The Inertia Of Existence: Debunked

That which takes birth must die. That which begins must end.

One could argue that this is the founding law, the very basis of Nature. The crux around which all else took form. If you'd rather do away with laws and imagine death as the point of convergence instead, you could say that the grand End is the culmination of the vortex in which all of existence is swept along. Or perhaps each entity is in a vortex of its own, and that culminates (how!) as the End of that entity. Possibilities abound, and they would make for some fascinating illustrations.

We're usually so fascinated by the End and how it comes about, that we forget to study how things live. Pathology beats Physiology. Dramatic and sensational beats the ongoing, the mundane, hands down. But "you have to understand normal before you can identify abnormal". That's the 1st MBBS mantra as far as our faculty and textbooks are concerned, and it makes a whole lot of sense to me. 

If we can extend that line of thought to say that the "normal" state of existence is being alive, and that the "abnormal" is death (or "not existing"), I will echo that studying the normal, the living state, is of paramount importance. It's what will allow you to prolong the normal and avert the abnormal. You could make anything the subject of this study and it would be valid. That weed creeping about your garden. A pet, a friend. An emotion, your convictions. Relationships. The ruling government.

So do these things survive simply because they don't die? Because nothing comes along to uproot, kill, convert or impeach them? It seems spot on, right? The Inertia of Existence. That once things take shape, they stay that way unless acted upon by an external force. After all, Newton was a very smart man, and Aristotle did get bashed a fair bit.

But perhaps there is a different system at work here, in lives that don't adhere to ideal situations. A system in which friction is an inbuilt feature, so deeply embedded that we don't give it a second thought.

Entities in our non-hypothetical lives survive because they are kept alive - not just because they are born, not just because they don't die. There are external inputs, whether we notice them or not, whether we feel the need for them or not. These inputs check and balance activity (homeostasis!) such that you don't pay much attention to their role. But they avert the abnormal at every step. One fine day, something leads to the drying up of inputs over time. It could be lack of reserves, it could be poor timing or a stroke of bad luck, it could be sheer negligence. When the supply of these inputs dries up, the entity starts to degenerate, approaching its inevitable End. And as stupefying as it is obvious, that's when we begin to deconstruct matters.

Sure, the drying up of inputs, the end of an external event, leads to the larger End. But the Living is made possible by inputs. And it would be wonderful if we were to not lose sight of that.

That weed in your garden still needs its water and soil and sunlight and fresh air. That relationship with your friend or partner needs your time and concern and initiative and effort. You may see the weed as thoroughly undesirable, and you may actively consider that relationship the anchor of your existence; you may be fascinated by the weed's unending growth spurt, and you may view that relationship as an unchanging constant - Your perception of the entity does not affect the fact that it needs something to go on.

The weed will wilt on its own if the soil around it was to turn barren. The relationship will cease to exist if you call upon each other only when you seek comfort. It was not enough for that seed to sprout open. And it never will be enough that you first shared sweet nothings many moons ago.

It would indeed seem that life in general is geared towards the End, and that we only keep putting it off. Stubborn in our belief that the next day is guaranteed, as is the year after that, even the next twenty. Stubborn because inputs that we take for granted are expected to just keep flowing in. 

Suspend the belief that you get to "wait and watch" how matters proceed. Every entity, every relationship, every academic program you will ever undertake is an ongoing process - and it needs active participation from both ends to sustain, let alone flourish.

This may not find a respectful place in the next pathbreaking textbook on blog-derived physics gyan, but to this layman, empirical evidence suggests thus -

That which gets moving needs pushes to keep moving. That which exists needs something to keep it alive.

The Girl Who Wanted To Do Medicine Mid-BMM

... got down to it post-BMM :)

And if she's being honest with you, she'll admit she's not always sure what got into her.

My path to becoming a MBBS student has been unconventional, to put it mildly. It's haphazard enough that I can't blame you for thinking I'm still flopping around without really knowing my mind. 

