Wednesday, May 21, 2014

On Opinions

Opinion has 'pi' in it. It's, hence, bound to have some semblance of irrationality. If you take away the irrationality ('pi') from opinions they are like onions. Which could mean two things:
1. If you consume opinions that try to be objective (minus their inherent irrationality), hence oversimplified, they'll make you stink like onions. We need to learn to live a little bit of irrationality. That's an integral part of an opinion.
2. Onions have layers. So if you look at an opinion 'rationally' (minus the irrationality) you can actually see the layers. You need to dig a lot for it to make sense.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014

Part 6 - A Friday Evening, In A December

I do hereby solemnly swear that I am up to no good.

I reach up to her from behind her. I tap her on her left shoulder and quickly move to her right. I remember having learned that from my grandfather when I was kid. A lot of people used to do that a long time ago. Then like most harmless things that bring out smiles, it died.

She turns, first to her left and then to her right, and sees me. There is a smile that begins to appear on her face.

Mission accomplished. I walk up a step so that I am besides her now.

She stops walking and I am a step ahead of her now. I turn to face her. Her smile has reached its maturity, it's pinnacle. It's literally from ear to ear. She arches slightly backwards and spreads her arms only a little. It seems like a call for a hug. I am not too sure about that, but I give in.

A bear hug that follows makes me remember all the time I have lost. I could have experienced this amazing feeling every single day for all these years since we have parted ways. At the time it seemed like I would have to pay a steep price for it. Now it seems more worthy than anything I have come to posses.

But had I settled for this hug at the time when I still had the option, would I still value it today? It's several years down the line and most married people I see lack the warmth and chemistry once a quantum of time passes between them. Some papers that I have read on the matter (yes, I am quite jobless) have quantified this time. It's 18 months. 18 months of the much bollywood/hollywood/'xollywood'/Nicholas Sparks/Other chiclit celebrated passion and romance is followed by life. I am not sure if people start taking their loved one for granted, implying that the love is still alive beyond that point or if it just that the love between two people cannot survive beyond the 18 months?

Anyway, back to my situation here. My heart is beating wildly and I am afraid that she will feel the idiot thumping. I can only hope that my overcoat is thick enough to absorb the shock that my heart is trying to apparently transfer into hers.

I try to hug her back, but my hands are arrested under hers as she has locked me in her embrace. And I am not sure if her hugging me means the same to her as me hugging her. I decide it's best to not cross the hypothetical line.

"So? What's up?" she asks as she let's go of me.

"Nothing much. I was just driving here after I spoke with you," I said. Demonstrating an utter lack of social skills is a unique strength of mine. I have been unable to keep pace with the rapidly changing social styles with the advent of the internet generation.

"Ok then. Shall we?" she says, pointing towards the staircase to our restaurant.

"Yup, we shall," I say. I cringe mentally. I haven't managed even a single decent sentence so far. But who's keeping score, huh? Well, I am.

On the stairway, I walk behind her and remember the times we had together. It's almost like one of those flashbacks in the movies. We had been inseparable friends. Once upon a time. We talked about all and sundry when we were together. Once upon a time. We were so frank with each other. Once upon a time.

What happened? I think to myself. What happened, you ask? My subconscious raises it's venomous scorpion tail. Remember that dreadful day when you kissed her atop the roof of Deepak's house in a state of utter inebriation?

Life happened.

Mischief managed. Or not, I don't really know.

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

About a writer...

First I would like to make an attempt at defining who, or rather what, a writer means to me.

Ever wondered what goes on inside the mind of that seemingly troubled soul in your peer group or in your school / college - that coiled up personality, who wouldn't express his feelings, no matter how challenging and undulating the circumstances might be. The one who is always more interested in listening to your feelings and opinions on all issues rather than bore you with his?

A writer has opinions, do not be confused. But he is the one who always understands that his opinions are not the only ones that matter and the fact that he lacks access to more points of view always perturbs him. He will thus hang on each word that you say with spider-legs. Most of his friends fail to recognize their words when they read his blog / short story / novel - because what is a fleeting expression / outlet of emotion for them is something for the writer to latch on to with all his mind and attention. Its all that matters to these people. Yes, I believe writers are a kind of people. One of the many kinds. And as I always like to say - it takes all kinds to make a World.

Being an introvert, it is not his nature to go and confront the world, rant senselessly. Nor can he just take refuge in banal things or get intoxicated enough to forget the burning questions: Who am I? Why am I? Why this life?

Nor can a writer frolic in the lightness of being, however strong the temptations.

There are some writers who begin for fame but if that is the real intent, then their journey is extremely short lived. Their beautiful words, wrapped in intellectualism fail to connect with the readers because they only seek self-glory. There is no interesting story!

But if you are a rebel with a cause, any cause, then, one day, you make the world pause: make people sit and turn your pages and share your view point. In short captivate them.

I’m into writing because for me it is a healing process. If I don’t write for long, it’s as if I am not breathing. The works of exceptional writers like Somerset Maugham, Khaled Hosseini, Orhan Pamuk, Kazuo Ishiguro, Milan Kundera  etc have helped me to look at life from a completely different perspective and I thank them for giving me that perspective. I wish to pass on another creative perspective to my readers, one that can makes them think: Wow! This is a new angle!

If we are all here to make our contributions to this world, then I am trying to make mine in the way I like - the only way I know how. If my readers appreciate my perspective,then as a writer I would have done justice to the thousands of words spewed by my thoughts and imagination.

Writing to me is one of those adrenalin pumping rides that thrill, amaze and leave everlasting memories. So far the ride has been good.

First published here: