We Forget, but We Remember

Yet another year, yet another meeting with friends from yore. The planning was as crazy and as dynamic as it could have ever been. Invited almost fifty friends, and ten turned up, even after the coercing and cajoling (I know, a bad result). But, what was important that those of us who said we’d make it, made it. And what a whirlwind of a Reunion it was.

We spoke of Cancelling Friends, when we met, which has been a pet peeve of mine. And with due respect and acknowledgement of everyone’s concerns and circumstances, we lay to rest all the absences. It’s a good thing that we had these conversations the night before we began our grand weekend.

Our destination was the wonderful Mt. Abu in state of Rajasthan. And we took our own sweet time to get there. But, I can’t let this post become a travelogue. Maybe it is, maybe not.

Some Reunions are just an evening dinner party, quite a few, formal in nature. But not for us: the essence of a Reunion for us has been reliving memories — more so reminding us all of what we have forgotten along the way. It is about laughter that hurts and causes knots in our stomachs. Memory has it’s own fickle attitude and it doesn’t deal an even hand to all of us. And a three and a half decades of a life of struggle, journeys, travel, pain, experiences, and such; doesn’t help — if you want to hold on to memories. Every experience demands a share of our mind, and some old memory has to make way for a new one.

And this is what Reunions have taught me – no memory is lost forever, it just becomes inaccessible over time. Our present weighs down on our past, pushing those memories down. And so, you have friends – who somehow have cracked the accessibility algorithm and can access memories that have been pushed down deeper over more than three decades. Not all of us remember everything, we all have a few pieces of the jigsaw; some of our friends have more pieces. As these memory-master-wizard-friends raised our memories from the depths, (I’d like to call them memory-benders) I felt like a student in my first day of school, the same school where I had spent two years.

Everything he reminded me of, made sense. But, I could not remember it; could not remember all of it like a visual. There were only fragments. And yet, I could not deny the essence of it. I felt it deep down.

Quiet in my corner, I wondered if it was just me; but as I watched the animated conversation around the table, there were notes of exclamations! Yes I remember!

It wasn’t a pure, crystal clear image. From the deep recesses of the mind the pushed memory was raising a hand. Me! Me! It seemed to feebly cry out. This seemed the story with all of us. And from my corner, I was able to see the smile on everyone’s face – when we could access – if not the memory – the essence of the memory.

A very wise uncle of mine, once wrote a letter to my parents after the death of an elder. He said, "God's greatest gift to humans is the ability to forget." Yes it is a double edged sword. The gift works well, when there is pain all around, but the gift does not discriminate. It makes you forget all, over time.

But God has a Plan B. He gave us friends, who remind and rescue only the good and happy memories and makes us smile and laugh till our stomach hurts!

Losing Music

It was sometime in 2016. I was on a late night flight back home. I landed, took a rickshaw back home, and was shuffling things in my backpack to organise it. Rest of the journey was uneventful. Twenty-four hours later, I realised, my iPod Classic was not with me. Had I forgotten it in the aircraft? In the rickshaw? I couldn’t recall. And not knowing where to start searching for it, even if I could, was the end of it. And life has never been the same again.

I loved iTunes and my iPod Classic for the features; mostly for the fantastic organisation of music it allowed. IMO, there hasn’t been better navigation of music since the wheel. Sadly, Apple killed the iPod Classic a while ago, and a better (or equivalent) alternative was never released. (Nope, iPhone wasn’t the alternative.)

Over the years, I plodded along with many devices, apps, and options to recreate the experience to listen to my music. Many apps were downloaded, tried for weeks, discarded. Months went by, doing this: rinse and repeat. And I was spending an enormous amount of time identifying the ideal option, when I should have been listening to my favourite music.

Years later, here I am, settling for a sub-par option, all of my music still not available to me, but managing somehow. I’ve made a few playlists that work for me, but they aren’t as refined as the ones I had before 2016. I am learning skip songs (which I don’t like to do: they shouldn’t have been in the playlist in the first place) and have to use the unsmart methods to create and add to my playlists.

All that we depend on, breaks down somehow, somewhere. Parents get old and die, partners separate, jobs are lost, pandemics engulf, friends drift. We lose our favourite music devices. But life has to go on.

Let the music play.

