The House Must Mean Something

It is not always necessary that the title of the post has to have significance to the content of the post. At least not when it’s on your own blog. If you are writing for someone else and the success of that post will get measured in some form, then perhaps it’s a good idea to have a title relevant to the post.

Long time ago, there used to be meme’s asking if you write the title of your post before or after writing the post. I don’t remember what I said. Nowadays I don’t bother. I write the title when it comes to me. Sometimes in the middle of writing the post.

This title? I wrote it before the post. I wrote it before I even knew what the post was about. The phrase came to me and I thought it would be a nice title. Actually, the original was, “The House has to mean Something” – I changed it because I was not sure if ‘has’ and ‘mean’ should be capitalised. Anyway.

I now have to retrofit some content for this title. Because the context in which the title came to my mind now eludes me. I was reading the post of a blogger who I used to follow a long time ago. She continues to be prolific and an excellent writer that she always was. A recent post by her resonated strongly. I would write about it – but as has been pointed out by some of the folks who read this blog; the gloom index of this blog has been bullish. I tried defending; what’s being considered gloom is really introspection, but I value my readers’ comments. (when they do choose to comment).

So, perhaps the phrase came to me in the context of blogging. Blogging is like home. Warm and fuzzy, elaborate, elegant and expressive. And her blog reiterated what it feels like being home. But I was not sure what the “mean something” meant, in that context. Also I thought House, not homes.

Maybe it was about homes, literally. In between switching social media sites, I saw a friend post a photograph. She recently shifted homes and experienced enough stress. That feeling is alien to me. I have shifted more homes in my life than I care to remember. But like before, people shift homes, not houses. I thought of a house.

It has been (almost) five years since I shifted homes. Perhaps it’s the itch to move. Perhaps it’s a photograph I saw on Bookshelf Porn (it’s safe) that I wanted for myself. But given that I hardly read nowadays, I wonder what would be the purpose of building a library in my house other than to serve the purpose of decoration.

So here I am, with you my flabbergasted reader, without any useful clue why I thought of the title. My apologies.

Magic; Belief

There’s a conversation I know of, one that I cherish. I lived it, experienced it in a way that that my entire life participated in it.

It was a while ago. I have an opportunity to reconstruct it. I am there and so are you. I live it up. I try and make the magic that you and I experienced before. I choose the same venue, I try to be myself (which becomes my undoing) and I push to recreate the magic of what we once experienced.

I fail.

Miserably.

Since that day when we experienced magic; things have changed. You have; I have. And the way we interact with our environmental variables has changed. There is no way to recreate the magic that we once experienced. That is the lore of scripted romantic movies. That is why movies make sense – we watch them over and over again – because they are a time machine of sorts – they operate without variables. The constant of the script allows us our illusions.

But your life and mine – it’s not that simple – I spoke with you – and I had no idea what I said. The time of the day, your mood and mine, what has transpired since we last met, that small angle of how you sit and therefore how I see you – it changed. The differential made all the difference. And suddenly we have nothing to say. All our previous adventures are only the markers of what made sense, then. Our today is an unfortunate clean slate where we are reluctant to scribble what we feel.

Time is the only currency between us; once in abundance – now scarce. The world has changed and I am now learning not to believe in magic.

Message of Silence

Some messages are very easy to expect: festival greetings or other congratulatory messages, for example. Convention and empirical evidence inform us of the promise of their occurrence. There is calculated taking-for-granted in such messages. Some other messages are different: especially if they are a response to questions. There is not much in terms of surety that can be said of the content of the response; for that matter, there is no surety whether there will be a response.

Silence.

Now, that’s a form of response that is the most difficult for us to make sense of. Even more so if a festive or congratulatory promise exists. If you think hard enough, however, silence is easy to decode. You can make meaning of silence through the context and the circumstance. The onus of interpretation is now on you – that’s the implicit message of silence. The explicit, in this case, are just forms of excuses.

And of all possible meanings that we may discover, we learn that when we see beyond the excuses, the message is loud and clear.

Wishing you all a very Happy New Year, full of meaning, conversations, and great times with friends and family!

