1 thing you should start doing (Sorry I don't have a "gif")

There is a lot that is wrong with the articles currently circulated on social websites. Judging by the "likes" and "shares" they are pretty popular too. I will be honest. I don’t like them one bit. I think they are doing what Chetan Bhagat did to literature. They inspire new readers (the good part) and then they restrict them to that for their whole life (the horror part). And I failed to fathom why this happens. I understand no one starts with big profound literary works. I started with champak, balhans, Nancy Drew, Sydney Sheldon,  and then build my way gradually up.

And it's not just that way for people who start early. I have introduced novels to a lot of my friend (And I say it with a lot of pride) and I see them reading such big range of work now. Its generally small books initially; Animal Farm , To Kill a Mockingbird, O Henry's short stories, Premchandra 's short stories. But the guys who start with Chetan Bhagat, I don’t know what happens to them. All they could reach is "Anything for you Mam."

And I think I see the same pattern with Scoopwhoop or Storypick or other sites of the same sort. No one now seems to have the time to enjoy a good long article. No New Yorker, Der Spiegel or any random blog for that matter. And this really saddens me. But the article is not about that.

There are other things here that annoy me. The bulletisation for one." 10 things you should do (7th is awesome)". Does no one have the patience to read a paragraph anymore? And I think gifs are cool but that's what 9gag is for. I would like to keep them separate. It was probably funny the first two-three times but to make a template out of it just irritates me. The quality of language seems to be a clear outcome of the recklessness that comes with deadlines.

It is about something more important. Something that we as a society seem to be losing. If you have a bit of time at your hand just quickly go through the above paragraphs. Notice the number of times that I have used "I". I think it is irritating. I think the quality is not good...and so on .". Now go to any of these websites. Notice the number of "you" there. "10 things you should do", "10 things you should avoid", "Why you should marry a girl who travels". 

Welcome my friend to the world of diminished individuality. A world, where people don’t share experiences as "food for thought". They shovel advice down your throat. When an anchor says the "nation wants to know" he assumes that his question is the all important all knowing one. I don't like Chetan Bhagat novels and I like people who travel and I may even use that as some basis for selecting my friends. But that would be because I would opt for compatibility. But no fucking way in hell, have I the right to say that I am better than them. They could have other things. They may not like to travel much but just want to listen to music on weekends. Who am I to compare a sight of the flowing river with the melody of Beatles.

One may leave a high paying job and I would love to hear his/her experience but it would be absolutely foolish of him/her to say that nobody should pursue high paying jobs. This act of making us follow one path and one path only horrifies me. The news channels are the same. Gone are the days of debate. I remember my teachers telling me in school that a chance of debate reaching a conclusion is nigh impossible. The idea is to listen to both sides and take out the insights. Try telling that to the newsroom debates of today where the conclusion is fixed even before the debate begins.

This has now crept up in our day to day life as well. Very often I would take what I do as a standard template and try to force fit the life of people around me into it. There is a sense of security in it. There is ease in it too. Don't we all love if everybody will speak the same language as we do? But this needs to be checked against.

So ironically I will end it with a "Thou shall not " statement. Don't force your views on others. Present them as an option but leave the choice to others. That's all I ask.

Password Story

Password Story

After the 9/11 crisis, Microsoft faced an issue. To retrieve the passwords of people who died. It looks trivial and yes, inhumane too in front of the tragedy that had just occurred. Regardless, it was a serious problem. A lot of people were privy to information only known to them and their computer/mailbox. In the absence of the password it would all have been lost.

The brute force technique would have solved it eventually but would have taken a lot of time. To give an example let's assume that password is to be of 5 characters and all of them letters. The machine will start with applying aaaaa as a password and will try all combinations till zzzzz until the password is retrieved. That's 26^5 combinations. And in the real word the passwords are more than 5 letters , the length is also not fixed and special characters and uppercase letters are also involved. It is clearly a tough, very tough task.

So they have to look at the person's life for inputs. For e.g. , was he married? If yes, than could his marriage anniversary be a password. How did they combine this information with brute force exactly, I can only imagine. And this blog is definitely not going to cover that.

What I was interested in is how that little password; that is there only for security reasons; that has no impact or belonging to our life; could carry so much of "us" in it. Based on our need to remember it we award to it a print of our personality.

