What about the fearless??

We were born fearless, all of us, each single one of us. Until one day our induction began and we were taught be scared of eating dirt, or worms we played with sticks, of strangers who take away small children in sacks, of teachers who yielded cane sticks, of grades cos' they decided whether we would be loved at all, of god if we do not behave, of society if chose to be outlandish, of telling lies, in turn of telling truth, of failing in turn of succeeding, of being hated in turn of being loved. We were trained, at every step of the way, in careful, well practiced, almost predictable skill, how to be scared that the world will one day end, and the ghosts will come for us and they won't be nice!

But every once in a while, there's a picture of a boy playing with tigers, a movie of a kid befriending a ghost, a realization that probably dirt wasn't as filthy after-all, that grades probably still couldn't get you jobs/ nor girlfriends! That it's all just a training program, so that you all just behave, as per the norms, walk the line eh? Every once in a while the Trueman finds out the boundary of the set, neo discovers its just a computer program. Reality? Well simulated reality, to control the activities of the brain.

A friend says we're scared of dying. If we're scared of dying then why are we so scared of everything in between? Why don't we wear seat belts and why do we jump red signals? Why do we care so much what the person next to us is thinking about us? Why do we continue in the maze, as if our life depended on it! Why do we, even after it was named "rat" race, continue to participate? Are we really just scared of dying. Because if we were, life should have been simpler, won't you say?

But is it? What happened to the fearless? 

The rest of your life is a long time!

Get up and take charge.


PS. Copied the title from one of Ramit Sethi's emails. And instantly wanted to share it.

The Importance of Drafts

Sometimes, it is so important to publish Drafts. If you wait for it to finish, you will never, ever be able to publish it! So just push play.

Conflict: The mother of all Art

The titles kept piling up, whining for some more follow up words, phrases and sentences. I went to being what I like being at times of turmoil, a reader. Even if my huge bag was already full with notebooks, loose papers, make-up, hair accessories, food and water, I will carry a book, struggle with my saree and remain glued to the words of the author of my current possession. And I read on.

The ladies getting on board, give me looks, as pushing me sideways, trying to move me, trying to get a reaction  out of me, as they are, reacting to the frenzied daily commute. There is never enough seat, never enough space, and somehow, there's always too many people, even men, on the ladies compartment. I irritate them I realise, as I refuse to budge from reading, from engaging in an argument with the lady who just hopped on and is struggling for the same place as I.

I step aside or I don't, depending on how moody I am in the moment or how much I love the author's style and amidst those unwelcome glares, I return to my affair, to the world I'm invited to for a 1000 pages. Shantaram is my muse today and he's describing Bombay. How I love the language, how I wonder, how can people write such stuff, so accurate, so articulate. There's a word for every feeling, and  there's an exact word referring to a situation, a word for one entity and the author's ability to use the particular word which is apt, overwhelmes me.

For the first time, I am moved, not by what he is saying, but by the way he is saying it. How can someone mould the language so beautifully, so beautifully, almost yielding it, almost as if inventing it anew. And I went back to the first page, describing the author, who had himself, gone through the events mentioned in the book. His own experiences crafted into a thrilling and profound story, I hear, and I'm thinking, how will someone ever write something who was at peace with themselves at every moment of their lives!

How will someone create beautiful literature if they didn't at their end suffer in the name of disparity in life and the power of the invisible hand. How will poems ever be written unless conflicted within the most distorted emotions. How will rock-stars ever be born, if not at the altar of a broken heart? How will there be art? If there was no pain, no hurt, no conflict.

After all art is emotion, an emotion in form, an emotion escaped on a canvas or a song, or a scream. After all, art is somebody's pain and someone else's rythm. Someone's suffering penned down in an autobiography and someone else's companion on the long boring bus-ride. Somebody's escape from the mundane life, and some director's "into the wild".

After all art is a confession, a submission, a sigh, an invention of the human conflict.