Exit Interviews

You work with a different kind of enthusiasm if you know, that you intend to quit in about six months. The emphasis remains on the word 'intend', because in all probability I will end up not doing any such thing. What it does really, is that springs up this feeling of resilience inside. There are people who can live in mere anticipation of change. I'm one of them. It makes me believe that there's always something better that awaits. Some people need a good job, I need a good reassurance that things will change, no matter how bad a job I'm in . 

Now I've been trying to figure out a pattern in this thought process. It's just occurred to me, that I could be artificially forcing things on myself , trying unnaturally to go against the drift. Is that really so?- I ask myself. It's only to be seen- I answer back. No matter what , it's a win-win. I mean, if I'm right in deciphering this pattern then gung-ho goes the analyst in me, else this going against the drift might just pay off. I've talked about risk management earlier. It's such a funny little thing. How can one even calculate it? It's not partial. It's there, or it isn't. As I see it, either I'm going to make a fool of myself or I'm not. As simpull as that.

In line with the job shedding plans, I thought how an exit interview would look like. By intuition, it's an interview where you can remove your hat of diplomacy and speak up what you really have to say about your work, the organization and more importantly- the person exit-interviewing you. The most unsettling thought though is to evade : 'So,what after this? ' Am I allowed to say : Nothing much really. Actually, it's not about not being allowed to say something, but about being rational at all times. So what if she's my ex boss, I wouldn't want to give her a reason to believe : 'All the betta' that he left.'  I'd expect her to sulk my absence, and every minute of it. ' You naatee naatee buoy' - says my inner voice. 

Winter Soup

Can you imagine yourself laughing at the most humongous soup that you got into at work? I can. In fact, I AM laughing! It's a point of happy sadness. A point when you know , that you've done what you could, and there's absolutely nothing you can do about it. I speak, standing right at that point. 

It wasn't too long ago when I used to boast about being the analyst. Now here I stand, having committed the blunder of my life, trying to cope with it . I've just come to realise that it's a very high beta profession. Lives depend on the correctness of data.

Before I ramble any further, let me give you some background. 

I'm not the best this company has in its 'talented' list and I never thought I would feature in that list either. The fact remains that I'm most definitely not the worst. I was put on a critically important project. I slogged for three weeks. I delivered. I did my job and I believed that I did my job well . The work was presented to the right people. The results weren't that good. The clients had to listen to some tough and terse truths. But that wasn't my problem, was it?  I mean, I'm that bloke who swore by the Geeta, saying " I shall speak only the data and nothing but the data."  But data, like the truth, deceives sometimes. I'm at the forefront of one such deception. I made an error, more of an error of judgement. A misjudgement just enough to screw my results. Just enough to render all the effort that I had been putting in to maintain the sanctity of this project, absolutely worthless.  

The analytic world essentially works on the Pareto principle. The correctness of 80 percent of your effort, depends on that 20 percent of right effort, put in the right direction. I think, that's exactly where I faltered. I forgot , what I keep reminding people not to : the importance of 'little' things. 

It was only because of a colleague's persistent insistence , that I feel a desperate need to keep account of this tragedy. I'm just thinking about the pros and cons. It obviously prepares me well for future mistakes. But that said, somewhere my complacent self hints, that if mistakes don't keep happening at regular intervals, I'm bound to make one big one, to compensate for all the rightness. That's exactly what happened this time. I was driving this project, like I was driving my car on a highway, without inquiring if I had an extra tyre. Now, the odds of a flat tyre are less, but they are there aren't they? Smartness is in knowing that the tyres are tubeless and the odds are really really less, responsibility is in knowing that you-never-really-know.  

In retrospect, I think that it's risk management that differentiates smart people from responsible people. And it's not as if responsible people aren't smart , but so could be the case that they might not immediately seem so. Being called smart is obviously cooler, but the point driven here is, that if you're not responsible, smartness won't help. It's like an interview situation, you might be the topper of the class, but if you aren't carrying your own pen, the chances of getting through reduce drastically. It's like when you're asking out a girl, you might be the smartest , most handsome lad in town, but if you can't wear a decent shirt on a date, she might just say no. It's like when  you're with your girlfriend, you may be the most happening couple around, but if you can't let go of your sophistication to have five gol gappas together without worrying about how wide you should open your mouth, so that it looks appropriate, then you're grossly missing the point. 