All’s Well; Now, Sharpen the Edge

A series I have enjoyed, in spite of the very strict and repetitive format, was Forged in Fire. It all started with my interest in historical weapons. Overtime, there’s a lot I learnt about metallurgy, and I started enjoying it for more than my initial interest. I had a very general idea of how blades were manufactured, but this show – showcasing real blade-makers – got me hooked. A piece of metal has to go through so much, before it can be a worthwhile blade: knives, swords, daggers and the ilk. It is literally trial by fire.

*

Blades, like most material things on this planet, have a life. A short one, if the blades aren’t cared for; slightly longer, if they are cared for. And to care for them is not about putting them to constant use for what they are meant for, it could just be about taking care: TLC. And Tender Loving Care is not just about the maintenance. Swordsmen of yore considered the sword an extension not just of their body, but of their self. Their personality, their character, their fears, their mission, and their intent was transmitted to this organ.

Swords have a memory; swords don’t forget.

Warriors may get lost, warriors may give up. But swords never do. A sword just waits for the warrior to find the strength and the intention to wield a sword again. A warrior never forgets, because it is muscle memory. A sword never forgets, because it is a forged memory.

All’s well.

Twenty Years

First time that I missed writing a post on this blog’s anniversary.

This is a backdated post. Written on 9th January 2024.

Faith’s Crisis

Who are these people? I know them, but I do not recognise them. They brave jostling and smelly crowds without a complaint. They cause cities to shut down. They hustle all hurdles. And when they are back, they talk of these hurdles, not as complaints; but, just as an experience. There is an extreme lack of disgust of the hurdles, and just a hint of smile — when they describe the experience.

Why can’t I relate to it?

It seems that rational thought, practical practice, induced lethargy, scientific fears, logical explain-aways, and physical well-being are my own hurdles that I surround myself with. And my own experiences. All of these in the red corner. The Hurdles in the red corner. And Faith stands alone in the blue corner. That Faith can beat up all her opponents is not a doubt, when the bout starts. As a spectator, not knowing who you support, is.

Thousands in the audience, yet, I am the only one who see the Ghosts in the red corner. Those who walked away. Those who did not speak. Once upon a time, they were supposed to be in my corner. I was in their corner. And one day, I renounced the game. I was blind in one eye, bleeding, and swollen face, these ghosts just left. I had no one in my corner. I left the ring.

I still see those Ghosts. And I see that they have no corner. Except for a corner of convenience.

The game starts, and Faith is losing. It’s blind in one eye, bleeding, and has a swollen face. No one sees it, but I know the Ghosts are in the red corner. Faith is alone in her corner.

Faith is in crisis.

I don’t know the result of the bout. I left, before it was over. What’s the point in attending a sport, when you don’t belong to a team. When every jab or an upper-cut is just a technical incident. When you are bereft of belonging. When the Hurdles are yours, and Faith is yours.

On the long walk along Marine Drive, I wonder, if it is not about Faith winning over the Hurdles. If and when I get back into the ring, even I could beat the Hurdles. I am worried about the Ghosts.

I’ll go back to the game. I’ll be in the blue corner.

I need Faith to beat the Ghosts.

Complementing Wolves

The reading habit has suffered for a while. Actually, a long while. The extent of suffering was such, that I was willing to accept that I had forgotten how to read. I was so close to to immerse myself in that belief – that I had started planning, how I would give out my books to libraries and friends. Yes, in that order. I shared my angst (of being unable to read) with a few friends. Well-meaning suggestions came through:

– Take a break
– Watch videos
– Listen to podcasts

And then, another one – Read Fiction. (I have never been a fan of adorning and ornamenting adjectives, which seems to be the mainstay of modern fiction. I am a big fan of Leon Uris and the ilk.) A decent argument was made by a friend. Who reads a lot of books. Not just fiction. Just a lot of books. And three books were promptly ordered. One of them was picked up two weeks later. Seventeen pages in, while nobody witnessed it, I was rolling my eyes. The other two books haven’t been touched since they were hesitatingly welcomed in the shelf.

Bookmarks, and many such accessories of reading were put in play. Rituals. But, I am no stranger to rituals. By themselves, rituals are robotic acts, that amount to nothing. The mainstay of a ritual is a function of what’s in your soul. If your soul is empty, it’s f(0). (Being fictional here, don’t troll me on the meaning of a null function). Rituals are expressions by other means.

