When you start performing outside, do your words stop performing?

Dear words,

It's been a while since I have written. Really written. 

And I don't mean the pathetic excuse of ads. Writing ads is not writing.

Sure, you can write good ads. But how many good ads have I written in a while? Sure, we have had some good times.

I can still dig out some of the ads I'm proud of, from the treasure chest of my folio. 

Or rummage through my memory palace for the gems that made me who I am.

But mostly, I just take a peek in my blog.

I gaze at the worlds I created with you, my words. Where you became characters, happy, sad, angry, magical elves, talking parrots, Robert de Niroesque camels, sallow old men, abused vampires, even the timeless Night. A stranger in the world I created, I gaze in wonder, wanting to read more. What happens next? I ask.

But there are no more pages.

No more stories.

No more characters.

.

.

Because I stopped writing.

.

And just like that, this world turns bleak. You look at me in disdain. Like I betrayed you, abandoned you. Left you out to die.

.

But I didn't, I swear. 

I just... got consumed... by other words.

.

Glamorous and boring and shallow and self-centered but worth a lot. They are paying my bills, you know. What are you worth, anyway? What could you give me?

.

.

Except my entire being.

.

What were you ever worth...except my soul?

What were you...except my reason to live?

.

.

And what am I now, without you?

Is this how it feels to live an empty existence? To roam like a ghost through the halls of success? To be famous without any identity? 

Does this mean I have nothing left to say?

.

.

Far from that.

I feel I have grown up.

I think I have become funnier. Other humans attest to that.

I think I have become more patient, more understanding...braver even. 

I think I understand humans a bit better now. I will not say I understand everything about them or even like them but I think they like me a little better than they used to. 

Why does it matter? 

Because that has been one of my constant struggles. To understand human beings better. To get my point across. To see them. For what they are and what they can be. And to make them see me.

I daresay I might even have a following.

Human beings are not completely repulsed by the thought of me. How on earth did I pull off this feat? I'm sure you would be proud of me, dear words. You would be proud of how much I have achieved, how far I have come. I think humans find me funny too. 

.

But is it because I started performing for them that I stopped writing for you? I wonder. 

.

Perhaps, I was getting fulfilment outside so I didn't need to release words to feel at peace. 

.

But just like a drug, this fulfilment is temporary. Human contact and appreciation is no match for the warmth and comfort of your creation, and your company.

.

Am I making up for the years of little human contact with rampant popularity?

Should I wait for the tipping point or find a balance now?

.

I suppose, humans will always be there. With their frivolous nature and their shallowness, their worship-or-criticise attitude, their shiny trinkets that lose value the moment they buy them, and their arrogance. I daresay I enjoyed being worshipped, I enjoyed being criticized but more often than not, I liked manipulating their view at will. 

.

But you, my dear words have been with me through thick and thin. Through the darkness and abyss, the rise and popularity and success, you have been my one constant. You never asked for anything much like the quiet mother who makes way for her daughter's rise. She was the furious mother who wouldn't let mean kids make her daughter cry. Mean kids still exist. But the mother now believes she has created a strong woman who is ready to face whatever life throws at her and instead prefers to retire to the shadows. That, however, doesn't mean she is not ready to defend her daughter at the drop of a hat. 

.

Just like that mother, I need you today, dear words.

Please come back.

Sincerely

The writer who terribly misses you

Things People Say

'Oh you are so negative.'
'Oh you are always pissed.'
'Oh you are so depressive.'
'Oh you are so boring.'

'Oh yes, Neanderthals like you make me lose my faith in mankind.'
'Oh yes darling, because I suffered through an overdose of moronity, courtesy, you.'
'Oh you need to not use that word so lightly, it offends the actual depressed people.'
'Oh you need to start hanging around with 'your' kind of 'fun' people. What does it include, btw, half baked fb rants and selfie postures?'

Don't expect respect if you cannot show it. :-)

No Rhyme Or Reason

I don't know what I'm feeling.
I don't know how I'm still feeling.
Writing used to be the balm of sore life, the medicine that nursed me through days and nights of cold love and longing.
The only area of my life uncontaminated by petty competition.