Life's in the little things. It's in making someone's day just by telling her that she's looking good. It's in humming the song that you're lately in crush with. It's in saying : it's okay, it happens, shit happens. 

Clutter from the Past

It's been a while since I posted something on the blog, that doesn't mean though that I haven't been thinking of posting something. It's just that I haven't been able to encapsulate one complete thought, think about it completely ,and put it into words. They seem like incomplete strands like misled sperms in my head. In an honest effort, to clear them out and start afresh, I'm posting all of these random thoughts together. If anything, it gives me mental hygiene, and my gmail account some extra space.

don't be silly , silly. 

It always takes a little persistence, to come back from office, and put into words something that you've been thinking about the entire day. Isn't that a 'silly' thing to do? Oh, don't be silly.

At the risk of resonating with your inner voice, the one that speaks only the truth, I would want to speak about a feeling which is as intriguing as it is silly. That is , about being silly.

Two months at office, and I've started feeling this hidden discomfort of playing everything with a straight bat. Everything said and done, is done at the minimal risk of sounding silly. Does being a little silly at times really need to that criminal? Does being silly essentially mean a person is left gifted in the top floor accessory? May be the definitions have changed overtime. 

As Darwin put it , life is a race and in everything that one does, one is being judged by somebody, if not everybody. There is a palpable presence around which binds a strand of thought by an even more palpable consciousness, of being judged each and very instant. The leaders, who believe themselves to be caricatures of perfection, forget how 'being silly when required' worked more for them, than 'not being silly when not required'. 

Human beings are complex creatures. There is just so much that we as a species can experience, that others are deprived of. Being silly is a mask that you get wear to hide the 'so much' that you're thinking and experiencing at that moment. It's like a filter between one's interface between the complexity of one's inner thought process, and a simplistic output mechanism, the voice. 

Why ?

At this minute, I should seek the opportunity to sulk out my helplessness.

I think I've already mentioned how silently competitive I have become over time. 

Fate does that to you, it makes you so excited about a particular thing that everything else starts seeming worthless. You could call it, the fragrant future overpowering the odourless present.

The grass is always greener on the other side. Really? Why?

Why it's just so difficult to stay contented with what one already has?

Why the fear of failing takes over more often than not?

Why am I inclined to write this of all things?

Why do I feel that I'm entrapped into something that I'm too weak to break out from.

Why the most important people in one's lives, never know what to say when?

Why , when bad things happen, they happen all at once?

Why I have to live with this world, the way it wants me to?

Why I think, I'm entering into one more dilemma?

Why I think, I'm never going to feel anything permanent for anybody, unless I get everything that I want?

Why the only way fate makes me realise that I don't have something, is by pointing out that others do?

Why everything keeps changing its meaning for me ?

Why introspection is easy and taking action is tough ? 

Chapter 1 : Engineering Love 

I was 97 kilos. I was dark. I was badly dressed. And I was about to become an engineer in four years.

I had taken the brunt of walking two miles from the metro station with an honest intention of losing as much weight as I could before I made my grand appearance at NSIT. 

Turned out it wasn't that grand. I stood amid the hoopla trying to find even one familiar face. For somebody who'd almost been living in hiding for a year , this was an entirely new feeling, A rebirth was the only thing I could compare it with.

Before having gotten this admit, I never thought too highly of NSIT. So seductive is the power of self-deception, that suddenly it started to seem the best this country had to offer. This was obviously, the first time I had ever seen an engineering college up close. 

I was waiting for Sumit. The all-I-knew and the all-I-had for one year. I always believed that losers, no matter what variety, always found solace in the company of other losers. Well, Sumit was the only company I had for the past one year. We were both hard working, both sufficiently intelligent, and both losers in all the other aspects of life , but academics.  We studied together in the much famed Vidya Mandir Classes for JEE, traveled in the same bus, confided in each other our boring lives , and now were studying in the same college. Nevertheless, we were always competitors.

It was the first day. I was wearing the best shirt I had. For somebody who's fat beyond his age allows him to be, a good shirt is the one that hides his paunch. Jeans were usual. I preferred the baggy ones. It was always better to keep people ambivalent on the curvature of one's butt. I felt this inclination to open up and judge people beyond their CEE rank , for once judge them on everything but their rank. 

