Unchanging Cameo

Rambling away
as you write to
remember,
that which you've left
far behind your today.

Typing away
with line breaks
and commas,
lending your words
profundity unearned.

Thoughts scrambling
scampering
in that vortex,
slipping away
from your sick grimy reach.

Winter approaches
you knew that it would.

But Summer lasted
nary a week.

Living When You Are Less Than Fit

There is something about death and dying that has a powerful draw.


It's certainly palpable. On the rare days that I venture into discussions anymore, I would passionately argue that it borders on tangible. It's all around us, meant for each of us, and indeed, for all our whimsical projects. And yet as topics for consideration go, it is so easily overlooked.

We're just so busy living, making things work, trying something different; reinventing the wheel in the hopes that the rust that has gathered won't matter in the long run. We take the idea of a "long run" for granted, because what other way is there to move forward? How does one not move forward? Is it even possible to stand still without the lurking guilt of stagnation, let alone to take a few steps backward merely to reassess your trajectory?

As a society, as a species, it is ingrained in our cores that we must strive to survive. Get ahead, because that's what we do. Outdo the other's accomplishments, but retain the human courtesy of respecting the other. So engrossed are we in this continuing human pursuit that we would float rudderless if forced to stand still and taking account of time.


The powerful draw of death and dying has much to do with how I understand life and living. Some days, I suspect I don't understand it very much. On all other days, I know I don't. It is a recurring theme in what I write publicly, and yet one that I have few illusions of "decoding".

The 'purpose of life' could consume many lifetimes spent in the cradles of literature, philosophy, metaphysics, and in the knowledge and instincts that govern the vocations of rabbis, sadhus, doctors and counselors. Quite the disbeliever, those are not lifetimes I believe I have the time for, or the time for. I excuse myself from the burden of plotting a blind, arrogant route through these disciplines.

In an uncharacteristic move, I open up to learning from man's follies instead of making experience my guru. I trust that those who have come and gone before me penned their thoughts on the matter - and of course they did, eloquently so. So I dip my toes in, test the waters a little. And within a few texts born of raw prose that is nothing short of a legacy, I come away having re-learnt that one truth:

A little learning is a dangerous thing ;

Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring

I do believe there is a certain rhythm, a set of values each one of us unknowingly puts together over time, and that dictates how we execute the grand task of living. I would think that our personal philosophies of how we live are inextricably linked with how we would conceive dying, were the process to be laid out before each of us as the task of utmost priority, replete with a timeline and a plan of agenda. The connect is so simple and obvious that it amazes me how everyone doesn't bring it up right away. To be in death as you are in life.

Perhaps these values are only exposed in trying times, when there is more at stake than the forgettable priorities that make up the daily mess. Trying times that can befall you directly and indirectly. Perhaps it is only a matter of how hard you are hit. And how vulnerable you let yourself be to this impact has got to be a marker of how strong your core is.

'Survival of the fittest' is a difficult ideal to keep in sight if you no longer rank among the fit, in the conventional sense of the word.

Know Thy Query

It's quite the sham, what people say.

About time healing all, and fissures erased.
Time does nothing but remind you repeatedly
That what once was yours no longer exists.
Matter may reassemble, but never resurrect.

They ask you to smile, for the "fond memories",
Those that may recur, tweaked beyond recognition.
They inquire politely, "Come to terms with it yet?"
You stare, you shrug. The terms are unknown.

"How Are You Doing Today?"

The other day, I heard about this young male journalist who works in Vidarbha. His mother told me. She's in town; her kidneys are in protest mode.

A couple of farms a few districts away are low on men this month. One of the MIA farmers is 25. Some valves in his heart need attention.

One go-to kirana store in a Nanded neighbourhood is unmanned these days. The owner can undergo necessary surgery only half a state away.

Almost everyday now, we make our way through wards full of occupied beds. Males, females. Ages 12 and above.

Youngsters, and then some who could be their grandparents. Parents who have long avoided hospitalisation because their kids would then be alone at home, without help. Middle aged men and middle aged women, with their middle aged siblings and relatives in attendance. There are teenagers, unmindful of the gravity of their stay at the hospital; their parents stand by and overcompensate.

The entire spectrum of backgrounds, moods, conditions, support and coping mechanisms, brought together on a floor partitioned a few times over.

Man hours slip by without hesitation, and daily wagers, with their implicit faith in our badgeless white aprons, ask how soon they can return to work.

Human lives, all with their own intricately detailed stories, surround us in those wards. And all we're equipped to do right now is record patients' histories. Onset, progression, duration. Aggravating factors. Relieving factors.

