The Day Coffee Wasn’t Bought

Credits- dreamatico.com/data_images/coffee/coffee-3.jpg

Standing on a balcony is never a boring endeavour. I stood, in what people say is my usual pose while having coffee, with both my elbows on the ledge, the left hand propping up my head while being balled into a fist, and the fingers of my right, curled around a cup, leaning against the wall of the cemented barrier between me and the sky. I always enjoyed these moments. Regardless of the world’s reprehensible mood swings of inflicting insufferable weather, this was an act, which never lost its charm. Today, particularly, was a warm, cosy day on the verge of turning gloomy. I always found the beauty of nature in change. Think about it. That moment when evening perks into the night or when the night finally makes way for the day. Dusk and Dawn. Twilight. The beginning of a rain shower on a sunny day or the emergence of the sun after one. The view from my balcony was not worthy of inspiration though. It looked out towards the parking lot of an apartment building that opened onto a closed street, and even on the most exciting of days; failed to evoke an inspiration in Hemmingway’s soul. Don’t get me wrong; it was a quaint, nice view, but nothing worth the ink it would consume on paper. The best thing about it probably would be the view of the open sky, which never fascinated me. Isn’t it the same old sky everywhere? Sure, the clouds and their patterns are different, but essentially it is the same, isn’t it?
The smoke rings curled up, and disappeared, as things always did. I smiled as I saw the source. A couple was standing in the middle of the garden slightly to the left of the building, making something that would barely pass as a bonfire. They waved, and I waved back, and immediately forgot about it. I returned to my musings, and sipped my coffee. Perhaps it is the aroma, or the caffeine itself rather than the aroma of exotic Java Chip coffee, that made me notice her. A girl, barely 14 years past her first word, was walking across the dull, parking lot. I was immediately bewildered, and I couldn’t place the source for it. In an instant, my mind made way for my brain, and the rowdy game of analysis began. The brain is an insane computing machine. I do not necessarily mean that in a good way. At its whims, it can process thousands of different information pieces in less than a second, and at times, it struggles to comprehend even a singular piece of data.  For now, it was struggling to trace my bewilderment. Was it the girl? No, a girl walking across the parking lot is hardly bewildering. Her age? Definitely not, given that my brain already knew that the apartments in this street were mostly residential apartments meant for families or married couples. Accounting for a total of 822 apartments and an average of 3 people in each, a healthy figure of around 2500 is reached, and it is hardly a shocking occurrence to see a girl in her early mid-teens in a group as diverse as 2500 people. Suddenly, it hit me. The bewilderment presented itself not because of anything off about the girl, or the location, or the environment of the occurrence, but rather myself. I was bewildered by the fact that I had noticed the young girl.
Curious, I observed the girl. She continued walking across the parking lot, when suddenly, she stopped. She quickly slipped a hand inside her jeans pocket and fiddled for a bit, before extracting her mobile phone. If I had to guess, she received a call, as she proceeded to go stand by a car, slightly leaning on it, while she answered the call. Clearly, she knew the person, as her immediate answer and slight smile on her face betrayed, and she clearly wasn’t expecting to hear what she heard as she suddenly fell to her knees. The suddenness of the act was debateable as from where I stood, and from the observation I made keenly, I detected a hint of wobbling in her knees as the call progressed which progressed into a literal knock from an invisible hand, not the one Adam Smith spoke of, though both had the same effect viz. knocking out the very props that kept something up, albeit in a correcting manner. As the economy corrected itself, she answered while on her knees, crying. Again, it was perspective that mattered, as for an average passer-by, it could have easily been the pain of hard yet soft knee caps bumping on the cemented road, but only an observer who had insights into the moments leading up to the incident, or even had seen the girl in the moments preceding it, could swear that the first tear drop hit the ground before the girl’s knees did.
