... Of Burnt Memories

How much could a simple coffee mug mean?

It might mean the world to a person when gifted by a much-loved one. Then to pick up the courage to smash it on to the wall, watch the smithereens all around you, see it with your own eyes what the hands have done, and comprehend with the head that it is over, only because you wanted to equate the token with the wound the inflicter got to your heart. It is complicated, yet so simple.

Throw, break, burn, delete, forget.

Is there really a joy destruction brings? Synthetic fur burning, porcelains breaking, plastics crumbling, coloured papers turning pitch-dark, and most recently Ctrl+A Delete.

Do not get me wrong. This is not a person turning a pyromaniac or an anarchist or a barbarian. It is simple acceptance. Embracing the truth that a relationship is over, acceptance that it is time to move on, teaching self that the heart needs no more torture from a particular person.

Not everyone is there to stay with you all your days.

Hence burning memories become part and parcel of life. 

Of What It Could Not be

There's no word "regret" in my dictionary, I might boast, but I need to confess, I do get eaten up by it time and again. Time and again, the constant need to look back and sigh, of things that have been and things that could have been. Thirty-three years on the planet, and there are a few life's lessons that I have learnt. I intend to keep them handy, though there are times I fail miserably.
Now what prompted me to write this, is the urge... the usual one. But I promise this won't be a sob story.
Now, what would you do if the apple that fell on Mr. Newton's head (probably not the same apple, but any other apple) fell on yours? You curse the apple for its inability to find a better place to fall, you can curse it for the bad timing. Or as optimists say, thank heavens you were not sitting under a coconut tree.
Me? I would create a sorry figure for myself, slowly rub the bump on my head, throw the apple away with all my might so that it could also feel the hurt it caused me, and then mumble "Why me?", "Why now?".  Immature and illogical, you might say! But well, that is me. Oh, it doesn't end there. And then, I'd probably refuse to go near any apple tree for a long time until the memory of the bump clears off from the little grey cells inside my head.
Yes, there have been many apple trees, many fallen apples and the crimson bumps, thanks to the noodle brain. Surely each apple has taught me one lesson or the other.
Well, my latest apple has taught me that I need to keep my arm's distance with the apple tree. Respect its space, do not chide it for its lack of focus, accept it has a mind of its own, and let it fall anywhere it deems fit. While I mind my distance and close my sometimes-ignorant-of-when-to-open mouth of mine shut and leave the apple to do its job of falling down on anybody's head or ruining itself by shattering to smithereens.
Goodbye apple, and to all the other apples around... you are on your own! ... until this bump heals, of course! 

... About Why I Write

People might attempt to pick up a pen and a paper for different reasons. Each one might have his/her own justifications. Some might say they write to earn a name for themselves, while some to change the world. A few have said they do it to feel alive. Well.. my defence is I write because I simply hate to die of suffocation or of asphyxiation. As weird and exaggerated as it sounds, yes... 

I write the most when there is too much held inside and needs an outlet. 

I write when I need to let the pent up anger, sorrow and disgust out.

I write because I have this overwhelming urge to do it.

I write because if I don't, I fear the world closing in on me. 

I write to set me free.

I write to calm my erratic heart beats.

I write because it is my way of running away. 
I write when nothing or nobody can help me. 

I write when I can steal some solitude when it gets denied. 

I write not because I have something to say. Though I do that rarely when I am forced to, by an external force, like people! 

I write not for people to judge me as a person. Of course, you can judge me as a writer. 

I may or may not write about the immediate distress in hand. 

I may or may not be writing about you, or even about me. When I pick up the pen and the paper, or log on to my system to write, I am totally in the dark about what to write.

I write so that I can get it done and go back to my life, a bit more composed. 

I write not because it's my hobby or my career, but because it is my lifeline to sanity. 

Mission accomplished for the day. I can feel the air. 

... Of A Googler

Right from the various assignments I did during my MA to the almost daily welcome speeches and thank you notes, my life is thoroughly indebted to Google!

This topic came out of the blue for me when quite randomly  I told a friend of mine that if I'd ever write an autobiography some day one whole chapter would be dedicated to Google! So then, this post can be a prequel to it.

Who found what? 

Who is the father of whom? 

Did they really get hitched? 

What to make for dinner today? 

How to write a novel? 

How famous is my friend? 

What does that word mean again? 

Is there a hartal tomorrow? 

How mad am I? 

When did Maya Angelou die? 

Where on earth am I now? 

What is all the row about Saritha Nair?

Why is my 3-year old too stubborn? 

... n number of questions I asked Google, and it did reply faithfully.

Google has made me quite humbler, as it has made me understand I know nothing when compared to the vast knowledge it possesses. Google has made me respect my elders more. Didn't they acquire their degrees and write essays and papers with no help from Google? It has made me respect time even more. If it were not for Google, millions of seconds of lethargy would have been converted to useless activities of search, find, write, edit, re-search, re-find, re-write and re-edit.

Yes, I am a Googler and insanely proud of being one. 

... Of A Drapetomaniac

CID! Escape! That is a very famous dialogue from a good old Malayalam comedy movie. Now, this is what I feel like yelling when in life's many situations. 

Oh! Its going to rain ... Escape!