The Stain

Perfect love stories live on borrowed endings. Readers re-borrow these and hope to make them their own. And time stops when you are in love. A moment becomes a lifetime. He could write about the moment; how would he write of a lifetime? On paper white as milk, he scribbled a story. Like the moon; only, rectangular. Should I cut corners, the storyteller wondered? The ink would be the stain on the moon. The stain that has given birth to many a description of beauty.

My staining ink has more value than the pure white  of the paper; the author smiled as he started writing his story.

End of the Day

At the end of the day, every post that you (I, actually, for this blog) write is about the emotions that are stirred because of an event.

Of the million emotions that you go through a day – which one is worth writing about? Now, after the tribulations of the daily dose, you now have to choose the one that is bloggable; one that is worth expressing; possibly the one that your readers may relate to you. You know, likes and comments. There is no way to identify that one stinging feeling in a 24 hour span, really. We are conditioned to ignore the ones that hurt us the most. It is a survival instinct. But the one’s that ‘are’ trivial – those lovely ones – those with the scope – those with the latitude that allow us to express ourselves. Cute, aren’t they? We enjoy them.

They are the ones that we can wield. They are inspirational – because they let us hit that person in front of us – help us feel like a winner. We look for those. Of the million emotions that we go through in a day – we choose to express just one or perhaps – two. But the remainders, they come to bear – they stand like green ghosts behind a simple expression of affection and those aggressive ghosts are ready for war. So even if you just wanted “only” to say, “Hello, dear friend, how are you?” – them over-eager ghosts, will slash the sword to ignite a fiery conversation.

That’s when we lose it.

We all live with ghosts – no doubt about that – but these ghosts have been with us for so long – we ought to have learned to tame them. Tell them, at every conversation, we are not at war. Remind them, that ghosts are not necessarily evil; remember Casper?

But the defensive friend – when he sees the ghosts more easily than he can see you – cannot, but be on standby; half-sheathed.

There is no “f” of friendship – for, to me, it is a complete word; nay – it is a complete world.

If my “reindship” is in place, do you have it in you to forgive the “f” that I did not, allegedly, understand?

Wax Has to Melt

We all have dreams.

Well, most of us do. I am not talking of those abstract blobs of irrationality that we usually cannot control when we are asleep. I am talking of those that we live when we are wide awake. The kind, when they are the most lucid when we are in a classroom where the lecturer wishes to be elsewhere as much as we do; or in a meeting where everyone except the person who has convened the meeting, knows that it’s a waste of time. What goes in our head during such events is a mash-up of dreams, thoughts, ideas, plans – and they seem to effortlessly slide on a plane which defines what we really want. And as tangible that plane is when we dream – soon after – it becomes an abstraction of nothingness as we are sucked into our deigned zombie-like activities.

Today is a special day – and my love-hate relationship with milestones notwithstanding, I am happy.

A year has passed after a certain event – and I am able to discriminate where I stand vis-à-vis where I thought I stood, once upon a time. This GPS-kind of activity has not been easy. Enough shock, hurt, pain has been encountered and endured before finding the absolute location of where I am. There has been much difficulty in letting go and even more difficulty in denying the questioning brightness of the truth that has harshly scalded my eyes. The asking heat, without malicious intent, asked me if I would confess that I was living in the wax-world a-la Indraprastha; I said I was not. I fought it for a year.

It’s slow, but I see the wax melting.

And those grandiose images of false comfort burned down to their bare element. The bright light smiled, I think, as if saying – I was always on your side, but I had to sit on the other side of the table – because you were gone for far too long, and lost to me. I would have preferred to sit with you and look together – but we were looking in different directions. Therefore, I had to confront you, said the wise light.

“I am glad, we can now look in the same direction.”

As I stand where I am bereft of the wax palace, I wonder. It must have been the light that, with its heat – melted the opaque walls so that I could see beyond.

It’s late now, and what I see is an even darkness. I stand where an impressive palace once stood. I see nothing of the grandeur that once made me believe I was king. I find myself on the top of a hill here, though. Alone. But I feel the breeze that the faraway sea brings and finds its way through the valleys to where I stand. It has a gentle sting. It does not matter that the wax structure is no more, because, soon, it will be morning. I know one thing: I will see more than I ever did.

And, I will see clearly.

Three Themes of Purpose

Incidents in our lives will be the test of who we are and of our purpose.

You may choose to call them circumstances or by any other name. We have, directly or indirectly shaped by the events and incidents in our lives. Some of them have been good, some bad – and some, unfortunately – ugly. Yet, if you are alive and reading this – you have surpassed each one of them; whatever their nature.

We have to determine our purpose through sanctity and define our methods strategically, and implement them with tact.

But we have to know what we fight for. That is the purpose and that will determine your strategy. Your enemy may provide a sense of purpose – but that can never be yours, that is borrowed – and then – you are fighting for what they have decided. It is a retaliation. You don’t own the rules.

Purpose and methods, however, should never mix.

This really is about you; your character. It will show in shining colours. Shining bright or shining dark – it does not matter. Because, when a purpose is defined and held strong the means and the methods have to cease to matter. Stick to your purpose – losing is as noble a purpose as winning. But only if you know why.

When the game is played – all rules and no rules are in play.

Enjoy the game.

Goodbye!

Who were those people? What were they made of; what made then real? How did they get love in return? Love for love. They must have found out the secret to simplify this transaction.

Lost! The roads have parted and all of them chose a separate path. For a while they walked with me; and in those moments we lived in heaven. Who would ever have the time to bear the idiosyncrasies of me for while longer than is possible. And who am I to complain if my shadow, even, often, has seemed distant.

But, there is no one long road that we can walk together. If we are to be our selves, it is a truism. But we are to cherish that companionship that we experienced for a few miles, or less. For that has made our journey worthwhile. That is what added colour. And we shall meet the others, the new ones, who will in a peculiar way remind us of our friends. In turn, they will become friends.

But that is all friends will do, they will walk with us for a while, only. If they walk with us forever they are slaves.

Do not despise them because of the length of the journey. Love them for the content of the journey.

PS: Thanks is due to Sahir Ludhianvi, for all that happened in italics in this post.

Remains of the Day: 012

The breeze comes in from all sides. It plays in loops and curves and straight lines. You feel a chill and you wonder why, suddenly you feel the wind in your face. There is also so much that you can see – that you could never see before. There are no encumbrances and you are able to see afar. You wonder, again – how you have never seen that far, before. You are exposed to the elements when you are not surrounded by anyone. It would be poetically apt to say that your mind is clear, but alas! It continues to carry the tangled wire-mesh of confusion, but you now have a better chance of spreading it and more space to untangle it. It is a new feeling – this sense of being alone – wrapped in the double-helix of fear and excitement. It is a new experience – this effort of de-stagnation – from the prison of known misery.

*

Erich Fromm’s philosophy of freedom has almost completely been hovering like a permanent cloud. I see a sliver of the blue sky from the corner of my eye. There was too much leaning on freedom from… and hardly any thought to freedom to…. It is akin to escaping from prison, but not having anywhere to go. The clouds are moving east now.

*

Creativity is best applied in solving problems. Unfortunately all creative energy is directed towards making excuses. Intent fuels creativity. We’re pushing it on an empty tank.

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There are some mistakes – blunders even – you will have to commit. As wise as you may think you are – no learning is as forceful as experience itself. Books can’t teach you everything.

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There will always be a rescue at hand. Usually we are busy drowning, paying attention to how high the water has reached and the speed at which we are downing. We miss the hand that is held out for us. Usually, it’s Paul Simon’s songs.

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I believe in second chances. In the rare instance perhaps; a third. After that, it is time to let go. A wise man once told me about the nature of bad financial transactions. If someone isn’t giving you money that’s due, there are only two reasons: either he doesn’t have it or he doesn’t want to give it to you. Either of the reasons will not work for you. Let go. The wise man left it to me to know that the axiom works in different contexts.

*

The longest and the fiercest war is fought within; it wages incessantly. Our resources are directed without, while we lose battles within. It’s a call for redeployment.

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In the end, we remain. That is the only remainder of time and events. We’ll have to take care of that.