The teardrops never stopped, as the girl’s voice cracked, for she was wailing, and in a moment, her persona had changed. No longer was she an average person walking down the road, with an air of careful dressing up, slight cheerfulness and purposefulness. No, she had suddenly become one with the wild climate, as her hair turned slightly frizzy and her face betrayed the darker spots. Maybe it was the light playing its games, I would never know, for that very moment, her tears disappeared into the sudden outburst of rain. The moment was rich with clichés and ironies as the girl sat on the cemented ground, on her knees, one hand holding the phone to her ear, trembling all this while, as the other ventured through her hair, grasping at nothing, venting for a frustration that was still born. The wailing of the heavens brought her to her senses, as a strong wind buffeted against her face, and the rain splashed against her. She quickly pulled the hood of her jacket over her head, and made a dash towards the entrance of the apartment building, but all this while, one of her hand remained on the phone, and the phone on the ear, as if glued together by the conversation she was having. She disappeared into the lobby, and that was the last I ever saw of her.
It has been 4 years since I went back. 4 surprisingly long years since I saw home. That was always the last thought I had before I fell asleep. Always. Every day, for the past 4 years. Something had always come up. Work, travel, engagements, something. It was an unfortunate thing, but just like all other things human, and all other things unfortunate, couldn’t be helped. It just had to be dealt with. It was an odd feeling, the longing to be back home. It gnaws at your insides, but soon morphs into an itch that just stays. The year was 2004, and mobile phones had just gained immense traction. Only last week, I purchased one and had performed my weekly ritual. Every Friday, as soon as the sunset, I would walk out of the apartment and approach the nearest calling booth. 326 steps was the distance I remember, because I remember each step, each pace, with each beat of my heart. The mechanical art of dialling the number which magically connected me to someone thousands of miles away, was dull, yet I suppose, when the ends matter more than the means, the means gain a charm themselves. The conversation was never anything special, a casual conversation with my parents, just as the one you have at the end of the day, when you get back home. The only difference was that our day lasted seven days, and of course, the distance factored in, but the love, the magic, remained the same.
Sundays were always hard for me. Waking up alone, in a place that is not your own, neither in terms of belongingness nor in terms of how much at home you felt, nor in terms of the familiarity that hung in the air, nor the awkward silence when you woke up in a room with shut windows. One would expect to find peace and tranquillity in silence, but I found chaos. Mad, pathetic chaos. The mind is a strange tool in that regard. A perfectly normal, silent moment can be the worst situation your mind can be in. Over the eons, the greatest minds of the human civilization have postulated that mankind seeks order from chaos. The implied underlying statement is that chaos exists, and has to be cleared. It has to be fought, it has to be tamed, it has to be handled, it has to be undermined, it has to be won over, it has to be defeated, it has to be lost to. But all in all, it exists, and therefore is. Therefore, I was slightly taken aback, albeit in a good way, when I woke up on 7th November 2004, not to the chaos of thoughts and everything hence, but rather the order of silence. A smile adorned my face as I woke up and splashed some warm water on my face, and looked at myself in the mirror, and the image of my ghost stared back. I was past the point when my haggard look shocked me. But for some reason, it made me realise how people are. Each