Batch of 1996

A friend of mine called me recently for a school reunion that he was planning. He also made a community in Orkut and for some reasons called us the “Batch of 1996”. I was in 10th std. in that year and left the school the same year. 10th, as far as I understand North Indian education system is neither the beginning nor the end of any kind of landmark except the stream division. I shared my obvious apprehension with him stating that I’m not quiet the audience as I can barely be called the batch of 1996.
However this anyways sparked a question. I have changed about 5 schools till 12th std in different cities and states, might I add. After so many schools, where do I actually belong to, the school where I started my education from, the school where from I passed out, or anywhere in between, as long as people remember me. I do not have most of “Group Photos” since I joined either after it was clicked or was distributed after I left. When asked about childhood Best Friend, my answer generally revolves around time. Till 3rd Std, this. In 8th and 9th, that and so on. I was born one state, brought up in various cities of various states, spent some of the formative teenage years somewhere, grew up somewhere else and now Job got me some place else. When asked in Job sites “Are you willing to relocate”, my answer is always a definite YES. Afterall where do I belong to?
Is it the place where I was born, of which I have little or no recollection? Is it ancestral hometown, where I’ve been only few of the summer vacations? Is it the place where I spent teenage? Or is it the one which I liked the most but have no other connection with?
Is reunion just meeting friends, living the past or just a sadist pleasure that I’m doing better than most?

Nomad is not a state of being, it’s a state of mind.

Camera Mobile Phones

What nuisance camera mobile phones have become. I personally dislike it also because getting a picture taken used to be an event, full of anticipation and excitement. One can barely wait for the reel to get over and get them printed. The almost unnecessary hurry to finish the reel with seemingly unimportant pictures simply caz you have clicked some good ones, and you can’t wait to see them.

Photography used to be an art then, very much like music or painting. Now everyone with a Nokia N series is a photographer, its almost like there’s no sanctity left in it. Art for me is an expression devoid of anything materialistic. Camera mobile phones fail the very purpose of photography as an art. There were times when pictures were “memories”, now they are “moments”.

Just a waste of time

The strange times of my life continues. “You are just wasting time, get a job in a nice MNC, and start your shit along with that.” He said, he has made it in life, he’s healthy, wealthy and wise for them all.
“I’m tired” I blurred
“Tired of what”
“Tired of living without a purpose”. “Of not knowing what I want to do”. “Of doing just the right things”.
He didn’t understand, he was nice asked me if I needed his help. I needed his help, its just that not any more. A man is bankrupt when he’s bankrupt of ideas.

French

Well learning French can be real tricky, specially if you have already covered and buried your childhood. Everything from a pen to a cakeshop has a gender and an article proudly pronouncing the gender. Some of the notes from my French notesbook:
“If a word ends in a vowel, the vowel is not pronounced”, so I follow that.
Some pages later, “If a word ends in a consonant, the consonant is not pronounced”. “Oh okay, so do we ever pronounce the last letter”, asked the curious me, “Sure we do” like in exceptions, some 50,000 of them. The problem it sounds very good and after the first couple of sessions you’ll start enjoying it. It becomes somewhat like a high, you start loving banging your head.
French is introduced in office as part of some “New Initiative” and I must say a good one. More than half the “Leadership Team” (whatever is the reason why they are called so, all they ever lead is incompetence, me included), and we had a damn good time at that must I admit. No none of us could learn of speak that well but it did something bigger, it made us kids. I don’t recall laughing like this in a long long time. Oh! the price of adulthood.

Filter Coffee

“this is not how filter coffee tastes, at home its just awesome.”
“this is not how idli is, at home….”
“winters are awesome, at home….”
She makes Nescafe, eats samosas, and doesn’t have even one sweater.
She lives 800 kms from home and visits them once in a year.

Myopia

Some people’s grip on life is so precarious that they’ll hold on to whatever that comes their way than to face an occasional truth. Have heard Calvin saying this.
It is strange how most of us just want to live in the closed walls of our houses, houses mind you not even homes, and are happy looking at the world just from the small windows that open somewhere in the backyard.

My Dreams

Have you ever dreamed of failure? I never did. You call it innocence, ignorance or even arrogance. But the only way I know is the way ahead. I somehow never thought of failures, they never became the part of my dreams or consequences. I never think what then, I somehow always say, And Then. I don’t know why, I don’t know if its destiny speaking from my mouth or is it plain simple adrenaline but I’m willing to try, willing to give it a shot. I have nothing with me besides my dream. My dream being my only asset.

No I don’t want to do a job, I don’t even know what I want to make. I have vague ideas but they are far from realities. All based on assumptions; some supported by facts, some not. But none of them are based on Hope. I dislike working on Hopes….I have heard somewhere that hope is not a Plan. And I do have Plans, may be vague but they are plans. I guess I’m a dreamer.

Nothing matters

Its 7.38 in the morning, I should be getting ready for office, instead I'm reading Calvin n Hobbes, rolling a joint and writing a blog. Somehow the bloody ritual of going to office and coming back is killing me, mediocrsy of the endevour and of people otherwise is becoming more and more hideous by the day.