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PS: This post carried with it, the possibility of a very long post – for this remainder would apply to a year too. It ran the risk of TL;DR, but thankfully it was salvaged.

Remains of the Day: 010

When you realise that something that you said that you hated had no foundation for the hatred, you cannot continue hating it. It’s not just about a fresh perspective, it is about objectivity. The aspects that are revealed to you are wondrous – and there’s much more that you can enjoy, now. Hate is a strong word; mostly, we just intensely dislike. And if we attempt to look at it from a distance it is usually inherited.

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Taking up a challenge – whether offered or self-inflicted – needs a context. Especially if you are taking up the challenge to bring change and not just for the short-term win. Else, we will wander without purpose and fill up this world with more of meaninglessness.

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There’s a good chance that you are much better, much smarter than you think you are. Someone else will have to tell you that for you to know it. Not everyone will tell you how bad you are, however. Most people consider it impolite to point out your flaws.

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Adjacent birth dates and death dates offer an interesting 48-hour window for contemplation.

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Every month cannot throw up loads of learning. Some months, just pass you by.

All’s Well, Even Now

This was supposed to be special, going by the social norms. The rounding off, the cross-over number and other such social attitudes. The build up to it, was packed with excitement and tension. Nothing significant, ever changes in an instant, I kept telling myself. Yet a part of me was expecting a discernible change.

It was not to be. It was quiet and devoid of any frenzy or even action. It came and went like any other. The changes, if at all, were internal and not so obvious. And, they were only the seed of the change, not itself. What is left to be seen till the next one, is if these seeds will be nourished and if they will grow to a beautiful tree in the future.

It even indicated contemplation. I couldn’t, though I tried and attempted, even to force it. Contemplation requires a trigger – and these artificial triggers did not work. The ceremonies associated with these markers, that have now become the identity of these markers seem more and more worthless as each marker passes me by. The association makes these markers stand out; devoid of the association, they are just factual instances of a measure.

But celebrate we must, for there are others who live by these markers. If not for yourself, then for them, you partake in the festival about you that others celebrate. It is not all morose, if it sounds that. There is happiness, only it does not transcend as it usually does.

It fills you deep inside.

All’s well

Remains of the Day: 009

It was all set, then it changed. After it changed for the first time, it was reset. Then it it was nothing, and finally it become something else altogether. Embracing change unconditionally is difficult during the change. It’s much easier, when it is all done – and you are able to see the beauty in it.

*

New year’s eve is actually like any other night. The first day of the year is like any other day of the year. But the glamour associated with it makes us want to participate in its significance. It perhaps provides us a sense of purpose and meaning. There is celebration and contemplation: often occurring simultaneously. And in that slight moment celebration overcomes contemplation.

*

We are too preoccupied by the mechanics of everything. To take a road through a forest to enjoy what it has to offer is clouded by the worry of the road’s seclusion. The dwindling daylight. We have to stop there; in the middle of the road. Remind ourselves of the purpose. Be aware of the environment, of course, but more importantly be aware of ourselves. And it works for things other than roads in forests.

*

Doing nothing is bloody difficult.

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Watching fire (like a campfire) is therapeutic. The dance of the flames is mesmerising. Wind and fuel choreograph it to perfection. You can even take anything from your mind and toss it in the fire. Sadness burns very well. Watch it burn, crackle and become ash that will blow away in the morning. You can even toss wood.

*

There is no third-party out there. A big blob-kind-of-a-thing, with many names and forms, that causes everything and has all the answers. It just does not exist. It’s just you. It is enough that you know what the truth is. If you look for validation, there is a good chance you do not know the truth.

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Once in a while, you will wonder about why you like certain things.

Remains of the Day: 008

Being honest can be a costly affair. Being honest and expressive can be costlier. And the currency in which you will pay can vary. And you will never know how you will pay, till you actually get to the counter — and then, there is no turning back. But pay you must – for the ghosts of suppression are worse villains. Honesty, though costly – is a one-time affair; being dishonest is a never-ending, one-way transaction of give; not take.

