The First New One

This is a chronicle of the first few days of my ‘new life’ at the grad school in US. In the intervening summer between my grad school and my undergrad, during long lazy sleepless late night hours of lethargy, I scourged the internet for something of this sort – a commentary on the ‘new experiences’.  The deep-seated sense of curiosity mingled with an urge to gather info – any info – to help me succeed as a student kept me at this intermittently during that time. When I was in Hong Kong, I should have done this. I really makes for an awesome read years later, I realized this AFTER my exchange was over.

SO! I think that’s enough of build-up, and without further ado, I’ll go straight to the point (or as straight as I can).

The journey half-way across the world is overwhelming, emotionally and physically. You practically try to wrap up your life and pack it into two BIG suitcases and just leave everything behind. It’s not a good feeling. Being cooped up in a cramped space for around 20 hours doesn’t help either. Despite having done this before (while going to Hong Kong <HK from this point on>), I still was hit hard. Perhaps, the reason for it was two fold – when I was headed to HK, I had a return ticket – I knew when I was going to be back Home. Now <ahh.. I have no clue as to how long before I board a flight heading back home. An year? An year and a half? Your guess is as good as mine>. Secondly, it occupied a lot less brain space – then I was worried (worried is too heavy a word, I’d say concerned) about food and loneliness. On this journey, concerns about food and loneliness were just gift wrapped in cute little packages and handed to me after the glorious, humongous, mind blowing present of financial and educational worry were delivered to me.

Anyways, after 20+ glorious hours of incredible flights and 10 hours of pleasant layovers, which included a tiny flight delay of 3 hours, I landed in qwerty – the city which houses THE uni – the one I’d been crazy after since the last 2 years. I was here finally. The moment had arrived. I was there, finally. All the mundane and mind-numbing paperwork of visa documentation, etc etc was forgotten in a jiffy.

All I wanted to do now was to take THE uni by storm – announce the arrival of awesomeness from India. But alas, nothings that easy. First few days you are in your Honeymoon phase and you’re lost. Wait – did I talk about the phases yet? I haven’t, have I? Excuse the diversion, but I must tell you this.

Soooo….. I have this theory. Sorta kinda conclusions drawn from observations and a bit of extension in the form of hypothesis. In a new place, there are five distinct stages uptill <relatively> peaceful steady state. They are The Crush, The Affair, The Honeymoon, The Fight and The Reconciliation. It all begins online, you discover Her. The one you want. THE university. You smile and stalk her on the internet. By the end of the week, you know her biography by heart. Location, size, application deadline, fee structure et al. The courting begins. You talk to friends of friends who study there. You check out the pictures of the campus online. The webpage of the university slowly creeps up the list of ‘Most Visited’ in your Chrome. At this stage, you are stalking several other universities as well. You have an eye on all of them. She sends the most alluring signals – the scale of the research, the awesome faculty and things like that. You prepare to blow her off her feet – your Statement of Purpose. That particular document would have you look like a philanthropic Spock- dedicated to science, knowledge and benefit of humankind; devoid of feelings like greed, apathy or even the ability to feel tired. Finally you go down on one knee and apply – to all you were stalking. After a brief interlude the results are out. Turns out, several of these universities are interested in you as well. Here it gets exciting and tense. You finally pick one and convince yourself that she’s the best.

Now begins The Affair. You realize she is high maintenance and demanding. You are whipped. You spend months running around getting stuff done for her. Forms, interviews, loans what not. You start to have doubts creeping in. Is she worth it? But you stodgily keep at it. Your friends, who had different taste, are having fun <apparently> Facebook would have you believe so. Their choice is giving them rewards (salary) already. Their statuses pour in. You keep reminding yourself that this is what you wanted, that this university is the one for you. :-/ But all is not bad. She might be demanding, but she gives you Hope. You see people are happy with her <again courtesy fb>. Starry eyed, you keep at it. And keep checking off days till your rendezvous with her. And then comes the aforementioned enjoyable journey.