Before I could come to a relative judgement on myself, I felt as if something had tickled me.     I turned around to find a girl poking at my arm, with a certain inquisitive in her eyes. She wore specs. She was slightly plump. And then she blurted : Uncle, could you guide me to the registration room? Now, that's the kind of catch 22 that you'd rather not be in. There was an equal insult in both correcting her and answering her. 

I chose the latter insult, and pointed her in the right direction. All this while the word 'uncle' kept echoing inside my head in an infinite loop. I read Chetan Bhagat. I had certain expectations from college life. As much as I wasn't expecting girls to give me blow jobs, I wasn't expecting them to call me 'uncle' either. 

Sumit arrived as his cumbersome best. His hair and his tiffin box always had one thing in common- both leaked with oil. I really wanted him to be by my side. He seemed to be the only person who could make me feel slightly more sophisticated. Looking good is relative you see. Losers always look forward to hanging out with bigger losers. I thought of him to be my bigger loser. Sometimes I intuitively felt, that he felt likewise about me. 

how life changes 

So the era of incumbency has begun. I'm strategically moving to a static life, with nothing but one thing to do. The one thing, may fluctuate between doing my work and cribbing about it. 

Now that I'm contemplating as to what to write, I realise the kind of changes, that a routine brings about in you. It's easier said than done, but for people like me, who count more on their idea generating capabilities, than workmanship spirit, job is very much a dampener.  One has to keep reminding oneself,of the bigger purpose that surrounds us. 

The ignominy not having achieved as much as others did, keeps springing up. Not that I mind it. Perhaps, I've come to like it. All that raging competitive adrenaline , arising from the shackles of frustration make it easier to find a purpose in life.

If you ask me, at this moment, I'm just trying to take things one at a time.  

So I was saying

Intellect is a funny word. For many, it's like this perfect ingredient to help them get the ideal skill set. 

My question is - Is it ? Is it something that could be consciously derived or added to one's personality? Is it not that unless one loses all consciousness of intellect, only then can he/she come close to getting some? 

Those were my initial thoughts on the subject. Sooner than later, I realised it's okay to crib. It's okay to be conscious of it. It's okay to crave it. It's okay to try.

However, when you look around, there is a palpable presence of people, who deem themselves to be 'the intellectuals'. No, it's not because they are, but because they may be people of eclectic tastes, tastes confined solely to the intellectual variety. What they think, how they think or even what they do, is pushed completely to the sidelines. The criteria of a sound thought process is found completely lacking. 

Makes me think - Is intellect by one's preference or by one's thought? Shouldn't thought lead to the preference, and not vice versa. 

As I often say, the way it happens, is that it happens that way.

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So that was a part of an unfinished conversation I was just having with somebody, languishing inside. Compared to the other articles I've posted here, this may seem more like a tweet. 

Occupational Hazard

'Analytics' was never a domain , that I could imagine being so closely associated with. But now,the way it happens that it happens to be a way, a way of life I mean.

Moving on, I was trying to figure out, what effect such a profession has on one's thinking procedures. 

First things first, you're less a person of opinions, and more a person of facts. It's intriguing, how 'data' becomes such an important aspect of one's professional existence, that one wouldn't buy a brown bread without a rough number crunching of how the brand has been doing in recent times. 

You know you're catching up fast as an analyst, when the question : Are there any more insights to be drawn?, comes to you more often that not ,and you know you're 'one-a-dem', when you wouldn't comment on anything , unless it was backed by some 'solid' data. 

In the world of analytics, the convention is to ask : Do your numbers back you? I can't see any other occupation, where 'numbers' are metaphorized to be living organisms of such critical importance. 


After a certain threshold, you tend to regard them as your pets, which you'd want to groom and make look presentable. The 'grooming' part is what could be termed an 'analysis'. 

When you try and look into the cause-effect of such a change, you tend to realise, that it wouldn't have been any different if you were a consultant, or a manager, or even a personal assistant for that matter. There is always and I mean always, a certain overlap of personal and professional persona , which sometimes one can't help, and sometimes one doesn't want to. Occupational Hazards , as I've come to call it.

Simply Put

There's always a certain amount of satisfaction when one gets to blog while at work. It makes me feel I'm getting to do what I always wanted to, though indirectly. I mean, getting to write for money.

