Russia Is Reading

Is "gobble" a cuss word in Russian? Or "dook" the name of some village?

Zdravstvuj, is that you?

Every single post over the years has been read by this Russian reader! Such peculiar things you can find out... I was psyched. I really was.

I say I was because it was pointed out that those pageviews could just be from some faceless bot crawling the web. The horror. The lackofromanceandmystery! So yeah, while there's a good chance I might be wrong, I'm just going to tell myself I have a loyal reader lurking around. It's a happy thought.

PS - I like how Chrome is on top, even if I was partial to Opera at one time. And Linux users read me, yay! 

PPS - Yeah, less than 200 views a month. No, I don't exactly promote this blog. You want to?

Those Folks Over At Aadhar

College (or more correctly, BMM) gives you a lot of funny things to do. When you're feeling smart, you turn those funny things into interesting things.


In case of us Journo students, a magazine had to be put together, the focus of the assignment being the design and layout. The University circular about vivas for the same actually includes evaluating criteria like Headlines style, Type and Colour. Obvious stuff, but I still stare at it every time I look at that circular, which is often. Yep, amongst other funny things, college leaves you with so much spare time that you keep reading circulars. Or maybe that's just me.


My magazine is broadly based on innovation. So much scope! E-commerce and online entrepreneurship one in one issue,  crowdsourcing and hatke marketing gimmicks in the next, maybe a special issue on facilities customised for senior citizens or teens - be it related to health, banking, side incomes or alternate tourism. Damn I wanna do this!


Since content for the magazine did not have to be written by us (something I found weird, writing is what we do na!) articles were lifted (with all due credit and courtesy) from tech sites, online magazines and in some cases, put together with the help of About Us and FAQ sections. The Caravan carried an interesting article on the nava job profile of workers at Aadhaar enrolment centres across the country. 

You are reading Page 30, !nnovate, October 2011.

What brought this up? Ma famille was to go submit the forms for the UID registration today. You know, finally get the ball rolling to have our own Aadhaar numbers - not cards. Yeah. The lady in charge there met with an accident on her way to work. The centre will remain closed for the next two days. Also, my father suggests I "chill out".

I Put The Vent In E-Vent

I just got told that everything I blog about has simply turned to ranting. You mean that's not a good thing? But don’t you like reading rants? Isn’t it something you can relate to? No? Okay. I also got told what I ought to write about instead, but more on that later. 

It all made me gape a lot. I also blinked a lot. Sometimes, blinking a lot helps, hence this post. This post is not a complaint, and no, it is not a rant. So if you are that blunt buddy with the sugarfree soul, read. And if you aren’t him, tell me if I really do rant all that much.

This post is closely tied in with that age-old discussion about why one blogs. The discussion can be reduced to two sides – for-the-reader and for-the-blogger. One side suggests you go find a diary to confide in and the other side goes, “Hullo! This is my diary!” Me, I stand on the fence and watch both sides read my blog. 

I tend to do this more often than is wise, standing on fences. And reducing every problem to its most basic form. Wise men would approve, even if it does backfire sometimes. Yeah, I loved school-time math. No but seriously, have you ever wondered why people rarely enjoy debating the what-came-first dilemma seriously? Because it’s just too damn basic superficially, they simply do not want to bother with it.

Anyhow, I tabbed to this blog to see just what I’ve been writing about. There was that subtle rant about Bombay being romanticised, that’s one. Then the bad haircut, but come on, even your wise but balding grandmother would’ve ranted about it! That goof-up about when my univs were to begin. Surely, you sympathise..? 

This.

No wait, you know what? There’s a reason I created a label And I Vent. Blame Blogger for not letting you hide posts filed under that label. Also, and yes I actually checked, might I add that the label Solutions has four more posts that And I Vent? And that the two labels have four posts in common? No? Fine. That is also okay.

I guess that sudden verdict was, amongst other things, a dismissal of everything I’ve posted here lately. Which is just fine, except that it isn’t exactly fun to hear. Should I type that out in caps? No? OKAY!

The alternative suggested, however, was easily the nicest compliment I have ever received from the blunt buddy in question. It's decidedly personal stuff, perhaps too personal for me to share and you to care about. I consciously avoid blogging about it, but I got told I should "because it's nice". Can't promise I will, but if I do, this is where it will be posted. And hey, maybe that will stop me from ending up as a cranky old lady with a cabbage-y house full of cats... I bet that's a prominent cause on some cause-list on the web. 

See, I told you this post is not a complaint, and no, this is not a rant. It even has a corny title!

PS - Blinking a lot isn’t really good. In fact, it looks like it’s half bad to blink a lot. Conjunctivitis, Parkinson’s, seizures... no, not good at all. If you really must know more, here, read.

We're On The Edge

Visitors to this city are almost always in awe of its pace. Its liveliness. Its sheer force of existence. They think this city is something special; I think this city is on the edge.

Much has been said about the overworked transport system. The inevitable delays, the fashionably late Indian Standard Time. About the fighting spirit this city breathes into its people, about the safety its women enjoy.

Some Indians think this city is a lesson in assertion. Spend a few years in big bad Bombay and you will learn to stand on your own two feet. I beg to differ. Spend a while in Bombay and you will learn how to fight someone who tries to stamp your two little feet. If anything, this city is a lesson in survival. Irritable, defensive survival that reeks of sweat and aches with hunger. Take it all away and we won't be us anymore.

We trudge on, for hey, we're lucky to be surviving in Bombay! We overlook the fact that Bombay is the hallowed place we make it out to be because of its faceless crowds and their desperate attempts to fulfil a day's work, not inspite of them.

It is not that Bombay works much more than is normal - Bombay just sees a lot of other stuff that overpowers work. Work happens mechanically, on the side. We're preoccupied; we're pissed. We don't understand that deftly juggling travel alternatives during a strike isn't streetsmart, it's silent acceptance. But you can't blame us for overlooking such stuff. These oversights allow you to romanticise our city. We're just too busy protecting our toes from the crowd.

Our lives have the same issues as yours. The same concerns, the same drama. We just dwell on them differently, secretly but in the midst of the screaming match that is a regular officegoer's travel companion.
It's all too vague for you, isn't it? You must be convinced I'm exaggerating. Others from my city would agree with you. You see, we fret and fume within our minds but we really don't notice these things anymore. We've imbibed the idea of maddening crowds. It's alright for our fancy AC buses to carry 80, not 40. It's okay to spend two hours at that posh counter for some inane work.

We aren't brave. We aren't overachievers. We aren't brokers of dreams and we aren't champions of coexistence. We're just oblivious blocks of flexible minds, regular people caught in a crowd.

Us Of The Bad Haircuts

My life has been a series of eventful haircuts. Bad haircuts. What has stayed constant, however, is the two-clause format of comments they attract. “Your hair is really nice ya, you should have done this and this and this to it instead.”

The saga began when I was in kindergarten; it continues today and shows no sign of ending. Mind you, that is the hallmark of the best tragedies that have ever been written. They are eternal.

Like all things eternal, eventful haircuts deserve to be scrutinised. Why must some of us always look like we’re sketches in the making? What gives people the right to be paid for screwing up somebody’s hair? Why do other people always have perfect hair? Am I a bad person? Is someone out to get me? Who even decides this shit?

Who stole my mojo? >.<

One way of foreseeing a bad hairstyle is to consider how you feel about it right before the scissors get busy. Even the vaguest variant of “Oh let’s be done with it already! It’s only hair, it’ll grow back” is a warning sign. Walk out that door.

Avoid telling your stylist that you want something low-maintenance, “just a simple wash and dry style” is worse. He will treat you like a project. Like a teetotaller at a bar. You will be that no-gooder he must bring over to the world of serums and straighteners.