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It is good to know the value of having people in your lives. And, it is enough to just know. Trying continuously to check the value can cause the value to diminish. Don’t keep checking the value of this portfolio like you do with your stocks and mutual funds.

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Nurture your intuition and instincts. They will serve you longer than all the information that you can gather through your Twitter or RSS feed. Allow yourself that smile and moment of pride when your instincts have been proved right. They’ll be happy and keep coming back to you.

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Never confuse time and friends. They are two separate, mutually exclusive things. Be wary of those who try and build a connection between the two. The one excuse a true friend will never use – is the lack of time. Filter.

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All the dreams that you have, are useless and amount to nothing. They are intangible and devoid of matter. They may mean much to you; your life, as you imagine it very different, but eventually, they amount to a zero-ness. They have no power within themselves, to realise themselves. Only you can realise them.

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Respect effort. Even when it goes to waste. Especially when it is yours.

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Write a comment on this post, if you have reached this word. Say something. Anything meaningful. I challenge you — especially because with Likes on Facebook and +1s on Google+ we are entering the era of minimal-mass-micro-expressions. Do not, ever, lose the ability to describe what you feel. Someday when your convenient buttons will be unavailable you will struggle with yourself.

Traffic

The late morning traffic is its usual self. All big vehicles try and get as close as they can to the traffic signal, something that guarantees them quick passage. Smaller vehicles squeeze in between the big ones, and the smallest ones fill up the tiniest of places, with total disregard for a sense of personal space and the law.

The new cars, I like them. They don’t have fumes coming out of them that are so black and sticky. But then, they are pretty snobbish too. They don’t buy my stuff. I think they think it is beneath them to buy from people like me — they prefer the big stores like the ones we saw last Sunday when Guna and I went to Malad. They have large glass walls from where you can see what’s inside. We saw it from the street, the guys in the blue uniform didn’t allow us near the store.

Raka told me this is the time to sell flags. He is right, many people buy these flags. There is one more day in the year they do this, I don’t remember when. I like these two days before this flag day. I am able to make more money. I usually go for the cars which have children, if they are about my age, much better; they usually buy these small flags and put them on the car’s dashboard.

I wish they would buy flags all year long. I could buy that book with all that money.

Her Pain; Her Pleasure

She was in pain.

The intense throbbing continued in spite of the medication and the prolonged and painful therapy she had undergone for over a year now. She adjusted her pillows to help support her broad shoulders. Her grandchildren burst into a simultaneous cackle of loud laughter and her pain was forgotten for a while. She smiled at them, participating, though not knowing what the joke was. They didn’t need to feel her pain. It was enough, that she felt it.

She joined in the revelry and the fun and teasing moved from one cousin to another. All her grandchildren were there – from eager five-year olds to twenty-three-year old near adults. And a joke was a joke whether or not the five year old understood the nuances of the eighteen-year old’s word-play. Laughter, just good old laughter had such power to communicate. Laughter and love bound people well.

Each time she laughed she had a shooting pain in her chest. Her eyes swelled with tears, she had no idea if it was because of the pain. The younger ones rallied around her, hugged her tight every once in a while, as if to remind her of the pain. She didn’t shrug off a single hug.

As she was lying down watching the revelry, she wondered if this was the best time to let go.

Would I carry this image of my family where I’d go? Would I be able to show this image to him? Am I being greedy for happiness, prolonging a weak and painful life for pleasure? Then again, what was the real pain. Was it just the strain across her left breast or the pain of not being able to see and play with more of her great-grandchildren.

The eldest came near her, and quietly asked, “Is it paining again?”

“No”, she smiled back, lovingly ruffling his hair, “I am fine.”

Missing Dave

It would have been so nice if he was here today, now in fact. He would have been able to get the attention of that distracted taxi driver. Dave, may he be in peace wherever he is, had a way with his voice. And his arms. He just commanded attention.

It has been, what, eleven years now?

What’s with the taxis, where have they all gone – you’d think they would be out here on a Saturday evening – with all these young kids wanting to go to parties and all. Perhaps they prefer the longer routes. Bless Dave, at least I can still afford a taxi – if I get one, that is. There, another one goes without noticing me. I wish I had half the strength of Dave’s voice. Maybe the taxi driver would hear me then. This feeble arm in this pastel sleeve hardly stands out in this riot of a colour that this town has become.