You get there and The Honeymoon begins. She is different from what you expected, but good different. Many things are better than back home – your new apartment would make your hostel mates chew their hearts out, the campus is stunning, the place is less crowded etc. You are lost and stupid <trying asking for directions and following them>. You survive the first week using GPS and eating Top Ramen. You double up a ketchup bottle as a pillow, but you somehow survive the first week. You haven’t unpacked your stuff. Looking for things from undies to your Passport is a task which takes time. Every moment is a new discovery. You meet new people, have a hard time remembering all those names but you pull through. There are signs that the road isn’t as smooth as it appears to be right now. You notice the difference between Her and your ex. You realize that your ex wasn’t that bad, given the circumstances she functioned in and the kind of funding she had. Also you notice things like this: everything’s BIG, the flight kindof took you up the magical beanstalk of the Jack and the beanstalk fame. The freeways, the people, the shopping areas, the cars, the girls. <yeah one piece of advice, if you are five feet six inches tall, leave yourself self-respect home. People here are tall. It doesn’t help if one of the hottest chicks you meet in the first few days is good 6 inches taller than you and still wears 4 inch heels. IT. FEELS. BAD. You feel minuscule.> Another thing: it seems you walked into a mirror. Everything is done in the opposite directions. Some are easy to notice – cars. Others are much more subtle – if you are walking and another person’s coming towards you, you step to the right hand side to give them passage.

The lack of connectivity bugs you. No laptop or even a phone for first couple of days. The frustration of not having a laptop gets to you pretty fast. You still manage to upload 20 pictures to fb in the Album titled ‘My New Life’. But you don’t care, nothing can stop you from smiling. This lasts for a fortnight, max 20 days.

Then you have The Fight. You know her pretty darn well to get by now. She isn’t as awesome as you thought she was initially. You know people but you have no friends. Finally the dam breaks and you start missing people back home. Since the moment you said goodbye, turned on your heels and wheeled the baggage into the airport, you knew this would happen. That is a strange kind of loneliness. It seems to feed off the darkness. Its okay in the daytime. As dusk turns to night, you shudder. There’s so much to tell but no one to tell to. Your new roommate is a nice person but he isn’t your best friend. You find a strange orange mushroom growing in the grass you’re excited beyond measure and when show it to your roommate he just shrugs. Your heart sinks. That’s when it happens. You realize the meaning of loneliness. Then you appreciate what a miracle modern technology is. You talk to your best friend on Skype – in real time. Sitting halfway across the world, you recognize the meaningful smile. You heart explodes with joy, but it is short-lived. You have to return to the cavern of the present and the loneliness. You still can’t grasp how your entire past life has been reduced to a few photographs on your desk.

Slowly, you try to find peace. You accept that things will never be the same as back home. You buckle down and admit that you are angry at Her because of no reason. Its not her fault that you are lonely. You get back your curiosity towards her, but this time it isn’t as acrid and intense. Its more of a slow, low flame. You start liking the city better because of tiny things – the radio stations play classic rock all day, the restaurant played your favorite rock song the other day, the people in your department are much more helpful than you thought they would be. You like the fact that you have a couch in your room and that there’s a grocery store a couple of blocks away. You start becoming more acquainted to your roommates. A clear sign of that is when you start abusing them and they abuse you back and you all laugh. You feel a little more settled, but still like an infant. The dusk becomes less scary. That probably marks the end of the beginning..... 

Gosh, I talked a lot this time, didn’t I. I think I should probably get going, now that I have yapped quite a lot. I should get back to the <sigh> assignment due tomorrow.


DISCLAIMER: Please appreciate the fact that I have written the analogy in a humorous way. No offence or disrespect intended to anyone.  

The Dry Leaf

What is that which gives you the sense of belonging? What makes you identify with your ‘hometown’?

I wish to reach out to any person who has ever spent an extended amount of time away from their ‘home’ – the place where they grew up. As an individual who came to university and in late teenage lived ‘away’ for the first time and sees the end of this phase staring at him in his face, this is an attempt to enunciate certain feelings. The problem is that my ability to express is severely inadequate. It is hard to put such things into words. Please bear with me, for this means a lot.

I have spent a good part of the last three-and-half years bragging about my hometown to anyone who would raise the topic. The mere mention of the name has always made my chest swell with pride and an inadvertent smile to cross my lips. Anyone from my city automatically became an ‘ally’. It was – no is, IS, ­the best city in the whole wide world – a blessed city, a tiny little piece of heaven. It is a simple concept – the foundation of so many good memories made it impossible to feel any other way.

I make the journey back ‘home’ a couple of times every semester. As I leave behind the city where I live now, I reach out the closet people and share with them my joy of heading back. I do it every single time – compulsively. The homecoming is ecstatic and euphoric. The smile is and easy and fresh – like a mountainous brook. I am going ‘home’ – to family, memories, good food and oh! the blessed evening breeze. I reach ‘home’ and as the initial euphoria recedes, a strange realization dawns – there is something different about how I feel. Being ‘home’ is supposed to make you happy naturally, without you even noticing – like ice cream or candyfloss. Now, there is a separate undercurrent, a strange unease.