Recently, I started reading again — back to non-fiction — and with some gusto. Whiffs of how and why I enjoyed reading wafted across the table, the pens, the markers, the sticky-notes, and the book. The pencil (don’t yet have the confidence of a pen) that would inscribe marginalia of thoughts and questions, seemed eager to please. It had been a few years since I felt this; the rituals started making sense; they were meaningful, deliberate, and were synchronised with my heart. They made sense. It was engrossing.

But you are never alone, are you? One bright consciousness is the one absorbing all that you read. There’s another; not a dark one – but an upset consciousness asking – why wasn’t it like this, for over five long years! Both the wolves have to be fed, if you want to move forward. Both are my wolves. Both are dear to me.

They are complementing wolves.

Being a Tribesman

A while ago, I wrote of Being Tribal.

At the time, I discovered a sense of belonging. Not crafted by artificial associations or artful scheming. Just a pure, open invitation – based on a love that people share. It was an emotional experience, a fulfilling one at that. And it was just that – a sense of belonging – a warm and fuzzy feeling that doesn’t amount to much.

Belonging by itself is enough. You are content, smiling to yourself for the experience. And time passes.

Because you are being tribal, you spend time with your tribe. You attend the “conferences” but you don’t participate. You pick up on the nuance of the tribe’s behaviour, but you don’t comment. You absorb the memetic references with minimal context. You are in the periphery, brushing with doors that may take you inside. But, you don’t disturb the flow of energy in the tribe.

And then it happens. Without warning, for no reason, you participate. All your insecurities intact! And the churn starts. A grain of context here, a shard of a meme, a couple of slivers of history.

You are in. Now, you don’t just belong. You are a tribesman.

MHO (Mumbai Harrier Owners), Just completed a record-breaking drive of over 120 same-brand vehicles on 15th August 2023 – India’s Independence day.

And a little more time passes.

Now, you can call a conference, You can create new memes. You can enter the doors. You still don’t disturb the flow of energy, but now, you are in the flow. You are a part of that tribal energy.

*

A little shy of seven months, and I consider myself a tribesman of the tribe that offered me a sense of belonging when I first engaged with it. Recently, I was offered a responsibility to do something for the tribe, and I said yes (against the wishes of every fibre of my body and soul; that was the sound of trepidation, not a lack of skill).

I write this, not because this is a sudden realisation. But, because, I sensed today, many new people are feeling that they belong, I.e. Being Tribal.

I want to wish them well, and suggest that they go through the churn. Someday, they may find themselves Being Tribesman.

Read this the right way. Being Tribal may give you the sense of belonging that warms the cockles of one’s heart; but Being a Tribesman is a feeling that puts you on the top of this world and in the middle of the tribe. When someone takes it for granted, that you are the tribe, you will know.

Same Blogger

There was a time when this blog was vibrant. Posts and photos and embedded YT videos were in full flow. And then something happened. Like a sunset over an evacuated city. Minimal movement, and eventually none. Some who were watching the city from afar, lamented – Oh!

“So sad, that there is death hovering around here.”

This blog never died, nor did the blogger. Even when death was hovering around. The world around this blog was messy, and the blogger was lost, distracted, confused – in the mess.

“I seek the glory that I once had,” said the blogger, and returned to the blog. Landing on that estate the blogger saw that the tools had changed. Methods were different. What was once available was no more. The damn editor was unrecognisable!

The blogger wants to come back; the blog is different!

//PAUSE//

The blogger has also changed. That long gap; the silence; those years of nothingness. The betrayals and the losses. The insults and the kneeling. The withheld secrets and the schemes. The blogger has also evolved. Yes, perhaps the blogger is back – and you may not recognise the blogger anymore. But it’s the same blogger. A shade or two darker, perhaps. But it’s the same blogger; not how you know him; not how you like him – but it’s the same person. With a better life experience.

//END PAUSE//

Hope to be back. Better.

Being Tribal

Last year, in December, I was writing about being alone – travelling solo. A new car. A new experience.

It was, needless to say, an emotional potpourri. The pandemic was just about over; the residue of it all was weighing heavy on me – friends were distracted across countries, calendars, and commitments. And given my age, my inclination, my rules – there was no way that I’d be ever able to synchronise a drive with the people that I’d want to. The hurdles were not essentially practical – a lot was lost in the pandemic. And it’s going to take us decades to gather the emptiness of that loss and survey it.

Because, how do you count nothing?