human being is different, and reacts to different actions in different ways. We are a culmination of each moment of our life, and ergo, since it is impossible for two humans to have exactly the same moments for the entire life, each human is different. Yet, for a reason that I never understood, we seek to establish uniformity. We want people to be the same. It is a constant battle actually. Everyone should be dressed in the same fashion, according to what is the latest fashion trend, yet the latest fashion trend has to be different. We want everyone to behave in a set manner, governed by rules of the society and etiquettes and categories, yet each one is encouraged to be individualistic. The very idea is self-contradictory in itself, yet our world loves to engage perpetually in this insane chase.
I walked over to my kitchen, to make my usual cup of coffee. Yes, I was a coffee person, and it was what started my morning. I opened the cupboard and saw an empty jar, and for the second time in two days, I realised I have run out of coffee. Determined to not ruin my Sunday ritual, I decided to quickly head down the road and purchase my drug. A quick look outside the window, and the slight cool breeze made me grab my jacket from the back of my chair as I quickly dashed down the stairs. As I exited the building, I saw a couple standing at the back of their car, unloading groceries from the trunk on to the floor of the parking lot. They noticed me and waved, and I waved back, and immediately forgot about it. Today was a good day. Sunny, slight breeze, actually the perfect amount. Cold enough to warrant a jacket, yet warm enough to not zip the jacket up. I hummed a song as I walked, feeling the sun getting heavier on my head as I started perspiring. Abruptly, I stopped as my phone rang. It was my mother. The smile on my face grew wider, as I slowly leaned by a red car, with just the slightest apprehension at the unexpected call. The cold, broken hearted voice which came through could not have been my mother’s as no mother can ever say her son’s name, and make him feel dead. Yet that voice did. My name is barely two syllables, but those two were enough to break me. I asked her what’s wrong, and all she could do was cry. The sound wrecks you. It always does. I felt my legs begin to lose the strength to stand as she spoke. I couldn’t process a lot, but I understood what she said, and with each moment, my face drained away the red liquid, which keeps us alive. Sudden cardiac arrest is what they called it. He was barely 55. He calmly finished his tea, she told me, and suddenly his left hand clutched his chest and he fell on the bed. In my head, he fell with a grace that I had associated with him in the 23 years of my existence. In reality, he had lost all sense of grace or etiquette or any other human social construct. Hell, he lost his motor skills, and drool pooled over next to his face, as the odour of urine arose, mixed with something else that my mother couldn’t discern. It took 3 more years, and another encounter with death to gauge the quaint, horrifying scent of death. Without me realising it, my legs had given up, and I was on the ground, on my knees. The rough concrete scuffed through the jeans and hurt my flesh, but the tears in my eyes were not a result of exterior pain. I am an atheist, yet my creator was dead today, simply snatched away from me, without as much as a farewell. A sudden splash of water on my back made me turn and I realised the sprinklers had been switched on in the park, and I was on my knees, in a drizzle meant to invigorate life, yet life is what I felt leaving my body.
I don’t know how long I was there. The phone had long slipped my hand and fell on the concrete ground, exposed to the elements. A decade later, or perhaps, a second later, I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t. I tried again, and was successful, albeit a bit shaky on my feet. I craned my neck and looked towards the sun. The blinding light of the sun directly in my eye was disorienting, but as I saw the building directly beneath the sun, I swear I saw a girl, barely 14 years past her first word, nod at me, with a cup in her hand and a sad smile on her face. I nodded back and headed my way. Needless to say, coffee wasn’t bought that day.