Summer '12, I graduated with a neat, journalism-heavy Bachelor of Mass Media degree. Bright future, healthy prospects, yay sunshine! Decided to do the medicine thing by July. Studied, got through, got started monsoon '13. Things happened.

One funny aspect of this whirlwind process was that my prep-time concerns had little in common with those of students alongside whom I prepared for the slew of entrance exams. (I also didn't own a fancy ass smartphone like all of them did.) After almost two years, I find that scenario amusing and alarming in equal parts.

For starters, I was extremely skeptical about my own decision to take up medicine. More than anyone else around me (parents were thrilled). Was it a knee jerk reaction, was I being rash just because I yearned a radical change, was I being influenced by transient influencers, would my interest in this program even last the duration of 5 1/2 years? Why MBBS, and why now? Messy mind, messy times.

[Fun sidenote: A quick "Why MBBS?" survey with a sample of maybe 30 classmates got me answers like big money, status, help people. Had the marks, parents pushed, didn't know what else to do. Parents own a hospital, a nursing home and 50 doctors already, so... giggle giggle. One guy even said he found this stuff interesting! I now think people find their reason for sticking with the field by the end of MBBS, seldom at the outset.]

Meanwhile, entrance exam prep was underway. Reasons and non-reasons aside, I wanted the assurance that I deserved to be at a "good" medical college. That I deserved a seat, and to be a part of this field. I also had to justify to myself the overwhelming generosity and support I received from family, friends, the boyfriend.

Through all of this, it never occurred to me to consider what would happen if I didn’t crack the entrances. I think I simply expected that I would, completely disregarding the 4 year gap from PCB and problem sets. Naive and in denial and what? Those who knew of the grand plan never once discussed the possibility of not getting in. It's almost as if it was a foregone conclusion in everyone’s mind. I now suspect that was a morale-building kindness on their part, but it's still something I marvel at. How could we not have discussed it!?

Crazy, crazy year. Didn't turn out all perfect, but I'm pretty damn happy about it. 

I'm learning about things I often wondered about. I actually get excited about concepts that are new to me. The human body is stuffed with delightful intricacies, and very little compares to the satisfaction of putting them together to make sense of actions and reflexes that we take for granted. I expect it's only going to get better as the puzzle becomes richer, more detailed. I'm in this place because I want to be here, and it's a very happy place.

Very very happy, indeed!

For the longest time, I kept this medicine plan off places like Facebook and this blog (I started a second, secret blog instead - also something that no one reads) because I wanted some people to hear about this from me, in person. A lot of teachers from highschool era and BMM, some friends, some family. Most people I managed to get to first, some I regrettably didn't. 

But in the unlikely event that someone out there is actually offended they're finding out like this, via a blog post, my excuse is ready - the stark contrast in the typical response a newly admitted Ist MBBS student receives, and the response I tend to receive. 

Typical response - "Wow! Congrats, Doctor. Free treatment for me, yeah?" 
Despite receiving all these quip-like warnings about free treatment in the future, this newly admitted Ist MBBS student is so excited he wants to let everyone in on the wonderful news! Honeymoon phase.

What I get - "Um.. wut? You? But BMM.. Really? EXPLAIN."
Yeah, it's my own doing. No, I don't want or expect the typical response. I understand that this is a shock, not a surprise. But it is exhausting explaining things to every well-meaning inquirer from the start, all details included. Plus I've been busy, had a lot of studying to do ;)


Very little about any of this has been shared by me with very few current classmates. Sure, word probably spreads and that's okay - convenient, even. Some might find out via this blog post, as and when I start mixing on Facebook. Some might consider it a grand betrayal if they find out much much later. Can’t get myself to care about that right now. I suspect plenty will have happened by then to make my odd entry to medicine nothing more than a piece of trivia. Two seconds of fame and charcha, at most. Relating to my classmates - I no longer refer to them as "those kids" all the time - yeah, that's a whole different story.


I wrote this cheesy novella today because it's long overdue, because it's an easy way of EXPLAINing, and because I wanted a break from studying for finals haha. 