Somehow it always happens that I return to my blog, as and when a certain something in my life has changed. It's been a month, since I last sat down and wrote something, I guess every blog post has its day. I don't know why, but it had to come today of all days. A realisation that springs up time and again is that there is a certain threshold to the sheer 'quantity' of thought that can be parallely analysed by the brain. (Yes, this is the Associate Analyst speaking.) As and when the barometer reaches a ' I cannot handle more' level, you tend to dump it somewhere. Sometimes you dump it speaking to yourself ( not many people can do that), othertimes talking to your close confidants. Yet there are still other people, who try removing the haze in the canopy of a blog.

Office is like a pandora's box. There is so much happening around , but it's still difficult to put one's thoughts in order. One might as well pass off this post as me rambling randomly. ( Ah! alliteration) Small talks always keep happening. So I get to know why abc is late for office, why xyz hates dunnhumby food so much ,why ghj thinks that he should get married before he loses all his hair. These are strands of information that one inevitably and unhelpably enjoys at office. They're majoritarily silly, sometimes serious, and othertimes intriguing. I think I'm getting more than used to them. To be honest, I'm enjoying them. I get to mock abc, if she's late for office tommorrow too, I could offer xyz that I'd accompany him to Subway in lunch time, and ofcourse he could always pay the bill if wants to, and I insist. Although, ghj's case is somewhat serious, I haven't been able to 'derive anything' out of it.

 

So that was office, at a glance. And I realise it's almost 7 in my watch, with the needles enclosing the angle, that I covet seeing most in the evening since June 13th 2011 .Time to wrap up, and run the victory lap. 

 

Garg Ka Swarg

A little obfuscated as you might be by the title, I can only say , if there could be a Khosla ka Ghosla, then why not a 'Garg Ka Swarg' per se. 

Over time I've always realised how obnoxious a family we are. And I don't mean it in a bad sense really. There have always been certain floating characteristics that have differentiated each member of this family , not only from each other, but every other soul that exists. In short , we're pretty much a set of people, with mutually exclusive tastes and characteristics, trying to fit under one roof. As I wait for distant relatives, who're all set to arrive with their Band Baaja Baarat , seeing everybody running around from one corner to the other, only exemplifies my case, or should I say 'our' case.

I might as well start off with dad. The real 'Papa Garg' you see. Dads are such intriguing things. Such coconut characters. They always have to pretend to have a hard outside, albeit a softer inside. Isn't that the case with all dads? Maybe. The keepers of all available plastic money, dads, always command a little respect. Respect given. Moving on to Bubbly. The, perpetually at verbal war with me, Bubbly. I think she's another coconut , just a little harder on outside, and a little softer on the inside. If only one could penetrate her feminist ego, which I do, rather frequently, one could see the soft her. Just for the record, Bubbly is my mom.

Sometimes, I feel so surrounded by emotional women. They don't realise, while they're trying to put in an emotional point, I'm mentally denigrating their entire species. That someday, all the women in my life will connive together and kill me, is an undisclosed nightmare. That someday, all these women, will leave in  complete peace and harmony, is another. Where will all the enti come from if it happens? :-}

At the look of things , I'm the lone 'nut' in this house of coconuts. 

Random Regrets

At the obvious risk of screwing up Mobile Communication tomorrow, I'm writing this post with an earnest desire to freak out and start studying. So far , it ain't happening. The thought that it's the last exam makes it terribly hard to study, the thought that it's the last ''engineering exam'' makes it look like something may be I won't be able to express. There are days when you want to study, days when you have to study, and then there are days like today, when you just can't. So what do you do in such circumstances: you talk.

It's always a little mysterious to write without a topic in hand. May be that's the way exams are. All one wants to do, is to not think about them, and all one doesn't , is to not forget then entirely. It languishes somewhere in the corner of the neural networks, but it's always there.

If only I knew, that there were so much happening behind a simple phone call, I'd have considered making a phone call, a process equivalent to shaking up a coalition government. But whatever.You-gotta-do-what-you-gotta-do, eh?  Still 20 hours to go before this last over in the innings of engineering, and here I am talking about something.

May be I should talk about something I regret having done, so much so, that if there was anything that I'd have wanted to go back in time and do differently, and I mean anything, then that would be it. I do have one such story.

It was a day to go for the first midsem when a random plan to drink with friends sprung up. It wasn't a plan I initiated, but it wasn't one I wasn't enthusiastic about. I sat on the driver seat with music playing at a volume that was audaciously audible. That's what the idea of getting drunk does to you. You begin losing your sanity ,even before you have it. At least I do. If my memory supports me well, it was a narrow lane in the sector-4 market of Dwarka, when I broke all hell loose with the accelerator. I was driving too fast, but I knew I was in control. It was a sudden something that came in front, and screeeech came the brakes ! Stopped just in time. At the outset, yes, it had all the ingredients of a terrible accident. I sat at driver seat, unaffected, rather unperturbed. 

