August 20, 2009 § 1 Comment
Thursday seems to be a pretty irregular day to write a blog. But let’s not get into that, considering there’s been no wordfall here in the last couple of months. I calculated I’ve been writing consistently at intervals of 75 days. But there’s definitely one truth I would like to share with you – I’m most honest (with words or wisdom) when I’m sick. Have you figured the rest of this post shall be equally menacingly headless meaningless?
So I’m down with major flu right now. Took an off from work and it got so incredibly bland and difficult to not do anything that I’m here.
One thing I’ve been telling almost everyone I meet these days is that our jobs make us sad people. That, when I’m one of the very few workers who love what they do. I’ve changed since I started working. Tremendously. And it has cost me dearly on a personal level, while I’ve only grown happier on the material level. I used to be a most sensitive friend, boyfriend, son, brother, kin and all the rest. It has taken a definite beating. When I saw I could be a perfectionist on the work front, I let go of the obsessive desire to keep every part of the rest of my life in good shape. It sounds terrible as I write it and read it and hear it in my ears. But truth must be told. Even to self.
I stay in what could easily be the most peaceful location for a room in an apartment in this city. I’ve spent endless hours in my balcony that stretches to give a panoramic view of about 180 degrees of South Delhi, with beer in one hand and uncertainty that I’ve tended to clutch in the other. A decent number of women have come and admired the view and collectively the person who it belongs to now. I can recount almost no weekends when there’s not been a friend or two to drink with. I look at it as some sort of a calming influence after six mad days at work. My social circle has by all means expanded like crazy once I got into the job, but the time I spent with no body by my side has grown inversely to that number. I’ve met a lot of interesting people in the last few months, but few who I’ve come to really respect. Somehow finding faults with people has only gotten easier. And so has accepting them as they are. The manner in which I understood humanity has turned itself on its head. I remember I was a fairly closed person earlier. I hope some friends have known this. These days while my perspective has undergone a sea change, and by virtue of that I should be able to judge more wisely, I don’t. I let things happen. To me. If there’s a concept of living every day, I practice it now. I’m not averse to change of any kind. I assumed I can always go back to being what I was. Unfortunately, that time has never come. I’m only sinking deep into the shit of life and its ways.
As long as you were in college, it was pretty straightforward to not worry about the future. There was a set timeline when you knew things would happen on their own. Once out of that routine, time loses its significance. You know every day that you’re not inching closer to any deadline. The maximum you would do is remember how soon the year is coming to and end, or how long since the time you kissed a girl. Everything else ceases to exist. You don’t worry if you’re getting old. Or if your parents are. Because you were just thrown onto a mechanical belt that shall henceforth carry you through different stages of a process you will never figure. You are expected to obey and just do things, not worrying about what and where and when.
This is also the time when you derive a lot of useful information from things and people and events around you. Suddenly you will start to notice where your peers have reached on the ladder of life, and what struggles you must now do to keep up. The sheer magnitude of ways and means you could move ahead in life can drive you crazy. How many of us have been blessed with the vision to weigh and anticipate all options and choose the best?
Anyhow, the pills have worked on me undeniably. That’s the saddest I’ve been in like a long time! I shall write again soon. I promise. This time, I hope it’s not another 75 days.
Time for some adrak chai now.
February 12, 2008 § 11 Comments
It’s fairly premature for me to have an opinion on this. Nonetheless, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since the time this was first mentioned to me as a possibility in a seemingly harmless sort of conversation otherwise.
The choice between natural birth and adoption inside a family.
To be honest with you people, the latter was never an option, so far as all the imagination of the patriarchal kind ever done goes. I mean nothing in my world ever suggested me to consider not fathering your own child. Everyone got married in the regular fashion and before we knew the women were pregnant and the entire family found that a good reason to stay happy and so we did. And that’s how I came to understand the obviously logical cycle of birth, birth and death. And somewhere back then I must have also been cognized of the highest truth of life – procreation, as a continuous learning process from the time I was convinced children were born magically post and only post marriage as some sort of an inevitable after-effect, and were in fact carried in the mother’s stomach (did we know wombs/uterus even existed!), till the XIth standard Biology lecture on Reproduction or the IXth grade dirty toilet-talk with the last bench bad guy(s). But all this better find a place in some other crummy post some other time.