My solo-trip, perhaps was a result of that. It wasn’t obvious – but, like me, people had changed. Life had changed. And normal wasn’t so normal. That solo-trip was a test to see if I could live my life. But this post is not about that.

It’s been a few months that I have been lucky to be a part of a tribe. (Reminds me of Seth Godin’s book). We have one thing in common – we all have the same vehicle. We are a group of 300+ proud members. We help each other with information, with tips, with support, with experience. We are young and old. We make fun of each other, and we have fun with each other. We tease each other and run to help each other when help is needed. We have a badge – so we know each other. We make grand plans. We execute those grand plans.

We make small plans, we execute those small plans. We are invested in the world that we live in. We contribute. We just be.

It’s a new experience for me. For I am now bound by something that I love and enjoy; and it is freedom. And I can share that love and joy without apprehension and trepidation. Most importantly, without concern of consequence. This experience; this emotional experience for me is something new. And I think I know why. (I will talk about it in a while)

I am free from artificial and coerced belonging. MHO – thank you – I belong!

Learning to Learn

It’s been over thirty years since I was involved in a formal learning structure. My graduation. I did graduate; not with flying colours; I’d say with faded colours, – but not greyscale.

And 30 years is long time. I have forgotten how to study. I am attending an online course – and I am lost. I vaguely recall, I used to take notes. I know I did not have a shorthand. I (kind of) recall that my lecturers used to speak slowly. I think they knew that we were taking notes. But this online thing is different. There’s a length of a story which has to be finished. And because it is online, I have a lot of screenshots – which – when I see now – mean nothing. The nuances; the in-betweens of the bullet points have not been captured.

I asked my best friend – “Do you remember how we studied?”

I knew – I was trying a 1000 different things to be a part of this online course. Not one made sense.

Three decades later, it seems to me – I don’t need to recall how I used to study. I think I need to learn how I need to study. Learning is meta in itself.

It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life for me, ooh
And I’m feeling good

Fish in the sea, you know how I feel
River running free, you know how I feel
Blossom on the tree, you know how I feel

Nina Simone said it best, as above. Learning has changed. I have to learn the new way to learn.

 

Don’t Let Anger Be

It seems to me that what we most lack in, is vocabulary. And if you did not know this, vocabulary also has a GQ (a Glamour Quotient.) There are some words that are more glamorous than others. And then, there are words that are just right. But they aren’t as famous or as glamorous. They are often the best and most relevant, and they make sense; but they are pedestrian. They have no GQ. Often, we want to adorn our emotions with glamour. It gives us a sense of identity. With a celebrity word. That association!

Mostly, we are not angry. Mostly we are not depressed. (Add your GQ words here).

Mostly, when a difficult event presents and sits on the seat across you – we have to listen; without demonstrating the spectrum of emotions that surround ‘anger.’

Anger is a swimming pool – which covers the height, width, and the depth of the pool. That encompasses a few thousand emotions. Not related to anger. Not a sub-strand of anger. And not even related to anger.

Think freedom. Think your ideas. Think all that you could not.

Think Future – that vision that your peripheral vision has denied you all this while.

Nineteen Years

That’s how long this blog has been around. Can’t say that it has been active for that long. The last two-three years especially have been ever so silent.

Blame it on the pandemic, a writer’s block, or lack of time, or any of the dozen excuses that I could muster, fact remains: there has been a fog of silence for a while. Of the dozen excuses, the one that often jumps the queue – the lack of an experience or a thought worth sharing. In the pandemic years, every day was the same as yesterday, and the tomorrow promised nothing but the same as today.

Let the fog clear.

The next anniversary is a marker of sorts (our obsession with round figures continues), let’s hope for reasons to celebrate.

Happy 19th to me!

A City Found Me

I went in search,
for the soul of a city.
I found mine instead,
and the city smiled at me.

The People

Do the people of a city constitute its soul? Their moods, their behaviour. Is the soul of a city the sum (or the average or the product) of their happiness, their fear, their agreement, and their anger? Is it also of their busy-ness or their ennui?

Does the soul of the city reside in that simmering cauldron of all the emotions of the citizens that are stirred slowly by a giant ladle of time? If it is that, then how do you taste the the soul, what discerning palete do I need to know the ingredients and weigh their proportion? Perhaps we are not to judge each ingredient; for this potion has been cooking for a while, now.