I don't really know what my advice to someone in the same (can't be that common) a similar situation ought to be. I can tell you it's a lot of fun to dive in headfirst. Doubts and misgivings are a part of the process. I promise you you'll get a kick out of it all even months and years later. Mine was a nerdy way of doing it, but it helps you realise that you really can take on anything - it's good practice, and trust me, you can never have enough practice. It is infinitely helpful to have a support system along the way, doesn't matter how small it is, or how self reliant you usually are. You become more appreciative, more grounded. And if things work out, you get to do something you're really into. 

As important as the logistics, if not more, is to have a good reason for diving in - even if it's one that you can't quite explain to everyone who asks. 

I Speak For 'Uncle-Aunty'

Of late, amongst other interesting [possibly more surprising, and admittedly more discussion-worthy] things, I've taken to strolling through Quora. Fun place, because you don't feel like you're barging in on people unexpectedly, but you still get in on often-great responses to sometimes-great queries about this or that or that or that. Or that. Or even that. There's everything left to be learnt, yessir.

One such stroll led me to a question that amused me at first - How should parents ask their children's friends to address them, and for what reasons? I said I was strolling, quit judging.

As I read the answers posted [you can read them here, sign up/in because it'll be worth it], I couldn't help but feel like the West has been missing the point altogether. Why do you want a special name for yourself anyway? Why can't that kid's name for you be mass produced and in common with all his peers, just like his breakfast and his innerwear? Are you more special to that kid than his breakfast or innerwear? Okay, touchy topic. 

Still, the question prompted a quick checklist of why India's 'Uncle/Aunty' tradition gets my enthusiastic vote. I quite like that this list of benefits isn't restricted to friend's parents.. we're inclusive like that! Obviously, not all points apply to every Uncle/Aunty I've ever spoken with. So if you're one, do try and look at the brighter side of points.. even if points are supposed to be zero dimensional. 

Since this is the closest you may ever get to a rational, public dissection of a rare moment of national pride, be sure to think about it after you switch tabs.

• At the very least, I see the 'Uncle/Aunty' system as acknowledging that the said adult is older than I, period.
  
  I don't have to respect a person in order to respect their age and the experience [whether superior or misguided] that comes with it. Nor do I need to bother with a silly speculation about relative worth and dignity and whatnot to call someone Uncle and not Mahesh or Mr Mahesh. I'm just acknowledging the age difference, nice and simple. 

• I don't have to know you to call you Aunty! That makes things civil more often than not. Doesn't mean you're my favourite.
  You could be that sweaty, smelly, whiny lady on the train - especially the one with all that hair left open for me to nuzzle - who insists on sharing the sorrows of a stubbed toe from Vashi to Kurla, throughout realigning her hip against mine and digging her inconsiderately designed, boxy, brass-studded purse into my ribs. I might want to growl at you and stamp all your toes and donate a hairclip or two while I'm at it, but I will still call you Aunty when I ask you to move a wee bit away from my crotch. I RESPECT YOUR AGE, ANONYMOUS AUNTY. I also don't like you very much.

• Continuing from the lack of like involved, this system simply isn't dependent on how close you are to that [older] adult.
  If you're close and/or both want a different, special name or if your equation changes in some way that warrants a new term, the path to redressal is clear. If not, no harm done!  Since all our languages provide a host of names for older male and female relatives, it's not like 'Uncle/Aunty' have any special or familiar overtones. So my parents' closest friends that I may or may not be close with, my favouritest neighbour from when I was a kid, my boyfriend's mother, the security staff or cashier at a mall, the stranger walking ahead of me and that evil lady on the train can all be my Aunties. And no one finds this offensive! They might if they give this universality some thought, but at least until I pointed it out, no one minded.

• Along with ^, it also absolves you of the need to know the adult's first name.
  
  For those of us used to the UAT [cool cultural feature merits an acronym, no?], I think that's actually a fairly unlikely thing for to know, the first name of your friend's parent. I can always refer to them as "X's mom" should the need arise. It's also very convenient during introductions, moments of forgetfulness and evaluations of occupied memory space in one's mind.