Of course it's not the same for everyone. The" security-ease of remembering" trade off creates a fascinating scene. The absolute pro-security ones will make up an absolute random password like 12sfgdv$%k and commit it to memory. The one that favours ease of remembrance will opt for birthday dates, wedding dates etc. It's the one in middle that fascinates me. Those who would like their password to be secure enough to be random to others but personal enough for them to remember. In the process of doing so they provide to it an imprint of their personality. The imprint could be well thought off or could be more subconscious.

There is this absolutely moving story of how a mother found out about his son's homosexuality only after his death. His password was" lambda1969". Lambda is the Greek word "I" sometimes referring to the gay liberation. The year 1969 referring to the year of stonewall riots.

My passwords were never this profound but now that I look at them closely they do reveal some things about me. Initially my passwords were names of famous English movies like "matrix" , "killbill" etc. I grew up in a small town where English was, and I dare say;  is, something that commands respect. The fact that I can understand English movies gave me something of a status. Also that they were much better than hindi movies, is a statement not many would argue on. So basically it was something that I liked and gave me a bit of status. No wonder they became my initial passwords.

My password up next, "confuse" or some variation of it pretty much defines my after school years. I had one focus in the later part of my school life; To get into an IIT. Once I was there I was not really sure if that was what I wanted to do . I felt like coming back but then I was not sure if I wanted to come back either. It is the confusion of choosing what to do that just stayed with me and crept its way to my password. In between there was time of homesickness where my password became my hometown itself. "Banswara". There was also a time; that I remember now with a fair amount of cringe, when a conversation with my Ex tested my patience to a hilt resulting in the password "fuckyouall". The fact that my password today is a far more positive word tells me that I probably came out of it all Okay (Fingers crossed)

So here is what I would want you guys to do. Think of your old or new passwords and think of the way it captures you and I would love to hear your story. I think it's a fascinating read into somebody (and I do know this is borderline voyeurism but I am what I am) and also I think it would be nice to create a story about it.

I really don’t know what I am looking for and probably it's too much to ask for anyway.

But I do believe there is a compelling urge in everyone to make their stories heard just like there is a compelling urge in me to hear those stories. Here is the link for you to send me the stories anonymously. There is an option of sharing your details too but needless to say they would be purely confidential.

Your password story . I must admit my reach to social media is fairly limited so do help me spread it around. If you know of someone who would be interested in sharing his password story , feel free to forward the link around.

Goa Supari

ये बात तब की हैं जब मैं स्कूल मैं पड़ा करता था. हाँ काफ़ी वक़्त हो चला हैं. इतना तो यक़ीनन ही के यहाँ वहा
बिखरे सच्चाई के फीके हिस्से "Nostalgia" के "Palette" से रंगसार हो जाए. बेहतरी भी इसी मैं हैं. असल कहानी तो नीरस ही होती हैं

पर उपर की कुछ एक पड़ते उकेरो, आड़े तेडे उभारो को सहला के समतल करो, हल्के हाथो से पिचके हुए कोनो को समतल करो , अपनी कल्पना के रंग उपर से छिद्को और जैसे वो "Cooking shows" मे कहते हैं ना , कहानी तैयार. देखने मे बेशक सच्चाई  से बिल्कुल ही अलग लगे पर परत दो परत नीचे से ही सच्चाई की नींव दिखने लग जाएँगी . फिर चाहे उसे "Fiction" कहो या "Fantasy" अंतत:कोई साधारण सा इंसान एक लगभग साधारण सी ज़िंदगी ही जी रहा होता हैं

अरे ये बात बात पे मुद्दे से भटकने की मेरी बड़ी ही पुरानी और बेकार आदत हैं. अब कहाँ  मैं कहानी सुनाने जा रहा था और कहाँ  कहानी की परिभाषा स्थापित करने लगा. तो हाँ बात मेरे स्कूल के वक़्त की हैं. मैं पाँचवी या छ्थी मे पड़ता हूँगा और घर से स्कूल बमुश्किल ३ किलो मीटर की दूरी पे होगा. तो बस मुहल्ले के सारे बच्चें  साथ ही पैदल स्कूल जाते थे और फिर साथ मैं ही वापिस. रास्ते मैं १ पान सिगरेट की दुकान पड़ती थी जिसे हम सब ललचाई नज़रो से देखा करते थे. नही नही सिगरेट  जैसी कोई खराब  आदत नही थी मुझे . मुझे तो यहा तक पान भी कोई ख़ास नही भाता था . पर "Chewing Gum" चबाने का बड़ा शौक था. यू स्वाद तो कुछ ख़ास उसका भी नही लगता था और जो थोड़ा बहुत होता भी था वो बस पहले १-२ मिनट मे ख़त्म हो जाता था. फिर तो बस लगता था की "Rubber" चबा रहे हो जैसे . पर फिर भी "Chewing Gum" चबाने का एक अपना ही टॅशन था . सारे बल्लेबाज़ टीवी पे "Chewing Gum" चबा के ही "Batting" करने आते थे. हमारे भी मुक़ाबले चलते थे के कौन कितनी देर तक एक ही "chewing gum" चबा सकता हैं . घंटो चबाते रहते थे चाहे जबड़ा ही क्यों ना दुखने लगे.