That said, announcing “I want a change!” is the red flag. Just get up, make scary eyes and run. It’s okay to subconsciously want a change; chances are you’ll get it. But say it out loud and you activate those repressed creative juices in the guy wielding the scissors. He will make you his muse but will forget that you aren’t a mannequin. You will resemble a shorn sheep and let me tell you, no sheep pays to be sheared.  Reflective surfaces will crop up in corners you least expect them to. Strangers will be sickly sweet to you, the probable victim of a tornado. Acquaintances will go “What happened to you!??” and beyond a point, making up improbable funny stories will feel like a chore. Your sister will reassure you, “You still look good in the dark!” and you will spend ages consoling every person who ever played with your hair. I have no enemies I know of, but I’m guessing they won’t be very nice either. So as much as you may be sick of how your hair almost always looks the same as before, DON’T SAY IT.

Us Of The Bad Haircuts need to get a few things straight. It is not just hair, it will not grow back – that’s the Loch Ness of body myths. All these “hair care” products in the market are proof; they exist because Us Of The Bad Haircuts need them, not because they can actually fix anything. They’re like remedies for a common cold. Placebos.

Trash all that talk about hair that reflects your personality. I have had distinctly different hair at every stage of my life and I have done the same dumb stuff at every stage, hair-personality sync be damned. You gotta cope with it all.

Perhaps there is only that one, lone hairstyle that will ever truly suit the unique snowflake I am. Perhaps someone really is out to get me.

It's Okay To Not Relate

When some random person predicts that you will meet all sorts of people in college, believe. And when your prospective college promises you “immense exposure”, believe more.

After nearly three years of undergrad at a town college dominated by people from not-town, I do believe I have been on the receiving end of adequate exposure. No kidding. Why, day three of college consisted of something like this –

Yeah, I'm over my Blue Suede Shoes...

Okay, not quite like this. Picture the girl about eight years older and two feet taller, wearing the same skirt and a lost expression on her face. Okay so far? 

Now picture the same in the main corridor of a college library dominated by microbiology students normally intent on research... yeah. 

Now tack on a pose, something like this –

There's only so much a girl can cover... the library is the place to look it up!

It was probably the first time I didn’t laugh aloud for fear of interrupting an intense parody shoot. Turned out I might as well have laughed, would’ve contrasted the gaping mouths nicely.

-     -     -

I didn’t catch on to it then, that tendency to stare a little, laugh a little and then get on with my life anyway when faced with things I simply could not relate to. In retrospect, that’s what got me through college with my sanity intact. Sure, sometimes you reflect and take it from there, validating another popular claim – that college will change you. But if you’re lucky, a voice in your mind just tells you that it’s okay not to relate.

It’s okay to not want to hug acquaintances like exiled lovers reunited at long last. Especially when you see those exchanges take place a minute before your university exams begin.

It’s okay to not know the characters of sitcoms and dramas as intimately as you know the smell of your sweat. Both remind you of fresh flowers, both fade away. Pick whichever. Do remember, though, that your sweat is a part of you.

It’s okay to not litter your chats and contact list with hearts and ellipses and exclamation marks. There was a reason Beethoven wrote music fur elise, and not for ellipse. You and I are in on it, let the rest of the world be.

It’s okay to not care to socialise with the 60+6 students studying the same course as you, across years, across colleges. Yes, it would bring you contacts and recognition and potentially a gazillion people who could like your new status, but bringing yourself to things that make you happy is more important.

It’s okay to not talk about every cool thing you do. It really is.

It’s okay to not attend high school reunions if you decide you don’t feel like it. Facebook is still around to tell you who’s doing what, when, where and who.

It’s okay to not have a 1000 people on your friend list should you not care for the above information, because... well, just because.

A lot of things are okay to not do. Not because you’re in a position to pass judgement but simply because they don’t feel right to you. 

That makes it okay to draw up a list of what you don't care for. And lists, my friend, are what make blogs. Aye, it's still okay to not relate ;)

Too Much Scotch!

12:42 Belapur local and cab from VT. Okay?

No, not okay.

Not when the person you said that to doesn’t give a shit about just which train to take.

Not when you have a lot of time to go before you take a final call on which train to take.