Advertisements

To Be or not…Just Be

Somehow, inspiration is easily crushed. The human brain, for some reason, has a tendency to not let the euphoric feeling of inspiration last, and the crude pull of reality steps in. But here’s the thing. Often, reality, and when I say that, I refer to the scenario imagined by your mind based on your experiences as a human, in all probability, comes out as a negative push. Should I think about applying for that job? No, my grades are too low. Should I tell that girl that I am attracted to her and would love to spend an evening with her by the riverside, lying on the grass, staring at the sky? No, she’ll think I am insane. I feel like humming the tune of that song that has been stuck in my head, singing it at the top of my voice and doing a little dance with it. Should I? No, people will stare and think I have lost it.
This is a common experience for all of us, isn’t it? Not doing things, or doing things, based on a perception we have built up in our head over ages. Our experiences, our interactions, what we read, what we watch, what we hear, what we see, everything around us culminates into that moment of truth when you take decisions. The banality, or at the other hand of the spectrum, the importance of the decision, doesn’t matter. The simple choices of life too, are influenced by this. Now, the point I am trying to make is best put in one of the most profound lines by Rudyard Kypling in his masterful work, If

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;”

The thing about life is that it is unpredictable. All your intuitions, knowledge, wisdom etc. can fail in the crucial of times, and equally be valid at the same time. In each of the scenarios I mentioned at the beginning of this piece, the polar opposite results were possible with equal probability. Unfortunately, the human brain, on occasions more often not, tends to favour the probability of things going wrong. Let me explain. The brain operates on logic, reasoning and syllogism-like thinking. If something has the potential to make us either happy or sad, our mind would logically opt to not do it, and give proof to the adage “prevention is better than cure” i.e. the mind works in a way to prevent us from being hurt or saddened, rather than risk the possibility of letting that happen. However, in the process, the mind, and by definition, we ourselves, shut off numerous experiences, which could have possibly made us happy. We as human beings want certainty, and not probability. We will do something only if it is beneficial to us. By beneficial, I do not wish to restrict the definition. Anything that inspires a positive emotion in us maybe. Makes us happy, makes us joyous, makes us feel satisfied, brings a smile to our face, makes us jump in the air, makes us…feel good. Here’s the problem. You feel with your heart. Yes, even you science nerds who dismiss emotions and feelings as nothing but a reaction inspired by chemicals acting in our body, emotions, experiences etc. are felt. The logical fallacy in our lives is that we think before we feel. The heart feels, not thinks. The mind thinks, not feels.
At the outset, the status quo seems to be perfect. Feel, but think about it as well. Think, but feel about it as well. Fall in love, but maybe not with a murderer. Take up that high-paying job, but maybe not if you hate the field of work. I suppose, it is the best of both worlds. But in that pursuit, we are missing out on the extremes of each side. Pure, cold, thinking. Pure, uninhibited, unhindered-by-thought feeling. How many times have you done something purely instinctively, based on that gut feeling, or just because you felt like it? Hug that person standing on the road with a sad look on their face. Make conversation with that interesting looking person with the same cup of coffee as yours. How many times have you divorced feeling from a decision and simply made a choice only on thinking and rationality, devoid of all feelings? Take the shorter route because you need to be on time, despite the longer route having a view you like. Point out the mistake made by a friend bluntly because it is a major blunder.
If you’re like me, or any average human being (I like to believe I am both, average, and a human being), these decisions are either rare, or unchartered territory for you. The brain has an uncanny ability to exhibit its superiority. Evolution has made us into beings who strongly depend on the powerful brain, the same, complex organ, whose power and sheer capabilities set us apart from all other species on earth. Think about this for a minute. How frequently do you subject an emotion or a feeling to the processes of intellectual rigour? The frequency is so high; it is almost second nature for us to think our feelings through. The opposite on the other hand, is a less frequent occurrence i.e. subjecting our thoughts to the test of feeling. It does happen, in extreme situations, but rarely overall.

Ergo, the point I am trying to make is that maybe it is time for us to let our heart think and let our minds feel. The ends of each spectrum, feeling and thinking, have undiscovered wonders waiting, and it is high time we access them. Unshackling the shackles and flying has for long been a fantasy that all of us have burned into our neurons. Ever thought why is it just a fantasy? It is worth a try isn’t it? I am no one to judge or to tell anyone how to do things, but perhaps, it is my mind taking over my heart here, so I’ll just stop and say this. Do what your heart says, it knows what it wants, and you deserve every bit of it.

What if I fall? What if you fly?

Khuli Tizori,Khuli Bottle Aur Khuli Ladki

Often India is perceived to be a chauvinistic country where women are suppressed,even in a society which is transcending into a quasi-Western society. The incident on 16 December 2012 was just a case which was reported and emphasised by the media, but the incident was never to be,and should never be, seen in isolation. It was just the eruption of people’s anguish at the extraordinarily brutal,disgusting and appalling sexual assault cases this nation sees. Yet, this entry is not about rape or sexual assault. It doesn’t seek to justify anything and shall not justify itself.It is just a unique,different opinion I stumbled upon,and shall narrate further.

I was travelling to Bandra via an auto rickshaw whose number plate read MH 02 UA 6055. I, as usual had my earphones plugged in and wasn’t bothered in the slightest.”Aaney waley saal mein isse bhi zzyada chota ho jayega” muttered the auto wala in a mixture of disgust and anger. I glanced in the direction of his face and saw a girl wearing a red top and denim blue shorts.Admittedly she looked what people call “hot” but I also admit that I hadn’t noticed her until he pointed her out to me.I prepared myself for a chauvinistic lecture and was not disappointed.But for the first time,I saw the deep revulsion to women exposing their legs being rooted in genuine concern and almost banal fears. “Ladka ladki key paer ghoorta rahega aur wahan gaadi thook jayegi”. His concern was not for the fact that a girl was exposing her legs(as most conservatives).His disapproval was rooted in a sense of safety.How do I know this?Well for starters,he never mentioned anything that insults women although he might have been guilty of talking about them in a manner which on extremely critical observation can be termed insulting.Rather he actually demonstrated how shameless a man can be.