और कुछ समय से "Centre Fresh" के साथ "Cricket cards" भी मिलने लगे थे. इन "cards" की भी अपने आप मैं एक अलग ही कहानी थी. हवा मैं बात थी के जो पूरे के पूरे १०० कार्ड्स इकट्‍ठे कर लेंगा उसे एक "bat" मिलेंगा . और वो भी कोई ऐसा वैसा नही , SG का. बड़े बड़े खिलाड़ी खेला करते थे उससे पुनीत बता रहा था हज़ारो मैं कीमत होती हैं उसकी. खैर मैने "हवा मैं बात " जुमले का प्रयोग इसलिए किया क्योंकि हमारी तमाम कोशिशो के बावजूद हम सब मिलकर भी वो १०० कार्ड्स जुटा नही पाए और उस "SG Bat" की सच्चाई असत्यापित ही रह गयी.

मेरी कहानी उस पान की दुकान से ही चालू होती हैं एक दिन एक आदमी उस पान की दुकान के बाजू मैं आके बैठ गया. आदमी भी बस कहने को ही था. मैले कुचले कपड़े जो की यहा वहा से फटे हुए थे . पैबंड लगाने की कोशिश की गयी थी पर उनकी हालत देखले कह सकते थे की उस प्रयास को भी काफ़ी वक़्त गुज़र चुका था. बाल बिखरे हुए जिनमे धूल भरी हुई थी. और उपर से १ शब्द भी नही बोलता थे जैसे किसी ने ज़ुबान पे ताला मार दिया हो उसके.

मेरा गाँव एक छोटा सा शांत सा गाँव था. और अभी तक तो "news channels" ने अपनी सनसनीखेज़ खबरो का आक्रमण भी चालू नही किया था. ऐसी परिस्थितियो मैं उस पान की दुकान के बगल वाले पागल का  कौत्तहूल का विषय बनना स्वाभाविक ही था

तरह तरह के कयास लगाए  जाते और हर दो तीन  दीनो मैं १ पक्की खबर तो यक़ीनन ही आ जाती. 

"  अरे बड़ा होनहार था , वैष्णव देवी की यात्रा के लिए निकला था अपने परिवार के साथ. Bus accident मे दोनो माँ बाप चल बसे . अब या तो उनकी मौत का सदमा था या फिर इसके सिर पे लगी चोट तभी सी इसकी ऐसी हालत हो गयी हैं ", शर्मा जी ने ये पक्की कहानी सुनाई. 

"बहुत प्यार करता था अपनी बीवी से. और बीवी थी भी इतनी खूबसूरत की जो देखे बस देखता रह जाए. जानने वालो ने बहुत समझाया की अपनी बीवी को इतनी आज़ादी मत दो . घर की इज़्ज़त घर की दीवारो  मे  ही शोभा देती हैं. पर ये तो प्यार मे पागल था . एक ना सुनी किसी की . फिर तो बस जो होना था वही हुआ. भाग गयी एक दिन वो .उस दिन जो टूटा ये तो फिर ना उबर सका" मिश्रा जी ने पुर विश्वास के साथ ये पक्की खबर बताई 

"बीवी का खून कर दिया दहेज के लिए. जब पोलीस को पता चल गया तो बचने के लिए पागल होने का नाटक चालू कर दिया " राजेश भैय्या ने अपनी "conspiracy theory" दी. राजेश भैय्या की पड़ाई तो पूरी हो चुकी थी पर नौकरी की तलाश अभी भी ज़ारी थी . अपना खाली वक़्त वो जासूसी किताबें पद के निकाला करते थे.