And definitely not when you receive a reply that reads –

Exam kal se hai :|

I was always that calm, pulled together person where exams were concerned. Panic about misplaced pens, inadequate cheating supplies, nightmares about not waking up or reaching the centre in time for a big exam – I don’t think any of these ever plagued me. Even when I don’t have enough pens or enough time, I can stay calm. During the run-up to major exams, I cook and clean for the family, I watch movies, I do everything that could possibly make me worthy of a few crisp notes, if not a plaque of honour. But I don’t panic. No, sir. I’m that annoyingly calm exam-taker who actually dares to enter rooms looking pleasant, albeit late – yep, I’m that girl you’ve always wanted to choke.

Even when I have experienced the-feeling-closest-to-panic, it was because I couldn’t randomly picture a certain section of my notes the way I could picture all others - with line indents, punctuation and order of points, to boot. Or because... no, that’s pretty much the only reason. If that makes me a “nerd/scotch/scholty”, so be it. I like having my study material in place. Compiled. Organised. No shame there. It’s what I’ve been going on about for the last month. “I know the content re, but compile karna hai... so much work!”

Different matter that things didn’t quite go as per plan. Oh no, they sure didn’t. Over the past few weeks, I’ve baked and I’ve fried and I’ve popped thaaaat much corn. I’ve spent more time with the boyfriend than I did in the weeks before these – go me! I’ve pigged out and I’ve shopped and I’ve had “sister bonding time” with, well, my sister. I’ve talked until dawn and read the most assorted mix of things in months! I’ve caught up with classmates from junior college and released senti notes into cyberspace. More about the notes in another post. Point is, I’ve been busy.

Mom says these are ways I choose subconsciously to release subconscious stress about work and acads. I think these are ways I try consciously to foster healthy conscious denial about work and acads. But hey, she’s the boss. Though I do believe the notes are all organised up here, in my head. Aye.

But you know what the problem is? I’m still freaking out about having gotten the exam schedule wrong. Not even the order of exams, I got the frickin’ schedule wrong by a whole day! So yeah, I have an extra, unexpected day to study. I also have the worst kind of headache I’ve had in ages. I’m jumpy and dizzy and my head is still spinning. My mouth is dry and my throat is parched and I can’t stand how everyone keeps telling me to go to sleep. Writing this post was supposed to help; it didn't. I am abuzz! This just feels like a bad bad hangover.

PS – I’m not sure I spelt scholty right... it sounds like scall-tea, where scall rhymes with fall, but it’s derived from scholar, hence the schol to begin with. Autocorrect changed schol to school. See, it did that again! Meh. Guess I’m not a scotch after all.

The Loophole

They take her out to the shore and point to the faint edge of the horizon.

That’s the thing, they announce. That’s what you were made for.

They can’t imagine her doing anything else. She couldn’t possibly want to do anything but this.

This is her thing. It’s what she’s meant to do.

This is what she was made for.

Perhaps they’re onto something, unlike her. Perhaps they just know.

And perhaps it’s only right that they’re the ones who coax her. Perhaps that is what they were made for.

It’s not like they seek something that will endure. Just once, you 'll do great, they smile to reassure. 

A quick fix is all, nothing more than that. No pressure, of course. No pressure at all.

A one-shot, a cheap thrill. A quick dash in the woods.

A sneaky run that could become her intimate adventure. A failed detour that could blend in with the roadmap.

The comfort of knowing she tried, for them. 

The insecurity of being no more than a one-time end credit.

Often she’d really want to, but a block would set it. She’d freeze and that’d be the end of her little experiment. 

Perhaps she wasn't smart enough. Or cool enough. Or hot enough. Perhaps lukewarm was all she ever really was.

She saw the wisdom of their plan. She lived the loopholes it contained. 

It’s hard to lean over the table and promise not to look over your shoulder.

To know that they are your audience and to still let go.

It’s hard to bend over backwards when you don’t know what you’re reaching for.

And it’s harder still when you don’t know what’s reaching out for you.

Dude (Looks Like A Lady)

I'd write more often, I confess

There's plenty in this head, whattay mess!

But the thought of you hmming

And the thought of you haawing

Puts me off like a dude in a nightdress.