On the surface, everything is hunky-dory. I walk into ‘my room’; it exudes a warm becalming aura. I look around, and think everything is as I left it - almost. I walk upto my old closet and open it, expecting it to be full of my clothes. A complete mental picture of what thing lies where. I jump back horrified. The closet if full of my dad’s files and notes. The realization dawns that most of my stuff is now in the hostel, the rest had been moved ages ago to a smaller closet. Then the discerning realization – I knew my stuff was moved, but I had chosen to forget it……

….. I am looking for a pen; I wander into my old ‘room’ and poke my hand into a bowl by the bedside. I kept pens there, back when I ‘lived’ here. Nothing but dust. Again, the chocking realizations that I knew pens are no longer kept here.

A strange sense of desperation starts creeping in. The uneasy feelings seem to seep from below the doors, the cracks in the windows like a noxious gas, terrorizing, asphyxiating, driving me crazy. I look for things that make me feel I ‘belong’.  I cling onto some remnants. The house secrets – where to look for the cookies, for spare change etc, the smell of the incense my mother burns. I resign to the fact that I register small changes every time I come home, but I choose to forget them when I am at the hostel, restoring the memories to the ‘original, pristine’ state.

A friend calls – I go out to meet him. He asks me to meet him at a certain eating joint. Instantly, I am lost. Where is it exactly? I drift along the road knowing that I am nearby the place. Finally, slowly, I turn to a passerby and ask for directions – in my ‘own’ city. Numbness creeps in. Listen-nod-walk. Brain churning – I have been reduced to a tourist in my ‘own’ city. Just to add to the miserable feeling, someone asks me for directions. I mumble – I don’t know - hang my head and walk.

As I return home, the things I used to give myself a feeling of belonging earlier in the day feel alien in my head. I almost feel like an intruder. Knowing details that I shouldn’t know about the house – ‘my home’. Intimacy lies in the detail. The detail has been lost on me. The image has been so fogged that it is barely recognizable. My ‘home town’ is a phantom city now – its exits only in my head – as a mirage, as a fragile beautiful poignant memory. The reality is overwhelmingly different and obtrusively smashes through my conscience. I am trapped in a time vortex. The memories drag me down and my fear pulls me up. I hang in balance – my mind taking the worst brunt of the overwhelming realizations. There I stay – as Rushdie put it- knocked in the middle – neither able to let go nor to rewind time.

I amble out for an evening stroll – and the stunning evening breeze blows across my path a dry, fragile, wrinkled but beautiful leaf.

 It just makes me smile and well up…..

Objectivity

That day he ran. Usually, he liked to walk, on Her suggestion that day, he ran. He shrugged his hunched frame, opened up his shoulder blades, drew up his stocky frame to full height and ran. Uninhibited and carefree. He splashed through the waves and the surf, stopping only at the far end of the beach. Panting, he bent forwards and turned his head backwards to look for Her. She soon caught up with him. A quaint, serene and beautiful smile played on her lips. ‘That was fun’ ‘Sure was’. They turned and started ambling back to their group, which looked like a jagged blotch of colour on the sparkling golden sands, like a stain on a rug. They are strange, these sort of friends. Prized possessions.

This memory is bottled up in head, safe and tight. He struggles trying to get the facts straight. Not romanticizing good memories and demonizing bad ones is hard. He closes his eyes….

Was the sand as golden as he sees it in the mental projection of that beach? Was she really smiling when he turned back to look at her? Or just panting? Was the sun really shining that prettily? It was overcast that day, wasn’t it? Even more scarily, did he run on the same beach as he now projects in his memory? Or was it on the other beach, a few weeks later, the much less beautiful, and lot more crowded beach?...

He exhales deeply and violently. The stench of stagnant rainwater and decaying rubbish pile are overbearing. ‘Lets get it over with’. He hurries into the gate keeping his eyes low, wanting to avoid anyone who knew him even slightly. He slinks past the buildings, offices and warehouses. The clanging and chattering of machines seems obtrusively loud and jarring. Every shadow appears menacing. Suppressing a shudder, he walks into the office, signs the forms, collects his documents and rushes out. He virtually jogs to the main gate, exits and doesn’t even bother to make sure that the gate closes behind him. He just wants to get away from this ruthless monstrosity....

This memory is bottled up in head, safe and tight. He struggles trying to get the facts straight. Not romanticizing good memories and demonizing bad ones is hard. He closes his eyes….