ऐसे बहुत सी कहानिया रोज़ आती रहती थी. उस वक़्त ध्यान नही दिया पर एक बात गौर करने वाली थी . लगभग सारी कहानिया  ही अपनो से बिछर्ने  की थी. किसी ने भी ये नही कहा की उसकी नौकरी नही लगी या "exam"  मे  फेल हो गया . कही ना कही सब जानते थे की इन मामूली बातों से किसी को सदमा नही लगता . हस्यापद बात ये हैं की हम अपनी पूरी ज़िंदगी इन गैर ज़रूरी बातो मे इस कदर उलझे रहते हैं की ज़रूरी बातें यानी  अपनो के लिए वक़्त ही नही निकाल पाते . कहा था ना मैने मुद्दे से भटकने की बड़ी ही बेकार आदत हैं मेरी.

खैर बहुत सी ऐसी पक्की खबरो के बाद लोगों का ध्यान भटकने लग गया . लोग अब बोर होने लगे थे. विषय निस्संदेह रोचक था पर दिक्कत ये थी की कहानी का मुख्य पात्र कुछ भी नही बोलता था. अब कब तक कोई और उसके शब्द ईजाद करता रहे . तो कहानी स्थिर हो गयी और वो पान की दुकान के बगल वाला पागल हमारी रोज़ की ज़िंदगी का एक भूला सा पहलू बन गया .

और फिर एक दिन अचानक ही वो बोला . नही नही कोई दार्शनिक वचन नही कहे उसने बस दो शब्द कहे . "गोआ सुपारी"

महेश अंकल हमेशा ही उसके पास कुछ खाने का समान रख दिया करते थे. आज तो वो बहुत ही अच्छी स्थिति मे हैं पर बचपन मे काफ़ी ग़रीबी देखी थी उनने. शायद इसलिए ही उस पागल से एक जुड़ाव महसूस करते थे . उनके बचपन की कोई याद ताज़ा हो जाती थी शायद . 

एक दिन उन्होने खाने के बजाय  कुछ रुपये रख दिए. पहले भी कुछ लोगो ने रुपये रखे थे पर उस पागल ने कभी ध्यान नही दिया . अब पागल का दिमाग़ कौन ही समझे पर वो लगातार बिना आँखें झपकाए रुपयों को देखता रहा.  और फिर ठीक वैसे ही महेश अंकल को. ये कार्यकर्म कुछ देर तक जारी रहा .महेश अंकल भी ना जाने क्यों स्तब्ध से खड़े रहे .

और फिर पागल ने पान की दुकान पे इशारा किया और कहाँ "गोआ सुपारी". इस एक वाकये ने इस नीरस होती कहानी को फिर से रोचक बना दिया . निश्चय ही किसी भी कहानीकार ने इस कहानी मैं गोआ सुपारी के प्रवेश का अनुमान नही  लगाया होगा . और अब तो कयास लगाना भी मुश्किल था. अब भाई बिछ्राव मौत यहा तक कत्ल तक भी सब ठीक था पर इन सबमे गोआ सुपारी कहाँ से बिठाए . 

मेरे गाँव को कम ना समझे आप. हार किसी ने नही मानी. प्रयास अभी भी जारी थे. पर उन कहानियों मे अब वो "conviction" नही था. वो पागल एक  अंबूझ पहेली बन गया था और अंबूझी पहेली किसे अच्छी नही लगती 

तो अब उस पागल को गोआ सुपारी खिलाने के लिए भीड़ इकट्ठा होने लगी . जैसे वो कोई पागल ना हो कोई भगवान की मूर्ति हो और लोग गोआ सुपारी नही प्रसाद चड़ा रहे हो . खैर पहले  कुछ दिन जैसी भीड़ तो बाद मैं नही दिखी पर कुछ लोग बराबर वहा जाते रहे . आश्चर्यजनक रूप से मेरे माता पिता भी उन लोगो मे से थे. आश्चर्यजनक इसलिए क्योंकि दोनो ही ज़्यादा सामाजिक नही थे . ना मंदिर जाते थे ना किसी कोँमिटी का हिस्सा थे. पर लगभग रोज़ ही शाम को हम गाड़ी से जाते और पापा उस को एक गोआ सुपारी खरीद के दे देते . और वो पागल हँसने लगता. बाद मे पता चला की ये ज़िद मा की थी. 