Your Statistic Is My Santa

An Ex-Army-brat About An Ex-Army-man

Papa served in the Indian Armed Forces. As a post-graduate student of AFMC, Pune and then an officer with the Army for 16 years, he is the reason I was once an Army brat.

My pre-school years were spent in and around the Army, predominantly in Ambala Cantt. I’m talking 1991 and thereon, when “pre-school” simply meant before school, not a bastardised version of Kindergarten. I was brought up amidst families of other servicemen, dignified Army mess workers and staff at cantonment hospitals, where Papa served as Gynaecologist.

In case you’re wondering what a Gynaec was doing in the Army – women serve in the Forces too. Male officers have families and wives who bear children. Doctors serve as part of the “fighting units” too, for a few compulsory years and also as backup forces. That’s what took Papa to Siachen and to the border by the Indus river. The former is how he knows everything about frostbitten, amputated limbs. The latter is how he has zoomed in photographs of Pakistan’s armymen holding rifles and looking out at the Indian camp from across the border.

As an Army brat, I’ve had my share of “top secret” bike rides from uniformed officers when Papa was busy elsewhere. I’ve had military hospitals’ nurses fawn over the awkward fountain ponytail he’d tie atop my head every morning when it was just the two of us.

I’ve been included in jokes about a rotund officer who was allegedly always forced to rest his huge belly on tabletops and I’ve had a very friendly Brigadier take me on a tour of defunct canons and rifles arranged in the cantonment garden.

I’ve been entertained by “Santa Claus” on the phone for precisely 15 minutes every night for a week I spent with Papa at the Alwar cantt; I’d share my Christmas wishlist with Santa and justify my requests with “But I’m shining Papa’s medals, buttons and buckles with Brasso, Santa!” We once discussed what was wrong with the porridge Papa cooked for me at breakfast and I never could tell how my bowl of porridge suddenly tasted better the next morning. I was 11 when I discovered my gift-bearing Santa lived down the corridor and was usually called Captain by others and “scary uncle” by me. You cannot begin to imagine how betrayed I felt.

This may evoke a smile for the child that I was and the memories I cherish. This may have you believe I’m boasting about the perks of being an army brat, particularly one pampered by a whole bunch of dapper Army personnel. This may have you believe that Army-folk and their work is overrated. “They even have the time to play with random officers’ kids at work, beat that!”

But I’ll tell you one thing – this is why my heart breaks every time I read of casualties in the Indian Army. I've had my internal debates about patriotism and nationalism and all of that, but amongst those casualties could be people I have known, people who have given me some of my best memories. Perhaps this is why I cry like a baby when Border plays on television twice a year and this is why I’d wake up with nightmares as an 8 year old who kept hearing about an ugly Kargil War in the news.

As I write today, it amazes me that I’ve never brought this up before. Perhaps that’s because I no longer see him as Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma. Somewhere, I no longer see him as Papa. Today, he’s Lt. Col. Dr. Rakesh Kumar Sharma (Retd.), a practising Professor. Today, he’s Dad. And that is my loss as much as his. 

One Must Because One Musn't

There's a lot a girl can do for a Special Occasion. Be girly and wear expensive perfume, carry a new clutch, pile on the makeup, do up her conditioned hair. If she's thoughtful she might carry a gift. If she's nerdy she might read up a little. If she's skeptic she might net-stalk attendees all the way back to their highschool farewells and if she's psycho she might do all of this and more. But what she apparently must not do, is wear her Special Occasion Shirt every single time. Boo.

Mine is oversized, deep blue and round necked with sleeves that begin 4 inches along my upper arm, as if they were an afterthought. It would probably look more at home on my father.. maybe it was his to begin with. But the front says something about Canadian skateboarding, that would probably not make him feel at home.

It looks purple when held against blue jeans, which means I resemble a giant brinjal on kiddie crutches at least once a week. It makes me want to hug myself, which is awkward but brilliant. 


"I have many shirts but one of my shirts is my favourite shirt."

Meanings & Implications

My first distinct memory of a Special Occasion in that shirt is from late 2009. I had just turned 18. Ooh adult. I decided I had a point to prove. "I am not going to dress up pretty for you, you overhyped 18th birthday. This is what I look like on a regular day. Deal with it."