Was it really THAT smelly near the entrance? Or was it just a small puddle due to recent rain? Were the lawns not lush green and pretty? Were the people there not really kind and supportive to him, despite their nonchalance about his work? Hadn’t this clanging and chattering sounded endearing to him initially? Was the aversion to this place not partially due to the fact the botched up some things? Did the people there not help him sort his mistakes out?

“Objectivity leads to disenchantment. It clears the mist of emotions, enhances rationality and reduces delusions. Being deluded about anything never helps. The first step in resolving a problem is accepting the reality”

How empty these words sound even to him. He snorts with derision, still the words fascinate him. Preaching stuff he rarely if ever follows. If only his actions mapped his words, if only the inherent hypocrisy of his ‘theories’ would be resolved. If he could just be truthful to himself foremost, before even bothering about the world around him. 

Objectivity is a big word to throw around.

Feminine Psychology Conundrum

The feminine psychology has been an enduring mystery for the masculine gender since time immemorial. Legends have been narrated, volumes written, wisdom of the ages has been referred to trying to unravel and appreciate this aforementioned mystery. As a member of the human race (though some of my friends strongly disagree to that and compare me to the apes shown frolicking around in the movie 2001: A Space Odyssey) I too have had a few run-ins with the mystic area of feminine psychology. This is the story of one such incident.

Stage: Reading Room of my University.

 Actors: A female friend of mine, a male friend of mine, and yours truly. (The three of us are good friends)

I walk in as the girl and the guy are sitting beside each other in the reading room. She is obviously excited (high pitched voice, giggles and all) and is flaunting something on her laptop screen to the guy. I walk over, she sees me and with a flourish she turns the laptop towards me. There is this picture of her getting off from a car in a *PINK* <Humph!!> saree. Without me asking she informs me with all the enthusiasm of the world that this was the saree she wore to a relative’s wedding. Almost jumping up and down in her seat, she enquires that how she looked. I smile politely and even though I am remotely interested in that picture, I concentrate my faculties onto it. A seconds contemplation, and I comment “You look nice in red”. Suddenly the heavens split and the earth quakes. I shrill, indignant voice splits the heavy, morose ambience of the reading room. “That’s not pink, that’s RED”. A few seniors look up from their monstrous books. Annoyed, they frown and blink disapprovingly from behind their thick glasses in our direction. In an urgent whisper, I say, that’s not red. The symbol for acrobat reader is red. (Only legitimate example that popped up in my head, that too because of I suddenly noticed the minimized Acrobat Reader icon on her laptop’s Taskbar.)

“That’s maroon” she says. She whips her head towards our male mutual friend sitting next to her.

- “Tell him he is colour blind. Calling red as pink. That day he called my cute shoes green.”

-“Dude!! Isnt that pink?”

-“Naah! Its &#^##$*(Some colour I never had heard of before)”

- “No its not, but you are really close. This is a slightly different shade. But atleast you have some sense. He here calls it pink.”

-“But you look so nice naa!!” I try to douse the fire. But boy, was I late. REALLY late. She buldozes over my compliment. Her big expressive eyes flag red. She is hurt. That’s the problem, the hurt. You curse a guy, he curse back. You compliment a girl, somehow you are wrong and she gets hurt. And you are screwed. Royally.

-“This is a Kanchipuram saree, 1g of Gold embroidery, 20 thousand rupees. First time a wear a saree, took me hours to get it right. Cant believe you said that.”

Uh oh! I think. What did I do? WHAT did I say? Didn’t I praise her, although I hadn’t the slightest interest in her saree? Stunned, I stand there dumbfounded. She sniffs, frowns and looks back towards her laptop, resolutely turning her back towards me. I turn appealingly towards my male friend. He just smirks – he is not in the line of fire presently. My senses hum slightly. My shoulders droop, I mumble a goodbye and walk to the next table and slump into a chair.

We talked about it later, and things were fine. This story has been presented to show the conundrum, We, the masculine gender often face in our daily lives about simple situations. Any help in trying to resolve this conundrum is appreciated.

Disclaimer: A purely personal opinion on an incident. It is an attempt to caricaturize certain situations. No offence intended to anyone.

Black and Blue!