The other day we took a de tour caz there was a traffic jam, we decided to took a kachacha rasta instead only to turn back caz a couple of guys on teh cycle told us "road ahead is very bad", we couldn't see the road all we knew it takes us to the main road in less than 5 minutes. But we turned back. We turned back caz we didn't want to risk it, we were in a bus. I mumbled in mute vocals.
I other day we went for a movie, no one liked and no one wanted, I protested, no one else did, caz we don't want to risk it, a piece died that day. Is it worth?
Do you need to respect teh ones you love? Or are they there only to fill in a void...physically.
I guess it doesn't even matter, nothing really matters

My Best Friend

"Tell me what you want to know", "I filled in general information, rest can be asked by freinds like you". She uttered affectionately. I had asked her why she had filled in such minimal details about her on Orkut.
I wanted to tell her i want to know how you shaped up as a person but i didn't, somehow I knew she wouldn't understand. Somehow sometimes by filling in the vague details on some obsure webpage can speak volumes about what you've become....sometimes you can talk for hours and nothing happens.
I think i just wanted the hisaab of those years lost in drugs and alcohol...when you were sobre and I had passed out just wanting to earn them back...somehow.
She was my best friend in Std 10th. It was a long time ago. Really long.

It feels strange when you learn most profound leassons of your life from Calvin n Hobbes....me

Orkut

“Why not many people send a “add as friend” request to me?”
“Look at you, you were never very friendly person, anyways”, retorted the wife immediately, “Well, I’m not going to add them anyways, I just want them to “look” for me, so I can peacefully decline”…..the dude smiled with content.

Blog....my peaceful identity

“What's with blogging, people so coward they don’t want to face the life. Wanna talk and want to be heard but don’t wanna risk anyone knowing who they are?” she asked. May be she’s right, but then I never considered her much of a writer anyways.

Lost

it’s a question every generation has asked itself, “how lost are we?”
Every passing has said “these guys are so lost”.
Every generation wondering “what the purpose?”.
Every passing generation having lost the meaning of the word “purpose”.

Every living generation trying hard to give it a new meaning, trying to fit the purpose in the meaning.

Alchemist

I just finished reading Alchemist (Paulo Coelho). What an interesting read. Somehow I always relate most to the books which have no apparent meaning and are extremely surreal. One of the weekends I was talking about it to a friend with this general air of supremacy, that us, the self proclaimed philosophers of sorts, have. When the friend suddenly asked “So can you make gold now?”. A little taken aback by the question I looked at him in the eye and said “I do”, “this time I do”, and calmly went back to playing mini golf on my new Compaq Presario.
But his question made me restless. So did my answer to him. Why did I tell him that “I did” when I barely know the chemical composition of Gold. And I obviously don’t know the Language of the World. Speaking of which I barely speak 2 languages (hindi and English) where as most my friends speak at least 3 (Hindi, English and their mother tongue. Somehow their mothers always spoke some other language, whereas mine barely spoke 1, hindi of course. English not quiet her kind of bhasha). I barely knew the meaning of the word Alchemist before I started the book. And most certainly didn’t believe in “Omens”. But somehow I always believed in universe and the fact that when it wants you to do something it gives you hints, its just that we either don’t listen to her or choose not to.
I think a man is done when he stops dreaming and surrenders the next instalment of his being to another PAYCHECK.

Happy Birthday

It was her birthday today. She turned 37. boy that’s a lot of numbers. She’s not married, not because she didn’t want to, but somehow it never happened. She has posted a note everywhere, on every portal that defies every theory Shakespeare has ever written, and claims that love is waiting in one of their numerous web pages. That finding love is as easy as “signing in” to their website by paying a “nominal” fee. She has visited every pandit, they all claimed, “its late in your kundli but it sure is next year”. Years passed by, every year promising for next year. And since she’s not married noone does even so much of a pretence to take her out for a dinner or get a cake. I guess that’s the reason why most people want to get married. If not love then at least a pretence of it. Somehow the happy her never took notice of it, except some of those exceptionally depressing days when it bothered her.
So this time she decided to throw a mega party, everybody was invited. She called me to discuss the menu, the venue, the music, the DJ, the deserts, she told me every single detail and she has planned it to the last T. that’s how she is, a bit fussy about everything. As if trying to make a point to life, with every battle and every passing year. she had invited everybody she knew, her family, cousins, their families, friends with families, most of whom have husbands at tow and of course their kids.
I met her the next day, “the party was great” she exuberated, “you really missed it”. “Happy Birthday” I said.

I want to break free....

“I want to break free” she said, again. “then why don’t you” I wondered. I wondered whether it was love or sheer comfort that was stopping her. I doubted the love part since I doubt she’s even capable of that feeling. She only knew about care and worrying for those she cared. She is cute in her own way. The kinds who get worried everytime they see a speeding car or hear about a bomb blast. The kinds who knows how to “decorate” their house and say just the right things. But there was something not right and she knew it too. Her everyday battle for sanity. Something stuck deep inside was a woman who somehow didn’t want to give in. give in to what society expected from her. A woman who wanted to live, have fun, laugh and do things on her own terms. The eternal confusion between are they right or am I. she’s fun to have around, she laughs at every joke and she makes cute faces. She only spends weekdays with me caz weekends she has for him. I never ask her “how was your weekend”, by now I know how was it.
In a few months from now she’ll be married and they’ll be “happy”. It all be okay once you get married, they’ve told her. Good she heard.

Someone just called, “If you are not doing anything, come here and spend some time with me.”
I wanted to say, “I can’t”, “I’m busy writng a blog”, but I can’t.
I wanted to tell him, “dude, its too late”. Too late, after that lone, cold, dark night, when I didn’t call. And you didn’t either. The only difference being, I waited.
Love like all other emotions left me that day, when it knocked the cell phone of some else, in a typical nokia sound, at a ungodly hour.
He cheated on me. Again. For the last time.

It is far more honourable to fail than to cheat

Can just believing in something be considered the whole truth, what is whole truth anyways.

Why do we run behind truth, when we know it’ll hurt. I think somehow we want to get hurt.

Sometimes, long after it is over, we still are looking for answers. Thinking the answers will set us free. But they don’t. and we knew it all along.