So why do I bother to waste my time (which is at a premium lately anyway [astonishing ..I’m writing after more than a month!]) on something which has evidently not been a normally accepted way of life from where I come or belong?
I saw a photograph of Jennifer Lopez in the newspaper magazine, and Jessica Alba the next day, both happily (smiling poses) knocked up.
I sure didn’t think they were half as pretty as when I loved them!
Weird argument to support the idea in the post you’d say, but let’s face it – the truth is, it hurts to see a woman you loved so much and got married (or either way) bloated up like hell! At least this feeling will push through your mind for a little while, possibly dwarfed immediately by the more tangible reality of your own seed coming to life and the race being carried forward genetically and the clan getting multiplied and infested with pure blood offspring and body hair reducing during these evolutionary stages ..etc. Plus, it certainly is a lot of pain and enduring for the woman, something we men can never comprehend, however understanding/caring crap we may dish out!
However, here’s the bad part. I’m not yet pro-adoption either.
I still find it hard to accept I could rear something not my own. Something I never knew even existed before the day I chose to find about it. It’s always going to have the ‘outside’ factor, however liberal attitude or kind, accepting heart I could muster.
And then back again, you must love your wife. That’s something that’d never change. That mustn’t.
Everyone’s entitled to a view, and I hate it that everyone goddamn has one! Because I seem to get acquainted with more of the adoption-loving kind off late, as if I needed a popularity ranking using numbers from both camps on the how-to-make-a-baby algorithm! And I can’t say if that’s a good thing. Or not. And suddenly it feels like a very important decision I should have made long back!
I’m not finished though. I’m going to think more about it.
I wish people in similar perplexity share.
Those who do not belong above, better start thinking. Wisdom helps, even when used before the situation calls for it.
Personal satisfaction for life. Service to mankind/humanity.
Manliness vs. Godliness.
I say that’s a tough choice to make.
If you think out of the box as they say.
October 2, 2007 § 7 Comments
Ok. Something doesn’t make me too happy right now. Now having just said that, I understand I might have as well said something makes me sad right now! Good. It must be one of that optimism preaching ‘the-glass-is-half-full’ type idea. Or perhaps that thing doesn’t entirely make me sad. We’ll see.
The point is I’m a simple man. I like it when the world concurs with my way of life, and stays happy with me. That implies I appreciate coherent conversations and lucid statements/opinions. Now if some of you do not like the way I look with the glasses I’ve been advised to wear while reading (now since I can’t remember putting them on every time I pick a book, or turn the computer on [the one man-made device that practically ruined me], I end up donning them all the time I’m awake), kindly say it. Clear and precise. You see the idea of interpreting your cryptic arguments often troubles me. I could effortlessly construe encouraging substance out of your (perhaps) slander opinions, but the darker side of the universe if a great deal more beguiling. And since I’m a hapless worrier thanks to the sun sign, you must bear with me to realize thinking can hurt me. Particularly if it’s about the impression I make on people. More specifically, if you judge the way I look. Now I’m certainly not overtly finicky about my appearance etc, but I fail to understand why my little world in aggregate refuses to accept the fresh look! I mean they’re just bloody glasses. People wear them. It’s not forbidden in this world!
You don’t have a choice anyway. Dad said there’s little chance I’ll not need them for life now. So make your peace with this fact people. If I have, if I’m in resignation with the realisation that hugging people would be half fun now knowing you might stick the frame into his/her ear, that you can’t wash your face as frequently as you had gotten used to with free water running around all the time, that the bed won’t be the same again if you forget to take them off and attempt to roll leisurely on it, then you must do that too.
Anyway, that’s all I’m going to bitch about bitchiness. But yeah, as long as some women harmonise with the look, I can stay pleased. Men, take note, it might pay nothing to be nice, but that could well be one formidable ground to make you more likeable.
I would have gone on with the cursing had Delhi’s weather not taken a welcome about turn since this weekend! Yes. The much-loved winter is here. I don’t need to shower twice-plus a day, the rather expensive body spray can sit back sealed for the next few months, all women without fail would get a boost of loveliness, men would flaunt handsome jackets and coats, underpants would last longer, the laptop in the lap will no longer burn my balls and kill the kids, smoking shall get cooler and more desirable with some of that default winter smoke around anyway, sleep would be much more comfortable with thick layers of cotton cuddling up to you, skin would be rosier, when I can saunter jauntily with the sun out, when inexpensive tea shall be your best companion day long!