It would perhaps have been my apathy that sparked off a man watching it all, standing at the side of the road. I still remember his face. He must be a decade older than my father, tall and carried a french beard. In short, moderately sophisticated. "Is this the way to drive?" , he said with an ignominy in his tone. It was all too justified , both the question and the ignominy.  For a minute there, I was taken aback. It wasn't something I was used to. Not in front of friends for sure. That's what ego does to you, it makes you an arrogant fool. In this rush of arrogance I replied : " Yes , it is."  I knew he was expecting an apology, and I was too weak to give him one. 

He was offended. Had I been him, I'd have been too. I remember having rushed the car, while he kept speaking something, something I don't even want to recall. The only part I do remember though was about what a ruptured upbringing my parents had given me. In one moment, all that my parents had done for me, taught me, was squashed with my false sense of propriety. 

For a minute everybody sat in the car in silence, just to get to terms with the fact that somebody amongst them had the guts to misbehave to this extent. I wore my mask of apathy as usual. I was ashamed, and I so bloody knew it. Fuck I was ashamed of myself. I felt like stopping the car and banging my head against the wall. Obviously, to express regret explicitly isn't a trait I share. Perhaps it's too afflicting on the male ego.

I could elaborate more, but I don't have that much time. I have an exam , remember ! Even today when I'm idling ,the horrors of that incident haunt me. As the memory retraces itself to that day, it sends chills down my spine. There is a sullen inclination to whack yourself hard. So hard , that you may finally be able to forgive yourself for it. Perhaps I'm not that strong, neither physically nor morally.

You may not believe me, but I must have thought so many times to go to that very place, find that person, just so that I can fold my hands in shame and apologize. It's just the chances of finding him seem too scarce and the notion too weird.

What use is all the success in the world if one feels ashamed to apologize at one's mistake as and when it happens, and feel ashamed about it his entire life, when the damage seems irreparable. Sometimes, I just can't help being sorry for myself. Sorry uncle. I really am. I hope this blog gets very famous someday, and one of your grand children reads this post and tells you about this guy on the blogosphere who felt terribly regretful to have misbehaved with an elderly man, and some supernatural power forces you to read this article. 

What a pleasure it'll be if it happens, the blog getting famous I mean. :P  

Bitter Sweet

It's tough to start a day with nostalgia, believe me , it really is. It's tough to say to oneself that: This is It ! You're on your own now. No more rushing to the college in the morning, no more  metro rides, no more making fun of teachers, no more "See you tomorrow then". The subtle mutiny inside, the mutiny of being an engineering student at NSIT counts its last breath. 

I can't say I've made much out of my college life. A lot of time was just spent in creating a mess, and more time spent cleaning it up. Bad jokes still kept the spirit alive. So much ambition crept up sitting on those white marbles, so much of it died down sitting in the classroom. So much adrenaline flowed through the veins in a JAM, though so much less before an EXAM. Does that rhyme? :P

So, yes, coming back. I'm not digressing today. This is going to be a serious nostalgic post.

It all boils down to this one day, The Mighty Farewell Party. It's not as if I'm not going to meet these people ever. In a place like Delhi, catching acquainted people hanging out in equally acquainted places, isn't too difficult a task. It's a common coincidence you see. But come to think of it, the next time there's got to be a purpose behind everything. There's got to be an agenda of the meeting. Yeah, you could obviously retort :"Who needs a reason to meet friends?" . You're right, may be you don't, but I know I will. It'll take more than sheer will to call up a friend and ask him to meet-up, and it'll take more than courage to write on his wall :"Long time, let's hang out someday". It's hard to imagine myself doing that, but you never know, you know. Solitude makes you do things. 

I'm not ashamed to accept that four years of college life have injected in me more regret, than enthusiasm. But I'm happy that it came in the early stages of life itself. Here on, things are not going to be the same. You can't enter a brawl with a matched indulgence , you can't take a day off at your whim , you can't just bunk and head off for a movie. And of all things, you can't have the liberty of not doing what you didn't want to do. Here on, life's thrown to you like a buffet, you'll have to have what's served to you. College, I swear was different. It was what I call : A Candid Commotion of Choices.