That while is that city’s history.

The History

Is the history of the city its soul then? Is that what constitutes the soul of a city? The long braided thread of events and experiences and memories? Some documented, some redacted. Some etched on stone, some on withered leaves. Does the soul reside in the mystery? Of the history? Stories of love and betrayal, valour and cowardice, victories and defeat? Is it a cauldron of all this?

Is the city just a story? And the monuments and buildings and places, just props – on which the story stands? And if it is just a story, then where does it start and where does it end? Does it end? Every moment you are in the present, is history in your next moment. These moments set stage for the character of the city.

These moments define the city’s future.

The Future

Does the future; the potential of a city define its soul? Rising from its history, serving the citizen’s soup from that emotional cauldron, in a shivering uncertain plate of its stories: but aspirational nonetheless. Accepting all emotions, accepting all that has been documented and redacted: building a commerce and culture to be proud of; worthy of the city.

That must be a city’s soul, right? All of it together. People, emotions, actions, monuments, growth, behaviour, culture, commerce. The one big cauldron!

The shared dream of every entity in the city!

***

But I returned mostly empty-handed, with just a few crumbs to feed my thoughts. As I drove back the long and lonely kilometres across sugarcane fields, rivers, mountains, tunnels, and bridges, the crumbs nourished me with this thought: I had a sense of the city. Just a sense.

***

Shaking hands gives a good sense.

To know the soul, I’ll have to live there. I will have to be part of the cauldrons of the city.

I will have to be an ingredient.

Without Friends

Needless to say, the title is a bit provocative. This is what happens when you have been just consuming on Twitter. But, that’s not the intent of this post. And it has nothing to do with friends, as such.

I recently went on a #SoloTrip. Let me explain what #SoloTrip means, to me. In the past – I have travelled alone many times. In all those travels, there was a destination where I would meet a friend or family. And often, I would travel back alone, from the destination, with memories of good times with good people. Travelling to a place alone, staying there alone, and returning alone – is what a solo trip is, for me. Sure, you will meet people, you will interact, you will have fun, you will have interesting or awkward conversations – with people you do not know. And most of all – come any time of the day – morning, afternoon, evening or night – somewhere, somehow, there will be a painful pang of missing someone. And that someone does not have a face or name – it will just be someone. (That’s just conditioning)

I drove from Mumbai to Guhagar coastally (if that’s a word – along the coast i.e.) and returned via the mountains. It wasn’t a smooth ride: potholes and broken roads kept interrupting my drive, just as events keep interrupting my life. And, there was a reality check. A road I once knew well – the most romantic and pleasant drive ever – is now becoming a slave to concrete and speed. I am not a heretic; I support progress, yet I can’t but ask – at what cost? Why is it either/or?

In a solo trip – conversations are most difficult. After you have done keeping yourself busy for the day; in your room alone, in the quiet of a village which retires a hundred hours before you will sleep – in that silence – your conversations with yourself are deafening. No word is spoken, not one is heard, but it is loud. There’s good food, and you have to enjoy it without saying a word; there’s no one to listen to what you have to say. After dinner, you sit on the steps; in the city — you would still be working. The hills, clouds, and the half-moon are dancing – you have no one to share it with. There’s no dependable internet. No photos to share, so no photos you take. You stare at the dance, maybe a smile emanates – but you will never know: there is no record.

In a solo trip – (the first one, at least) fear rules. Driving along a two-metre wide road in a jungle to get to a lighthouse scares you, much. What-if, what-if, what-if takes centre stage. A vehicle-breakdown, wild animals, snakes, hostile people and such. None of it is real, but the absence of someone, makes it real. Hasty photographs at the site – just so that I’d leave the place, while there was still light. The heart-beat slows down when you see a familiar city-like, or a town-like environment — familiarity!

//
I did a solo trip, because all the trips I planned with friends, didn’t work out. Date clash, distance, availability, and such. Therefore the title of this post.
//

I did not prepare well for this solo-trip. I planned for everything that was possible. That’s where I had this mixed bag of emotions with my solo trip. My next solo-trip will be better. My solo-trip wasn’t a failure by any standard. I am now well-prepared to have more solo-trips, actually. And it’s not about planning.

It’s about purpose.

Conversations, fear, loneliness, familiarity, sound, and silence notwithstanding, I am looking forward to more solo-trips. I didn’t pay attention to my conversations with me, that happened in between my concerns. I want to listen to that conversation again.

