In the moment

It's 9 pm on my watch in this soothing windy night , and I am already a pizza and a beer old. Not only did I thwart my own resolve to not to drink , but in a sense, I cheated myself too. Not that I feel guilty of doing so. This , as an event , was simply on the cards , and it was as much unavoidable, when I came to hostel, the card however lied hidden somewhere behind that translucent curtain of morals and ethics.

The post was not supposed to be an idiosyncratic lecture on the dichotomy of a guy with " morals and ethics" , having the time of his life roaming around , while companies line up for placements in the weeks to come. But now, that I've mentioned it , I think I'll elaborate it , keeping in mind the tolerance of my supposedly invisible though palpable audience.

Morals and ethics , as an epithet , it sounds like " music and lyrics" , doesn't it ? One goes hand in hand with the other. Standing like a hedonist , on the top most floor of my life, that gives me a bird's eye view of the whole situation, I think " morals and ethics" for me , have been inevitable reduced to a swanky composition of words. It's the one excuse you can always give, to not have been able to do something , that may have been considered immoral. The fact that , you were unable to do it , stays hidden in your subconscious.

As is commonplace, I am unaware of why I am writing all this, may be I'll try to justify the booze I've had , by claiming to have sprinkled some of my inebriation in the post that I am writing. I'm totally aware , that it will be a transparent case of anachronism , when my cliche audience ( You!) gets to read this, and it might be that this post may look impeccably irrelevant then, but believe me, these are words, words from the bottom of the heart, from the bottom of the heart of a middle class guy, from the bottom of the heart of a middle class guy who's a wee bit too drunk , from the bottom of the heart of a middle class guy who's a wee bit too drunk and who feels a little, if not more, helpless. I guess , it's all in this moment.  

The Handicap

I knew the moment would come some day, the moment, when I laid back in my comfortable chair yet again , ogled at the screen of my ,so far, vulnerably faithful laptop and put in a few words. Of all the fears I have , because of the insecure individual I am , the fear of losing the ability to write is not only the most architypical but also, the most gruesome. Even the faintest thought of waking up one day, and not being able to pen a few words, be it consciously or by mere intent, is similar to losing a sense, something like turning deaf, dumb or even blind for that matter. The physical ramifications apart , not being able to express oneself in words is a handicap I never really want to succumb to.

I realize sometimes , the academic benefits of writing. I try to keep them on a different weighing , for those reasons might have forced me to continue writing , they were not why I started writing in the first place. Words when put in honestly , are a transparent resemblance of how grim and glum the mental persona is. There would be times , when I wrote just to be diverged to think about something else and it used to be difficult , for I lacked a substance of controversy , but that surely wasn't the reason I got myself into it.

When things waddle in the mind like entangled threads, one is forced to stretch them out in something like a blog. It's understandable that the fear of being in that situation of mental nudity is grossly embarrassing. But then , come to think of it , how can and what will it take one to debug the system. Perhaps the fact that I am writing now , at dawn , when the sunlight just appears to break into my room , is not intent , but a need, an incomprehensible bug in my system.

The experience of vomiting a few words is a vindicating exercise. As a phenomenon, it's always surprising , that the first 200 words flow out as if they were waiting superfluously under my skin , waiting to catch their breath as and when they're exhaled on to the blog , of course with the benign benefit of technology.

It feels immensely satisfying that something came out today, even though I had expected to blurt something more belligerent. But , so can be seen in everyday life, I am at my parsimonious best as ever , even at words. Now, that's ironic!    

Blog Review : Part I

When I rewind the tapes to the day , I made an effort to create this blog , I am forced to acknowledge the changes I've been through . For somebody who had never even managed a simple "letter to the editor" without an incongruous error, maintaining a blog seemed to be a bluntly out of proportion ambition. I knew, if at all , it would be anything, it could only be a personal diary.