As we progressed towards our destination at snail’s pace,he actually pointed out a bunch of rowdy looking males in cheap formal clothes who were grinning at the girl like a wolf glares at a lamb. “Saley haramiyon ko dekho” he said as he pointed at them. Then he went on to tell me some of his deep life philosophies. “Mard chutiya hota hai.Uski niyaat teen cheezon ko dekh ke hamesha fisalti hai. Khuli tizori,khuli bottle aur khuli ladki.Chor ke saamne paise rakho toh woh haath zaroor marega.Piyakard ke saamne bottle rakho,toh woh piyega zaroor.Ayaash mard ke saamne khuli ladki rakho,uski niyaat tharak dikhayegi.” It translates to ” Man is an asshole. His dignity or his honour always slips at seeing three things. An open safe, an open bottle(I presume alcohol) and an open girl. Keep cash in front of a thief and his hands will obviously steal. Keep a bottle in front of a drunkard and he obviously will drink.Keep a girl in attractive clothing in front of a randy man, his soul is bound to turn playboyish”.

He was about to say some more but I reached my destination and I got off.I paid him the fare and bid him farewell,and for a few moments stared at the auto going off.He stopped ,picked up an aunty in a blue salwaar kameez who had hailed him over and drove off.

http://www.flipkart.com/affiliate/displayWidget?affrid=WRID-140558305459941235

Dhen Chu Bhaiya


This is the tale of a little boy from the city of dreams. For some peculiar reasons, people always tend to have either one of the two extreme possible ideas of a metropolitan. They’ll either imagine a pos, rich family with a father who earns more than he can spend, a suave new-age mother who watches Gray’s Anatomy instead of the useless nonsense on Star Plus, a son who studies Marx and Pounds alcohol with equal gusto and a daughter who harps over fashion and and goes crazy at the mention of how cute the new singer of some band is. Maybe throw in a pet. This is just one of the images. The other is of utter poverty where people barely have a meal to eat, let alone have savings. The mother looks like one of the patients on Gray’s while the son has only empty beer bottles to collect and dispose for money. The only fashion the daughter knows is that of the mistress’s daughter whose mother was kind enough to donate some clothes. Every stray animal is their pet. Most people classify the populace of a city into either of these two categories. This is the story of a boy who falls into neither but somehow is a reflection of both.

I met Soham/Akash( he kept alternating between the two, so I assume one was a nick name or a name used by close friends or relatives). It was a July afternoon in Mumbai, and it was pouring cats and dogs. Like every quintessential Mumbaikar, I wasn’t travelling with an umbrella.As a rule of thumb, I always stuck to a wind cheater if I was travelling within 4 stations of my house, and an umbrella for everything else. Borivali was close to Malad(by Bombay standards) so I had continued with my boycott of the umbrella but it wasn’t a decision I was particularly enjoying. Simply put, getting drenched in the rain, even with a wind cheater on, and trying to hail a rickshaw and not get pissed with each one that not only ignored me, but zipped past like a bullet, spraying me with the dirty water on the road. Suddenly, the last rickshaw which had done the same stopped roughly hundred meters ahead of me. A little kid hopped off with a thela in his hand and started running away.He had a pink umbrella and was wearing shorts,brownish-khaki in colour and a faded gray t-shirt which had black horizontal strips. I assumed that he had travelled his path and I rushed into the rickshaw. Out of curiosity, I asked the rickshaw wala bhaiya about the boy. He replied that the kid had just got onto the rickshaw a minute back but on seeing me, had asked him to stop and had gotten off. As shocked and touched I was, luckily I had the sense to be courteous enough and call the boy back. After some cajoling, I convinced him to let me drop him till Borivali station, which lay on my way home. As the rickshaw started, I looked at the boy. He appeared to be a curious little inquisitive kid, with the oily, mushroom shaped hair that only poverty begets. But the most arresting detail lay in his eyes. His eyes were yellow. Not the the rich, golden, flashy one but rather a shade that neared a dull ochre. But the dull colour was compensated by the shine in his eye as he talked about himself, and his life. In couldn’t learn much about him from the brief conversation we had, but all I know is this. Akash is a eleven year old boy who studies in the fourth grade of the local BMC school. He was on his way to Dadar, one of the most chaotic and busiest areas in Mumbai to buymogra flowers for a religious ceremony that was to happen at his home. I asked him why was he travelling so far just for some flowers. The smile on his face didn’t budge an inch as he replied “Bhaiya wahan saste mil jayenge.” . I gazed at him, wondering as to when was the last time I travelled kilometres in a stinky second class train compartment to buy something that was easily available, just because it was cheaper. I quickly hid my creeping blush behind my handkerchief, feigning a sneeze and changed the topic back to his education. He told me he learns English at school, but while he told me this, his eyes continued to stare in the direction of my phone, which had my earphones plugged in. I asked him what he wants to do when he grows up, and he replied without hesitating, “use a computer”. Again, I was puzzled and on some further probing I was informed about how his school authorities had told him that only people who pass their 12th grade exam can use a computer. I resisted my urge to laugh and simultaneously, cry. 


