The U-Turn

*Ninety applications in a day; nearly the double in the week, and not a single
reply.

*No sign of 'the deal' coming through.

*Another deal which sounds aborted before it has started off.

*A bad meet , with lots of shocks.

*No love.

*Away from home.

*Bad habits galore.

*A body that is unshapely; a face that is ungainly.

The U-turn should come now, and things should start looking upwards. Hope it happens fast!

Work-3

The meeting was supposed to be casual, carefree and curt. I anticipated no longer than fifteen minutes.

Two hours later, as I stepped out of the three-storied building, and lit a Surya, I had no clue what had hit me. With a deep baritone, and passionate theatrics, the man listed things upon things that were wrong with our company, and which were not helping in furthering his or our cause. He admitted to some other things, that I listened with wavering sense of shock and fear. I like this man; he is smart, witty and intelligent, and he has done precisely what he felt was good for his own self.

I have to report about the meeting to my boss now. It hurts. For the things he admitted, it has no direct reference to us, yet indirectly it points to a surreptitiously dangerous breeding grounds that might nurture wrong power equations. I have been caught napping. I abhor being caught unwares. Yet, was I fully at fault? Could I have stopped it? Did I not sense it was coming? Whatever I feel about the answers to these questions, it is immaterial. The bottomline (and that is in bolds, and yes, with an underline) is that I have been caught napping!

I handle a product which does not have its full utilisation at one end itself. There is an other portion to it also, which does not come under my purview in anywhich way. I cannot control it. Yet, it is my fault. Because, I do not have the capabilities or capacities to push the other side. I cannot everyday phone that person. Its not in me. I am too shy for that. But , yes, that is my failure. The worse is that whenever I do, generally I end up doing most of the work for that person also. Yes, those are the kind of people who survive! Scums like me are bound to be wiped out, and rightfully so!

The meeting has chalked out an action point which I am going to hate for the next one month for sure. Thank you, for a wonderful beginning to the mid-year month.

All the best, Mr. Good For Nothing, God Forsaken, Unintelligent, Melancholic, Failed, Loser!

The Taxi

In this country which God forsake after endowing it with the maximum natural beauty, I hired a taxi today. Balancing a near-torn polythene bag of heavy diaries in one hand, and another equally laden carry bag of calenders, I asked the driver if he was ready to go to the destination. He nodded. With the load in my hand, I tried to open the door. The diary-bag nearly gave way. Helplessly, I clutched it from the top, along with my elbow giving it support from below. With the other hand, my fingers clasped for the latch of the door, but missed them, as the bulky other carry bag came in way. All this while, as I did the aforementioned pantemomime, the driver sat on with a blank, dumb expression; till the time, I nearly screamed out, "Can't you help?" Only then did he move from his zen-like stupor.

Loser!

Recently a bunch of our friends played 'antakshri' - with a difference. Instead of singing songs ending with the last 'akshar' of the previous number, we were to sing the songs of the previous ditty's actor/actress paired with someone else (ie, different from the song already played). Due to this, we came up with the oddest of pairings to flumox the next candidate to find another pair for that vague actor/actress. Lots of stars came up who would probably had done only two/three films in their entire lives. Our term for them was - 'losers!'

Even while playing, and as I laughed overtly at the jokes and called these bunch of actors the same, I was thinking, 'ain't I one big loser myself?' Only the profession and industry is different, but the success ratio is equally deplorable, perhaps worse. At least, we remembered their names. Who would even know my name in the industry that I am?

Loser! Big Loser!! Pathetic Loser!!!

The Pressured Cooker

I had assumed that this web-place was a printed version of my thoughts; a sort 'gasket-release' system which allows the steam to go out, taking off the pressure from the cluttered confines of my brain. To think of it, the brain is much like a pressure cooker, wherein thoughts move around rapidly in random disorder. Often, while cooking, when the steam lets off, there is a wonderful aroma of the food cooked inside it. Alternatively, if the vegetable/pulse is not of the liking it can give a distasteful smell. After reading the posts, I realise that the inners of my brain were not exactly the stuff that gourmets would savor with delight.

There is too much whine and crib in the posts. There is too much complaint. There is too much grumble. It is not right, and thank God, not many people are reading it. Actually, only one very nice lady is, if I am not mistaken. I wonder what she makes out to be. If I were to read a blog/space/page which had this much of negativity, I would have immediately assumed a high moralistic ground and shaken off the man and asked him to get real!

But, the fact is that all this is, well...a fact! Life is not too good. It continues. Listlessly. Unceremoniously.

I wonder what I am searching for, in the first instance. I wonder what I had started to cook, and what a burnt dish I have become.

