born and bred into it. Trying to get out will leave us bruised. Hopes to become a Pharaoh one day, we secretly fuel our wish to continue this age-old cycle. But have you ever thought about changing the inevitability of this cycle, making things right and just?

deadlines in my head image

Every second I am out of it. I feel like I am running out of time. That cliched image of me clinching sand as it slides past my palm paints the canvas in my head. I have created these little deadlines unknowingly, and I have started believing in them, that if I don’t hold myself true to what I believe, I don’t know what might happen.

It’s like one fine day I ended up becoming conscious of my limited time in the world. I became conscious of the fact that if I don’t make all my dreams come true in my fixed slot, I might end up feeling sorry for leading a torpid life. Every second I waste makes me feel time spent doing something not fruitful. A day bygone in self-pity seems like a day wasted.

I am constantly running. My feet are all scathed. I am charging through my blisters through all that pain, and yet the thought of stopping to rest, to relax, seems like a wasted breath. There are so many things to do, so many dreams to carve, so many shots to take and so many trials to experience, but every inch I move, I inch closer to something volatile. I can’t seem to hit anything solid. It’s as if the whole universe is plotting against me, testing me, my unwavering patience to simmer me in its deadpan humour.

Then at times I feel terribly drained out. Knackered. I don’t want to do anything but sit amongst my thoughts. Watch sitcoms, eat a pizza, sleep, get fat. That’s when a passed deadline would look right back at me; it would rue me with eyes of guilt forcing me to feel ashamed of myself. I would feel slumped in my race to beat time. I would feel horrible then as if a day had just ended up swallowing me, and that I had failed miserably to churn out a planned thing.

I guess it is okay to miss on it. It’s okay to give yourself the luxury of taking it easy.

I remind myself every day:

It’s not the end of the world. You can stop to check those blisters every once in a while. Deadlines procrastinate. Just stop and breathe. It’s okay to not do anything. Sometimes a day doesn’t have to be your day.

That’s when I stop and wallow in my indolence. I let go. Then……..I live.

useless items

I can’t forget one particular day in my life. A chapter in my leaflet that made me immensely gloomy when I was quite young. This was way before I was introduced to the concept of love. It holds a special place in my heart because it belonged to that era wherein I was learning how to enjoy my words. Life was nothing but a proving ground for me.

It was a letter competition with a hazy date. So hazy that I was convinced our submissions were supposed to happen before 24th September when in reality, what the announcer meant was 23rd instead.

Days spent in brooding, scribbling, re-writing again, creating words that were next to magic. It was the beginning of the change in my head. Words were finally making more sense to me. My hunt for appreciation, nay, love was true. It was trying to express itself in its purest form. I had seen a rare spark of talent in my pen somehow. I knew it was a proper hammering of a dream that was to pan out a sculpture of me on the anvil of destiny.  All I needed was a nod. Just a mere nod. Someone or something prizing me with these words:

“You are something in our whole lot of nothing.”

Until the day in my head finally arrived.

With all that sweat and all that dreams in my eyes, I scoured like a madman for the teacher who had asked for submissions. It was a big school; nobody was spared from getting lost. But my resolve couldn’t be shaken. I went from class to class looking for her, all her possible frequented areas, all her probable inclinations. Amidst my search, two pages of diligence dangled between my hands. Those leaves were as excited as I was.

When I finally got hold of her on a wretched staircase, I gave her the biggest smile my face could ever register, handing over my baby in her hands.

She was quick to respond,

“But the last date is over. You are a day late.”

And I could only manage:

Weren’t we supposed to hand it over before 24th?

Her blank eyes that were well clouded by a thick layer of her spectacles failed to recognize the zeal in mine. She was as blunt as I picture her right now. She responded coldly.

Yes, on 23rd. Before 24th means 23rd. You should have come yesterday.

I apologized for being stupid with a sinking heart. As she went on to meet a waiting class, I stood there looking at my papers. If she had just read it, if I could have convinced her to read it once, maybe she would have changed her mind. I was a stranger to her. Strangers get hurt without the other realizing it. I was tempted to shout:

You haven’t lived in my shoes. You don’t know me the way I do. Maybe if you had, it would have affected your decision to see how bad I had worked on my letter.

I went to my class utterly disappointed at myself, at the teacher for being so crude, and at my hard luck. I couldn’t stop myself from going on and on about it for a day or two in front of my mother, my brother and some of those friends who really listened when I talked. Later I came to realize someone from my class won that competition and he with a smug face came to point it out to me.

For a couple of days, it sat there on my table, that letter I had written. It looked at me with an uncertain fate. It had connected to me on a level, no one ever could. It knew all about a dream that went inside the head of a child while it was penned. It was well aware of the despair too when that dream couldn’t manage an approval.

Until one day it chose to get lost amongst countless papers of the past.

image of how to remove a bad teacher

Sometimes I think every failure we encounter is nature’s way of warning us, its way of adjusting us, putting us on the scanner once again till we find a better path. Maybe where we were headed in the first place wasn’t supposed to be our destiny, and that universe furled itself knocking us out of our elusive surefire resolve, asking us to do something else altogether. In a way correcting our moves with its very own ‘Reset’ button.

When you begin to do something that is in line with nature’s big plan for you, you will find yourself succeeding at every juncture. The Universe drops you hints right from the beginning saying:

“You were good at this. Why don’t you keep doing it? You will succeed all the way. You will keep getting results.”

To exemplify it better I could array it with my very own chords – Writing was my first affair. And the reason I consider it my ultimate salvation is owing to all those clues I received growing up. It was inbred in the form of emotions, and it gradually straddled out with my instant love for literature. I swooned over it and lost my heart somewhere between its words.

My first official letter I wrote had my heart out on an application leaf. I was quite young, yet brainy in a way. Its subject read: “Complaint to Remove a Bad Teacher.” It gushed with emotions, pointing out everything that was terribly wrong with the teacher who did everything but teach. It traversed meaning of life, our existence and what not. It digressed a little with lines like: “Children are supposed to be the future.” etc. Pah!

The counselor who had picked it, was giggling stupefied, wondering how could a small child be writing big words for his age. I laughed along with her, believing I was stupid too. But to my surprise it was acted upon, taken seriously. And so began an unending regime of getting things done via letters. Every time I wrote one, the response was always good. Either an action would be taken or my wants would be positively satiated.

My convincing letter was the first inkling I got that had me believe, nature wanted me to write more, that it was nothing but a mere pen and a paper that would get the job done for me. I distinctly remember thinking out loud reassuringly saying, “I write convincing letters!” I would often boast about it – “If you want something done let it pass through the mouth of my letter.” Surprisingly the results were always positive and in the favour of my words.

Those letters took a more tangible form when I began enjoying what I had written at a later stage by rereading them in future. That it was a product of my head made me extremely euphoric and satisfied. I would turn the pages around to read an old written account and would marvel at myself wondering,

“How did I manage that?”

With that it became more than a wont, now my life; my only resounding satisfaction when I pen one good.

Somewhere deep down I think those letters were responsible for hammering that nail in me unknowingly, and for that I am really grateful. It has made me the writer I was born to be. I surmise, it has paved the path that Universe had for me all along.