Come on, it's MY day, right? Right. Net result, the friends were far more dressed up than me at the birthday treat. They actually showed up all colour coordinated as per plan - their secret plan. Shirt 1, Societal Norms 0.


Then there was the first of many kindamaybe dates. Better explained as "Yeah so maybe some people would call this a date, but what does a date mean? What does it imply? Are we dating dating?" You've had those too, right? Oh shut up, you have.

Anyhow, then too I decided I had a point to prove. "I am not going to dress up pretty for you, you overhyped first date. This is what I look like on a regular day. Deal with it." The date was awesome. Shirt 2, Societal Norms 0.


There have been family outings, class presentations and fancy dinners since then. Hospital visits, blood tests and lazy 48-hour days spent rolling around at home. Awesome dates with now-resolved* status. Brinjal shirt hung around. It's loose but hell yeah, we're tight.
 
So much wisdom to be found in school essay intro patterns - 
"I have many shirts but one of my shirts is my favourite shirt".


*It means we spend happy time together doing whatever we feel like at that time. It implies this happy time is fun time and "we should totally do this again". And yes, we were dating dating. The horror. Of course, it is imperative that all of this is non-platonic, at least in our minds, if not always in action. We shall discuss what "non-platonic" means and implies later, next class. Oh and see me after class.

Say Na Something

You'll find that when everyone is caught up in modaks and mubaraks, certain things are best left unsaid. For instance, comments on the chaos and contradictions in their expression of faith. Or pointing out to a group of kattar Ganpati Yuvak Mandal volunteers that a Muslim festival is far more pleasant and orderly than theirs. Or announcing that the only thing all these festivals mean to you is food.

Not devotion, not fancy purchases and get-togethers and definitely not inner peace and calm. Just huge servings of food that takes as long to prepare as it does to digest. Sometimes with a side dish of childhood nostalgia, as a concession.

Now don't feel sorry because I sound like a hog. Don't go on a guilt trip because you've already decided I'm a hog. Aside from my indifference to hedges, I am quite the hog. So don't think twice, it's alright.

Concentric Circles

I want to write.

And just keep writing.

People say everyone who writes wants to write a book eventually.

That it is the common ultimate goal.

But it isn’t mine.

And I’m hardly uncommon.

I don’t want to be told that I should write a book.

And I don’t want you to suggest I write for a living.

I don’t want to write by their stops and starts.

But I do want to write.

And just keep writing.

I've been writing of late

So much, so varied

Late into the night.  

But it feels wrong. 

And while it gets done just fine

It's not what I want.

I want to write 

And just keep writing.

I don't know what about

And I don't care to know

I don't get why you do

Oh but you do, so much.

I just want to write 

To know what I'm thinking

And find some release

And just keep writing.

Maybe I think too much.

Maybe I think too distractedly.

Maybe I just imagine that I think more than you do.

Or differently from you.

Or about different things.

But I’m thinking all the time.

About all sorts of things.

And I need to talk about it all.

As I do.

But before I talk to you of it

I want to sort it out.

Alone, by myself

In my mind.

Not because you don't help

But because it calms me down

Knowing your mind feels better than not.

It's rarely ever profound

And hardly ever permanent

But it's thought

And it's mine

For I just kept writing.

For that I must write

And write by myself

Without calls and queries

About parameters for analysis

And schedules for the week.

How would it be, to switch off entirely?

To disappear

In the open

To be unavailable.

It’s been far too long

And I still have years to go

And much as I want you around

So much that it can ache

I want to do this on my own. 

Ek By Ek

As limericks go this is simplistic,
One a day, the target to stick.

Yeah sure, it comes easy

Like yo mama when she queasy,

Except, I now sound like a rapper's bitch.

Why I Doodle

I don't write for you to know. I write to find out for myself.

What I'm saying is...

Stranded.

There are times I stand convinced that the very concept of Time is flawed. Not often thought through.