He stands there clueless. His hand hovering an inch over the pile of T-shirts. Reluctantly he drops his hand. Thinking about what you are going to wear is a tough job he concludes glumly. So much easier when you don’t pay even the tiniest amount of heed to your physical appearance. Not a lot more you expect out of a person who lets his mother do his shopping – even at 21. Then; panic blasts through his mind – I can’t look stupid, what should I do? A pair of black jeans in one hand, and eyes still on the bright red  T-shirt. It had been a gift from his elder brother, years ago. He tries to remember what had made him stop and reconsider wearing that red T-shirt. Suddenly that memory – crystal clear - came to the surface of his mind - his brother’s sharp sarcastic taunting voice rang through his head. “ Red and black? Dude! You are stupid aren’t you? No clue about dressing sense. Haha” Back then he had just made a face at his brother and worn what he felt like. Now he isn’t so sure. He self consciously thinks about looking presentable. All the apprehensions he had buried away with weeks of effort; start simmering in his mind. From his hideout in the cozy little cavern in his mind, his shy introvert avatar pokes his head out and smiles distantly. His thoughts drift.

You don’t want to be late for a casual meeting with an acquaintance and – daresay- a casual friend. Especially if the acquaintance is of the opposite sex and you are meeting after 3 years. He curses himself silently for his laziness earlier. Today morning, as of habit, he had turned off the alarm; set it to an hour later, rolled over and gone back to sleep. – ‘Forget breakfast and the newspaper, just a quick shower. I’ll be good.’ The lazy-him had spoken in a drowsy voice then. The alarm dutifully had rung again an hour later; he had snapped up his phone, turned off the alarm, stretched and slowly gotten out of bed. He still had sufficient time, had it not been for the dilemma about shaving. As he had begun walking out of his room for a shower; he eyes fell upon his dishevelled image in the mirror – and subsequently on his 2 day stubble. - C’mon! This complicates stuff. Should I shave?  His natural aversion to shaving – he had made a fetish of not shaving during his exams; plus laziness and a general nonchalance about the way he looked made it a hard decision. He absently rubbed his hand on his face. ‘Fine I’ll shave.’ A shave and shower later; he is standing there in front of his wardrobe foolishly.

With a shake of his head he sends his thoughts away – to rest peacefully and drags his himself back to the problem at hand – T-shirt. 11:03. – Damn! I better hurry, or I’ll run late. The fretful him spoke in a high pitched tinny voice. He gingerly picks up a few of the T-shirts and flops them on his chair. He eyes a green and a blue one and then without much thought picks up the blue one; hoping with all his might that at this attire may not make him look stupid or negligent in appearance. (Hours later; his blissful oblivion about the shades of blue came to an end, when the internet helped him differentiate between cyan, navy and royal blue; STILL he had a hard time discerning the exact colour he wore that day. Cyan? Turquoise? Electric Blue? Sky Blue?)

Taking a deep breath; he hurriedly dresses and leaves. On his way; in the metro, the wisps of the idea of consultation a friend take up concrete shape. He types out half-a-message to his female best friend; then erases it, not wanting to answer the inevitable deluge of questions that is bound to follow such an inquiry. “Gosh! I am poor at colour coordination. Does light blue go with black jeans?” Precise, direct and to the point – just like his favourite professor, who has unintentionally influenced a lot in his life. He fires off this text to his male best friend. “hehe. Generally, light and dark go well. N yeah, blue goes well with black jeans.”- Comes the reply. The soothing and unassuming tone relaxes him a bit. The next message says “Why the sudden heed to what goes well with what? Hmmm” He deftly sidesteps the question and changes the discussion to a random topic. A little jolt hits him as he sees a new message from his acquaintance. “I am there. Call/text me when you get here” All through the journey half his attention had been towards the time and the realization dawns on him that he is already a little late. “See you in 5. Almost there” He replies.

          Familiarity with the area helps him in easily finding the designated place to meet; and he stands there squinting in the bright sunlight looking around, unsure and tentative about his next move and sudden indecision creeping in. Silently but surely nerves and self consciousness creep up on him. “I am there” he texts and waits. The scalding sunlight hastens his decision to enter the mall. Without waiting even for a minute; he texts “I just entered the mall” His eyes darting around, anxiously looking for her, he enters into the cool air conditioned atrium of the shopping mall. He soon finds her waiting near the entrance inside, and both of them spontaneously smile.

It takes a minute for him to register – she is wearing blue and black as well. Royal blue top, black jeans and sneakers – whose shoelaces are undone. And as suddenly as they had appeared all his inhibitions, nerves and self consciousness vanish. The shoelace pleasantly flops around as she walks besides him and he smiles. The next three hours just glide past, the conversation flowing like water from a spring – cool, quick, light and relaxed.

