Sugar coating

Have you ever been told, that it's better not to tell the truth sometimes? Sometimes, you can do without being direct, like beat around the bush for a little while. And maybe, like not tell the people what's good for them, and not give them unsolicited advice, or I mean, if they are sharing the truth, about say how concerned they are about the state of their weight, just go ahead and say, "Hey, no problem! You look alright.."

I mean, basically, technically, don't tell the truth, be indirect and pretty much, like mold your words and be manipulative. And that will make you a good person too. Says who? Says them, that one, over there, in a corner on Whatsapp! That I should have lied, and that would have been better, because I hurt somebody's feelings, by what ? By saying that they could probably use some more TLC. :x

Here I am, tired of people always beating around, and never really coming out clean, being manipulative and snide, and sarcastic and this friend here, this awesome friend of mine suggests, join the gang dude, it'll be fun! It'll be like, cool or something! You could even score. Really? That's possible. How come I never realised the Human relationships were about the scores. To be fair, I did, sometimes, not as a rule though!

So here's the deal Mister. I am this. This that you see, hear, read. This is me. This is it. That's it. If you don't like this, feel free to go shopping, find another friend or something. This one here, comes with the previous Android 3019 BC version. You don't want it? Who cares :P

Playing God

She said, she didn't feel like going home. No one loved her, no one cared. And that she wanted to die. As the tears trickled down her face, my heart slowly shrank in size. Is it pain that I feel? Do I feel bad for her?

She continues her story, and tells me how work is ruthless, colleagues relentless, and how no one lets her live. How she attempted suicide three times already. How everyday was a poison, down her throat and how I must come to her rescue.

Me....  

Phew... But I.. How can I? What can I? Your life is too big for me to sort. I am thinking to myself. I don't know what I am thinking anymore. The sadness is already filling my heart. And the compassion in me, plunges out and promises to help.

She pleads, take me with you, please take me with you, to your town. I'll work there, I'll live there, in peace, these kids, the husband.. will know then, what I was worth.

Phew... I take a deep breath. And I tell her I will send your tickets. Let me go back and arrange for it.

I go back, and try to forget this in my daily life. I try to move on, but she calls on my phone and asks again, what about the ticket? I find myself unable to lie, and search on erail.in for train between her city and mine! umm,.. this craziness of tickets booked on trains and flights is driving me crazy.

My friends joke, why don't I just open a travel desk part time? someone jokes, the credit card industry survives because of people like me, flipkart, dominos, makemytrip and irctc! That's what all this is. A joke. And I smirk. Helpless at my own condition, my need to play god in someone's life, which is about to fail.

I am too scared to hear the bad news, someone telling me on my next visit, that between then and now, she succeeded. I am scared. I get more scared these days. And I must win over the fear. So I act.

I have booked her tickets. Coordinated her travel along with mine, so I can be there while she arrives. She is upset. Within two hours, she is missing her kids for her life. This is the first time, she came away from home, and I understand. But is this all just a joke! Wait, I said, it is all just a joke.

She says she wants to go back. She hasn't even had her first meal, and she wants t go back. She doesn't "feel like" being here she says. She misses home. Her husband and kids, those she says who didn't love her, have called up ten times already. She wants to go back.

And after a 16 hour journey to reach the capital, she says, within 3 hours, book my return ticket. I am her travel desk! I am angry. I am furious. I bite my teeth. I haven't asked for a penny for nothing. I just wanted her to be happy, that's all. But it's not for me to want, now she wants to go back.

I assure her, that it can't be done till Monday, she will have to , somehow pass some time. She sulks, she sulks some more. And tells my aunt, where I have made her stay arrangements, that this is not what she had in mind. That I had forcefully brought her to this city, and that she never even wanted to come.

I said, so be it. Maybe this time, when she goes home, she won't hate it as much! Maybe her family would know, and she would know that they love each other. And that they will get by, without outside help! Maybe, who knows, maybe she will change her mind.

I have booked her tickets. Tomorrow she will go back. And I have put down my papers, of playing god. 7 days stint, is all it took to make me understand, this is not my job. Thank god, I am only human. At least, I have that relief.

Phew..... 

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.