There will be more; and I will have more to say.

In The Yonder

The anniversary that I mentioned in my previous post came and went as quietly as I expected. Perhaps quieter than I expected. And the So? question that I was just wondering about – was asked. I smiled faintly, gave a familiar shrug, and that was my answer. And a scary thought snaked its way to the fore. What if I was asked Now what? The familiar shrug and the faint smile would not work. My automatic response would be stone-cold stiffness. And when I would recover from this freeze, I’d just say Who knows! and walk away.

It has been (relatively) easy to find solutions for technical and transactional problems. A well-framed question is simpler to work with, especially if the question stays within the realm of your knowledge. It’s the questions that …

//INSET

Words are failing me, or perhaps I am failing my words; to lovingly gather them all and make sense of what I sense. The thought-pipes are rusty, much, and need quite a clean up.

INSET//

Its the questions that are so profound that your entire knowledge seems but a speck of nothingness, to even begin to fathom the question, leave alone trying to answer it. Not that I’d like anything to keep me awake at night — sleep is loved; sleep is precious — but if anything has to keep me awake, let it be such a question. These kind of questions: that ask me to move beyond the narrow realm of just knowledge; beyond facts, theories, numbers, concepts, formulas, structures, memory, and the ilk. And what’s beyond these? I have no idea – I have never ventured there. But, I’d like to.

Surely, the real adventures must be after we cross these known mountains.

And for sure, it will be a long trek, leaving all these mountains; all that is known – behind. Like a fingerprint, all these mountains are unique: and what lies in the yonder, may be the place where neither questions exist, nor answers.

Post-Pandemic Schizophrenia

I am not making a claim of ‘being back’ – it’s been a while since I learnt not to make such long & tall claims. I am here for now, and that should suffice (for me).

*

An anniversary is due soon. And while I am sure I will celebrate it, it’s gnawing at my soul. It’s a landmark anniversary of sorts, but not the popular ones that is a Hallmark event. I doubt if they (used to) make greeting cards for this. It’s an anniversary of that silently screams a question. So? The question is so wide, it has to ensnare answers from every possible quarter and direction. And that’s all there is to it. I am just filling up a basket of answers that the wide question may ask.

*

Live in New York City once but leave before it makes you hard
Live in northern California once but leave before it makes you soft

~ Everybody’s Free (Sunscreen) by Baz Luhrmann

*

I need to unstiff these fingers. Clear the pathways.

All’s Well; Halfway There

Those who have been following this blog for while know what this post is about. Having said that, the ‘halfway there‘ is somewhat a misrepresentation, since we never know the measure of the full way. Unless you know the full, you’ll never know the half. Such are some mysteries of life.

All those decisions (and indecisions); the risks and the safeties; the hiding and the showing up, the declining and accepting has lead me here, and the only way these choices can inform me, is how I use it all for the days to come. Each day now seeks to be measured, each moment desires calculation, every ounce of energy is demanding; so much seems to have gone to waste. But, no – nothing goes to waste, really. It all just smiles back at us, philosophically.  It asks no questions, it demands no answers. Even that which has been wasted has contributed in getting us here. Been there; Done that; but there’s more to do.

All’s well.

I’ll Retire

Oh yes, I’ll retire. By itself, to retire is quite obvious. Typically, this implies a government-mandated age at which you stop having/doing a job. I do choose my words carefully: I didn’t say – you stop working; I said – stop having/doing a job. And that is what, often, retirement implies. No more a place to work, no more meeting colleagues five days a week, no more a commute.  Work and job are entirely two different things. A job is a work-bond. And while work may mean a job, it is not necessarily a bond. And it goes on…

Make a two column list: Job/Work, and you will discover the many differences between these two. No, I am not going to help you make that list.

*

Whether you choose to have a job or to work, the one thing common is: purpose. Whatever the purpose may be. The purpose of a job may be at a cross-purpose of why you work, but it’s still a purpose. Perhaps temporary. Perhaps circumstantial. Work, however is governed not by these worldly concerns. Work’s purpose emanates from your self; blessed are those few, when the work’s purpose aligns with the purpose of their job. For the rest, it is about doing one thing to gather all that we can to do the other; and therein lies the trap (for a few).  The means rule and the end is lost, making it an endless journey of means without an end. There is no universal number which is a stop sign, so we just plod along.

