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.

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!

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.

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.

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!

Right/Wrong

In our mind, we have a version of right and wrong. People around us, who know us, have their version. The world has its own understanding. And then, you have the universe — that’s a different version altogether. Us, them, and the universe. These are the three layers. Looking at events in our lives, each layer throws up a different answer; a different suggestion.

I use the words ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ broadly and loosely; it could well mean should/shouldn’t or deserved/undeserved or fair/unfair, and such pairs. Mostly, its about “fair/unfair.”

The universe doesn’t give you any more than what you deserve, and no earlier than you deserve it.

Adages, like the above, keep us grounded, and temper our sense of right and wrong. Whether the adages are “right or wrong” we will never know, because our sense of “right/wrong” is very personal; very contextual — it’s not universal.

The laws of man are difficult to follow (but we must, for they are the only tangibles) but they contradict with our personal sense of right and wrong. The laws of the universe are difficult to comprehend; even if they seem pacifying and are philosophically sane.

*

Back at my blog after a long time. Happy to be here [HUGS]

The Terrain Should Change

Heard the writer’s block mentioned a while ago, after a long time. I am not stranger to the block having faced it many times before. I don’t have a writer’s block anymore. I don’t write anymore. No writing, no block.

Ironically, I have written quite a lot about the writer’s block. Go figure.

So I sent a few pictures along to a friend, which would serve as inspiration (a trigger, actually) that would get the thought-mill churning. I don’t know if it has worked; we’ll get to know in good time.

For me, a writer’s block is when you feel like writing something, but nothing spills on the paper (or screen, as the case may be). When you don’t feel like writing there isn’t a block. It’s just that — no will to write. It is a peaceful and a clean state of mind. You aren’t agitated about not writing, and you are not dishing out a senseless combination of half-baked thoughts and ideas — just to fill the pages or the bytes.

All this while that I have not been writing, I have become a voracious consumer of the written word. No, not books, but the social, shared word; the truncated thought that is almost our birthright. In recent times, however, I cannot make sense of the social word. Satire, sarcasm, facts, opinions, curses, and conflict have become the mainstay of the social word, indistinguishable from each other.

I still do read books, but just like my writing, I don’t really feel like it. (There are exceptions, of course). The hobby, had transformed from reading books, to accumulating books. Paper books, i.e. I took my mother’s advice (which, in retrospect sounded like a veiled threat; but was sage advice) that unless I complete reading three paper books, I wasn’t to buy a new one. I live in Mumbai. And in a city where people don’t have space to live, a thousand books should not take up space, any more than they should.

I continue to buy ebooks. (They have tendency not to occupy physical space and reveal themselves, to my Mom). And these ebooks are being read, of course, at a snail’s pace. And just like writing, I do not feel the need to complete them. I will of course. Someday.

At this stage a question may be creepily inching up – where is he going with this?

Well, nowhere, actually. Just like my reading or writing. Nowhere. While I didn’t plan it – I am enjoying the old adage – the journey is the destination. Enjoying the adage, not necessarily enjoying the journey; it feels thorny, barren, monotonous, and tiring. It’s been a while now, the terrain should be changing soon.

Perhaps, if I’d write more, read more…

Enough, Enough Now: Part 2

Happiness is a choice.

*

That sentence is easy to state. Easily stated by the person who thought of that. It is definitely a choice, but you should need to make the choice to be happy. Else, that sentence is just a collection of sequenced words. For some, the meaning of that sentence is obvious; we can relate to to it; and we can make it our own. For others, it’s a process: of discovery.

For some it may be a straight road; for others it is a convoluted journey over mountains, through rivers, and across valleys, discovering what choices we have. Choices are seldom evident. Choices don’t always present themselves as choices. They often take the garb of experiences, and then it is not just a job of choosing. You have to live through the experiences. Only then we realise what that camouflaged choice means. We run the risk of romancing the experience – and then, it is no more a choice.

Deeper and deeper in the experience we go. We become the experience and the experience becomes us. And somewhere, in this, the top stops spinning. (Shout out to Inception (2010)). Whether you exit, depends on whether you see it stop, or not.

*

I have seen the top stop and tumble on the table. And I am ready to exit. I have been happy before. And I wasn’t for a while. Because I was exploring choices. And therein I tumbled into experiences. Specific experiences. Was excited at those experiences, lived a life around them, but I wasn’t happy. I was angry. I was upset. And it took me a while to realise that there was no matter to the anger. It was empty. Anger is as good an energy as any other emotion. That energy kept me going. But, I said: Enough, enough now. Whatever be the nature of the experiences, I am choosing to be happy. I know now, I do not want to dwell there.

I have just started on this journey, so, I have no evidence of how it works and where it ends. I can tell you for sure, though, that those angry experiences have been left behind.

*

Happiness is a choice. All those angry experiences have helped me choose better. And I have chosen happiness.

Don’t Hate

A few years ago, I chose to remove the word “hate” from my usable vocabulary. Which instantly raised the question – how I would express that extreme emotion. So I invented phrases that were equivalent, while not using the h-word. Well, not invented – they were always up for grabs and in vogue.

Sort of. Intense dislike; utter disgust; absolute abhorrence, and such. Using these phrases allowed me, or so I imagined, to qualify my degree of disagreement. That is what “hate” is actually. It is a degree of disagreement — the extreme degree of disagreement.

Hate is blinding. And, while quantifying adjectives may just seem to be an exercise in creative writing, I prefer that. Because there is no adjective that ever qualifies hate. It’s extreme, it is absolute. Hate is point of no return.

Hate is like standing at the edge of a cliff and refusing to turn back. Refusing to look at anything other than the drop. Qualified adjectives may give you a chance to turn around, look for options. Hate does not. It may seem like an exercise in word-smithery, but it is not.

I hate the way hate consumes us (OK, yes, for effect, I am using the h-word). It shuts our mind to possibilities. To options. To Truth, that we may not have experienced before; to Truth that was no available to us. Hate extends. From one thing to one person, to one concept, to a thought. Hate is a dark, sticky envelope. Ever-ready to engulf.

Love is not hate’s ‘necessary’ or ‘automatic’ antonym or antidote. Love/hate are not obvious antonyms — if you take the time to think about it. Proper, relevant, and topical adjectives, paired with appropriate synonyms of disagreement is what will bring us back from the abyss (or cliff; #YouPrefer)

Disagree till the cows come home; be disgusted vehemently.

But don’t hate.

A Social-Media Experiment Unravels

This post is premature. By a day. But, I’ll allow it. The advantage of having your own blog! Rules assume the garb of guidelines, when you want them to.

I have ranted often of what I am now writing about, today. The topic is not new, the emotion has been experienced often. The content, perhaps has a fresh flavour or a tantalising twist.

As of tomorrow, I have been away from three social networks that I used to indulge in, regularly — for a working month. Facebook, Twitter, and YouTube. I was mostly a consumer on all three, while creating some content on Facebook and Twitter. YT was pure consumption.

Little over a month ago, I finished reading Deep Work: Rules for Focused Success in a Distracted World by Cal Newport — I was amused by the directness of a Chapter Title — “Quit Social Media” — but I read it nevertheless. This post is not a review of the book, nor do I want it to be. After a while you pick and choose your battles — like writing a review of a book. A star rating is enough to describe where you stand.

Of the many reasons mentioned in “Quit Social Media” – the one that intrigued me the most was the question: how many people (of the few hundred friends you have) will miss you, if you do not post. YT didn’t fall in that category, because I never created any content on YT.

Twitter also did not matter much, because a decent percentage of my followers started following me, because of a random tweet in a timeline of years, which appealed to them. They stayed followed, but never ever interacted after that one tweet. Most Twitter connections (other than my actual friends) are connections of convenience.

Facebook was the one I really wanted to put to the test of: how many people (of the few hundred friends you have) will miss you. I do actually know all (ah, ok, most!) of my connections on FB. In recent years, I was never a prolific poster – but I was irregularly regular. What would happen if I stop? Armed with a commandment from Cal Newport’s book, I took the step. Changed my profile picture — showing my back, looking away, to all my FB friends. Changed my cover photo to a metaphorical chain (smart, eh?). And just stopped posting.

For ten days since that day, I religiously did not open any of the three sites, web or mobile. But, what if Cal was wrong? What if in the ten days gone by, people were missing me? So, I did some soft cheating; I did not post anything still, but went and checked who was missing me.

Zilch on Twitter; Zilch on Facebook.

//INSET

The mobile phone innovation came to us in the late 90s. Even before that – basic telephony was costly and cumbersome. It was cheaper to meet-in-person according to convenience. 50p and 1Re coins jingled in our pockets. In 2021 coins have almost gone out of circulation, and 1Re coins cant get you anything worthwhile. We used to make 3-min calls, without any niceties, conforming time, place, and Plan B’s.