ज़िद क्यों थी ये भी कभी समझ नही आया. हर बार मा रुआंसी हो जाती थी वहा पे . बस यही कहती थी की उसकी आँखों मे कितनी पीड़ा हैं कितनी वेदना हैं . और मुझे लगता था की मा के स्क्रू ढीले हो गये हैं . क्योंकि  मुझे तो बस १ हंसता हुआ पागल दिखी देता था जो गोआ सुपारी खाता था. हंसते हुए कोई दुखी कैसे हो सकता हैं . और अगर मान भी लूँ की वो दुखी हैं तो क्यों ही कोई उसे देखना चाहेंगा. बड़े लोगों की बड़ी बड़ी बातें 

कुछ वक़्त तक ये सिलसिला चलता रहा . फिर १ दिन उस पागल का वहाँ बैठना बंद हो गया . पूछताछ की तो पता चला की वो उस पान की दुकान से चोरी करने लगा था इसलिए उस दुकान वाले ने उसे मार मार के भगा दिया . आदत जो पद गयी थी उसे खाने की. उसके बाद वो पागल कहाँ गया किसी को नही पता. लोगों ने भी थोड़े दिन ढूँढा उसे और उससे भी ज़्यादा कुछ दिन और वो लोगों की चर्चा का हिस्सा बना रहा पर फिर आँखों से ओझल कहानी कितने ही समय लोगो का ध्यान खींच पाती . धीरे धीरे हर कोई उस पागल को भूल गया. मैं भी कोई अपवाद नही था

आज उस गाँव से काफ़ी दूर निकल आया हूँ. मुंबई बेहद बड़ा शहर हैं पर पता नही क्यों उस छोते से गाँव के ख़ालीपन को ये इतना बड़ा शहर भर नही पा रहा. सतह पे सब ठीक हैं . ठीक ठाक  सी नौकरी हैं कहने को बहुत सारे दोस्त भी हैं जिनके साथ इधर उधर घूमने भी जाते रहता हूँ . कई बार बस लगता हैं की भागते रहना ज़रूरी हैं वरना वो ख़ालीपन निगल लेगा . और  बस भागता रहता हूँ. क्या मैं खुश हूँ ? मुझे पता नही . मैं दुखी तो नही ही हूँ . खुशी की परिभाषा वैसे भी क्या हैं.जो मानो तो खुशी जो ना मानो तो गम . पर बस किसी भी पार्टी मैं , किसी भी ट्रिप पे, ऑफीस के जोक्स पे किसी की ग़लतियो पे, आजकल जब भी हंस रहा होता हूँ उस पागल का चेहरा आँखों के सामने आ जाता हैं. और उसकी आँखों की पीड़ा अब बड़ी साफ साफ दिखाई देती है.

Place to hide

I never 'meet' in meetings
I just hear the hollow sounds
When jargon leaves me tongue tied
How i wish for a place to hide

I wake up and think

of the day ahead and sigh

I will march on taking it all in stride

But how i wish for a place to hide

When my friends come over

We talk share jokes we smile

Yet with no reason on my side

I do long for a place to hide

True, no man is an island

but nor is he a local train

i do not regret this ride

But how i wish for a place to hide

So many do's and don't in this world
guffaws replaced with repressed smiles
while all etiquette I do abide
But how i wish for a place to hide

When you trust somebody

You give them the power to strike

While i try to let that one comment slide

How i wish for a place to hide

The world is tough and hardly fair

Failure are hard and too many to bear

As i soothe my hurt pride

How i wish for a place to hide

We are so quick to judge , compartmentalize

Will i ever be understood

or my legacy be a stereotype

someone who wished for a place to hide

नज़रिया

मुझे डिसेंबर का महीना बहुत ही अच्छा लगता हैं. वो रातो की कँपकपि खड़ी कर देनी वाली गुस्सेल गरजती हवा और वो सुबह की प्यारी प्यारी गर्माहट से भरी माँ जैसी धूप. हाँ कभी कभी रातो को हवा कुछ ज़्यादा ही नाराज़ हो जाती हैं . पैर जम के बर्फ की सिल्ली से हो जाते हैं. कितनी ही कोशिश कर लो नींद आए नही आती. पर इसका तोड़ भी बड़ा मज़ेदार होता हैं   माँ गोद मे सर रख सरसो के तेल की मालिश कर देती हैं और सारी सर्दी दूर भाग जाती हैं. और जब माँ थकी हुई होती हैं तब तो चाँदी हो जाती हैं . पापा की बॉटल से २-३ घूँट मारने मिल जाते हैं और पूरे शरीर मैं गर्मी दौड़ने लग जाती हैं. क्या जम के नींद आती हैं की पूछो मत.

