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December 29, 2025

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Catch-22

What’s the longest you have been at something? I mean, apart from living your life, which I guess happens more or less on its own, apart from the odd heaves and the few nudges that life needs? Something that you actively chose to do, i.e.? Am not talking of jobs. Or of an occupation. Or of a paid service that sustains life. It’s blogging, for me. And photography. There have been other things, but none that stayed alive for a very long time.

But, let’s talk of blogging today, because it has been 22 years today since I started blogging. I’ve enjoyed this journey, just like I’ve enjoyed life. There have been ups, there have been downs. There has been conviction, and there has been severe doubt. Ecstasy and quite often dark depression. Love, affection, anger, rants, memories, creativity, companionship, and (my favourite) conversations — all these strands braided my blogging journey for these 22 years. Multiple strands, one braid. A thick braid, when it started, thinning as it went along. Last few years, the posts have been rare on this blog, like most things that age. As I am writing these lines, I am reminded of a paragraph by Will Durant when he was talking of love, but, I’ll paraphrase it as I understood it:

“Youth, if it were wise, and Wisdom, if it were young.”

The frequency of my posts has been inversely proportional to the age of this blog. The compulsion to leave thoughts open-ended has been directly proportional to the age of this blog. I think it is obvious that I talk of my age, but for the purpose of this post, let’s blame the age of this blog.

I’d love to be the same kind of blogger that I was in the initial few years of this blog. I miss it. I was happy then. Not because I used to get likes and comments (though, it was an important factor) but because I really enjoyed it. I was just happy writing. The validation, if at all, came later. I remember that old happiness and I wonder, if I seek that. I am surely not that young anymore, and there is no way to know if I have become wise.

Re-paraphrasing: “Youth knows not much of wisdom, but speaks; wisdom knows much of youth, yet keeps silent.”

I really wish these two guys have an ongoing conversation that’s unending.

Wishing you all a very Happy New Year. May you be young and wise, in good proportion. ♥️

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December 18, 2025

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The Identity Schizophrenia

It’s been a while, I’ve learnt the value of nail-filing. Those cuticles (or whatever you call them – the corner of the nail that gets sharp over time) can be brutal, as you move your hand through your hair. It can almost tear your scalp. One of the days when I was getting the edges softened, I wondered about all the dead skin that was being dispersed in my room. Not like: “Oh a part of me is lost,” but more like — “Damn! There’s too much of my DNA in this room.” Which instantly made me think of all the CSI episodes I had seen. God forbid, if my room ever became a crime scene (and the crime would be how badly I manicured) – just imagine the frustration of all the technicians – finding the DNA of the same person over and over again. Not sure how it works in the lab, but it doesn’t matter, for this post. I am just feeling bad for all the forensic technicians collecting evidence. Damn! Same guy!

***

Then I think of all the places I have visited. Homes of friends, rooms of hotels. Tables in bars where emotions were silently vented. Public street benches where every word and voice was gulped. Those places have my DNA too. CSI won’t go there. Anger, sadness, and betrayal are not the purview of the police.

***

CSI can very well extract your DNA from physical remains. Microscopic they may be. The centrifuges go round and round and submit a colour code of who you are. Small and big bars red and yellow. A face, a nose, a jawline, a cheekbone — it can tell you all, but it cannot tell what life was lived.

***

That takes a phone call. Someone saying – thank you. Someone saying f**k you. (though that’s a call you’ll seldom receive). The complete DNA is a map of how you have lived your life. With your hair-fall, with your blood pressure, with your actions, with your words, with your manicure, with your fears, with your laughter, with your support, with your companionship, and mostly – with your heartfelt conversations.

***

Our real DNA is not of cheek cells, hair follicles, or of blood. Our real DNA is the substance of hateful and grateful messages, that we get, after years have passed.

 

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November 27, 2025

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Be The Market

Back to WordPress. Trying to post. I say trying, because it is not easy anymore. Default writing is some block editor. a few hundred clicks later, you get the classic editor. It’s not easy anymore. Same as music. Same as movies. Same as games – perhaps. I don’t play games, so I don’t know. But I know music. I know movies. Once upon a time, I used to buy cassettes, (or CDs) pay for them; I used to buy DVDs, pay for them. They were always available to me. Now, no more. I have to continue paying for access every month. And a new thing has emerged. Even after paying, for a short-list, I have to pay more to get rid of the advertisements. We are willing to pay money, but everyone wants 5p more. Apple brought two great products: iPod Classic and Aperture, and then they killed it.

People like us are not a market anymore, it seems.

Time to be the market.

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July 14, 2025

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A Small Pause in Life’s Long Commute

Fragment of a diary

A poster hung over my grandfather’s deathbed. It said — “You observe a lot by watching.” I saw that poster many times and read that caption by the Cheetah’s paw, as many times. Made sense, but my father understood it better than I did.

Another of those thoughtful philosophical sixteen minute journeys through Mumbai’s local trains. More confusion, or maybe as much as before — only the context seems to differ.

My teachers have been those who were (and probably are) more confused than I am. And I am destined to enjoy this state of mind – only in retrospect. Have I decided that I have nothing to learn from men who have (or seem to have) clarity of thought? Or is it that I reading too many books?

What am I pushing my body and soul towards? What is my goal? Am I here to achieve the petty accomplishments that society demands? Am I supposed to be true to my self, or wisely selfish? What dictates my actions, behaviours, and moods? Why do I feel like a sugarcane going through a sugarcane juice machine? Can I conveniently blame it on ‘systems’?

My person searches for its remains. I am a lost soul – lost to the warped world of technology. I would have been a poet, an artist, a teacher, and perhaps a singer too. But I chose that a dumb electronic machine guide my life and I lead myself to believe that I am shaping the future of this machine and all the lives that will interact with it. And this acquired fanaticism is the excuse for everything – this fatwa rules the roost – over all aspects of my life and above all my self.

All this writing can be written off as a drunkard’s gibberish, but someday later I will regret that I did not follow my heart – and what a poor heart it is – it no more has any say. It has retreated and quietened down, perhaps in resignation to this undetermined ambition whose only basis is default.

~ 18 December 1999. Handwritten, locked up for years, recently discovered.

BWSL Bridge Mumbai

Epilogue

What you just read is neither a rant nor a profound exploration of self. It was an unknown pin on the map of my life. You know where the pin is—but you don’t know where you are. It’s a mind learning how to be lost without panic. There’s hesitation, a slow unease, and something like holding hands with a question—just for a moment.

Carlos Castaneda once called clarity the second enemy of a man of knowledge. At that time, I think I was lunging toward it—seeking urgency in wisdom. I won’t argue with Castaneda, but I’ve come to understand this: clarity isn’t something you seize. It settles in. Quietly. It builds a slow home in your heart.

Almost twenty-six years later, I have no real regrets about the “dumb electronic machine.” It gave me a life. It paid the bills. It gave me knowledge. It showed me purpose. It became my teacher. It brought people into my world I never expected. And in my own quiet, satisfactory way, I became the things I once feared I’d never be: a poet, an artist, a teacher, an amateur historian. Singer? Not so much.

But I am no longer lost. I may not always like where I am—but now, I know where the pin is, and I know where I am. I can move, if and when I choose.

My heart is fuller than it was in ’99. It’s filled with love, with loving friendships, with warmth I never planned for. The heart is still quiet, but no longer resigned. It knows how to change the default settings.

It took time, but I’ve learned what settings fit me best.

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January 22, 2025

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Thin Threads, Silky Strands, and Fragile Filaments

‘और लिये जा, और पीये जा, …’

This line kept looping like a litany in my head, unable to find the escape velocity to complete the line. I knew where it was from, the poem i.e. – and the tune of it was also intact; softly echoing the soulful voice of Manna Dey. But refused to escape the loop. Why this line was ringing without abandon, I was not entirely aware. Perhaps a dream, perhaps a memory, or an imagined moment.

‘और लिये जा, और पीये जा, …’

It had been a few minutes now, and the inescapable repetition was now frustrating me. I once knew the poem by heart, and could sing it well enough too. Many mehfils had been adorned by reciting some the best verses of this poem. What a moment it was to be introduced to this poem.