Perhaps the marker of that endless journey is not a number, it is a date, irrespective of the number. And because I have mastered the art of stating the obvious, I can tell you – there is no way to know, if we have reached the number or the date.

*

Who is to say that someone should retire at 38, 48, 58 or 68? There is no basis for it (apart from a generalised average), apart from casting aspersions on an age group. These numbers, depending on where you live, are just assumptions that you can no more do your job. They are not indicators of, if you can work.

*

Jobs have limits; work does not.

Don’t Kill the Conversation

Pay It Forward (2000) was it. That was the movie we were going to see that evening. We didn’t choose that movie. That was the movie that conveniently playing near a theatre where we were. We wanted to experience cinema-going in Singapore. Twenty-one years ago, we thought of Kevin Spacey only as a good actor. We did not know anything else.

Movie-going rules and etiquettes differ by country, and that is what we were experiencing. We were early, and ended up being in the theatre long before the movie started. A conversation about the genres of Rock music ensued. Acid, Metal, Classic, Grunge, and such. My friend patiently explained to me the nuances of rock music. On his behest, I had heard a few songs of the different genres, So I asked him a few questions. I wasn’t impressed by what little I had heard of Acid. I heard him attentively. Tried and understand the nuances. The origin; the emotion. The technical aspects; the theory. At the end of the 15 minutes, I still did not like Acid. Or Grunge.

The movie started.

One thing, I clearly remember – at the end of the conversation and for a long time after that. I have never been angry with Acid Rock or Grunge Rock. I have never hated that genre. I was indifferent. I just did not listen to it. This friend of mine exposed me to quite a few things that would have otherwise never entered my realm of acknowledgement. I am grateful for that. Some of those things have become an integral part of my life; some have been considered and ignored, and forgotten.

We’ve never necessarily agreed on everything. Yet, we have never ceased to expose each other about our learning and discoveries. We’ve had serious differences in opinion over the years. And every difference has resulted in just more conversation.

All this preamble, only to set stage for two things.

One: I quite miss intelligent conversations and intelligent arguments from many of my friends. There is no dearth of intelligent people, for sure. They have just become difficult to access.

Two: there is too much hatred governing any discourse these days. Hatred is essentially blinding. As humans we are apt to judge, and judge we must, else we will consume anything and everything that is served to us. It is a facility available to us that allows us to discern, discriminate; it’s a survival instinct. Hatred is when we focus on that which does not make sense to us. Hatred is when we are consumed less by what we like, and more by what what we dislike.

I have (tried to and with some success) stopped using the word “hate” in written and oral language for a long time now. It helps me direct my dislike or my indifference.

Everyone is angry. But, not for the same reason. Anger, you would think is a primary emotion (I don’t know this for a fact) – but even anger has become subservient to hatred.

“I will be angry only of those things that I hate. Even if there are other things, that I should truly be angry about, but because I do not hate them, I will not be angry about them. Let me focus my anger on things that I hate”

That’s where the conversation dies.

We need time to have fruitful conversations, time to seriously consider other PoVs. Time to churn our thoughts. A mind filled with hatred is a blind mind; it refuses to see.

I am an Adult Blog

I am 18 today.

Depending on where you are in the world I can/cannot: join the armed forces, marry, drink, vote, and such. But that’s for you humans – I am just a blog that has been around for eighteen years. I’d love to tell you the story of my life; getting to this stage. But then, if you have been following me for a while, you already know. And if not, there’s too much of a story, and this post is about my birthday; my 18th birthday.

The last few years, I haven’t said much. My author has had good excuses for the last couple of years, but for the few years before, the excuses are quite lame. Wasteful consumption is so much easier than creation. In this year alone, I have posted just about a decimal more than a post per month. There I go talking of stats. Doesn’t matter. Does the granularity of consistency matter? Or does the granularity also need to have a consistency? While I have been not consistent for a while – I have not given up hope. My author’s fatigue is artificial, borrowed, and somewhat imposed. I am young, in my teens, (an adult, sort of) – but when my author’s fatigue is natural, owned, and accepted, I guess, that will be the death of me. The fact that my birthday was almost forgotten, yet, here we are celebrating it, gives me hope that I can look forward to life.

As an adult, life ahead may look very different, and as long as we publish, it will be a life.

I look forward to it! Happy 18th to me!