बस शाम साली बहुत छोटी होती हैं . टॉस जीत जाओ तब तक तो ठीक हैं वरना तो बॅटिंग आती ही नही हैं. किशोर का क्या गंदा कटा अभी . खुद का बैट हैं तो बहुत ही भाव खाता हैं कमीना . ५ दिन से लगातार जिस टीम मैं था वो टॉस हार गयी अब अपने बैट का जो उखाड़ना हैं उखाड़ ले. बॅटिंग आई ही नही साले की.

पर डिसेंबर का सबसे अच्छा वक़्त तो शाम ढलने के बाद आता हैं . जब शादी होती हैं और खाने को मिलता हैं . पापा मुझे भी साथ ले जाते हैं .बड़ी मुश्किल से रोकता हूँ खुद को लोगो का खाना ख़त्म होंने तक .और गुलाब जामुन तो मैं पहले ही दबा लेता हूँ , खाना परोसते वक़्त जब किसी का ध्यान नही होता . ठंड मैं गरम गरम गुलाब जामुन खाने का जो मज़ा हैं क्या ही कहूँ और फिर भरे पेट जो नींद आती हैं ना बता नही सकता

पर अगर कोई एक चीज़ जो मुझे सबसे अच्छी लगती हैं तो वो हैं बारात.ये महँगे महँगे कपड़े पहन के आते हैं. कितना खर्चा करते हैं. और कितने खुश होते हैं सब . नाचते भी ऐसे हैं जैसे सिनेमा मे हीरो हीरोइन नाचते हैं.  और बस नाचते रहते हैं . रुकते ही नही . खाने की भी कोई जल्दी नही . उनके लिए तो रोज़ की बात होती हैं ना. मैं भी रोड पे खूब ज़ोर ज़ोर से नाचता हूँ जब बैंड वाले गाना बजाते हैं. बारात वाले लोग भी मुझे देख के हंसते रहते हैं .

कितना अच्छा होता होगा ना अमीर होना . कितने अच्छे दिखते हैं सब. और कोई परवाह ही नही हैं. ना खाने की चिंता . ना बीमार होने की चिंता . दे मोटे मोटे कोट पहन के आते हैं . ग़ुस्सेल सर्दी तो इनको छू भी नही सकती . बड़ा हो के मैं भी अमीर बनूंगा . और फिर ऐसे ही बारात मैं जाऊँगा. खुश, अच्छे अच्छे कपड़ो मैं. बिना किसी चिंता के बिल्कुल तरीके से नाचते हुए . १ दिन ज़रूर.


Its 5 AM in the morning. I am dazed, still in sleep. Waiting for my flight. Now why am i here? Oh! because i need to attend a friend's wedding.Why i ask myself. Why do i torture myself so. But i know the answer. I do it because it  is expected. And my life is but a painful loop of me trying to live up to people's expectations. More often than not i fail and then i feel miserable. When i do live up, well there is no joy in doing something that i never wanted to do .

Flight is delayed by an hour. Maybe i should catch up on some sleep now.Could hardly sleep the last night. Packing up those repugnant sophisticated suits and "traditional" wears . Welcome to the world of "adults gone nuts, fancy dress competitions" . And then the discussion on gifts.Our pathetic attempts at choosing something personal for someone we hardly know personally, atleast not anymore. No surprise then that  we agreed on gift vouchers.

i reach in the morning. My parents were delighted to see me. So was i . I wish i could just stay for this short stay with them. But i have a mission to accomplish . I eat the tastiest food that exists in unworthy extreme quick bites. No time to savor the taste, to breathe in the aromas. I bathe, slip into my costume. The marriage man is ready to face the challenges of this world.

i meet the groom. I am greeted well. I know the look by now. The look of relief. He was not sure i would come. He needed atleast 50% of the 50-50 cases to convert in his  favour. Else he will look like a lonely guy who did not have close friends who come from far away places. He may have good friends who stay here. But they dont count . They dont have to buy the flight tickets. I was one of those 50-50 cases. But i came. Marriage Man saves the day again.

I meet my friends. They are decent fellows , a bit too narcissistic but now a days who is not .The questions start getting uncomfortable after some times though. What is your salary? Why did you not study further?
You would have been much better off. The fellows aren't looking that decent now.

Thankfully the procession begins now. The guy in the weirdest costume sits on the horse , highly uncomfortable. And we surround him from each side lest he might run away. A band sings out the item numbers in the worst way possible. As if its possible to debase the song any further. They try never the less.