For me a phone has always been about name, place, and time. Most of friends and relatives do not understand; I have a low tolerance for conversation on a phone. The real engagement happened when I met the named person at a time in a place that we we had planned for. Face to Face.

//

So, some people had liked my profile picture, with my back turned to them. No comments, no questions. Cal Newport was winning. On Twitter there was one mention, purely circumstantial; work-related. I didn’t even bother about YT.

I developed a 10-day-itch, so I continued to soft-cheat every ten days.

Zilch on Twitter; Zilch on Facebook.

(One day, I liked a photo that a cousin had posted; sheer muscle memory. #FAIL) #Sigh! I totally OUCHed myself!

In just a month long social-media rehab, I feel cured; or at least on the way to a cure.

For sure, however, not a cure from friends. For Sure. It’s a cure from the network. It’s like mistaking the map for the territory; or forest for the trees. Something like that. Specifically, it is a cure from the compulsions of the network. A networked connection does not automatically mean friendship. Not every network enables conversations (if they would, they would have greater opportunities of data mining and targeted advertising!)

[Damn! I should not have given them that idea. But, chances are, they have already exploited it.]

I have not lost touch with my friends because of my absence on social networks. In fact, I am speaking with them more often. On a mobile phone that does not weigh as much as a construction brick. Pandemic and all, that is the best we can do today. I no longer feel the need to post my crappy humour, unoriginal ideas, ill-formed opinions, and angry rants on these social networks anymore. I have not lost the feeling; I just do not feel a need to post it. (WhatsApp/Other IMs are an exception, because they are more intimate; but I think I shall conquer that, in good time)

Finally, this post; about social networks and social media – is not a rant. It’s a happy experience of not experiencing everything that is fed to you.

#JOMO.

As an early-70s kid, it has brought back a happiness that I knew and related to.

Life’s better when it is small and full; rather than being big and empty.

A Musical Schizophrenia

There’s always one song — a crass, inelegant one. The genre doesn’t matter, the period does. Almost always this will be a song from when you were young. Perhaps in your early college days; a little more than three decades ago. (Needless to say, if you are still in college, or if you are just out; this won’t make sense to you.)

It is your favourite song. Still.

30 years ago, people around you, agreed with you. It was the best, they echoed. 30 years later, you dare not say it loud: I love this song. Most of us mature in our taste of music; some of us do not. It’s not something to apologise for. It is however, something not worth advertising.

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I may have said this before. I lost my iPod Classic during travel, a few years ago; it’s been a while. Since then, the music experience has never been the same. Music, movies, books, have to be possessed – the cloud does not cut it. Imagine painstakingly tagging over seven thousand songs in your own way, and not being able to access your music in the way that you want to.

Discontinuing the iPod Classic is the worst thing that Apple did. Not that they care, but I will never forgive them for that.

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I’ve lost my religion. I have to get back to Paul Simon and Simon & Garfunkel. True salvation lies in their words and their strings. For me. I do not know about you.

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Obstinate are the trammels, but my heart aches when I try to break them.
Freedom is all I want, but to hope for it I feel ashamed.
I am certain that priceless wealth is in thee, and that thou art my best friend, but I have not the heart to sweep away the tinsel that fills my room.
The shroud that covers me is a shroud of dust and death; I hate it, yet hug it in love.
My debts are large, my failures great, my shame secret and heavy; yet when I come to ask for my good, I quake in fear lest my prayer be granted.

~ Gurudev Rabindranath Tagore

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My life’s so common it disappears
And sometimes even music
Cannot substitute for tears

 

All’s Well: The Intersection

Something that I had once said, came true today. I am happy, because I was/am right. I am sad, because I did not want it to be right.

Not all intersections are indicators of long and shared journeys. Intersections are opportunities; but some are just that: intersections. We may believe that an intersection may make me change my direction and walk with you, or an intersection may make you change your direction and walk with me. It may happen even; but not always, and not at every intersection. Sometimes intersections are only intersections. Enjoy them, and move along your path. An intersection is only a milestone of what was lost or what we let go.

Your opportunity may be waiting at the next intersection. Or not.

And intersections are lively. They are fun, they are entertaining. But we have to be on and away on our journey. An intersection is a stop; the opposite of a journey. Every intersection prolongs your journey; so be wary of intersections.

As long as you keep walking, all’s well.