It was never about writing 'better', it was just about writing.
Because that was the only way I could express myself.

So when did it become 'If you cannot write better than 'X' or 'Z', you shouldn't write at all?'
The only area uncontaminated by petty competition is now infected.

I miss those days.
When the voices crowded my head and I released them on paper.
No therapy could compare to it.
The voices still crowd my head but instead of releasing them, I sweep them under the rug.

Truth be told, I feel like a Stepford Wife.
Writing honey-coated lines for sugar sweet brands.
Superficial.
I want to sink my teeth into those words, bite them apart, just so the little bitches realise how full of crap they are.
Shallow. Kinda like the girls that the men I like go for.
Words without depth, words without me.
Where's me?
Where's the rawness, the passion?
The honesty that punches your heart and rips your guts out?
Aren't words the last hope of mankind?
The last shelter where mankind can cry, love, hate with a fierceness it can only dream of in real life?
When did I start pimping words to make a quick buck?
When did I stop loving them?
They are the only ones who ever loved me.
Without rhyme or reason.
How did I forget the times they rescued me?
Narrowly pulled me away from the edge.
Provided an outlet so I wouldn't cross the line of insanity.
Gone are the days when I used to fill pages and pages with words, big and small, thick and thin, happy, fat, sad, grumpy. No judgment.
Now, every word I write is questionable, changeable. By every random idiot.
It's not a labour of love anymore.
Then what is it? What, pray, is the point of it all?
If I cannot love it, if I cannot protect it, if I cannot fight for it.

Should I give up writing and continue to float lightheaded in this vast numb plane?
Or should I quit the paycheck to keep alive the only thing keeping me alive?

If Dogs were on Facebook

I wonder how the social network would be if dogs could chat. Would they use more smileys or words? Would they ever go offline? What would their newsfeed look like? Pictures of bones and dirt. Chew toys and torn rugs. Embarrassing photos of their humans. Animated selfies, where you could never see their whole face. Because they would be too excited to take a proper selfie. And certainly no Instagrammable food. Because a dog wouldn't take photos of its food. It would gobble it up, because that's the sensible thing to do. Do you realise Mark, where you should diversify instead of trying to shove Free Basics down people's throats? But I digress.

Requited Love

What is requited love?
When you are stalked by the people you stalk on Facebook.

Silence Between Us

Amidst the heavy fog of words surrounding us, it was silence that said the most.

Ah Fish!

As she stood on the edge of the platform, nostalgia from the city market below found its way to her unassuming nose. She closed her eyes, breathing in the aroma and gasped, 'Ah fish!'

#MumbaiRains

21 July 2015

I sat listening to the sound of rain on my laptop, while your city flooded. Never knew clouds could carry fire.

Bread Omelette

The bread omelette stared at me, like the disfigured face of a burn victim.

Its wrinkly white pores resembled an old man with no teeth. The omelette hung limply from the sides like the limbs of a cancer patient.

I sank my teeth into the rubber.

I hate bread omelette. So I had asked the guy to get me a plain omelette. It was a simple enough instruction. But what arrived was a sallow egg sandwiched between two resilient pieces of bread. I told him I did not want the bread. What made him get the bread?

He told me I should have specified.

Only I did.

I told him off, a bit rudely. And then realized, may be this was why people thought I was obnoxious. I left the sad bread omelette as the lame kitty nobody wanted. A desperate desire to throw away the pathetic excuse for food rushed through me. The nerves in my palms leaped in joy.

I could throw the plate in the kitchen and make him cringe in fear. May be the resounding noise would wake him out of his carelessness. A thousand such scenes flashed through my mind. It was worth a try. The act would be obnoxious enough to get his attention.

Or I could ignore it. Let him know I didn’t care for his substandard service. He would get the message.

Or I could just rescue the omelette and eat it. Ignore the distorted bread.

But there wasn’t any evil in that.

I patiently waited, looking to create maximum impact.

And as I pondered over the next course of action, I slowly ripped the bread to shreds. Along with the omelette. The elastic slice badgered my teeth. Amidst mouthfuls, I thought. This time, I’ll let it slide. But the next time, I drag him to hell.

Walking through the Bylanes of Memory

As the S9 bus started to grate its way through the pebbled road, the roar of its ancient engines deafened me. An unknowing smile lit up my face. Of course. How could I forget the 5 years of riding through noise to the university? It was the same bus, the new ones they had purchased 7 years ago. Even the passengers were the same. I recognised the conductor.

A shy lad looking to learn the ropes of a government job, he had first joined the service around 2007. I had noticed him instantly; he stood out, a quiet, humble voice amidst rowdy conductors. But today, as he went about the rows of passenger seats, his brazen attitude made me realise that he had after all, become a pro. He walked towards me, a little heavy-set (as are most Bengali men), wearing the same moustache and good-boy haircut (another Bengali specialty) I had first seen him sport almost 7 years ago.

'Ticket?' He asked, betraying no signs of recognising me.
I immediately handed him a 100-rupee note, being the first in a long line of passengers to do so. If you have been to Kolkata, you know how difficult it is to get a change for Rs.100 here. It occurred to me how easily I had asked for change of 500-rupee notes from auto rickshaw drivers in Gurgaon.

'Jadavpur, toh?' He looked at me, as I handed him the note. I looked up at him and smiled. He had after all, recognised me. I sat behind the driver's seat, watching the green plains of the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass give way to luxury high-rises. The metro plan that had been on hold since 2006. The traffic jam. Everything was the same. How was it, that the conductor was in the same post for over 7 years? Didn't he want anything more from life? How was he happy?

As the bus inched towards my university, he came back with the change. I had never spoken to him before.

'Bhalo achhen? (Are you well?)', I asked him as he handed me the change.

He looked at me, surprised. Generally, passengers aboard public buses only speak to conductors to either ask for some change or to halt the bus between stations.

Embarrassed, he smiled and mumbled a, 'Ei cholche (It's going alright)', and rushed to the bus door to reprimand the passengers who were trying to get off in the middle of a traffic jam.

I got off and walked through the smoky 8B bus stand and into the crowded lane filled with food stalls, mobile recharge shops and Xerox counters. The lanes where I had spent 5 valuable years of my life. Everything was the same, even the people. There had been no change in this part of town, except in the number of food items that had increased to include more delectable fares like momos and chicken pakodas.

As their heavenly smell hung in the air interspersed with smog, I inhaled deeply. Not everyone wanted to be part of a rat race. Perhaps, the biggest ambition some had was to come home to two square meals a day and a loving family. And that was okay.

I met my friend, and to my surprise, she hadn't changed at all. Still petite and crazy, she entertained me for hours. We chatted about life, our old classmates and the university. As I boarded the returning bus from 8B, who else should be there but the driver-conductor duo from the morning! Some things never change.

As the citylights kissed the dark Kolkata sky, I realised the biggest complaint one had against this city was also perhaps, its biggest strength. Kolkata didn't have ambition, they said. And that's okay. Perhaps, it was fine just the way it was.

The Imitation Game: How the Bullies from your High School transferred to your Government

Alan Turing's biopic, The Imitation Game brought back memories of lunches eaten in quiet corners of busy classrooms, being the only one in class nobody sat next to, being the only audience as the rest of the class played in PT, being termed 'unsocial' by teachers and 'psycho' by classmates, basically being the odd-one out for a better part of academic life. 

Broadly speaking, Bullying, or Intimidation aims to humiliate an individual or group because of their 'perceived difference'. Aside from the fact that Turing was a genius, and socially awkward, the film primarily focuses on his feelings of persecution. A feeling that haunted him all through his life, the feeling of not belonging, of not being accepted in mainstream society, the very feeling that led to his untimely death.

As we leave high school, we believe the worst is behind us. That the world in front, the wonderful, positive world will finally treat us with the respect we deserve. That it won't look for every single chance to squash you like a bug. That you finally, will be a human being. That, you won't have to hide.

Surprise, surprise. The world, your new world, whether it be higher studies or your workplace, turns out to be exactly like your high school. Bullies everywhere. And if you are lucky to find someone like Joan Clarke who befriends you and guides you through your mistakes, you will be saved. At least, till the time the bullies don't find another reason to crucify you. Turing discovered the hard way that even though the War was over, his war wasn't.

And now, it wasn't just that he was socially awkward, it was something more: He was different. And isn't being different what bullies pick on? Doesn't it perplex you just a little that the stout kid who used to give you a wedgie every day on the school bus is now the local councillor? Or that your boss reminds you of the classmate who loved making fun of your flaws?

Hasn't that been the trajectory of our culture, electing bullies in powerful positions so they can feed on the insecurities of the marginalized?

The story of Alan Turing is a big blob of shame on our hero-worship fairy tales. It shows, just how far, we are ready to go to condemn and persecute those who think and act different. It doesn't matter how creative they are, if they have stopped wars or engaged in breakthrough scientific research. And the medium of discrimination, is really, just an excuse. If it's not religion, it's race. If not sex, it's sexual orientation. Sometimes, it's about not smiling much. At other times, smiling a little too much. Unlike Enigma, the reasons why those in positions of authority might like to bully you, is truly an enigma.

If you are different than the powerful few who like to call themselves 'majority', and are also socially awkward, then chances are, 9 out of 10 times you will be bullied. Most of us undergo this ritual in school, which gives some practice before professional life arrives with its golden promises. You think high school's all over when lo and behold, you are eating lunches alone again.

How to Combat Bullying?

1. Unity in Friendship- In school you might have been a loner. Just remember, in your adult life, you will have a larger number of minorities who, too, feel persecuted. Befriend them. We might like to hide when being bullied, but a better idea is to unite with like-minded individuals who are going through the same experience. Remember, bullies intimidate by alienating you, so the more people you have on your team, the better.

2. Speak Up- You can easily discern a bullied person from a non-bullied person in public. How? The bullied person never speaks up, in fact, he hardly speaks at all. And it is particularly, because of this trait that bullies think he's a rug, to be stepped on, over and over again.

This might be due to past experiences that the bullied person has faced. Perhaps, he tried speaking up and was humiliated and socially ostracized. Bullying injures your confidence and self-respect in ways no physical injury can. But this damage can be repaired through counselling. There is no shame in asking for help. It is more important to know that you are not alone and there are people who are there for you.

So, if counselling is what you need to be assertive, then get it. But it is essential to speak up. For now, you have no Headmaster to run to, rather he is the bully.

3. Understand the Nature of Bullying- Why is it that you are being bullied? Is it your sex, your race or religion? Is it because you are more competent or competitive? Understanding why you have been singled out is the key to understanding the nature of the bullies and what they hope to gain from intimidating you. Oftentimes, bullies are just insecure kids who are afraid or jealous of you. Find out their weakness, and the tables will soon be turned.

When governments or institutions bully common people, the reason is mostly politically or monetarily motivated. As said in 1, you need all the help you can get to combat bullying of this kind.

4. Understanding it is Mental, not Physical- One of the important aspects of Bullying is that it is MENTAL, although its expression, sometimes might be physical. All forms of bullying are intended to humiliate an individual and harm his self worth. It can be a mother-in-law bullying a daughter-in-law, a government bullying human rights activists, a corporate group bullying indigenous groups or, a senior colleague purposely humiliating a subordinate.

Bullying, or Intimidation, has been the most preferred weapon of choice of institutions and powerful individuals alike to exert control over apparently 'weaker' marginalized groups. This form of coercion, tragically, does not limit itself to criminal outfits; rather it is most prominent in areas of high legal authority. Alan Turing was a war hero, who refused to resort to lies or connections and was left alone in the face of a sham law. 