‘और लिये जा, और पीये जा, …’

Accepting grudgingly that my memory is not the same as it once was, I leapt out of bed and got the book out, searching for this lost fragment in the vast poem. After skimming through a few stanzas, there it was:

बने पुजारी प्रेमी साकी, गंगाजल पावन हाला,
रहे फेरता अविरत गति से मधु के प्यालों की माला,
‘और लिये जा, और पीये जा’, इसी मंत्र का जाप करे,
मैं शिव की प्रतिमा बन बैठूं, मंदिर हो यह मधुशाला।।१९।।

Bead Necklace

The nineteenth stanza of Madhushala by Shri Harivanshrai Bachchan.

Needless to say, I was with the book for the next hour or so, going through the entire poem, falling in love with poetry once again and reliving every moment when a verse of this poem brought joy to all the listeners in a mehfil. As I read through some of the verses, I wondered if I had changed enough to find new meaning in these verses. Or if the world around me had changed enough for me to see these verses in a new light. Would it be a good time to reread the poem? Would there be meaning that is beyond the acquired one and distinct than the borrowed one? When I was younger, a wise old man had given me a direction to experience the poem. I am definitely older now, was I now wise enough to find my own direction through these verses? Was there meaning in these verses that I had experienced and not expressed? For all the evenings that we celebrated this poem with alcohol; alcohol is the thick thread that holds this poem together; what about the thin threads, the silky strands, the fragile filaments of philosophy, emotion, love, death, and life that have accumulated, yet remained unexpressed?

How do I start this adventure? Where do I begin?

I read the full poem. That was a start. Hopefully my life’s memory isn’t as faded as my memory of the lines of the poem. We’ll see.

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June 16, 2024

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The Precious Threshold

There is that precious moment between wakefulness and sleep. It’s like walking through a gate, and your feet are on either side of the threshold. One foot coming, the other going. We don’t pay much attention when we walk through doors and gates. But this moment between being awake and falling asleep is magical. For that very brief moment, you are both — awake and asleep. You could go forward or you could go back. And it doesn’t matter – you may experience these moments more than once in that one night. And anything can happen in this moment.

Glass building reflecting a Stone building

This moment is a seed: of a dream, if you fall asleep; of a story, if you stay awake.

And one such night, I went back and ended up being awake. It’s usually a vision, that seed, that moment. Lying awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, I regretted not being able to dream where that vison would have taken me. So I teased that vision. “Why, vision, why did you appear magically, out of nowhere?” The vision didn’t have anything to say. I teased it further – “Maybe you are this, maybe you are that…” And with each tease, I was awake, moving further away from that gateway to sleep. I was answering on behalf of the vision and it didn’t seem to mind. It seemed to happily hear my questions and agree with my answers. The vision was turning to a story. The seed was natural, the growth wasn’t.

A dream is easier. It doesn’t have to rely on imagination. It doesn’t have the constraints of reality or logic. A story on the other hand is constructed within these constraints. A story is remembered and can then be written. A dream fades away; a few fascinating fragments remain.

There must be a place just like that precious moment between wakefulness and sleep, where stories and dreams can become one.

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February 29, 2024

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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!

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January 27, 2024

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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.

An empty iPod Case

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.

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January 19, 2024

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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.

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December 29, 2023

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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.

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October 30, 2023

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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.

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September 13, 2023

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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.

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August 15, 2023

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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.

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April 2, 2023

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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.

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March 9, 2023

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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?

Tata Harrier Kaziranga Edition

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!

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February 16, 2023

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Learning

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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.

 

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February 3, 2023

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Thoughts

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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.

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December 29, 2022

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Personals, Remainders, Special Days, Thoughts, Time

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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!

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December 15, 2022

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Abstract, Cities, Dream, Emotion, Identity, Life, Roots, Thoughts, Travel

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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.

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December 3, 2022

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2.0 Self, Alone, Blogging, Concepts, Fear, Freedom, Konkan, Mountains, Personals, Risk, Special Days, Thoughts, Travel

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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.