People, yes, I must talk about the people. So technically, college is like this giant aquarium with fishes, crocodiles, sharks etc. pretending to live in peace and vowing not to eat each other up. No doubt, you enter the threshold like an innocent fish, but what you retire as is entirely your prerogative. Honestly, it's always better to stay the fish. You get bumped around all too often. 'Make, break and brake' starts to seems like a motto. One day, you'd grow comfortable staying that way, and then that'll be a way of life. Well yes, that's strictly opinionated, but then that's strictly personal too.     

You may be the who's who of college, but you're all going to end up leaving this place with a taste, not in your mouth, but in your head : Bitter Sweet. 


It's OKAY to accept it. Adios NSIT.

Dudify this

It's conceivable reality that in a matter of time conversations would start and end at the word 'dude'. Imagine a letter denoted to you : Respected dude, followed by regular blahmatism. Sounds strange, doesn't it? Why does it come into play that much these days? Why is there always a moral inclination to denote fellow dudes , by 'dude'. Believe me, it's like the byword of the language of persistent persuasion.

Think about it. How easy it has been to persuade people when you dudify them, how they can be cajoled into believing that they really are the 'quintessential dudes' , at least in the vicinity, if not in entirety. It has a certain hypnotic effect on men, the reason for which is hard to get. 

Another thing that works in favor of the entire 'dude' convention is probably its gender neutrality. Girls are equally comfortable being passed off as dudes. Dudette/dudess is the official word though. It probably shows their wretched desire to equalize men.( Yes, I'm a chauvinist pig, hands down) However, if I were a woman, I'd have chosen 'dudette' , for at the least it'd have given me an opportunity to feel slightly differentiated, if nothing else. Tiny things you see. 

Imagine one of your friends seeing you with one of those coveted girls, the kind for which guys are willing to ditch a thousand other women.  

After the event, whilst you're cursing yourself about how close you were to kissing her and how you missed the opportunity and all, he calls you up, and guess how he starts : with an elongated, filled with contempt, curiosity and carousal, Deeewed!  Unable to get a hang of the situation immediately, our protagonist replies: What dude? with a genuine pretension of ' I-dunno-wat-ur-talkin-bout' . Your friend on other side replies: Don't you dude me, dude. By this time, both parties are pretty clear on their concepts , as in they know what the other person knows. So, our genuine pretender takes away his mask of unknowingness, and replies with a sly smirk on his face: Oh yeah, dude. The friend , as if, to pat him on the back, says: Deeeeeeewd(h), with a sparkle in his eyes. Translated to Hindi, this would mean : Sahi hai beta! 

It's only to be seen how this innocent word can affect so many lives, say so many things, and still be qualified as slang. Well, I'm sure this would change one day. I'm sure, one day fathers would talk to their spoiled sons: Itne kam marks? Saari dudegiri nikaal doonga!  Corporate meetings would clamour 'Dude' in all shapes, colours and sizes. Mothers would worry : Pata nahi mera dude kab wapas aayega? Thakur would request Gabbar, hitherto much more persuasively : Yeh Haath mujhe dede dude, de na dude? The ageing mother, in Karan Arjun would go : Mere dono dudes aayenege! Mere dono dudes zaroor aayenge!!! 

Went a little too far, did I? The Whole Dude Syndrome dude! Come on dude, you gotta agree. Dude?

Are you on the same page?

Are you feeling sufficiently useless? Do you ogle at the wall clock, waiting for it to strike 12 so that you could guiltlessly ping the two three usual people you'd ping? Has this sudden revelation that 'I was much better off when I was at something' dawned on you too? Do you wake up in the morning thinking ,' how can I waste this day innovatively? Well, bravo. If the questions have had the better of you, I welcome you to the party.

Life has boiled down to the little things. Happiness is no longer in ' getting placed '.( Even though, I won't mind another shot at them.) It's in the tiny things that were otherwise irrelevant. From the anticipation of rajma-chawal in dinner, to the shiver of chocolate chip ice-cream in dessert, anything could make it worth living just one more day. Then there are also the serious things to live for. (h)Our holy parents. (h)Our ambition in life. (h)Our zeal to do reasonably well in life. But as I said, these are the serious things. Not that much fun to talk about. Boring Bhasad, you see. On the other hand, girlfriends are separate institutions. They're commodities to 'die for'. ( Khush?)