My god, sister is coming... Escape!

Oh no! She will now start again on my bad choices of dressing... Escape! 

Shucks! If I go with them, I too will have to work on it .... How to Escape?! 

Well.. seeing my constant urge to run away, you might think I am a marathon runner. But on the contrary, I don't remember myself running anywhere at any time, without actually tripping on thin air and falling down. So then, how exactly am I a drapetomaniac? 

Have you ever been in one of life's inescapable situations, where you feel trapped and find that constant urge to run away to some place you feel safe. I feel it many a time. It is just the urge to run, but never to actually pick up the courage, put on the running shoes, and just run. So, if that is the case, you will surely find out that I have covered the whole wide world at least twice.  

Certain people make you want to run away, certain places make you feel like escaping, and even certain memories make you want to run away from them. 

Now for some trivia, the term drapetomania was first used in the mid 1800s to define the mental disorder of slaves who ran away from their masters. And the cruel white masters thought that the slaves who ran away from their merciless, vicious regimes were out of their minds! Believe it or not, the treatment given to the "disorder" was confinement, shackling, starvation, threats, and physical torture!!!

Now, if drapetomania is a disease or a mental disorder, I don't think confinement or threats will help me. Just let me free, I will not run away anywhere! 

... of A Dark Girl in A Darker World

People recently have been talking about Indians' obsession with the fair skin a lot. But what I intend to do here is to confess; yes I am dark skinned, people have reminded me umpteen times that I am dark, and not of the desired colour.

I was glad when Nandita Das wrote openly on the plight of dark skinned people, especially women. I rejoiced when Kangana Ranaut dismissed an offer to act in an advertisement for a fairness cream. But still, this me had a past where I wished there was at least one magic potion to get this face at least one tone "better".

I truly do not remember since when I became conscious of the fact that I was dark; but I still remember every single time and moment when I was laughed at, mocked at, or ridiculed for my colour. I still remember the classmate who called me " the black chimpanzee" in front of my friends. I still remember with great pain a good number of my cousins' weddings where I alone was not selected to be a bride's maid when all of my other sisters found their places. I remember my father commenting, you are dark – if you need to be married off you must study well. The connection between one's colour and the marriage market confused a 10 year old, but I understood it in another 15 years; but, well... that is altogether a new topic for an other confession.

I remember being invisible while studying at a convent school, where the sisters' pets were either the fair skinned or the rich brats! Disheartening, but true! It took years of building confidence to realise that I am more than my looks and had to strive hard to break myself from the cocoon I used to hide inside.

I read somewhere that ancient Indians considered dark as beautiful. We all know, where the obsession with the fair skin came from. Of course, it came when a bunch of foreigners found their way into our country, and made it their own. Indians had a history where we depicted 'gods and their idols black, and their devils white as snow'. And from there, we took a perfect U turn.

Well.. my thought is just this. What if one morning we all wake up and find out that our colours have been reversed? The dark become the fair and the fair become the dark! It would be interesting to see the chaos! Fairness creams would still reign though! Sigh!!!

... of A Chronic Job Hopper

I was not even aware of the usage "job hopper" until recently I did a self analysis of what kind of a person I am. Yes, I have quit a couple of jobs during the last six years of my career, and with the possible contemplation on quitting the current one too; I would rightly call myself a job hopper and that too, a chronic one.

I said I have quit a couple of times, but I was just trying to mellow it down, as the truth is, I have thrown out five of the jobs I had so far. It makes all the more of a worry when each time you delve into different fields. It is a cause of great concern and worry for my parents and my husband who criticize that I cannot make up my mind and that I am lazy, slothful, inactive and so on. But for me, I am active, lively, diligent, progressive, constantly on the process of soul-searching - constantly discarding what bores me, and embracing the greener pastures on the other side.

My career life began as being part of a big multinational company, famous worldwide, in fact that which counts among the fortune 500 companies of the world. Two years, and it came to a halt as I felt the job was too prosaic, work timings too tiring and the realization that the job role offers no significant growth.

The next abode was in a consulting firm, in the role of a personal assistant, which ended quite fast, in a span of two months, as the boss turned too bossy, and I turned my nose up at the mundane desk job. Realizing I cannot constrain myself to one end of a table, I tried to be a little adventurous.

After acquiring myself with a degree in education, I ventured into teaching. But with the age-old beliefs of maintaining a high status quo and struggling to keep up with the myth of the teacher being a serious, boring person I found the interest in teaching slowly diminishing. Plus, there was the  disheartening understanding of the reality that schools and colleges are excellent places to study, but not to work in.

I decided to reinvent myself once again. The role of an editor; the powerful person with the sceptre and the rod to reprove people. But once again, the glamour was short lived. Once you get addicted to the luxuries of paid vacations more than 30 days a year, it is quite hard to find solace at any other place. So there I go hopping again.

While searching the internet last week, with the newly found word “job hopper”, I came across a video of a former business student Sean Aiken, who hops once in every week. After watching that clip I believe I am a more stable person. After all, I stay put for at least a few months. I even read a few articles that said job hopping is turning out to be the new normal. Well then, I guess my family can be at peace. I am normal, but maybe, dashing a little far against time.