The first semester in college was an elementary introduction to the world outside. Sitting in a corner seat , with a subtle yet unnoticeable sense of observation , my eyes kept taking a 180 degree view of the classroom, something very similar to the iterative movement of your air conditioner duct. I remember telling myself , " this is where it all starts". Social interaction had never been my simple glass of water, my ingenuous cup of tea or my extravagant bottle of wine . So there I was, sitting in the same seat every day , watching people , perhaps waiting for my turn to speak , my shortcut to fame . We all have it in us , don't we? It's only human to accept. I did. Yes, it was something I wanted to be, that I kept hidden from watchful skeptic eyes , though I doubt I was ever given a second look by anybody. I wouldn't say , it bothered me . Going unnoticed , is something I've come to like , more subconsciously over time. The ambition was strong, confidence was high and the notion that there's absolutely nothing to lose was almost indelibly etched in the mind.

In the very first maths class that I attended, it dawned on me , that I've just been thrown from one pool of competition to another. I was still the unaware fish which had switched to a smaller yet deeper pool, while the hunting fishermen had only changed face. I must confess , it was disappointing at the first look. Going with the momentum , or walking with the herd , as it is called more pejoratively, was pretty much apparent. The proverbial hunks with swanky T-shirts would be curtain lifters , show stoppers , trend setters, whatever you may call them. They walked in and out of classrooms with an equally swanky herd of people ,gathering the oomph of the females, and wanted to ridicule anything and anybody at the slightest opportunity. With the benefit of size and weight, I was privileged to be left alone from the usual bullying , and was approached only in circumstances of a dearth of water, food, pen and paper, and I must add, I wasn't even complaining.

It was hard to find people to talk to, and I'd be in constant search of people who suffered from the same dilemma. In retrospect , I always managed to find a few , to have a chat , while I nose dived into my food, a little " over-the-supper" talk , you may call it.

There used to be this one commotion regarding the hostel. Hostel was considered " the " place to enjoy life. Blinded by its word of mouth publicity , I managed to check out the hostel myself . I was left flabbergasted at the audacity of such a claim. Broken windows, broken lavatories , the constant threat of being torn away by some senior or adversary,  I mean , if that was " the " life , I was very satisfied with my " a " life. Apart from a personal tragedy, the first semester was a rather benign period, but it gave me a lot to think about.
 

The women are going dutch these days !

As and when I endeavor to write the post, I have this intuitive tingling sensation ringing inside, telling me that post this post, either I'll be given a rudimentary remark or have a bit of an explanation to do, not that it deters my resolve to introspect this newly found notion in women , the notion of " going dutch". I thought , may be the very mention of my apprehension , could place my intent in good light and obscure me from the post-the-post denunciation.

Unaware of its intended meaning, I was stupefied, mortified and petrified at such an unexpected inclination to the Netherlands. With immediate action, I started emptying the pennies in my pockets , to take critical notice of the financial situation. However, less did my pennies know, that the dutch had intended not to spend, but to save them. A little embarrassed as I was , caught unaware of its more common ( thought highly un-obvious) meaning , I put my pennies back in my little pockets and made a mental note , to make it noticeable on the blog and here I am blowing the trumpet.

While the day started with a sexist article, it's culminating in a sexist post. And for many , particularly women, sexism means "chauvinism" , when put bluntly.

As they say it , times change with changing people. When the women are going dutch , I think men will be more than pleased to let them go. There's obviously no male ego kill here , I mean , with utmost honesty , there's no skin off our nose. But then, of course, women have to make it apparent , it's a convention.

It happens all the time at home , when women ( actually one woman ) in my house undertake a strict resolve to handle all financial exchanges taking place. The men in our house , may outnumber but can never , in all plausible probability , out power the females. In effect and accordance to the feminine resolve to handle finances, all cheque-books, account details are given to them, only to be taken back a week before the end of the month , when the official surrender happens.

A part of the female's male counterpart ( that's my dad) , feels victorious to be in reign again , the other part gives him sleepless nights , for the monkey mess has already been made. We ( my brother and I ) the two sullen souls , sit silently as spectators only to spy on this spectacular spectacle , sporadically sprinkled with such singular speculation. And I must say , that we are formidably entertained.

Like the perfect icing on this cake, I can only recall a message I received from a frustrated guy regarding his dubiety over the fact that, why Mis(s)calculation, Mis(s)interpretation ,Mis(s)timing , Mis(s)anthropy and Mis(s)assumption have always been unmarried females. Though I'm yet to get the logic myself, I don't think it has ever been (Miss)ed nor Mis(s)used. See , at the end of the day, I'm just another Mis(s)ter, how would I know? it's a miss thing.