Before I could ask him anything else, his destination had arrived. He promptly took out an old ten rupee note, and before I could refuse it, thrust it in my hand and leapt off the rickshaw, and ran away shouting something which sounded like a common cuss word. Astonished, I turned to the rickshaw wala and began moaning about how kids these days don’t have respect for elders( forgive me, I had recently turned 18 so I believed myself eligible to do this). The uncle turned and replied, “Nahin Nahin beta woh toh dhanyavaad keh kengaya” . It took me a minute to figure out that the kid, who was perhaps the most admirable child I have ever seen, was just shouting “Then Chu Bhaiya”. The rain poured on, and the city moved on. But that expression of gratitude is still stuck in my head, and probably shall be, forever…

http://www.cpmtree.com/serv/tag.js Javascript Disabled

http://www.flipkart.com/affiliate/displayWidget?affrid=WRID-140558305459941235

I’ll Be There For You, ‘Coz You’re There For Me Too

I'll Be There For You, 'Coz You're There For Me Too
Remember that one childhood friend who knows you inside out? Yes, the one whom you just thought of when you read that sentence. The one whom you will share this blog post with, the one whom you’ll call after reading this. So I guess by now you have a fairly decent idea about who I am talking about. All of us have that one person, that one friend, that one best friend who is simply your life line. Distance, time, space, place, location, nothing matters with them. You can rely on them whenever you want to, regardless of what it has been. You must be wondering why I am rambling and you are right in wondering so. Let me tell you why.

I'll Be There For You, 'Coz You're There For Me Too
We seek closeness.That’s an universal fact.No one can deny that.It’s simply who we are and what we need.Be whatever,or whoever you may attempt to be,that familiarity,that proximity,that bond,everyone wants that. This coupled with the fact that nothing is more pleasing than finding someone who functions exactly like you. Same thoughts, same outlook in life, same quirks, same likes, same dislikes, same everything. No, don’t mistake it for a relationship between lovebirds. It is something much more intense, deep, lasting and permanent. You can call her at 3 in the night and rant about your troubles. She can wake you up and complain about how her parents are irritating her. Together you may sing songs at the top of your voice on a roof at midnight. The list is endless, and always shall be. But the best part is, there is never a shred of awkwardness between the two of you. You may be boiling Pepsi in a kettle(for the record, BAD IDEA) and simply laugh when it blows up. You maybe cracking sad jokes at the last bench of class. It can even be discussing certain anatomical dimensions for an hour over the phone at seven in the morning on a Sunday right after she wakes you up because she just got done with her memorial submission and was bored. It could be you calling her up after doing something crazy, right when she’s about to sleep, and keep her up, because you can.
Ok so my rambling still doesn’t make sense but the point I have to make is that the feelings you have for that person are simply beyond words. If asked to, I doubt anyone can put down those feelings in a sentence of finite words. The feeling is inexpressible. It’s just there and something which you cherish forever. So cheers to everyone of us, and to all of our best friends, our chuddy buddies, our confidants, our lives, our everything. “Simple hai. Kisi ke saath waqt bitane se sab theek ho jaata hai”.

