When it rains, it pours. Especially so if you are in the Western Ghats during the monsoon season. The rain brings alive many emotions.
I nurse a hot coffee—dark brown with a sting that somehow never fails to awaken my senses and keep me attentive to everything around me: the falling rain, passing clouds, and winds that seem eager to howl but end up whimpering as the rain pelts down.
Arundhati Roy once said, “The rain was beautiful to watch. The way it slanted across the road, forming fine curtains through which everything looked different.” Some writers and their words latch onto seasons. For me, the monsoon season calls for Arundhati Roy. Roy equals the monsoons.
Blinding sheets slip into to faltering drips and then offer a mirage-like pause, only to be followed by blinding sheets again. Meanwhile, my coffee is disappearing from my cup.
Bob Marley said something to the effect that some people feel the rain while others just get wet. I can’t stay in either camp for long. Sometimes, I want to soak it all in. Other times, I’m happy just to watch.
You see, life is never black and white. It’s a whole lot of grey. The rain reminds me of that. It’s never just this or that.
A whole lot of black and white is just grey masquerading as one of them. That thought gives me comfort. It helps me lay the quest to find and settle into one of those black or white territories to rest and find a small space on the margins.
Margins.
The rain pelts there as well. Perhaps it’s not about the margins, as much as it’s about the rain. “There is no place more comforting than being in the embrace of a rain-washed landscape,” said Kamala Das. And I couldn’t agree more.
Someone has created a fake profile of me on Facebook. Good friends have let me know about it. So please, do not accept any friend requests from “me.” And for God’s sake, do not send money. Or photographs. Or whatever. I assure you, I’m not in dire straits on some exotic island with no access to funds.
Living with a touch of imposter syndrome, discovering there’s an actual imposter out there is quite something. I’ve always wondered if I’ve truly made it, and now it seems I have, in the most dubious way possible. Only the noteworthy have their profiles duplicated, right? Atleast, one friend thinks so. Thats the first one who alerted me!
Now, for the burning question: Why would anyone choose to create a fake profile of me? I mean, really, have they seen my posts? My life, filled with incoherent rants about all and sundry, unflattering essays, and the occasional (intended) wisecrack that didn’t go anywhere, hardly seems worth the trouble. But if you get a friend request from “me,” please, don’t accept it. The real me is too busy navigating the existential crisis of finding matching socks to befriend you twice.
Then there’s the money aspect. These imposters often ask for it. Here’s the truth: if you ever receive a message from “me” asking for money because I’m stuck in a remote location with no cash and no support, do not send anything. Normally, I’m never far from a local ATM or my trusty phone. Besides, If I needed help, I’d call you directly, not via a sketchy Facebook message. Plus, the real me would probably call you crying, promising to never book a non-refundable ticket again.
In reality, my daily struggles include keeping track of the numerous OTPs I’m compelled to key in for grocery thats getting delivered at different times of the day. And trust me, if I was really in dire straits, I’d find a way to let you know that didn’t involve a social media plea. Maybe a skywriting message, or an interpretive dance, but not Facebook.
This whole incident is a timely reminder to make real friends and reconnect with ones I haven’t in a long while. Of course, be cautious about accepting friend requests from people you think you already know. The best way to do that is to stay connected in real life! Enjoy life – meet real friends, have real conversations, do real things. Like figuring out how to remove dark coffee stains from your favourite shirt or having a debate about the best way to run a country.
Next time you see a friend request from “me,” remember this post. Enjoy the irony that someone thought my life interesting enough to fake. It’s no small matter. I need to take adequate precautions like changing my passwords, letting my friends know, letting Facebook know and such else. Besides all this, I found myself shaking my head and smiling. Because in this age of digital absurdity, sometimes all you can do is chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all.
Friends and family have watched the eclipse and sent pictures. All of them have squares atop their noses and face the sky. For the world that is so much into perpetually peering down into phones, this is quite a change.
Ever since I saw Alaska airlines’ interest in eclipses, I have been intrigued enough to consider travelling to catch an eclipse. The next big eclipse that I am excited about is happening on August 2027, over the Pyramids. That is perhaps something to be present for. That’s some time away.
When I think of how it all started, my awe of eclipses did not happen in a classroom. By the time I got to understand what it really was, it got a hazier tint. And no geography teacher could have done what Tintin did!