Seems it is going to be a while, I’d rather let the bags down. Ahh – it has begun to pain, this left arm of mine. I hope it’s just the bags. I doubt if I can afford any more medicines for a new ailment now. It’s getting late already, I still need to cook, I think I will sleep early today. Jane is coming tomorrow – it would be lovely to see the kids tomorrow.

Hey!

They don’t notice me any more. No one does, really, why single out the taxis? I am fading into the past, I suppose. Look at all these busybodies – going fast and forward. Ah, well, I guess I’d rather take the bus after all. I’ll save the money, maybe get a few apples and bake a pie. Dave used to call me the apple of his pie. How, I miss you, dear. You are long gone, but you still bring a smile to my face.

This young man doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. Looking at him, reminds me of our summer evenings. Just sitting there in the sun.

He is a writer perhaps. Does he write about old people, I wonder?

The Floor-to-Ceiling Mirror

It was a few minutes after noon. I was about to turn left into Guilford Street from Lansdowne Terrace.

The iPod was playing a tune in my ears that would otherwise seem to young for a person of my age. I smiled to myself, thankful that most people couldn’t make out what I was listening to.

Just as I approached the corner to turn on to Guilford Street, I saw him, an unlit cigarette in hand, iPod plugged in his ears. He gestured for a light. I took the cigarette to my left hand – he thought I was offering the cigarette to him to light up his. There was slight confusion, our iPods still plugged intact. I put my right hand in my jacket pocket and lit his cigarette with my Zippo. He thanked me with a short nod of his head; I acknowledged back, with the same quick nod and smile, and turned left onto Guilford Street.

I wondered what music he was listening to.

*

It was a few minutes after noon. I was about to turn right into Lansdowne Terrace from Guilford Street.

The iPod was playing a tune in my ears that would otherwise seem to old for a person of my age. I smiled to myself, thankful that most people couldn’t make out what I was listening to.

Just as I approached the corner to turn on to Lansdowne Terrace, I saw him, a lit cigarette in hand, iPod plugged in his ears. I gestured for a light. He took the cigarette to his left hand – I thought he was offering the cigarette to me to light up mine. There was slight confusion, our iPods still plugged intact. He put his right hand in his jacket pocket and lit my cigarette with his Zippo. I thanked him with a short nod of my head; he acknowledged back, with the same quick nod and smile, and turned right onto Lansdowne Terrace.

I wondered what music he was listening to.

Glass Tiles

He laid back on the sofa at the Yard. Sprawled. He surprised himself with his bohemianism. His smile was private – no one could see it.

He should get up now, she would be here soon with their order.

The green bulb.

Hanging on the brick wall. What would be the phrase to explain how the bricks were laid? Anyone would understand if he said, “brick wall”. But, for someone who had never seen a brick wall? They were deferred-aligned. So, someone may not have seen a brick-wall – but they sure would have to possess a strong vocabulary.

The green bulb.

Crompton. 240V. Made in Europe, it said. Europe wasn’t even a country. Is this the new expression of continental identity? Europe as a single whole geographical location? A single conscious identity defined by a glass-enclosed filament?

Up, above the S-shaped snake holder of the bulb, was a binary pattern of small translucent glass tiles of the footpath above him. People above walked on the glass tiles – he was in the basement below the footpath. He imagined the absence of the glass tiles. No one would walk on anything that is absent; they would carefully choose to tread on the opaque brick and stone tiles. No one keeps a foot on something unknown. They always feel that they will fall down. He laughed a hearty private laugh that no one heard. Down below in the basement where he was sprawled happily was a better place than the pavement, where the presence of the glass tiles kept shivering people walking the same way – the way they have done for years.