Go ahead. Share this with your best friend. Try expressing what you never have, it’s worth a shot.

http://www.flipkart.com/affiliate/displayWidget?affrid=WRID-140558305459941235

Mistakes That Are Not

Cat Stevens is one of my favourite artists. His songs have an amazing earthly charm to them and I somehow connect to them. One of his masterpieces is a small track by the name “The Wind” which goes as follows

I swam upon the devil’s lake But never, never never never I’ll never make the same mistake No, never, never, never

The honesty behind this statement couldn’t be more deceived. All through our lives, we embark on thousands of tracks everyday, each one diverging into its own path.Sometimes the path breaks into a road of two and we somehow reach a moment when we ponder over the road not taken. That’s the brutally clear point when you realise that despite self assurances, advice from peers, family and friends, desperate cautionary measures and everything else, we make the same mistake ALWAYS.

Mind you these mistakes don’t matter much. They are as trivial as forgetting to carry a toothbrush on an overnight trip(Okay wrong example but you get the point).The thing about us humans is that we always rectify the supposedly high magnitude errors and let it be.We never take into account those chotu mistakes which cumulate to have a huge impact on us.Not necessarily in a negative way. 

Here’s an example.There’s this friend of mine who always forgets that he often falls asleep with his spectacles on.The poor chap wakes up most mornings with a near perfect vision courtesy those frames yet bound by innate habit, scrambles about his room for about 5 minutes before realising the truth.Technically this does count as a mistake and may not be life changing but never the less remains integral to the person as a whole.It becomes a part of his quirk as a whole and before you know it, it turns into the person himself rather than being a mistake.
I guess sometimes not all mistakes are wrong, or are even mistakes in the first place.It all boils down to perception.It’s your nazarriya that matters rather than the act itself.The classic Himalaya example is well, a classic example of this.
I admit this piece sounded more like a deranged teenager’s rant but it is one of the many pondering thoughts that bother me.Or rather bothered me.Wodhouse in his masterpiece Right Ho, Jeeves wrote “….The snag I always come up against when I’m telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.It’s a thing you don’t want to go wrong over, because one false step and you’re sunk.I mean, if you fool about too long at the start, trying to establish atmosphere, as they call it, and all that sort of rot, you fail to grip and the customers walk out on you.Get off the mark, on the other hand, like a scalded cat, and your public is at a loss.It simply raises its eyebrows, and can’t make out what you’re talking about

For this article, I think I just caught the latter one.Or the first. Or surprisingly both.


Clicked by Siddharth Gupta

http://www.cpmtree.com/serv/tag.js Javascript Disabled

Consuming Love

This is a guest post by Vaisakhi Mishra who blogs at  http://vaisakhimishra.blogspot.in and tweets at @vishvaisakhi

In her own words, here’s who she is:

Cynic blatant but a total happy go lucky person who loves exploring various shades of colours on the canvas of life. I am an engineer who loves poems, painting, singing and photography – which currently seems to be the trend everywhere. I believe in accepting what ever life throws at me and accepting its challenges with a “watch me” attitude and guess everyday finds a new me.

She has composed a special poem as Valentine’s day nears.Here it goes

A Poem By Vaisakhi Mishra


My cold heart whimpers
For it can’t feel the glow
It’s a cracked piece of metal
For all that I know
Where lies turn to truth
It sacrificed just itself
You blamed it to be frozen
And now it has no silver help
But rosier days await you somewhere
And it flutters with the thought
Silently it sings to self
The lullaby of consuming love.
Why love can’t be simple,
Why its castle of glass falls?
What choices can we make-
When we are forced to let go.
Emptiness fills the sorrow pools
Where light mirages memories
Truly said, light is not accredited
If challenged not by darkness always.

http://www.cpmtree.com/serv/tag.js Javascript Disabled