To talk, in a clear, friendly and systematic manner. Work out a provisional diagnosis. Tell yourself that you're quite the stud. Rinse and repeat.

The human angle kicks you in the face when you walk past a patient later that day, or the following day, no longer in need of their account of their illness.

When you choose to slow down to nod, to smile, to ask how they're doing. To ask if they've eaten, if the doctor has been to see them today. To ask that ailing teenager's mother if he has been troubling her too much.

And out of nowhere, with a gesture as small and commonplace as that, you watch as eyes light up - you discover that it's not just a figure of speech. Smiles split open resting faces, even faces of those who launch into a series of complaints right after. A cheeky grin sometimes puts in an appearance and you're struck by how right and happy it looks.

Who would believe this person has a file full of grim reports?

You grin back. Figure you're probably at the happiest bed in the ward. Then grin a little more because, well, you had something to do with it and modesty must not come in the way of wide grins.

Continue on your way, feeling like a total stud. Acknowledge that the patients and their relatives are studlier still, for giving you that moment.

Why, you'll be invincible once you can truly fix the cause behind patients' complaints. 

Invincible and intolerable.

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. 

Brasso For This Blog

I haven't blogged in over a year! Feels like five. When I'm asked what I do for fun now, aside from college (later, tell you later), it doesn't even cross my mind to say I blog off and on.

I miss being able to sound all cool and bloggerly haha.


I miss shooting off posts and then saving half of them as drafts instead of publishing right away. The joys and shivers of revisiting the junk you wrote yesterday.. I miss that as well. All the stuff on this blog was written so long ago that nostalgia overpowers all self-critical editing instincts.

Editing, be it someone else's writing or my own, now that's something I'm not sure I miss. But it's okay, I've set myself up for a lifetime of fixing things as and when they turn clunky and inefficient.


I think one of the nicest things about writing regularly is that occasionally, not necessarily often, you author something that resonates with a reader. Nicer still if you get to hear about it! Sometimes that reader is a surprise or a complete stranger, sometimes it's someone who you always suspected didn't really like you at all, and sometimes it's exactly the reader you had in mind while writing. Haan rest of the time it's the same old "chaar log" who comprise your entire readership..

It's nice to be able to strike a chord somewhere. With present day readers, and with your future self.


I know I didn't have any of this in mind when I blogged back then. But going through some old posts today had me feeling so grateful for having written them when I did. And it's simply not about which ones got tons of hits (none did).

A post about my scene with the Army, that's a post I'm grateful for. It came at a good time, and I appreciate more than I would've expected that even my father read it.

The wonderful reassurance that I had some serious imagination game at age four, and the sense to write about it at age 18.

There's stuff that makes me want to go back in time and pat my past-self's head. Not like the Pillsbury doughboy, no. But come on, just read about my woes! Too cool.

There's wisdom.

And senti aplenty.

And pain that I must endure until I frickin' die.

I want to give future-me more of this stuff.

Selfish agenda is selfish. And how I talk and write is probably outdated!


There are a lot of things that were an integral part of who I was and what I did two, three, four years ago. And some of them simply aren't anymore.

That's okay. That's welcome!

But I think blogging off and on is something I want to bring back into my routine.


So hi again =)

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.

Blindness & Bombay

I was born and brought up in Bombay. I now live in Mumbai.

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

But when I walk past the park in the evening, the children are as noisy as before. They still run around me, laughing and calling out to each other. Sometimes they stumble, crying foul and complaining earnestly. At other times, they form the perfect background score while I sit down cross-legged, spread my fingers in the damp grass and take in the sounds and the fresh air. My city calls out to me.

People waiting for buses and trains are the same as always. Some push and shove, intent on moving ahead. Some seek their physical space, giving me mine in the process. But they still talk about the same old things. And they swarm together in the same old way, such that conversations and contours merge. That familiar buzz spreads through the crowd when a fast train approaches, there's a sudden patter of feet pounding onto the floorboard as the train slows to a stop. The wind lashes my face when I stand close to the door and concerned arms still reach out to protect me. My city calls out to me.

When I walk through the by-lanes of crowded markets, men call out to me to buy their wares. Dogs scurry by, sometimes resting against my leg, waiting to be entertained. I listen as customers bargain hard and shopkeepers do what they can to dissuade them. The smells and sounds of my city combine to form a feeling that is comforting, yet chaotic; but remove one element and the chaos fades away. The comfort ebbs. I walk through these by-lanes because this is my home. My city calls out to me.