The circus begins. I am surrounded by people who dance spontaneously on the vulgar tunes with smiles on their face. The choreographers have been working for weeks to attain this spontaneity. The smiles are coupled with side glances checking other's moves. Estimating their ranking in the social order. Its a function of the moves, their looks and price of the costume. So some ambiguity do creep in but more or less people realize where they stand. The ones finding themselves on lower rungs take a back step , shake their heads a bit in rhythm (in rhythm of the item number sung by the band) and pretend to be relaxing and having a great time while silently nursing their bruised egos.

Soon the procession will be over and it will be feast time. There will be far too many dishes for any of us to imagine going through. I have been told the exact count is 112  which is kind of a take on the traditional 56 bhog. They could have gone with the actual 56 instead of the 2x function but ofcourse 56 would have been too less.

Generally two dishes are made at my home. Three is a rare event but i love when three dishes are made. But if its four i get confused and loose interest. Never really wanted more dishes than that. Infact never would have wished more dishes on people i mildly hate. I miss the food at home. Mom would not have made anything as she thinks i am enjoying the feast. And ofcourse i could not have asked mom to make something as that is simply not the expected thing to do. Once the display of dance moves end i will have to begin my search for my two dishes from the stack of 112. (2 *56)

I am feeling tired by the thought of it. My eyes wander across the side of the road. And i see this kid. Wearing a baniyan and a pant in the chill of December. The pant is wore out at the bottom. A smile passes on  my face. "How many times do i have to tell you to fold the jeans at bottom if its long", I could never do that. The intricate art of creating a fold in a material as thick as jeans. Hell i cant fold papers in my craft classes. I could not figure out how to tie the shoe laces either. I look at my shoes now. They are still untied. For the first time in the day i fell good about something. Something unknown , unidentified. A smile choose to stay on my face this time. Not the "i am good , everything is good" smile but the " Everything is not over yet. I am yet to die" smile.

I look at the kid with a new found interest . Interest fueled in parts by my contempt of the present and in parts by my nostalgia for the past.And this kid with a worn out pant and a baniyan in the chill of december had a large smile across his face. The type of smile that reaches the eyes. He was dancing joyfully without a care. The choreographers may shook their head in dismay but that was the most wonderful dance that i had seen in a long long time. I looked at people on my end;the perfect dance moves with not a hair out of place nor a speck of dust on the boot; and at that moment i wanted nothing more than to be that kid from outside

One step at a time

My alarm rings. My survival sense kicks in and i shut it off with incredible speed. It is a habit now.

The real world is so frightening. I  strongly question my  need of waking up .I don’t wake up from nightmares. I wake up into them.

My feet are ice cold and my legs are shaking badly.

 Its summer in Mumbai.

I sleep for another half an hour. Hoping the things will change by the time i wake up again.

The next half hour passes excruciatingly slowly but when it does it seems to have been all too quick. 

Nothing seems to have changed.

I take long breaths. One breath at a time. There is nothing else in this world that matters, just the next breath. Just one breath at a time. This gives me a semblance of strength. I manage to pull myself out of my bed.

But as soon as i do the reality starts overpowering me again. I hyperventilate.

I start consoling myself. Break down the day into hours, hours into minutes,  i say . A minute passes by, I survive it. Nothing happens to me. I wait for another minute to pass me by. Another , and another and another. If i can survive five i can survive the next thousand too.

 I go to the washbasin. I see a hideous person in front of me. I try to be brave. I try to greet him with a smile. My cheeks froze. I cannot smile.

I open my mouth. I begin to brush my teeth.
 1-2-3-4  Pause
1-2-3-4 Pause
I change the direction I go to gums . I am back at front teeth.

As i brush my teeth i feel calm. I feel like a warrior bravely fighting away ages of filth. Slowly and steadily.
One step at a time.
Just One step at a time.

I take a bath. I pour a mug over me. The warmth comforts me. I pour another mug and i realise that i cannot stop the process. For my mind knows what will happen when this ends. The world outside is now licking its lips waiting for me to come out. I keep on pouring mugs. One after another until the hot water runs out.

Its time now. I say my prayers.

I kick start my bike. A SUV passes close to me and sprays dirt over me. I am too disinterested to notice how bad my shirt looks and too tired to argue either. I keep on riding my bike. I am close to my office now.