Monday Morning Blues

It is Monday morning. Another dreaded day starts. Another week begins. Another month is to initiate soon.

God Bless Me!

Do Pal

Do Pal Ruqa Khwabon Ka Kaarvan
Aur Phir Chal Diye Tum Kahan Hum Kahan
Do Pal Ki Thi Yeh Dilon Ki Daastaan
Aur Phir Chal Diye Tum Kahan Hum Kahan

Yeh zindagi thi ya koie sazaa
Humne kaati isse kyun bhalaa
Yeh roshni thi ya koie balaa
Dasti rahi humko to yeh sadaa
Yeh mausam tha ya koie dhuan
Jisme ghut gaye saare armaan
Do Pal Ruqa Khwabon Ka Kaarvan
Aur Phir Chal Diye Tum Kahan Hum Kahan...

(From Veer Zaara; Lyric Javed Akhtar; Additional Lyric: Not A Nice Person to know)

Career Decisions - 2

When I re-read the previous part, I felt that I had been a bit too unfair to my parents. After all, they had suggested a course of career which they felt was right, and about which they had knowledge. It was my lack of strength or will-power that did not make me put my foot forward strongly for the stream that I thought I was cut out for. Perhaps, I am only finding a hook to hang by overburdened overcoat of failures.

Anyways, the job rollercoaster ride began. I wasn't exactly a rip-roaring success in the corporate world, but I was not a denizen of its nether-world either. Like my marks in school, I was average. I lasted four months in the first one, and four years in the second. But failure was just round the corner.

The company was in doldrums. Retrenchment began. I got the axe. Five months I was without a job; five months of a harrowing experience, wherein the parents' sympathies crystallised into an uneasy bitterness. The soles of my shoes rubbed against the heated Delhi roads as I made the rounds of various consultants. I was sacked, I couldn't tell them. No one would believe that it was not due to my fault, but just because the company wanted to shut off and was slowly shedding off expensive burdens. But it was still a company that existed, and if I was the first lot to go, I must surely been a bit too of a burden. So, I fed stories which were not even convicing to myself.

Five months of hell, I got a job; in a prestigious bank. Looking back, that was the time I could have made a career switch; I was young, more idealistic, and less cynical. I did not , because the desperate tag of being retrenched stuck its tongue out at me with disdain. The bank was good, it had name, and it would never shut down. But it was the same line, the same work, the same product. I grabbed the opportunity.

Things were not hunky dory; the bank had weird and stringent policies that could get itself nowhere in the cut-throat Delhi market. People who had joined with me started dropping out; I also thought of doing so, but did not for the simple reason of being overtly lazy, and given to the inertia of carrying on with the flow; fresh blood came in; suddenly, the weather changed; and I found myself as a sort of a 'veteran' in the scheme of things (despite being only a year or so into the job. Being the oldest in the team, and having the experience of seeing the initial policies, and giving vent to build fresh ones, I was in a coveted position. There were changes in the top management also, and they relied on me for providing them inputs. I gave all that I knew, and through them got the changes done that were required. The team grew, and as more new people came, the more senior I became.

A bizarre idea was sounded off; but I saw a spark in it. When officially offered to me, I took it up. And began to give it shape. Before I realised, the new concept was working. The numbers grew every month; the profit figures looked neat; the team was happy in my leadership. I had the freedom to do what I wanted, and clearly the results were showing. My bosses were pleased, and those were the two years that I thoroughly enjoyed in my entire ten years of career. The late nights, the extended weekends, the thrill at the tingling numbers gave me a hitherto-unknown adrelanin rush. I was at a peak, I was invited to top-management functions and discussions; I gave trainings to fresh management recruits; the head of the bank knew me by name; colleagues from the department envied me; other departments praised me. I also got the slot in the coveted Six Sigma project - a foregone conclusion. I was satisfied, I, even lost touch with my writing. For nearly three years, I did not pen anything, not even a letter-to-the-editor for Filmfare; and I was not missing it either!

But then, things snapped. It was like a giant wheel ride that had started slowly, and gained speed, but it did not stop at a steady pace, it just simply went on to a dizzying pace. I was giddy. With everything that was going correct, something had to go wrong. I had trusted my luck too far. It did. What goes up, has to come down, and my downhill tumble began.

Things began to fall apart.

At first they were small, and I ignored the signs. But they began to pile up, and I was burdened under their weight. The going that was great, began to grate. The motion gave me no emotion. Everything looked odd and strange and hurtful and hateful. Also, in the corporate world, when a project gets unwarranted success, everyone wants to be a part of it. Suddenly, I found thwarted by mindboggling policies and procedures. Approvals were required at every small step. The very basis of the success, my freedom, was chained. Approval for rates, approval for recruitments, approval for advts, approval for sales-promotions, approvals for this, approvals for that...and yet, the responsibilities were all mine. Anything wrong, it was my neck that got jammed. That was one part; but the bigger one was, I lost interest, I lost the will, I lost the inclination. How and when, it is difficult to decide, but it just snapped. Kaput!

My marriage came and went. The divorce added to the sense of directionless. The final straw was the fraud that happened in my department. I reached the nadir of hopelessness.

I decided to jump off this giddying giant wheel ride. To a close friend I offered partnership in his business. He agreed. I jumped off that giant wheel, and what a jump it was! The bruises are still blue, the pain still continues, two years after the time I resigned from the services of the bank.

The partnership was a disaster from the word go. Good partners might be good friends, but the vice-versa is not always true. Before long, I got sucked in a quagmire of deep shit, coupled with a waist-load of debts. The partner did not help, the friendship disintegrated; money, which was never discussed between us, became the centrifuge of shouts over irksome telephone calls. I was slipping into the quicksand faster, and there was no rope in sight to pull me out.

When the rope did come, it pulled me out; and it pulled me out so harshly that I came out of the quicksand but did not land on my feet; instead, I fell headlong into this country. Though I cannot thank my present employers enough for trusting me with this job and giving me an opportunity to regain my lost ground, still, its a job that I have no clue about. Yet, I cannot leave for the money it provides; slowly, over the months, I have wiped out a huge burden of debts. If I last a bit longer, I might even start saving some money.

Ten years have passed; now I am on a higher rung in the corporate ladder; switching is tougher. And switch to what? Does that small germ of journalistic ambition still survive within me. I cannot say. I cannot decide. Decisions are painful for me. Everytime I take one, the other side assumes greener hues.

Though I do get a lot of appreciation from the readers of my blogs, but where it matters the most, has always given me the 'rejection slip' time after time. I know there is a saying 'try, try and try again till you succeed'. It's a good one. It helps you sail through.

But, why can't I get a lucky break, on the own! Why can't I get through and perhaps give the hard work once inside, instead of rubbing off my ass just to get through, and probably burning myself out once I am in!

When I read interviews of some of the successful people that, 'a chance meeting with so-and-so gave me the break', I wonder, why these chance meetings do not happen to me. Why doesn't by chance a publishing house honcho read my blogs (the other one, especially), and decide to print my stories?

What triggered off this post today, after ten years, is an incident. I have been waiting for an important deal to strike through. It seemed a cakewalk. Till the time negotiations began. I sailed through that, and the commercial angles were smoothened out. But, now it is stuck at a legal step. As bouncers after bouncers are thrown at me, I do not know how to bat them off. The heat from the head office is growing; everyday, impatiently, my boss shouts about the deal. It is not in my hands, seriously. It is with the government of this country. They have their own bureaucracy, their own lethargic speed, their own way of things. Yet, everytime I talk to my boss, it seems as if I have not followed it up correctly or thoroughly. He asks me to take them out for dinner; I admit, I am bad at that. How do I tell a senior person in a department to come out for dinner? I mean, it looks odd, and strange, and that's where I curse my introvert nature. I have been to the higher levels, and tried to convince them. Today, I was to get a call on the same. It did not. So, I called up the legal personnel. He avoided the phone for two hours. Now, when I finally got through him, he has thrown the fiercest of googlies ever, and I am dumb-struck. I was sure of the deal to fall through today. I had given hints to my boss about it too. I was to go back to Delhi for a meeting, which I cancelled due to this call. And now, I am stuck with an empty hand. Another problem. Another issue. And this time, I don't think there can be any solution to it. I dread tomorrow, when my boss will call asking for it. I do not know what to say. It's another failure, another let-down!

This is where I wanted GOD to step in, and provide that lucky-moment. This is where my work finishes off, and providence takes over. But the baton is not passed on to Lady Luck; it slips, and falls, and it lands thunderously on my feet. There is not much to show by way of successes to my boss, this was one thing that I could have showed off, and strutted about! Please, GOD, Please Help Me!

And as I had waited for the call to come in, the entire career life had relayed itself on my mind's silverscreen, each failure sharply etched and each falling clearly visible.

Till a few days back, I would have dismissed the following lines as an ode to self-pity. Today, especially now at this moment, I feel these words, and the pain that they carry:

Jag ne chheeena mujhse, mujhe jo bhi laga pyaara
Sab jeeta kiye mujhse, mai hardam hi haara...

I am a failure in life! Absolute failure!

Career Decisions

When I was very young, I had to write an essay on "My Ambition in Life" for school, or some such topic wherein one had to tell what career options I wanted to take later in life, and the reasons for the same. It was scary and strange; I had no ambition. My father threw out a few 'safe' career options like engineering and doctor; and I recall, I wrote something about civil engineering, for no other reason than the fact that my brother in law was one, and I had some idea what civil engineers do.

Years passed, and I somehow squeezed myself out of the tenth boards; the marks were horrible, and for days my parents were pissed off with me. Again, a choice stared at me with an evil smirk. Since it was safe, and kind of the 'in-thing' at that time, I chose the 'science' stream. Thankfully, however bad they were, my marks were decent enough for the school to allow me to do so; it was a simple logic - boys chose sciences, girls went for the arts/humanities. Even though I was not clear on what to go in for a career option, I was pretty sure of what not to be! And that was, a course in medicine. I cannot stand dissections. I feel nauseous. So, the only other option in sciences was the Engineering Drawing section. (Computers were in their nascent stage; I gave it a skip).

Tough two years followed; physics always gave me the shivers; chemistry was ok, but the teacher was a pain; and mathematics left me as cold as a lady sleeping with a foul-smelling drunkard! All the subjects relied on logic, and this was something which God had forgotten to endow me with. It did not excite me at all that two plus two should be four only; in my dream world, it made more sense for it to be twenty two at one time, or five at another.

Curiously, at that time, some sense of my calling started to take a vague shape. Writing interested me. It gave me freedom; and in this, I could create a world of my own which was not governed by straight jacketed logics that ended with smug QEDs! I picked up 'journalism' as my 'extra-curricular' subject. The faculty coordinator was the best that I could have; she had taught me English in tenth; she encouraged me; she corrected my mistakes; she was patient in reading in my stories and offered valuable insights and thoughts; I learnt about editing, proof reading, reporting and packing a punch in the articles.

Eleventh passed; and the crucial twelvth came on. I continued with my journalistic side-subject. Surreptitiously, I continued with my love affair with journalism. My parents were not aware; they dreamt of their son taking up full fledged engineering, and settling to a cozy job; forms of entrance examinations started to come my way; my father did all the ground work. Even though my heart was not in it, I filled them up, and also attended a few coaching classes. Caught between the tug-of-war of the safe and the bizarre (as my mother put it, when I once told her about my journalistic ambitions), I was still unsure. Since my parents or my sisters were not encouraging enough, I was not sure whether I really wanted to be a journalist. That raging fire of ambition was still missing. In retrorespect, I think it was a small flame, that could have been fuelled on; alas it met a cold wave of apathy from family.

At school, when the all-important time for the 'prefect-ship' came on, I forwarded my name for the post of 'School Magazine - Editor'. In the 'journalism' class ( which the students of all the streams of class XII took together), I had a fair chance. The teacher coordinator was favorable, and the competition (two girls) was not that strong. It came as no surprise to me, when I was selected.

The designated day for the ceremonies came on; it was a hot, sunny summer afternoon as the students gathered for a 'Special Assembly' at the basketball court. The principal took over the mic, and started his announcements. I still recall the extravagant pride which overtook me as my name was announced as the Editor for the school magazine that year, and I marched forward to the dias, to take the certificate and the badge.

That afternoon I rushed back home with a special spring in my steps. Impatiently, I pressed the doorbell. When it opened, I rushed inside to the cooler environs of my curtained house. Guess what, I screamed. I have been elected as the editor of school magazine. Proudly, I showed the badge hanging on my shirt pocket. The stares that met me were frozen and frigid accompanied by a heavy stillness and an oppressive silence.

That's all that I remember of that afternoon!

School got over; I cleared the boards; I failed all entrance examinations. Being a day-dreamer, I did make exquisite fantasies of clearing them, but hard work was not my forte ever; and the time that was supposed to spent in learning was wasted in forming 'hawai quilla'.

The marks in the Board examinations were decent, much better than my tenth ones, quite above the averages, but still way short of the coveted nineties that was the buzzword of those days! Worse, my English marks were nothing to write home (or anywhere, for that matter) about; I got the 'see-we-told-you' stares. I was not good for being a journalist if my English marks did not even cross the 70's threshold, that too in the easy-and-scoring CBSE board exams! Perhaps, they were right, I conceded.It was just a whim. I was not cut out to be a journalist. In any case, what did I know about the profession - zilch, zero, shunya! To our family, they were the obscure breed that wore khadi kurtas with the ubiquitious jholas, chasing the politicians and stars relentlessly, an image fossilised by the myriad Hindi films! Plus, what side of journalism? What other interests did I have besides films and music? I was pathetic at current affairs and politics, which constitute a large chunk of the stream. I had no interests, I had no vision, I had no knowledge, and was just clinging to this word 'journalism' as a savior to show that I could have an ambition, without really anything great to show barring a few odd stories and articles that a few handful had appreciated.

Another choice, another crossroad. The day I forwarded my choice for English Literature in college, all hell broke loose. What will you do after three years of college? Why dont you re-appear for the entrance exams next year ( I had failed all, including SPA)? Why dont you at least take sciences so that you are in touch with it? Eng Hons is for girls, they argued! But, this time I was adamant. Two years of PCM were enough for me! I did not want to be burdened with something that I did not want to do at all for another three years. Thankfully, my father was by my side. In between, a career in govt. services (following my father's footsteps) was a choice. But for that, one had to be a graduate; English did help there in a small way. I played along that, thinking that quite possibly a secure job would be my calling some day.

As a rough shot, I did apply for the Delhi College of Art and Commerce's Bachelor in Journalism course, which was probably in its initial years at that time. I flunked the entrance badly. And the point was driven home with lots of force that I was not meant to be a journalist; I did not have the capability or capacity to be so. By merely writing a few stories here and there, and editing a school magazine, I was being too big for my boots. Get real! I did. Though inwardly, I felt that it was just an entrance exam I had failed ( it was all current affairs based ) , and it was unfair to me. Leave the entrance criterias, why can't I just join it, and prove myself. This always got my blood boiling. I was subject to a stupid system; it's not the entrance exam/interview that should matter, just get me in, and see how I will shine.

Well, that was not to be; and I resigned to the fact that perhaps I was not cut out. Maybe, they were all right. I had better concentrate on the Eng. Hons, and see what best to do next.

With the 'safe' options like medicine and engineering out of the way, I was again unsure of my future. The half-baked idea of becoming a journalist was also nipped;the IAS entrance exams (at later date) did cross the mind quite strongly, but again the effort for the studying put me off totally.

Three years of fun! Three years of uncertainty! They passed all too quickly.

Now what? A simple graduate hardly guarantees a job. A simple graduate in English, guarantees it lesser!

For the sake of doing so, just for the lark, I applied for the written entrance exam of the prestigious Institute of Mass Communication (JNU). It was an interesting paper; it concentrated more on writing skills than mere knowledge of what constituted the Third Front in politics!

I cleared it.

But the elation was shortlived. Seriously, you do not want to do this, they all exclaimed. This is not right, this is not done. On the day of the interview, I kept pleading that allow me to give it a shot. There were 'hurrumphs' and 'grunts' and we were at my sister's place, not even talking about it, and I had an interview after two hours. I faced my father, and told him that I had to give the interview, however bad it went. Grudgingly, he relented. We went to the campus. No good lucks, no 'meetha' given, no smiles, no aashirwaad. I failed.

I had tried for the entrance at CAT; well, 'tried' can hardly be the word. Let's say I just appeared for them, with the time that was supposed to be spent in studying for them gone waste in day dreaming (as ever).

Dreams do not come true in my case. There is not that chance, or luck, or that special moment when everything falls in place. Those are best found in stories (or other's lives), not me!

My parents even went to the extent of finding contacts to pay 'donation' to get me in IMT, Gaziabad. The contact did nothing, the money was (thank heavens!) returned; this time, again, I failed, but certainly not because of my own cause.

Without any concrete plan of action for life, and without any more options really left, I just entered the MBA course being offered by one of the many mushrooming ones in South Delhi. It was not great, but they guaranteed placement. And at least, I would have some post-graduate tag. I took it up, and I sailed through the two years; and I got a job at the end in a tin-manufacturing company in Sahibabad.

Since then ten years have passed!

Prayer

Before my boss could blow off his lid, I managed to complete half of the stupid work mentioned in the previous post. The report was submitted, all of the 40 pages; it was untidy, haphazard and absolute balderdash. I cringed when I saw the print outs; but neither was there inclination, nor the time, to re-edit it further. It's gone, and hopefully, now in some cans where it was ultimately to go.

With this, it will give me some breathing space, before he asks for the second part. I am saved for a week at least.

But it is another scare that looms large in front of me. I wonder if its with me that happens or does everyone go through the same tensions and nail-biting hours, when something big is to happen. I am confident others go through the same process; but the vital difference is that while others would work and then go through the tension, I just procrastinate and idle, and then get the dull ache inside me. I should not be at this place, and writing this piece, but doing something about the immense workload. But that's the way I am - a lazy, good for nothing, idiot, prone to enjoy the luxuries of life without working hard.

It all comes back to the same thing again ; I have seen people who have never set foot inside a temple, or praying, gain the successes. I am jealous of them. Maybe its the past karma, maybe its their diligence, maybe they are plain lucky. Why can't I be so ?

This is repetition; but still, have to pen it down. God, if You are omnipresent, if You really exist, if You have ever got a true prayer for me even for one mini-second, if You are within me and reading this as I type it out, please give me the success that I crave for. That one thing will ease life a bit, I think. And yes, please God, do not give it with some sticky strings attached. I know You have strange ways of fulfilling wishes, but this time please do it sans the sense of humor or tricks. Its a plain, honest prayer to You, please reply in a plain, honest way.

Work-2

I hate the puerile and pathetic work that I have to do as part of my duties. For four days in a row I have avoided and procrastrinated a stupid work that I have to complete. I have given myself a thousand excuses, and ready to give a thousand more to my superiors lest they call asking for it. For the past four days, as the fear of an unfinished task weighs heavily within me, I have lent myself to several pasttimes, but with an irritating ache gnawing my heart. I know it will go only once I complete it, however badly I do it! Yet, getting myself to do it is becoming in itself an herculean effort. Hence, I while away time, and the fear deepens. The term 'vicious cycle' could not have found a better usage!

Incidentally, I am not in a strong position to just call up and tell my superiors that this is something I do not enjoy doing. I am on a weak wicket. I hope I survive here long enough. Else, I might be soon on the job market again!

God ( yes, I still Love you, despite the idiotic post below), please do bless me with Your Infinite Strength and Kindness. Though I understand that in the overall scheme of things everything is transient and momentary, still, this once I need to prove that I am worth it. Please Help Me, O Lord. Please return the success streak that was mine.

Just Another Random Thought

With fear, I observe that I am losing touch with my other webspace. In horror, I see a lost interest there. The half-finished story there remains just that - half finished. Earlier, I would never have left a story incomplete.

Suddenly, I find writing on this blog easier. Partly, the fact can be attributed to the sense of anonymity that this blog gives. More importantly, the interest here lies in the fact that I can pen these meaningless diatribes against anything and everything without the botheration of justifications through comment boxes. Also, I can publish these small, no-value posts here which have become difficult there. Maybe, this is actually becoming my e-diary : a place to pen down the thoughts and emotions, without bothering too much on the grammatical and language correctness.

This is in no way to mean that I do not value the friendships cultivated through the other blog; on the contrary, I cherish them with fierce intensity and would never trade that for all the goodness that this blog gives.

Yet, there is something missing. I cannot pinpoint immediately. Perhaps, I did take that blog a bit too seriously, and am now weighed by my own popularity, something that I craved for when I started that blog. What a messed up creature I am, indeed!

Anyways, found these lines at a blog a few days back. It sort of sums up my feelings.

Its that feeling of loneliness without being lonely,
Hundreds of people around and yet I am the one and only.
I have everything, if you must count I say
Then why this melancholy, why this dismay?

Thank, 'K', for writing out what I feel everyday!

Life

When Shakespeare wrote about life being a meaningless drama enacted between the womb and tomb, he couldn't have been more correct, ever. What a useless piece of time is a life, day in and day out, month in and month out, year in and year out. For what purpose? For what gain?

If, as said in the Bhagvat Geeta, everything has to end in God, and Man has to choose his ‘karmas’, is the entire creation a sort of cosmic video game for God, where the creatures gain points with their acts and go up the next ‘level’ (just as in any game) of evolutionary hierarchy? In a small unknown movie, Shukriya, the character played by Anupam Kher argues mocks at the outrageous idea of ‘mukti’; he questions that if he had to be liberated why he was even given this ‘bondage of love and relationships’ called life, in the first place. Was this idea some sort of a sadistic pastime of God?

And, when God can proclaim with so much pompousness that “I am the One whom you have to meet”, “I am the Beginning and End”, “I am There”, is it a small wonder that Man, supposedly the most perfect and closest to God in form, also full of “I” and ego? Also, cannot God come and meet all its creatures; why does he wait for the creatures to take so many births to reach human form, and then gain Him? Is he so full of ego that He cannot himself walk down and liberate all? Why does He sit back and enjoy the drama unfolding before him, which only makes my question of all this being a video game for Him all the more credible? And, when Liberation was the end result, why did he create life, with happiness and sorrows thrown in between- some pastime for him? And, if by some strange mystical mistake, this ‘karma’ cycle was created, is He not All Powerful Enough to wipe it off, and assuage the pains of the millions of his creations?

Questions, questions, and more questions. Though many answers have been mooted by various faiths, none have been very convincing in their theories.

In all, indeed, life is a meaningless drama, a noisy farce, and here I play the role of a not a nice person. Let's see how long the part lasts, and when and how the director decides my exit.

Anonymous

I have removed my name from this blog completely.

Not that it will be difficult for those who know me to find out who owns this blog. For one, the list on the right hand side is an exact replica of the one that is there on my main blog (I own another space in the cyber-world). Second, many of my regular readers did come here in January to read the now-shelved "The Last Lust" ; I have not changed the URL. Lastly, the template on my main blog is a ditto copy of this one.

Beyond them, it will not be easy for anyone to relate to my other blog; that is, if they have been there as well.

I had started this blog as a mirror-blog for my other one. At that time the hosting service there had faced a severe crisis. However, I could never re-publish the posts written there on to this page. The pathetic net connection was one reason, but a more potent one was that I was too lazy to do so. In any case, the hosting service of the main blog resumed its functioning perfectly well after that.

Anonymity does not come easy to me. I did mention that I have an 'exhibitionist' trait within me. Yet, I am enjoying the new-found hiding. I said I was childish; this is a new toy for me. Let me play with it for some time; let me enjoy this freedom of 'not being known' for some time. Once I tire of it, which I am sure will be pretty soon, I will come out.

All said and done, this anonymity has made me pen four posts in a row; thoughts that I was too shy or scared to share on the main page have found their birth. Let me raise a toast to this!

The Man

Opposite the west gate (I think) of the Palace, stands a man. He is skinny, scawly and dilapidated but wears impeccably ironed and neat white-and-black national outfit of the country. He stands with the aid of the crutches. His narrow and old eyes do not waver from the gate on the opposite end of the road. He is oblivious to the rushing cars in between. His lips tremble, or perhaps, he mumbles a prayer.

Over the days, I have seen him stand on the same spot. He does not move an inch. Why is he there ? What does he do ? How does he survive? What time does he go for his lunch ? From where does he get the strength to stand without even the slightest movement or shift of the body weight ?

Lots of questions run my mind whenever I see him. I have not got any answer as yet except for the mumbles from my over-active, over-fertile brain. Perhaps, he is devoted to the powers that live within the palace. Or, maybe he is a spy in disguise to observe and look-out for any trouble maker at the palace. I do not know. But, I do wish to know. Some day, I shall find out.

Some day...

Work

I wish I could do a work that I could relate to in a better manner. A job where I do not have to worry about targets and sales and month-ends and bottom-lines and plans. A job where I could sit at home and work on my laptop throughout the day, as and when I want to (which would not be much, anyways), and not have to worry about the reports and printouts that the boss wants (or wanted, as of yesterday!)

People say that they get bored by doing nothing, or rather, 'not working'. I belong to that rare breed who cannot be bored by doing nothing. Trust me, I can live a better and fuller life without worrying about the next promotion, the next deadline, the next notch up on the sales graph. I do not think it will give me any sort of elation if tomorrow I am made the vice-president of the company. Although I have managed to come up the ladder of the corporate heirarchy, it's not been so much of my own efforts, as it has been the natural flow of doing the work just to avoid any confrontational situations with the powers-that-be!

I should have been born in some royal family, or should have been scion of a filthy rich family, wherein I could have splurged the money earned by my parents. Yes, my ego and self-esteem can be quite accomodating!

But since it will take a huge amount of time to reach that level (come on, I will have to die, do penance and 'tapasya' to get a re-birth in such a family), let me modify the want a bit. Perhaps, I could be happier if I had two best-sellers behind my back and their royalties to enjoy, and then I could take life easy, write at my pace, spend time on the net at my pleasure, watch my kind of films, and if I had to worry then it would be for the next scene that I need to put in my story/novel, and not about the looming business plan.

Sigh! The images of the various 'rejection slips' from various publishers imprint themselves on my mind's photographic plate. I am not talented enough to be a writer. The fact is infuriarating.

Yes, delusioned is another adjective that you can add to me now, after melancholic, depressed, introvert and juvenile. I did say I am not a nice person to know, didn't I?

People

Today I read a short story in which a sentence caught my attention. It was about a house-wife, and the author had mentioned about the 'love-hate' relationship that she had developed with her loneliness; so much so, that the lady in the story started to get irritated by the presence of her own husband and children on weekends. Yet, on the weekdays, she pines for the same company that she shuns on those two days. Split personality,eh? Not really. Loneliness can be a devilish bed-mate to have in life. It is foul, uncouth, dirty and obnoxious. At the same time, it is addictive and habitual.

I suffer from the same.

The purpose of the post was about 'people', as mentioned in the title as well. 'People' are the anti-dote to loneliness; or at least, they are the best ones. A uni-logue (my word, as opposed to a dia-logue) with a book or a song or a TV show can assuage the same, but the affect is short-lived. Often, it can only elevate than alleviate the disease.

Despite being in the marketing/sales line (the sharp difference between the two is lost in our sub-continent), talking to people comes to me as naturally as turning vegetarian comes to a lion. I could not have chosen a worst career decision ever. Yet, given my laziness and lethargic demeanor that was the easiest to do. But more on that later sometime.

I can have a thousand conversations running within the stifled confines of my brain. But the same get woefully weakened as soon as they are brought out into the open. Small talk ( a must for any one in the field that I am in ) is something that I detest. I cannot do it. When I try to force the gush of the conversation, it ends up in the weak stream which would even make the trickle of Rajasthan desert taps look like Niagara Falls. Often, I have watched with awe (and envy) at people indulging in small talks, bringing up myriad topics and keeping the conversation alive. One of my superiors is a master in this. I try to learn from him, but I guess my disposition is a very bad pupil. It fails all the time.

Out of the professional realm, people have a strange effect. I cannot open to them the way I want to; certainly, not the candid way that I am doing it here on this page. Yet, once I have opened myself, I cannot retract back. Often, I come on them strongly; or, perhaps cross the threshold of friendship's propriety. Admittedly, I do cross this threshold, only to be whisked away by the deadly Ravan of shamelessness; my heart, brain and soul scream out the cries of help but I keep flying against the harsh winds bruising my ego, ultimately to be thrown into a fantastic but lonely garden of solitary confinement; the person will ultimately object to this sudden onslaught of attention, quite naturally. Perhaps, I am childish and juvenile. I have crossed thirty, but the mind stays on at thirteen, where the novelty of a person or thing attracts forcefully, to the extent that I can discard off my duties and responsibilities!

In all this, there is something else that gets missed out. Trust. One cannot bind anything with water; one cannot bind with another without trust. Yet, trust is in a negative balance in my life's account. It could be because of the lack of trustworthy people that have stepped into my life. But, to say that all of them have not been so sounds hard to digest. There has to be something wrong with me, no? Either I expect too much (again, the 'coming out too strong' syndrome) or I get too less. I reckon the former is truer.

I wish I could set the control button to my emotions and feelings and thoughts and conversations and jokes and tantrums and expectations and trust and faith and attitude and friendship and care to a 'medium' button.

Is it possible?

I am trying. The luck has been hard till now, and I have completed more than 25% of my life (the average life span of an Indian male).

I hope I succeed. Without any more bruises, that is!

Lost Thoughts

If I had to choose my middle name, perhaps 'melancholic' will suit the best. Without sounding too derisive, it sums up the recurrent semi-depressed and semi-sad state that I slip into every few days, sans any tangible source of pain or hurt. It is probably something to do with the planetary positions, or perhaps due to some past incident simmering like molten lava within the crust of my existence, or maybe due to the fact that I am this way only...well, I am past the age to analyze this. In any case, no amount of analysis will yield any purposeful result. Suffice to point out that today I am feeling morose, dull and extremely vulnerable. At the cost of giving off my Achilles heel, let me say, at this point I am as tender as the wound that can erupt with its stark red life fluid at the merest touch. The ominous thunder of the impending storm wrapped around the overcast Kathmandu skies further compound the grayness within me. The reasons for writing this piece here are two fold - one, I have a story on at my main page ( I do not know its future, if I can come out of this mood fast, I will surely complete it). Second, too many people 'know' me up-close on that blog. It is next to impossible to explain that I can be sad without any specific reason. Another (and a more logical option) would be to type this in MS Word, vent out the spleen, and move on. Why publish it on this other blog? Well, another strange facet of my strange personality is the crave for exhibitionism. I will not publicise this blog, but I will not keep it exactly in anonymity either. Yes, I will revel in the few sympathies that unfurl over me.

The day has nearly set. There is a very faint hint of dark twilight. The electric bulbs and tubelights have taken over charge from the sunlight. The roads have almost bid farewell to the rush-hour traffic returning to their cozy nests.

Through out the day, as the sun traversed its oft-repeated and monotous course, I sat idly. There was an immense load of work to be done. But nothing got started. Nothing got completed, either. The fear of the piling workload increased its hateful weight; yet, I did not do anything about it. I sat on, clicking a few sites here, a few pages there, but not reading them, or if I was, not understanding any of the black-and-white formations there (which everyone calls 'words'). A strange inertia had taken over. I had meant to finish off the story (on the main page) also by evening. I could not. Not that I did not want to, but somehow, I just could not bring myself to do it. Suddenly the attention span developed a spasm; I would start listening to a song, then leave it mid-way, move on to the next, only to discard a minute later. For sometime, I looked out of the window yet, I was not seeing anything. Curiously, I was not thinking anything either. For all practical purposes, I was dead. Conscious death. Is there a medical term like this? I doubt it. But, I guess I am unique, strange and different.

Now, I push away this piece. I am tired of writing it. The attention is lost. I hope I recover soon. I always do. I will. Good bye.