In which I get really Happy Happy

So it has finally rained in Delhi. Like I once prophesized, my mood is closely linked to Delhi Weather, and it was getting fouler by each passing day. The only reason kept me going to workplace was excellent cooling they provided in the premises, and the power cuts at home. Yes, all the reports of power cuts that you see on TV are not, for once, fabricated. ( Most of the time, all the nuisance makers start pelting stones etc on their object of scorn- Police station, Power station, Buses – only when they see a TV camera close by). Coming back to all things cool, it has become much cooler and humid. I don’t mind humidity as much as that searing heat which has tanned me in not a good way. I am thinking of de-tanning solutions. Any suggestions?

Since I last blogged almost a month back there is so much to post.

But before that let me just announce to the world that I feel happy.

Happy and content after a long time. And it’s just not the rains that have made me happy.

I like things sorted out. All the rationales, explanations each neatly applied into their right respective problem areas. I get my answers mostly from what I read, what I observe, who I meet etc.

This time I know there have been lots of triggers but it’s mostly the realization of how good life has been, or rather there are far more positives in life than negatives in my life.

Like I mentioned before, I have taken reading Marian Keys with a vengeance. I am on my second book ‘Last Chance Saloon’, though this is one guilty read, I enjoy her enormously. The book deals with friendships, love and cancer. Yes, chick lit is the least place one would expect Cancer to be written about.

I have never written about it earlier but reading about the disease and the various tests, chemo, radiotherapy affected me deeply since I have had a close encounter with the ghastly disease myself.

Three years back my mother succumbed to the disease. It was not the best time for any of us in our family. I know how it sounds when you say it was not best, but cancer was not the only thing that was going against our family. In the book, when I read about how the patient goes for bone marrow test, and how actually despite being given local anesthetic the needle has to prick the actual bone marrow which can’t be numbed for the sample. I remembered the day my mother went into that tiny room after a wait of two hours in the intolerable heat of that dingy hospital. She never told us back how painful it was. At that time, our only concern was to pray for test results to come negative.

But do things ever turn out the way we want? We got the bad news soon that cancer had spread to bone marrow too. In other words, she was on the last stage of cancer.

Before all this happened, cancer was a deadly word. It was something that happened to others. Something that only a few really unfortunate ones get. As is the human tendency, our first response was “why me?”.

Our visits to the hospital answered that question. There were young three year olds kids being treated for cancer and one has to have some nerves to speak to his mother asking his conditions.

There was a pretty young teenager girl who was not just tonsured because of chemo she had stitches on her head. Yes, her brain was operated for removing tumors.

While, we were not actually very lucky either.

There were many rounds of chemotherapy. Her low hemoglobin level before each chemo session required us to find blood donors for every round, and soon we exhausted our friends and acquaintances as potential blood donors because you need three months break before you can donate blood again. We got friends of friends and people who just heard about it and came to donate the blood in the hospital.

Before one session, her blood platelets count dropped abysmally low. If I remember correctly, 5-6 blood samples would make up for one platelet bag. I was too busy arranging for blood that I never had time to mourn her disease.

As I am writing these, I am reliving those horrors. I had read one of tendulkar’s interviews where he said a visit to a cancer ward in a hospital gave him new perspective on life.

My perspective changing moment came too. Perhaps all too soon.

I still remember the deafening cries at the time of one of our earlier chemo sessions when a patient died in the next room. Though, the wife was crying at least hundred meters away from our ward, there was nothing else you could hear in that ward. All other patients and their families had a look which spelt despair and death. Though we all knew that anyone among our loved ones can be the next one to go, we tried hard to look normal. I smiled and tried some normal banter to make it look like an ordinary thing, but I knew in my heart that it was our worst fears coming true.

There were so many moments when I actually thought if it was happening to me. One thing, I took from that experience and which I had forgotten about was the fact that “ why make all the fuss”. I know it’s a very fatalistic approach but perhaps I don’t push myself that hard for things which I know are very trivial when you compare them to cancer.

What if I don’t conoodle with my boss and impress him so he gives a big raise and sends me to an exotic locale for work (Yes, that happens in our company for some ‘lucky’ people). I don’t try that hard. I do my work and let my work speak.

I may not be going to Colombia (despite learning Spanish) or Greece, I have a well paying job. I am quite healthy, though I still have some way before I can de-lard myself completely; people still compliment me on my physique ( in a non sexual way)

I may not be the most intelligent guy on planet, but my colleagues respect me for my knowledge and opinion, and frankly I am trying to give a damn to what people think of me.

I mean if I start counting the things which are in my favor, they will far outnumber my whining list. So I have decided to do one thing. Throw that list to some corner of my head and tell everyone that life is really good.

Birthday Blues

There is a lot happening in my life.

But still I feel my life is one of the most boring, staid and placid movies that one can make out of a real life. Last week I turned little closer to thirty. Though, just like the women in SATC, I have promised myself that I would stop aging beyond 29 and will be 30 for some ten years, the reality of having to confront another lonely birthday hit me hard.

I spent the day like any other regular day doing chores such as going to office ( I didn’t put much effort in selecting the clothes, which on hindsight I should have ), coming back from office ( I wonder what fine day it will be when I go straight partying from office, or err…do I have to keep a spare pair of clothes for that? Which will be such a nuisance) and doing my laundry – the third item must sound as if I am some kind of clothes fiend, but actually I am. Remember the best dressed person thing??

Some of my colleague got to know that I turned a year older despite my best efforts at keeping it a secret ( I had done it for last two years on orkut). Damn facebook was the place which I had not figured out much, and it gave away precious information. In fact, one of my blog reader --shall I say my only reader?- also ‘located’ me on facebook which is totally ok with me. 

So, those office folks got a cake and asked me to cut it. I might not have written this before but Cakes and I go long way back. In fact, despite being born and brought in 'bhaiyaa land' my craving my ‘english’ style cake pastry had seen no end. Slowly, I got curious to know as how one can make these at home and after almost hundreds of failed expreiments of gooey, half cooked, burnt cakes which were subjected to my class mates, my maids, pets etc I cracked the formula of making a decent ( read: edible) cake. 

Being a true taurian ( read: stubborn ), I never give up something until I get what I want, and then give it up unceremoniously without any remorse to all those people who suffered because they ate what I gave then disguised as cake. One of my polite neighbors told me after eating my caked that eating these biscuits cum cake is really a good exercise for his gums ( He so wanted to give the brick analogy, I could see from his expression).

So, though I digressed, I wanted to make a point that I can bake perfectly turned out cakes --which I would have done every day had it not been for my fetish for my weight—and no body gets surprised there. Imagine eating a decent cake after you have eaten scores of burnt ones.

On one of those nights, when I have really nothing to do and I am too tired of watching DVDs, looking for dates, soliciting for dates, executing solo dates with myself;  I run to the kitchen and see if I have the ingridients to make a cake. And thus I bake a cake. Since, I can’t eat my cake alone I often bring it to office and tell people that my maid has made it  ( alliteration, ye) even my colleagues have got used to this idea that I am a cake junkie. ( Don’t ask my BMI number now).

Therefore, the first thing that they asked me after they got to know it was my birthday “Have you brought cake?”.

“I am not desperate enough to bake a cake for myself “, I muttered slowly.

“Never mind, we look forward to your next offering any way”, chorused my entire cubicle.

‘Ha ha ha” , I gave their my lame laugh which I do when I get embarrassed/ nervous/ or shy.

All the wishes and hugging ( actually no one hugged me, except for one. How boring?) , a chocolate cake was produced by lunch time for me and I lost my nerves. Remember cakes and I go long way back. The truth is much as I want to be the centre of attraction, if and when it happens I totally chicken out.

I was mortified to find that I have to cut the cake and get my pics clicked ( remember my phobia with images)

As the order of things are, I got my chocolate facial in due time—just seconds after I had taken the first bite. And they even rubbed it on my chest ( I know it was some perv who just wanted to feel me: disgusting). 

Khair, I have given much time to write a trivial event in my life whereas all I wanted to write how it triggered a melancholic wave.

 I will post that soon.

P.S. I am reading chick lit  these days --which I have always frowned upon, but somehow I chanced upon a used book and the writer kept me hooked – and that explains why I start trying to be funny everytime I want to write something serious. Marian Keys is infectious and way better than Indian wannabes like Reddy Madhvan etc.

Literary Dreams: How literal are they?

There is a reason I don’t blog much.

And it’s not about me being lazy which you would have thought—which, on second thoughts is a good reason—but since I consider myself pseudo intellectual the reason I have is more profound one.

I think mostly what I write is crap.

When I read other blogs, I just find my writing and myself so inadequate.

 My writing which gets influenced by who I am reading at that moment flip-flops between styles. I mean I know fully well that I am not Zadie Smith or Atwood or Arundhati Roy, and can never be but there is a constant struggle within me to write something which I would feel proud later on.

And, for the record, there are things that I am proud of.

Now, the previous line was added as an afterthought, when I had written the entire post just to make it funny. But I find, this line looks very forced and artificial. Probably, I am not funny in real life. My humor gets restricted to sexual innuendos and a few one liners from American sitcoms. Yes, no jibber jabber here!.

It’s weird but in dreams I compose passages which are almost like the styles of writers I mentioned before. I don’t speak English much in real life ( meaning I don’t think in English), I learnt english very late and  started reading english texts much later in my life therefore it’s a mystery as to how those words which I see myself writing so clear.

There is nothing vague about the whole experience since it happens very frequently especially if I have read anything by writers I liked, before sleeping.

Since I have already mentioned, my favorite hobby is people analysis; and for lack of many real people in my life, I practice that a lot on myself.

I have an explanation for everything.

Every tiniest action that I take.

I see this whole writing in dreams as a portent of something similar that used to happen a few years ago.

Circa year 2000, I enrolled myself in one of those English speaking courses. (Embarrassing though it may sound, it was the only option for me since it was near impossible to find and convince someone to speak with me in queen’s language in my  town). The institute forbade people from using any other language except English in premises which created quite funny situations which I think I should devote a separate post later. But the interesting thing in those days was when I started dreaming that I was having an actual conversation ( without faltering, stuttering or  even worse mispronouncing words) before I could have a actual decent conversation one in real life.

Taking a cue from this, I am hopeful that I might write better in future and stop having writers dreams.

If you haven’t got it yet, I have stopped having dreams where I have conversation without faltering, stuttering or mispronouncing words. I have those conversations in real life and people inevitably ask me if I am a product of one of the most famous schools in the town I short lived before moving to Delhi. ( I secretly smile )

As an aside, I saw once an interview of a little known writer who when asked how one wrote good prose responded by saying that in order to write well, one needed to read well first. Those words got entrenched in my mind and I was determined to read as much as possible. I feel that I have made up for those years when I had little access to quality books in last few years since I have become financially independent and moved to a bigger city. However, there is a still a sense that I am not as articulate, expressive or funny as I should be.

There is something else which I read somewhere to the effect that every blogger secretly wants to write a book. This may be true for me and many others.  Because notwithstanding the fact how boring life I lead, there is a book in everyone’s life. They all want to be published.

Before I end this, I have a question. Do you think about the writing process, style, humor etc while you are writing or it just comes naturally? And do you want to be published?

I do but only when I have a little better craft.

Does SAD make me sad?

I always wanted to write like the stuff I read which is mainly 'Literary Fiction'. In the last one month, I must have bought more than ten books and started reading them only to leave them after a few pages. Nothing caught my fancy, nothing held my imagination, nothing was reminiscent of anything I could relate to. It was not if the books I picked were not interesting. in fact, when I read some of them later, I was appalled by my own poor taste for leaving such gems as 'On Beauty' and 'Darkmans' which I discovered later. I sometimes wonder whether I too, like women, experience some kind of PMS. Being an internet junkie that I am, coupled with a little bit of arm chair psychology thrown in, I did some research and found out some symptoms. 

Now, Chrisan being the resident therapist here would definitely have something to say about my observations.Based on the frequency and the timing of my behavior, I found out that this has been classified as SAD. ( how appropriate that is! ) Seasonal Affective Disorder. 

For last two years, I have been living in an apartment on seventh floor of a building which gets very little sunlight and air. Add to that my schedule of working from home which required me to wake up at 9:30 and start work from 10. Work usually stretched till 6:30 -7 PM in the evening by  the time it'd get completely dark.Occasionally I would step out to buy some stuff ( primarily to eat) and this whole routine was same for five days of the week except for weekends which I spent trying different things hoping to break monotony. A bickering family, and friendless existence did not help much in either case.

This year, I changed my job. Got myself a regular desk job which required me to sit and work with actual human beings. I got overtly excited by the possibility of working with some bright, intelligent young men and women and making a few friends. It's close to six months now. I have made a few acquaintances ( yes, and I am not being sarcastic) and no real friends. May be I have become too morose, too walled to let people come closer to me. Or perhaps, because I am seen as little senior and boss' protege that forbids people. Anyway, I don't analyse that much as long as I am spending some time in sunlight away from my 'dark' house. However, all said and done, there has not been much change in my depression pattern. 

I have lost interest in doing everything and anything. May be I should migrate to sunny California and leave this SAD life. :)

Filmsy facades

We often show more of something when we are hiding it.

This line set me thinking, made me realize what a facade my life has been. And the real problem here is that I don't know who is the real me.

• I smile profusely when I am nervous. I tend to think I look better this way.
• I give a guffaw in the middle of a serious conversation when I see somebody has fielded my volley better than I anticipated.
• I try to be very nice to people who have been nasty with me, hoping in vain that they will see their folly.
• I can use the choicest of abuses in front of my family but I can hardly cuss elsewhere. I can never understand why?
  
• I don't laugh a lot so that no one may think I am flamboyant or flimsy.
• I refrain from befriending good looking people to reassure myself I am not that bad looking.
• I act with all normalcy- no excessive eye, lip, eye brow, wrist movement- so that no one may think I am queer. I give a different meaning to 'Stiff'.
  

I know, most of these may sound like I am a definite mental case. But as they say, acknowledging the malady is the first step in treating it; and here I don't want to be treated.