• Loses the stiff formality of Mr/Mrs, but retains some measure of distance anyway.
  
  That way your friends won't wind up with a complex about your equation with their parents. Tell me how that's undesirable.

• Usable regardless of the language you are speaking!
  
  As in case of other English words [think "hello/okay/bye/side please/thenks"], these terms have percolated across languages and are understood and accepted by many-to-most even in rural India. I've actually had someone insist that "okay" is a Telugu word, so you'll just have to trust me on this percolation theory.
• Once it catches on, it can provide inspiration for popular dialogues, weirdly catchy songs, even the odd search history preference.
  
  Deny any of it and you would be labelled low on creativity, and woefully ignorant of your own culture.

In My Head

I’m just a poor boy

Though my story’s seldom told

I have squandered my resistance

For a pocketful of mumbles

Such are promises.

The hardest thing I have ever done is to have confessed doubts. Doubts about promises and commitments made to/by those that matter to me. Realistic doubts about whether things will withstand, whether I shall deliver.

I’ve grown to demand strength of myself. And honesty. And a burning sense of optimism that has more to do with strength and honesty than is apparent. 

It’s laughably easy to call yourself an optimist, isn’t it? It only requires you to think things will fall in place just fine, right? Added bonus: it makes you sound bright and sunny and rather like that delightful little sanguine creature everyone loved in that new movie. Marvellous. Positivity to add to the good vibes in the Universe.

But a true sense of optimism presupposes a conviction about the issue at hand, as does a true sense of pessimism. A conviction born of an honest evaluation - where “honest evaluation” is a neat case of redundancy - of your own work and input; an evaluation that reeks of integrity. An evaluation that is founded on a reasonable standard; one that is its own defence in a rational argument. It’s an optimistic remark only when the evaluation suggests things are going good and are likely to. Optimism has more to do with your own ability, strength and the willingness to be true to indicators of their performance, than not. It’s realism on a good day, in a situation with good prep.

It’s too bad, then, that the same rules apply to doubts. A doubt is not about imagining things, nor is it about wanting to complicate matters. It’s not about cynicism or jinxing commitments and it’s certainly not about going back on your word. It’s an honest evaluation that reeks of integrity – even when you wish it didn’t, even when such an evaluation is the last thing you want to collide with. And its inevitable appendage is trust in the parameters of evaluation, which translates to strength to voice the doubt.

Perhaps it’s hard to confess those doubts because your standard of parameters is your own. You can’t be sure if it is shared by one other or a million others. Your idea of reason may or may not match another’s. But if it’s honest and just and free of contradictions and irrationality, chances are you’re thinking straight.

Find something inside of you that must be shared with those outside. Write about it. Find something inside of you that must be shared with the insiders. Do it. Write about it. Honestly. Thus ends a note to myself, one tucked away for future use.

Not Poetry, Not Prose

It's not like I'm traumatised about my last post but it is weighing on my mind. Perhaps because normally, men say/pretend it was an accident. They either brush past you and get lost in the crowd asap or mutter an apology as they're compelled to walk past. When you glare back or hit, hurl an abuse or snap at them to hold their elbows in, they comply and look away duly chastised. Sometimes people around you join in in giving the man nasty vibes. Big help. But we're just so used to being felt up or brushed against. The next time you see a woman turn around looking disgusted, disgruntled but not too shocked, you know what could have caused it. 


In contrast, what I wrote about was just so overt. Not even a facade about it being an accident. He moved in with an intention, he ran away to avoid the consequences. Such a conscious act. I think that's what shook me up more than anything.

It would be very cliched to talk about being scarred, mentally or otherwise. But scars are demeaning. Ugly leftovers from ugly times. They hang around even if you're "over it" and they almost always evoke a reaction from you. I suppose it would approach high prose if I was to talk about how they remind me of goats being branded before the kill. Shall avoid.