As i reach the last turn a wild idea hits me. What if i just don’t take this turn. What if i just keep on riding . I have enough money in the bank to last for a long time. I certainly do not need this job to survive. I can just leave this world away. Run away to some unknown place. Away from the people, away from the expectation, away from the judgement, away from sympathy, away from the pain in their eyes over the disappointment that i have been.

It brings a smile on my face that leaves me sadder than before. Because i know that nothing like that is going to happen. Because i know that in the next three seconds i will be taking that turn.

I have now reached the building. There is no turning back now.

I feel pain in my chest. Could it be heart attack? How should i feel about my death?  Should i be sad about it or should i simply be relieved that its all over. I cannot decide so i just give up thinking about it.

It’s time to start the daily ritual now. I go into by brain and start shredding ever snippet of me. Step by step until not a modicum of me remains. Tearing oneself from oneself is a very painful operation. Something within me wants to scream madly. I barely manage to muffle the sounds.

I feel a flood of emotions rushing through me.
I am in pain.
I am angry.
I am in disbelief.
I am hurt.

I am exhausted. But the results are almost instantaneous. My identity, my thoughts are all gone now. Only a sense of numbness remains.  

 I reach my desk now and there is nothing to fear. I greet the dullness and mediocrity with  awe and inspiration. Everything is good as long as the numbness in my brain remains.

Its far from permanent. My thoughts my identity will definitely grow back. But everything will be fine.

 I just need to weed myself from my life.

 I just need to kill myself daily.

One day at a time.
One day at a time.

Joy of reading

Whenever i read a story a sense of tranquility dawns on me. I often spend my weekends sprawled on my couch holding the novel above me with both my hands.And more often than not my face will succumb to a soft trace of smile.A smile which is not dictated by the turn of events in the novel. Ofcourse, When Jeeves come up with a crisp meticulous response to a  haphazardly told problem of Wooster, the smile undoubtedly widens. But it is still there when Scout Finch talks of her fear and fascination of 'Boo' Radley.

A part of it could be because of the escape that the story provides from reality. As long as the story is going on  the past present or the future of real world ceases to have any impact on me. But then, this is true for all things that we refer as " break". Whether watching a movie, a tv series or playing a video game. They all suspend reality for a brief time.But while i often feel a sense of emptiness once a series ends, a sense of fulfillment follows an ending of a story. The joy of reading a story has clearly more to it than the mere suspension of the reality.

For an introvert like me the best part is probably  knowing so many non intrusive people. They share with me their happiness their sorrows their entire life. And most of them are like me too.Neither good nor really bad people. And then they only connect to me  through the path of the story. They will not disturb my sense of peace. They will not be the one jumping on me when i  long for the bliss of  absolute silence.They are the rarest of the rare friends. Friends who can sit besides you for hours without having any need for a conversation.

But once again i cannot help but notice the similarities across other mediums. A movie or a TV series both  introduces characters who can be shut on and off based on convenience.And yet there is a difference. Firstly the pace of a novel or a TV series do not allow scope for much character development. Movies or TV series talks of events happening to characters whereas a novel talks of characters going through events. The people inside the story are of more  importance than the story itself. That also explains why habitual readers have such distaste for the recent trend of Chetan Bhagat type books. Born and brought up on a diet of rich layered characters they cannot ignore the  emptiness created by the half sketched one dimensional characters.No matter how easy the language be or how interesting  be the events.

This could also explain why i feel a sense of fulfillment as opposed to emptiness while finishing a novel.When a tv series movie or a video game ends it just crashes me back to reality with nothing else. A novel though interweaves my life with the lives of so many people; imaginary as they may be. The story ends but the people within it do not.

But there is more to it. The connect that i feel with the characters can not just simply be explained by the sheer literary genius that goes behind building them. They seem so close because a part of me lies with them too. A novel will always have a breathing space for characters. There will always be traits that the author simple cannot define however hard he may try. And this breathing space , this chink , this anomaly makes for the most endearing part of it. Because this breathing space is the part where the characters become mine more than the author's. I do the breathing. I assign them traits. I install a part of me or someone i know of in the character.

The author may write the sentence that 'he' speaks. But it is I who decides the pause' he' takes-the pause i take- to begin it. The author may say that 'he' does not look up when 'he' is walking but it is I who decides the "why" for 'him'. And so  they do not just remain some people that i once read about. They become a bit of me. When they share their life me i too inadvertently share a part of me too.

And this is why i love reading a story.