It is, after all, only a warped output of the control freak mankind has been through the ages and continues to be. It is an expression of the need to measure our moments, which in turn measures our actions. This need to define time and to appropriate thereon is inherently accepted, never questioned. Because hey, Time knows what it’s doing. It can judge, it can change, it can reveal, it can heal.

But I’ll tell you what, time cannot heal. You say it to a child with a bruised shin and you say it to a grieving orphan. You say it without really knowing what you’re promising. You say it despite having had the same said to you! I use the word “despite” because deep down you know time had nothing to do with your recovery, be it from a scraped knee or a personal loss.

You just started to think differently about that loss. That can be done at any stage, on day one, day hundred or never. That’s how some people care two hoots about scraped knees and distant deaths. Not because Time, in all its wise benevolence, decided to give them Tatkal treatment and heal them sooner.

It’s been a while, some people remind me. “Surely, you must be over it by now?” Allow me to ask what it means to “get over” something or someone. Another common favourite is “So you haven’t come to terms with it yet?” Tell me once again, what does “coming to terms” involve?

Does it mean you don’t think of it anymore? That it isn’t the only thing on your mind when you take a break from slaving away, wasting away, all in an effort to distract your mind? That when you do think of it, you only remember the good parts?

Does it mean the issue doesn’t “affect” you anymore? That you don’t break down when you think of it? That if you had to go through it again, you’d come out unscarred? Or that you now have the courage in you to go through something similar?

If your answer to all of these questions is Yes, my response to them would have to be in the negative.

Does it mean you haven’t accepted what happened?

Again, I don’t understand what “acceptance” people speak of. Do I realize and understand that the man I loved most is dead, gone forever? Yes. Do I not understand that his body went from decaying flesh to ashes in a matter of hours, all before my eyes? I do understand. Do I expect him to signal me in any way? No. Do I expect Nana to walk in the door with that impish grin on his face, telling me this was all a prank? No.

What am I supposed to accept here? I understand the finality. I understand the implications. I understand the responsibility. I don’t understand what you’re asking me. And I don’t think I will ever understand what you’re asking of me. Because you don’t understand it either.

Surrounded by all this talk, it can only be called the height of irony that the one physical object that ties me to him keeps time. It took me months to gather the courage to ask Nani if I could have it. It’s taking me weeks to wear it without reminiscing or breaking down. And like all that’s precious, it comes with a deeper story.

It was purchased shortly before Mom’s wedding. It was the first delivery Bombays’s virgin Titan store made. It was the watch Nana wore on his wrist for as long as I remember. So many memories, so many associations…  all rushing in, all getting entangled.

It’s a 22 year old story in a language I can’t begin to decode. And a strand of coarse black hair trapped within its links.

How I Doodle

This is the start of my story. It may not turn out to be a tale of universal importance, it may not have a bearing on the working of local authorities. It may not even make a point besides those scattered points it covers while I ramble and drag it with me to record my ramblings. And yet I write.

This current exercise isn't quite writing though. You play around with your keyboard, switching lines and text styles, perhaps playing a game of Sudoku. You scribble on your sheet of paper and end up creating caricatures, complex geometric forms and sometimes, pretty flowers that make you cringe. You turn into a paper troll – and your reference point here should be open web forums and annoying comment droppers, not Origami. But the point is, you doodle. And occasionally, something good comes out of it. A distinct thought, a point of view, a funny line. Or a line that you think is funny.

This whole concept of activity that begins with no clear aim but ends up being “worthy” of one's time interests me. All said and done, here it's (the) beginning that matters. If you can convince yourself to get started even without the end in sight you're good to go. Keep at it and chances are you'll have something concrete in place. I know plenty hold a contrary point of view, one that mandates a solid goal at the outset, one that won't go up in fumes. May they.

Perhaps you choose to brainstorm only in your mind, grappling with intangible thoughts and possibilities. I'm only suggesting that perhaps it's also worth a shot to try the same with words you can see.

I'm still not too sure what I'm getting at or what incident is prompting this but I already know I have 250 odd words up there that would work as a blog post. Particularly on a blog named Where I Doodle. Subconscious streams of thought, I tell you...

Back to business and bitches.