But indulge me here for a while. Picture it for yourself. You were unable to see his face, it was turned away for the entire duration of your chance encounter. He could walk past you on the street tomorrow and you may not be able to identify him. He could be the guy standing behind you in the line at the ATM, or one of two people you share an auto with tomorrow morning. You still wouldn't know. I don't know.

I don't get how this works. I'm not sure I want to figure it out. Would that evening go down in his mental record as just one of many such incidents? Was that his idea of scoring? How does the bugger sleep at night and look his mother in the eye? How long until I stop wondering if I ran as best as I could? Am I ever going to stop picturing myself walking down a road with restless eyes and a sharp not-quite-a-stone-but-not-quite-a-rock in each hand? I detest how I now walk around with a grim expression and a tense jaw. I feel like I'm not being true to myself, but right now, that's what feels right. Convenient.


Most of all, I hate how I stiffen up every time someone walks by too close. It doesn't matter whether it's a male or a female, how they're dressed or what they look like. Be it at the rickshaw stand or on a railway platform or right outside college. My default mode involves being stiff and glaring at the world, a part of my mind devoted to considering how I'd block the guy closest to me should he decide to swoop in. Do I sound like a paranoid fool who's overreacting? Chances are that's how your mom and sister feel. Have a chat. See where your sympathies lie the next time a man around you is being abused and you're not sure if he really did anything, if it was a big deal. "Arre at most he only touched her na." Who gets the benefit of doubt here?


It's too convenient, telling the female that she was asking for it. That she should have double thought the time of the day, the way she was dressed. She should have know that's what the neighbourhood is like. That she shouldn't be laughing aloud while she walks, she shouldn't draw attention. You tell her how to keep herself hidden away. How to be inconspicuous. But it's really not about the clothes she wears, how attractive she is, what her "character" is like or what time your wristwatch reads. It never is. It has nothing to do with attraction. It's violence, plain and simple. So why does it not occur to you to talk sense into the heads of the men you know? How about addressing fucked up mindsets, the root cause? Tell your son what I'm saying and ignore that friend who thinks you're making too big a deal of this shit. This is a big deal.

I've shared this before. Once more won't hurt.

Please don't pull a Mulayam Singh Yadav on the world around you. He promised government jobs for rape victims in his state. You see, rapes will continue in this state, we can't possibly address that. But I will give you a job to make up for the violation of your self. Come forth and abuse the provision, dear voters. Come help me ride my bicycle.


I used to scoff at women who'd insist on ladies compartments in trains at all times. Now I dwell on what made them insist.

The Revolution Needs You To Revolve

There’s something very fucked up about you and I. We don’t seem to realize what’s going on around us. To use language favoured by MBA grads, we’ve internalised all that’s wrong with us. To put it plainly, we’re idiots who don’t give a shit.

Sure, fucked up is as fucked up does. That’s the beauty of subjectivity at work. The lack of superlatives and the redundancy of overused phrasing further our regrettable idiocy. Which is why even scalding coffee that’s low on sugar qualifies as a fuck up, yes.

Some of us are luckier than others. And that’s all it really is, luck. Much as we’d like to harp on about merit and opportunities and destiny, it’s really just a series of episodes of lucky luck that led us here. You and I can read this blog post on a slick web browser while millions out there can’t. It doesn’t mean that’s what we were meant to do. Or that those millions were meant not to. We just kept getting lucky when it mattered. And that’s actually okay, except that we don’t seem to get it. Even when we do, we tack on a smug smile and continue as before.

That’s the problem. That’s why we’re fucked up. We can appreciate the nuances of coffee, even wine, but not of what’s really needed of us as individuals. We’re immune and insulated and blissfully unaware. Therein lies our failing. And our lucky remedy.

I have come to understand from books, movies, personal accounts of the wise and even pop psychologists that we all go through phases. So there is a phase of innocence followed by a phase of awakening. Some rebellion, some vengeance, some realisation and some complacence. For some of us, an extended phase of dispensing counsel. I have also come to understand that each of these phases is as important as the other. None negates another. That the sum of phases is what makes you who you are; the sum is always constant.