          On his way back; he texts his best friend: “Yeah! Blue and black works! :-P”

Roger Federer: Finesse, Magic and Inspiration

Roger Federer – all of us know this guy. At some point; we all have watched him play – even if we are all crazy for cricket or; especially the girls; don’t feel interested in sports at all. It’s a foregone conclusion that he is a great player. Maybe the best ever; but who am I or any of us to conclude? Much more experienced and knowledgeable people have written about him. Hundreds of articles abound the internet; analysing why is he so special, what makes him him. A polite peek at the stats shows that he is one of the most successful athletes of all time. All this is common knowledge. Then; why am I writing this? There is no great secret about him that I can reveal; no mind-boggling new analysis of his nimble footwork or dextrous wrists or stunning single – handed backhand I can offer.

          A confession first: I am a die-hard Federer fan. When I saw him lose to Djokovic last week in the French Open 2012 semi-final; something deep inside me stirred. I walked back to my room; dejected and depressed. That day; I ended up spending an hour and a half watching Federer videos on Youtube (bless the internet). I looked up videos of the time when he was at his vintage best – 2005 to 2007 or 2008. The time he completely dominated the game. Slowly but surely; my sullen mood lifted. I cheered his amazing shots; and clapped like a child with the shots. It got me thinking again; why did these make me feel better?

          As a 14 or 15 year old; I ardently followed Tennis on TV. I myself play table tennis. The more I saw of Federer; the fascinated I became. The on court demeanour; the calmness; the eons of time he seems to have to hit the ball; the reflexes; how quickly he moved around the court; the impossible shots he hit; the way he dismantled his opponents, and a million other tiny things. When I play; I turn into this raging, aggressive, gesticulating, shouting maniac. I have a hard time controlling my emotions. Also; I see the ball coming; but I can’t hit it the way I want to; put it where I want to. Federer did these with effortless ease. A valid point that I can myself make is any professional player has these attributes. But something in Roger Federer was different – he inspired me. Maybe it was because there was more to his game than brute strength. The pleasing-to-the-eye way he carried himself. How he turned the game into a show of elegance. I read more about him – he had anger management issues as a teenager. He was expected to conquer the world of tennis; but his start was slow etc etc. Watching him play inspired me to improve. If you have played any sport; even at school level; you’ll appreciate the fact that you need a constant source of inspiration to push yourself.

          He left a deep ingrained impression on me. Watching him was an exciting breathless experience – you never knew when the next audacious shot came up, the cross – court single handed backhand winner, the sliced backhand passing shot, the amazingly agile serve – it still surprises me how he managed to put the serve in any corner with the same ball-toss. He made me his lifelong fan and source of inspiration. When Marat Safin defeated him in Australian Open (2005) semi final I remember foregoing dinner as I was so upset. That match showed me his mortality. He is also a human- and can make mistakes (he blew away a match point that day). The 2006 Wimbledon final is an epic classic – no one can deny that. Now as I realize that he is past his prime – with changing priorities (he is a family man now) and age catching up – I may not witness the bewitching grace and fluidity of Federer very long now. It saddens me. It’ll be a great loss to tennis when he calls it a day, more so, a lot of youngsters coming up wont be able to learn from him by watching him in action. Tennis will lose a role model.

Now as Wimbledon approaches us; I cant help but hope, c’mon Federer turn back the clock – show us your A game – just once lets us all be mesmerised again!!

Keeping your Sanity

                                                           Keeping your sanity

Chaos. Cacophony. Commotion. Contradictions. I can a bucketload of adjectives beginning with a ‘c’ here. Do these words ever start to describe the world that surrounds us? Perpetually lost we are. Hopelessly; pointlessly looking around for directions to our lives; as the world rushes by; and we run along with it. Doing a million things. Talking, thinking, working, almost like automated stoic drones. We are standing still and hurtling towards a black vast unknown at the same time. It's terrifying and enthralling. Challenging and demoralizing. bringing the best and worst out of us. 

                   But do we Actually know what is going on? What we want? Who we are? What we want to be and what we are becoming? The validation of our actions? The questions are fine; but where are the answers? There is light at the end of the tunnel (or is there?) but how long is the tunnel? How to keep your sanity? How to NOT lose the plot (Is there a plot at all?) Alright; enough said! Time to plunge into the monstrous; frightening ocean of the real world again. Time to transcend 'back' out of the realm of thoughts. Pearls cannot be found in this parallel dimension. Pearls lie in that murderous ocean; gather your courage and plunge! Back to work! \m/