Story-writing

The clackity-clack of his keyboard continued unabated. The clacking seemed to bounce off the hard walls and echo back in what he wrote. The distant dying laughter of the last party animal didn’t quite bother him, though he sensed the mood of a party unwilling to die. Not much made sense around him – the darkness was enveloping him, shrouding everything that he saw, in nothingness, even though the two sixty-watt bulbs stoically stood their ground. He wasn’t looking at the words, they hardly meant anything – he knew that already – no reason to use the backspace key – no reason to use better words – no reason to make anything sound poetic. He realised he wasn’t sitting very comfortably in his chair, yet not one of the alive muscle in his body made the slightest attempt to correct what they would have to suffer in a few minutes. He wondered if his mind or his soul or his spirit had left his body and there remained only an obedient machine, as if run by inertia, powered by burning itself, feeding the power back, continuing a cycle. Where was that moment when some action would change the course of what was going on? What was the trigger that this incessant typing would stop and wonder how to make meaning? Why was there no reason anymore in any action that occurred? The author, the subject and the environment seemed all to be twirling into a single mass of bone, flesh and entrails. There was nothing to be differentiated, nothing left to identify any element, to know its purpose.

He paused now, looked up at the screen. He looked for long at what he had written.

He saw his face in the mirror-like screen; in between the twirling digital rainbow, he stared hard and finally moved his mouse to get rid off the screen saver.

Remains of the Day: 007

People have often talked about the power of networking. I have yielded to that maxim, often. Like most folks, I went overboard. Over the years, however, I have learned that quality trumps quantity. It applies to networking too (As it does everywhere else). 80-20 is an amazing axiom. Knowing more people is less valuable than knowing a few people who are interested in your life. Even if they are a handful, they will enrich your life in more ways than you can imagine. They do not have to do anything. They enrich it by sheer presence. It works both ways, however – you need to have an interest in their life as well.

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People like the romantic notions of what they do. They amplify these notions. Usually, because what they do is not that romantic as they imagine. Just human. They like to believe that it applies to them. Only because it is romantic. Like an empty envelope of a false promise. It does not mean that they will live by it. A person walks up to you and says – give me a blank canvas and I will create the best art you have ever seen. Give them the blank canvas. It is in your interest to know whether they live by the romantic notion or just a utopian concept that they wish upon – like a shooting star. A wish, a dream, bereft of action. You will get hurt, but the experience (if you will cash it in) is worth all the stars in the universe. Being wiser is a slow process.

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People will use you. Because that is what they think networking is.  Some will have the advantage of common and shared DNA. They will use it to maximum advantage — for themselves. If, at the end of it – you feel lousy, do not curse them – when they walk away from you – as you see their backs, fading away from you, carrying the riches that you think they don’t deserve. Learn to curse yourself first, for the lack of courage that caused this piracy of goodwill.

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People will never forgive you. Your first crime, small as it may be, will be the determinant of what they see you as. You have to learn to forgive yourself rationalise to know what caused that crime. If you are not sure why you live your life the way you live your life – you will always be slave to these unforgiving demons. Your responses will be dependent on their questions. Defensive. Seeking forgiveness. Sometimes, they are not the demons. You are. In a dark place. Orcs. Mindless brutes. Slaves to demand and selfish opportunity.

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People, usually, have no interest in the small pleasure that you derive in life. Mostly. If, what you feel happy about, does not resonate with the notion of their perception of who they think you are, they will not appreciate that joy in your life. They will consider it trivial. Unlike what you have been taught, not all joy can be shared. Because most of them will never understand your small joy. If they have been taught to be nice – they will, at best, patronise you. Then, there will be some who will rejoice more than you. Learn to hold on to those.

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People will say many things. Nice things and ugly things. If you are the person that you imagine you are, it will not bother you, else, you will spend a lifetime toggling between the “he-saids” and the “she-saids.”

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People are important in your life. We know this inherently – and usually for that reason, we take them for granted. Humans have a very strong faculty to know when they have been taken for granted. They may or may not do something about it – but they will always know. Unfortunately, we usually take the most important people in our life for granted. And we create a distance. If you really love them, let them know that you love them – in a way that they want to be told. Tough? None of us were born with promises of easy. Love is so much sweeter when it leaves you than when it enters you. Love.

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People are in abundance in London. I used to be one of them, once. I miss being a part of that.