Permit me to say that it’s too bad the sum does not seem to consider the ratio of its parts. For if it could perceive that the innocence and the complacence far outweigh the awakening, it would protest. If it could tell that a shortlived summer of rebellion featured only to be able to register its presence, not to mean anything, it would throw that neat, double spaced record of phases straight at our faces. And it’s too bad it can’t.

For you really don’t need to be a commie to proclaim that the working class has it bad. Or a radical activist to step in and alleviate the tribals’ woes. You don’t need to be a pseudo secularist to voice your concerns about the minorities. And you aren’t a gullible fool if a stranger’s words motivate you. Wanting to change the system doesn’t make you a silly idealist who doesn’t know what to do with his time. 

It's in your head.

But taking note of all that’s wrong will take up much of your time. Trying to comprehend how people cope will take up some more. And in the time that is left, you must identify how you can help and get down to it. If anything, it will routinely frustrate you to tears that there is so much that needs to be done – not just so much that you want to do. And just before your lower lip starts quivering, a man will stop right by you. He will peer into that overflowing stilted trash can that sways in the breeze, fish out and drain a styrofoam cup jutting out of the mess and walk away in search of his next sip of coffee.

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 ;)

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.

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. 

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.

A Conscious Decision

Possibly THE most powerful tool at one's disposal.

Choosing to pursue something, choosing to try something, choosing to stick to something. Or someone.

By this I don't mean your best decisions are the ones made with your head alone. Sometimes they're the ones your heart prompted you to make and hello, things turn out brilliantly! So was that gut instinct? Perhaps. Fluke? Just as likely. And that holds good for split second decisions as well as those long thought out. But that's not the point of post at all. No, don't suggest Blink by Malcolm Gladwell. It's been done. Respect.

Your heart tells you to go after something - it's this want, strong and irrational; very Nike, very Just Do It. And then your head enters the picture and says - "You know what, I want you to go after this; it makes sense in a way I can't claim to understand completely, it's not because there's a selfish, calculated 'something in it for me' in the equation, but this is what I choose for you to go after".

Do you see the difference? By identifying and acknowledging that that thing or person is what clicks with your mind and your heart you're actually upping its worth in your life. Bhav badh raha hai.

I know I often say something "makes sense" to me or doesn't. This is what I'm talking about. It needs to click with my mind. Corny, but sometimes voices from the heart need to agree with voices from the mind.

I don't have a foolproof explanation for this. At least, not yet. But I think it's better to say I don't know than to make something up to keep the cynics happy. What I do know is that this makes sense to me.

I'm gonna go back to The Sound Of Music. Julie Andrews, Christopher Plummer and the whole jingbang, yep. There's this line from a song Andrews sings a young girl of 16, previously her charge and now her step-daughter -

You are sixteen going on seventeen 

Waiting for life to start 

Somebody kind who touches your mind 

Will suddenly touch your heart 

That's what I'm talking about.

86400

Your days are limited; no shocker there. But what if you knew the precise number?

And what if you had to spend those days with just as many people, only one person a day? All of them real people who exist today, all of them people you personally know. So no Star Wars, no Shivaji and definitely no Salma Hayek unless Salma Hayek insists she knows you.

Would a thousand days fall short? Would a hundred be far too many?

What if you may contact them only on that one day allotted to them - never before, never again?

What if you were given the chance to draw up your list, your own order of preference? Who would you eliminate? Who would you include?

Would new bonds be forged? Would those you took for granted snap?

Would your time with those you love be spent buried under nostalgia and farewell or would you still go out for a movie, a meal, a drive?

Would you permit acquaintances, the fillers by force, to come closer and get to know you or would you hold on to old biases, fake a headache and sleep through the coffee?

Would you be able to take in your stride the days that bring you bitter fights and misunderstandings with some? Would you be able to accept absolutely no more shared smiles and tears of mirth ever with some others on your list?

Would you be able to survive the agony of 86400 - no more, no less?