               

I often take visitors for a tour of tourist sites in the city; does that surprise you?  It's too bad people think the seafront is a cliché to be avoided. I think it is a gift to be shared. I smile as tentative steps into the water soon translate to excited chatter and childish games. The sound of the waves as they collapse against each other.  A faint whiff of the sea on my clothes. The lingering taste of seawater. My city calls out to me.

Get on a bus heading out of the city. It’s easy enough; people will help you. Sometimes they play songs you've never heard before. Sometimes they keep up a constant chatter and sometimes, they snore noisily. But turn your face to the breeze outside and you'll realise they're still nice people. Give it a couple of hours and you will have reached the ghats. You will hear the water rushing down the slopes long before you can reach out to feel it. Go ahead and get to a hilltop, there are so many to choose from. You will be surprised by the crisp air, the lush spreads of soft grass. Even the midday sun will feel like a pleasant greeting. The pressure of the breeze will envelope you, comfort you; it will tell you you were meant to be here. It's what I experience every time. And from a distance, from far beyond valleys and postal codes, my city calls out to me.

And you see, I tell the breeze I come from Mumbai. I tell the children that is where I live; I help my guests set out for Mumbai Darshan. It’s Mumbai, no longer Bombay. But that has changed nothing. Who’s to decide what’s more beautiful than another, more perfect than another? 

They used to tell me changing Bombay to Mumbai would change things. That I would feel the difference.

I still fill in six letters when asked to provide my address.

I fail to see the difference.

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.

He Only Touched Her Na

Let's say we're making a movie, you and I. We need a story. A screenplay. A character.

A girl, almost a woman. Age: 20; the number suits the tag. In keeping with the law that Facebook confirms for us each day – even a boring female lead is more likely to hold the audience's attention than the average male lead could ever hope to.

So what have we here? A young woman, urban, easy on the eyes. A clean heart. Nowhere near perfect. Not exactly an outlandish creature. Too simple, we need to spice it up. Let's say she gets molested.

How shall we shoot it? A desolate alley, a flickering streetlight? She walks by a dark corner, shivering slightly, wearing her slinky off shoulder dress and her best perfume. A hand creeps out of the midnight shadow. A gagged mouth, flailing arms. She falls to the ground.. No no no, that's too cliched. Let's change it all.

6 pm, an open road. A bright summer evening, a pleasant breeze. The school is shut today, it's a bank holiday. Another festival when no one knows what they're supposed to be doing, but okay. It's a holiday. She's about to leave from home, she has an errand to run. She walks to the front door then returns to her room. Swaps her shorts for a pair of jeans. Why give the grandfather something to agonise over? An oversized shirt and modest jeans. Modesty modesty. She's good to go.

15 minutes. She's on her way back. Another 30 steps on that footpath and she'll be home. She approaches the corner, walking between wall and vehicle.

He moves in right at the blind turn. Rough hands on her front. Legs locked. A disgusting sense of violation. In hindsight, a peculiar lack of smell. She instinctively twists her elbow, jabs him in the chest. It's over before a count of three. A quick, violent fondle and he's running. She follows on his heels, faster than she's run in some time now.

The chase lasts longer than the action he got. It always does. Around three long blocks, twice as many turns and loops. Two pairs of shoes slap against the road. A constant stream of abuses. Men standing ahead stare at her; what makes her chase this guy? "Pakdo usko!" From behind her, "Arre but what happen medam?" He races ahead, clear about where he's going. She follows, clear only about why she's running.

Random thoughts flood her mind. Wrong day to have put on these worn out slippers. A big middle finger to anyone who later dares to say women ask for it. Abuses that rarely get considered are being yelled, men on the street continue to stare at her funny. The guy's athletic, fast, maybe 18. A striped blue and white shirt, smart dark jeans. He could well have been her junior in school. She wonders how she can think of anything just then. She wishes she'd managed to loop her arm around his neck. Kneed him hard. The skin above her left breast stings. Crazy montage. That bastard. Speed up.

She loses him at a sharp turn. It's a maze of bylanes, each as empty as another. She was a fool for asking people around there if they'd spotted someone like him. "Arre madam problem kya hai?" "Chutiye ko chamaat marna hai." Silence. Failure.

She's home now. Sweaty. Furious. Loathsome. Breathing hard. Itching to lash out. To do some damage, maybe rip off his balls. How could she? It hardly matters. She's mad at herself for not matching his long strides. For wanting company but not knowing what to say. Still so furious her eyes sting. She’s bruised and bleeding and it wasn’t her fault. She was violated, just because he could. Not because of how she was dressed. How dare people say this is part and parcel of being a woman?

It's still bright outside.

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.

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 ;)

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.

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. 

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.

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.