Lying Gracefully

Strictly in the top three of my mandate for the year 2010 , is "to perfect the art of lying", something that was always on the agenda but never really exercised, for the dearth of exogenous opportunities to lie indiscriminately.

The infatuation to lie started when I was , if I remember correctly, somewhere between the tender age of six and eight, when I saw mummy telling somebody on the phone , that she wasn't at home and was not to be available for the ten days hence. Fed decently with the " jhooth bolna galat baat hai " dose , I could never imagine her lying , and I had all these theories bubbling in my head , " What if she's not really herself ? ".  I know it's hard to imagine how a boy that young can zero in on such a twisted logic, but I guess the idiot box had a subconscious part to play in that.

While a part of me was irked by her ideological hippocracy, the other part was already getting prepared to confront her sacrilegious lie. But alas, before I could exploit this opportunity, I was carefully shown the door and was told to mind my own business. A little appreciative as I was of her ability to lie with such a straight face , with not a single wrinkle on the forehead, it vetted in me this fervent desire to convolute this art , the art of lying  ,irrevocably in my personality. And mind you , this is not a genetic trait, the other members of my family are rather decent and grant me innumerable opportunities to lie , without the slightest inhibition of the fear of being caught.

So , that was that, and I have been in practice mode ever since. Actually , I think , right now, I'm in the middle of this wilderness , where I just might reveal more than what can be consensually considered comely. More appropriately, I'd take a tea break , and return with a rather " sane" state of mind.        

Continued..

It's not as if I have never been lied to or if I'm the most virtuoso of liars myself, on the contrary , my pretentious and far from truth prevarications tend to blurt out their mischief almost peremptorily.

However, as a general phenomenon,  a lie , shadowed well enough in the canopy of pleasing words , has always caught a fraction of my admiration. It'll be hard on my ego to accept , but some of the people I've come to admire the most , are the ones who have managed to make me count my chickens, almost consistently.

I know , after writing all this , my moral integrity would already be in question, but one has to accept , be it reluctantly , that lying sometimes , is a much simpler proposition. A lie for the benefit of mankind , is technically, no lie at all, and therefore all the more unworthy of mention and bereft of excitement. It's the other variety that intrigues me , the much more abominable category of lie. 

So , I was soliloquizing , about what makes a conscious lie all the more potent and hard hitting. Is it just a poker face or a corrupt self conscience? The more sleepy me forces me to conclude that it's both.

On a personal note, if I believe in the institution of lying? I would say : No, I don't. But , come to think of it, if at all I were a "lie evangelist" myself, I wouldn't be telling the truth, would I ?  ;-)

Pregnant with Possibilities

Call it my incredulous imagination , but I couldn't think of a better title. As much as I would like to elaborate on my current trepidations , I'll prefer to keep this outburst lucid and terse.

Even today when I get a call from a curious relative , asking me if engineering is satisfying enough, I pretend that it is. On a rather straight note, why shouldn't it be? It gives me this authority of being called an "engineer", something I'd been craving for all my life.

However, to realise at this point of time , the time when I seem to be a month away from placements , the time I had once fantasized , that I'll have to start over with life all over again in search of another profession is not only grossly ironic but also frustrating.

It's getting a bit too filmy ,and hitherto I have noticed , eventually it always does. Be it Tragically dramatic or Dramatically tragic , it has come to work both ways.

While the not-so-immediate family members keep vigil for an unlimited supply of laddoos , when the news of me getting a job , irrespective of the package and profile , breaks out, my parents feel rather comfortable at delaying such a wasteful expenditure, for I had made my intentions of not taking up a job immediately after engineering transparent and uncompromisable a significant  while back. But then , it exposes me , more inadvertently, to a new variety of inquisitiveness, which tips off with this basic little question : Now What?

Sometimes I think I should be purposefully ambivalent about ambitions. It's safer to do so. Not that I intend to keep my parents curious, but least of all things, it rids me off the burden of giving them a fake hope.