The capital is a nice place to live in. This is where my loyalties reside forever.
This is where I lost my heart.
To friends. To women. To life.
July 5, 2007 § 11 Comments
Have you realized how much of written English is not, spoken English! I mean I (could) have been reading a lot lately, and I think a lot of English language just doesn’t seem apt to be used in verbalized conversation. The faculty of reading must be considerably different from someone mouthing the same piece of text. Perhaps a regular conversation would make equal sense as some sophisticated bit of writing, and both seem chaotic if stretched beyond a certain level of complexity, which by the way, I believe happens a lot more with published stuff. You can’t just go outside a limited fathom of oral communication. Tell me you feel likewise, please, and that am not burning out!
Oh and as much as I love to announce my personal life here, so you as a reader should know that I’ve had the first ever accessory added to my previously normal organism – glasses, a pair of extra eyes to go while working/reading. Apparently a lot of people seem approving of the new look. Except myself. I really like to imagine myself appearing like some young intellectual (albeit, with a dirty mind behind those glasses), a true hardworking software engineer (irrespective of the fact that quarter of the time I’m just Orkutting), and a decent husband-material man, who by virtue of his glasses just got more presentable! I’m doing all the regular maneuvers associated with bespectaclation that I’d grown up seeing my Dad perform all his fatherly life. While leaving for lunch I carefully (and trying hard perhaps to look smart caught in the act) take ’em off and fold them in my shirt’s pocket (if it has one). Clean ’em with Virgo precision. And most regularly, I’ll keep adjusting ’em when there is entirely no need for it, and making sure that I catch a glimpse of mine in the process in some nearby reflector! I even clicked myself like a dozen times in a mirror, just to make sure that it looks good before I sent out the pics to people I love (which totals to one for the kind of love am talking about), and all the rest who needed to know and feed me back on the decently eventful matter as I’d like to see it as!
Anyway, life is good.
June 26, 2007 § 10 Comments
Over time I’ve read a decent measure of Indian writing in English. And there’s this one literary item that invariably figures in most [and with the kind of frequency it does, and the excitement and enthusiasm it generates, I’m too rickety to not write about it] – a most ornamental description of Indian woman’s anatomical form and figure, amounting to emphasize her sacrosanct place in civilization. A lot of times it edges around erotica, a very thin line between what could offend you and what could possibly interest you if read in the right spirit, just that the writer slyly obscures the immediate tantalizing effect in the grammar of foxy literary genius. And sex almost always promotes the woman partner to some strangely divine grade: a most revered object of male desire, with infinite capacity to give pleasure, a must-have entity of life, every man’s life. I’ve read the most fascinating portrayals of women’s breasts, and often attempted to sketch the same in my superego, at least trying to translate the interpretations of a proven genius for my limited mental ability. Of women lying on crumpled beds, the sari rippled next to her, her long bare back in a beautiful curve, hair messed up and perspiring and panting after making love to a Hercules male, the bindi and the sindur as the only garment on her body. Of gray-black vaginas characteristic to Asian women and filament of hair that connect the pinnacle of male obsession, the origin of all life, to the navel. Of a kiss being told as keeping her lips on his and soon after, feeling his hard on herself. Of him taking her blouse off and releasing to free space the lumps, and him finding them larger than his hands can hold, and the large areole, and the black nipples.
A lot of times, yes, this reading has left me flushed, blood running to all corners and edges of the body. But it’s not the regular titillation, say the kind when you read or watch qualified erotica. Physically I am yes, but the stimulation is partial. The major arousal has a queer intellectual stimulus! A written interpretation of what you’ve observed and touched and experienced and felt or at least imagined, is so much of a different turn-on! And our writers are maestros in the art of this teasing evaluation of the female form and being, particularly in the Indian context. Theirs is the kind of subtle writing that, if read and understood well, speaks loudly of female worship, irrespective of the dominantly male chauvinist order.
I’m just loving all this study of female construction, prose or verse, as long as it continues to present women in a different shade altogether from the general notion. Serves me to estimate them better each day. I’m not trying to understand why and if at all men are from Mars and women from Venus. In order to love ‘em, you ought to know ‘em. And since we’re like the only two sexes in the world, I must love both. It’s a short life, and it can only get shorter.