'Don't sweat the small stuff, it's always in the small stuff'. No, I'm not taking credit for having penned it. 

So, the little things, Oh, the little things. Stupid little things. Corny little things. Creepy little things. Life is in those sublime underlying moments, the kind you never even thought could bring about a change in your emotional momentum. Subconsciously speaking, these moments are precisely what give you, the kick, the spike in the happiness chart. So, it could be because somebody said that you looked a gram less heavy. It could be , because you know, you'll get to order Domino's in an hour. It could be because , for once in your life, you get to waste another day at your behest, without having had to feel guilty about it. 

Little things, you see.

Just to rub it in. 

The Other Woman

Time and again, the guilt of having left this blog all to the company of itself   keeps unwinding, almost unprovoked. She's( the blog, I mean) like this girl I'm still dating, while I'm in a relationship with another. If you'd call her, she's probably the first woman, I got into a relationship with. Does this sound convincingly bigamous? It ought to. 

So here I am, doing justice to my widow, making her feel , that she still holds some relevance in my life. For once , I let her speak , for I am merely the interpreter.
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Dear owner,

Ever since you started telling me your fuzzy tales, the first of which came sometime in 2008, I realised that you weren't one of those run of the mill men, who'd use me for a few articles, and throw me away as if I was a top you bought last week from Janpath. You were a tad different, not that I mean 'different' in a good sense.

You shared with me your stories, your griefs. It was only a matter of time that you allowed me to give your random strands of thought, a direction. You talked to me when you were sad, but you never shared your happiness, which was, so to say, perfectly acceptable, for it's only in bad times that you rely on the people you trust. I've seen you hallucinate, blurt the highest approachable levels of non-sense, and listened to it, more so, told it to more people, just to be able to get your point across. But those were old times, lately things have changed.

If I may bring to your notice, ever since you brought 'her' into your life, our talks have been more mundane than awry. I thought, you were sensitive enough to realise, how I'd have felt about it. If I must add here, you gave me not an iota of premonition that she was going to hijack our lives, but even then I was conscious enough to not let jealousy take over. I thought she was the 'second' woman in your life, the thought in itself was infuriating. However time determined that perhaps, I was the 'second'. You couldn't possibly imagine, how I must have had felt then, as much you say you try, you possibly couldn't.

To be honest, I never lost faith, never did I lose myself to the delirium of losing you ; a symptom you were most likely to succumb to, had something like this happened to you. I knew you'd come back to me, and that someday I would get to win you over, to make you realise who your real 'companion' was and is. Much to my anticipation, one day you did, and you kept coming. So high was frequency of your posts, that the pinch of being the 'other' woman almost faded away. But alas, it was that one cursed eve , when you discussed 'her' with me, giving all the importance that there virtually existed, the kind that I aspired to relish, to her. That day, you really hit the nail on the head. 

For me, it was over. We've been on amicable terms since then, and I too have started indulging in other men. The 1170 odd people who visited the blog, should give you an idea of the levels of infidelity I'm capable of( Ha, now you feel jealous), and I'm only expecting more, if my letter strikes a chord with your palpable but invisible audience.

Waiting for your reply.

Ms. A Beautiful Mind

White Noise

Literally, white noise , is a disturbance with a flat spectral density. That's what wikipedia says about it. What my own understanding helps me make of it ,is that it's a noise that enters one's system, and is there till eternity. It's flat , because it's not caused by something. It's just there. 

Sometimes it seems as if there's something running in the background, eating away one's bandwidth, forcing one to think in a direction ,you'd rather obscure from. The white noise per se.

So, I've been thinking, and thinking a little more about it and so it seems, that I'm almost conscious of this noise in my head now. A little off beat, but the one thing which I've been noticing has been my decreasing appetite for words. The effect is so poignant, that it almost seems like having lost an old friend.

All said, I'm back ,up and running , talking about the usual stuff. Trying to make sense of non-sense and least of all , adding value to myself. ( haha) Just thought it was important to laugh, for the morons may take it literally. Not you. Oh, not you too. 

So, before I could return to my dark sense of humour, let me open the pandora's box for you, and throw some updates. Life, over the past few weeks, has been like a lemon soda; you've had it before you know it. Friends have returned to their state of ignorance. A welcome change has been my self anointment in the "experienced in love" category and hence romantic advice has been flowing, unprovoked, and rather instinctively to those, who may or may not be needing/wanting/not-wanting it. ( Please calm your raised eyebrows, take a deep breath, I was just joking.)