A posthumous pardon granted by the Queen did little in bringing him or his honour back to life. The contribution Great Britain made in winning the War was owed largely to this national hero, but his country failed to give him his due recognition or even, dignity. Alan Turing died, a misunderstood man, victim of a law that persecuted him because he was different. 

To that, we owe, every single man and woman ever bullied to be kind and empathetic to others. Remember that the next time you rudely treat a street hawker or your own student. You have no idea what they are going through. 

A Good Book

A good book is a warm blanket that keeps you company on cold nights. A corner of solitude where you can cry in peace, and laugh with joy. It is a friend that says a lot without speaking at all. A good book is a philosophizing drunkard that dishes out life lessons, page after page. It is a graveyard where all human emotions come to rest. And that takes a part of you when it gets over. Because a good book, is love unrequited.

Returning by Metro

Crowded Metro. A girl sits cozily turning a page of Sheldon's Angel of the Dark. The woman beside, puts her mobile inside the purse. Hoping she would get up soon, several weary legs near her seat perk up in position. Non chalantly, she takes biscuits out from a lunchbox and begins chewing.

A girl wearing a bright yellow woollen top stands casually by one of the poles, speaking on her phone, 'No, but you have to see what kind of dress I wear to office'. A few feet ahead, another young woman wearing a navy blue sweater lined with feathers, observes her intently.The girl standing next to me is whatsapping some Abhinav Sir. Me?
I'm just trying to read her message.

The Smell of Home

The warm tap water smelled like home. It reminded her of wintry mornings when her mother would painstakingly heat up buckets of water for her. They didn't have a geyser. All they had was each other.

The misty mirror hid the emotion on her face. Suddenly, the weather seemed less cold. The warm water smelled like Maa.

Cold Love

There is that familiar sting in the air. The cold bites on the lips; the chill tucks at the heart. Windy memories rush past as time moves anticlockwise.

Diwali House

As evening arrived, a glow spread over her face. Bright ornaments decked her from head to feet like the jewellery of a new bride. Tonight was her time to shine and no one could take that away from her.

The lights turned on; the house smiled. Tonight was Diwali.

When Love Trumped Friendship

Even though they had just met, it felt like they had known each other for ages. Friendship was inevitable.

A preference for dark humour.

Wit.

The same sensibility.

Even the same name.

But neither guessed they had also fallen for the same man.

The Dead of the Night

The dead of the night.
Your story makes me wonder
The Universe is mysterious
Sometimes, it reflects life
But most times, a lesson.

Strange are the ways of men
Stranger still, those of women.
What does that make us, I wonder.
Poets, anti-socials, loners
Or the rejects of society?

They say, love is a young man's game
A wrong bet, and you lose heart
Learn the rules, don't be a fool.
You see, love is not for amateurs.

So while you and I scribble
Pages and pages of morbid prose
Pretty lovers with prettier frames
Live fairytales of their own.

The Night Sky

Draped in a wave of clouds,
The moon lets out a lazy yawn.
A naughty wind brushes past
Pulling off its cover, oh so lightly
Illuminating half a mile of the sky.

The moon is called off from sleep
A rude awakening
Big eyes, full of reproach
It scolds the wind, pulls the blanket closer.
And the endless sea goes dark.

Dark clouds with stoic silver linings
Like the depth of a bottomless ocean,
The synchrony of a fish's scales,
A unique geometric pattern
Shield the Universe.

A solitary star winks away
In the midst of this celibacy.

A lighthouse full of hope,
It is the sole flame, 
Eternally awake
In the sleeping world.
Like my love for you.

Ode to Sleep

I love to sleep.
It keeps the demons away.
As long as I'm safely tucked in
They won't get their way.

I love to sleep.
For dreams give me wings
Even in a nightmare,
I always find my way.

I love to sleep.
It's the best thing to do.
Better than the crying, the anger
The pain of seeing you.

I love to sleep.
It's the only thing keeping me sane
Forever healing,
The wounds you inflict by day.
Every day.

The day I stop loving sleep
Is the day I stop loving life.