To talk a little about myself, I'm seeing myself to be utterly indulged in the state of constant observation. Not that I've been doing much with the camera, but the sheer adrenaline to see a moment, which could have been captured, has resurrected in me a newly found curiosity, a kind that may even compel me to wake up early and hit the road ( hit-the-road !, think about it) without purpose.

Stretching it a little bit , I've come to see a kind of essence in doing something and sometimes everything ,without a sense of purpose. Sometimes , it's just this 'want of purpose' that is ,precisely, the noise, white noise as I've come to call it.

As somebody very thoughtfully said : The purpose of purpose, as such, should, quite purposefully be, kept purposeless.

Small Talk

Adoring the wind, fighting the mosquitoes and typing this post, here I am on the Kochi port watching ships race past each other. I should admit, the plan for the day wasn't an article on the blog, but an in-depth photography session. I guess sooner than later , even my camera will shy away from photographing things that I actually consider worth capturing. Can't help it. The breeze is perfect for nothing but thinking. I believe, had I been brought up somewhere near the coastline, I'd have been much better at intellectualism.

I don't have a topic for the day but I still plan to murmur. The things that I really want to talk about, aren't fit for an audience, and the things I'd rather say, are irrelevant . So, if at all you're reading this, you know what you're exposing yourself to ; irrelevance. Life is always such an irony. There's always something to think about, rack your brain for. Things can never be perfect, can they? But come to think of it, what fun would it be if at all it was perfect ? I think , I'd come to pity such an individual, an individual whose life is " just perfect " , I meant.

If there was one thing that I could take back from people in Kerala, it's got to be their simplicity. Kerala; a land where the richest of blokes, prefer to wear a dhoti on marine drive. The most fashionable couples, celebrate romance, over a cup of coffee and rice plate. There is an essence in their broken english. It's such a mystery too. What would have taken a 17 word sentence, they're able to both convey and get, in six entirely unrelated words. Autos; As compared to their counterparts in Delhi, they're bliss.

I don't want to be rude, but I can't help generalizing women in Kerala to be fat. That said, they're much soft spoken. Not a trait I admire or abhor, but again there's an invisible piousness surrounding them. They head out from their homes, anointed beautifully and variedly on the forehead, to their respective places of work. Call it personal opinion, but the sight is just feel-good. It's like a caricature of India's progress , minus the frill. The more youthful women though , are dressed as normally as women in Delhi, minus, again, the frill. A simple kurta, a jeans to compliment it, neat hair, a fragrance which is anything but artificial, and you'll come to draw a mental portrait of the architypical Keralite woman . 


Kerala, God's own country as they call it. 

Turning Twenty Two

So, the candles blown, hips shaken and gifts taken. I've succumbed to yet another year of existence, teetering the unit digit of my age barometer by a unit distance . In short, only yesterday , I turned twenty two. I can't but help confess, that as soon as I hit the full stop of the last sentence, I observed for a while, the cursor blink monotonously , just to be able to realise the seriousness of what I had typed. Yes, I am twenty two. I know that I am, and I'm trying to convince myself that it's as much an occasion to feel a little grown up, as it is to sit back , hold that cup of tea and think about what lies ahead.

Just a day before, I was the insane horse riding in wilderness, with its whims tugged tight to the chest, unaware of the dichotomies of an adult life. Quite in contrast, right now I'm this twenty two year old hound, trying to visualize stuff, that otherwise seemed direly trivial, with a well weighed acumen and a long term perspective. I can all but ask myself, if this transcendent shift in thinking is but natural, or a figment of of my own hypersensitivity. Either ways , I'm forced to consider it.

Responsibility, in general, is repulsive. Now that I seem to be half a year away from affording myself completely, I seem to be at crossroads.Insecurity is like a dog , wagging its tail at the very sight of food. The food, here would be success, or anything that you may fear to lose. You may try harder to keep it with you, and much ironically, you may end up losing it ,just because you tried a little too hard. I'd rather opt out of trying too hard, or trying at all.

That said, I think , it's time. It's time, when I balanced things up. It's time, that I realised, that there was more to life than just me and my ambition. It's time that I explored as deep as I could in myself, just to be able to figure out , what I'm best at doing. It's time that I assumed responsibility, and said : Look world, and keep looking.