It was in Prisoners of the Sun, that Tintin gets to Peru. When on track to be executed, he commands the Sun to disappear much to the bewilderment of the locals. Of course, the knowledge of the eclipse coming in was masterfully used.
Much later, I learnt that this technique was not something that is something that Tintin came up with!
With each additional story that I came to soak up, there came more interest in eclipses. The whole drill of wearing some fancy glass and peering into the Sun as it disappears and reappears was, and continues to be magical.
As kids, we were not allowed to watch eclipses! There were all kinds of reasons. And so, we ended up watching eclipses, half in protest!
“Hergé borrowed various elements from Gaston Leroux’s book Wife of the Sun, for the crucial eclipse scene, in the same way that La Fontaine borrowed from Aesop. He was equally inspired by the text from the book Christopher Columbus by C. Giardini, published by Dragaud, Paris, in 1970, in which the author describes how the Spanish succeeded in forcing the natives to submit completely thanks to a lunar eclipse which had been announced in a calendar.
It is also interesting to point out a mistake regarding the eclipse. In the book the eclipse moves from right to left, whereas in reality it should travel from left to right because Peru is in the southern hemisphere. This mistake was pointed out to Hergé by a child who wrote a long letter expressing his dissatisfaction.”
You could be the smartest of people in a room. All it takes is a child or a childlike curiosity to eclipse you.
It was evening. The still waters of Charlotte Lake were didn’t seem to care much about the Sun who was running away behind the hovering mountains.
Languid tourists with cameras, Kanda Bhajjis and sugar cane juice walked about trying to catch the sun for Instagram.
I walked away. After getting somewhere, I walked further to a place where I could be left alone with Charlotte lake. Almost as a reflex action, my hand cradled the phone and clicked a picture. It was when I examined what I had clicked, that I first saw him. In the frame. Sitting there and soaking up Charlotte Lake and its silence.
He sat there alone.
He did nothing. Just sat there. Motionless.
I put my phone away and watched him and Charlotte lake. He didn’t seem to care. I am not sure, if he even noticed. He sat still.
In a world filled with distraction, just sitting without doing anything is a rare sight. Here was someone who seemed to just do it! I put my phone away and immersed myself in watching him watch the still lake.
I don’t know how long we both did what we did. Suddenly, the mountains and fading light announced that the night was in. He didn’t seem to be bothered. But I had to get back. It was a bit of a trudge.
And as I walked back, I thought of him and his ability to just focus only to realise, I had done the same as well. I had put everything away, to focus on him.
“The fastest growing sector of the culture economy is distraction. Or call it scrolling or swiping or wasting time or whatever you want. But it’s not art or entertainment, just ceaseless activity.”
“I see those sad-eyed junkies, hooked to their devices, wherever I go. And even their facial expressions convey that haggard strungout look.”
“And it’s a bigger issue than just struggling artists or floundering media companies. The dopamine cartel is now aggravating our worst social problems—in education, in workplaces, and in private life.”
“If you thought the drug cartels were rich, wait till you see how much money the dopamine cartel is making.”
“Also, do yourself a favor. Unplug yourself from time to time, and start noticing the trees or your goofy pets. They actually look better in real life than in the headset.”
As I read and made some notes and quiet resolutions, my thoughts raced back to the man in Charlotte lake. He showed me that I too can sit and gaze without the need to aimlessly move my finger over a glass screen.
In the age of constant connectivity and endless stimuli, mastering the art of focus is more crucial than ever. “You can’t go distraction free, overnight”, I hear me tell myself. Embracing routines and reflecting on them is the route.
Dopamine addiction is for real. To free oneself from it requires friction. Blank spaces and routines can well be the friction I am in search of. The man at Charlotte lake taught me that.
It was an overcast summer day and the Matheran air announced HORSE POOP with nonchalance. The Toy train had just chugged to a stop and as I shuffled my feet on the red stone below and walked along, there were old uninhabited and derelict buildings. One of them had a marking out in red as well: ‘Abandoned’. It seemed like a shout out to the world. In clear bold red letters.
I paused for a minute to imagine the fanfare with which this structure must have sprung to life. Perhaps there was a ribbon to cut and cakes to distribute. Surely a plan and purpose? Of course, there must have been government approval. Taxes must have been paid. Papers must have moved from desk to desk.
Maybe there were meetings here. Decisions taken. New babies or old hands mourned. Gossip. Sniffles. Smiles. Life in all its ordinary elements, perhaps.
And yet, that building stands barren and broken today. With cobwebs keeping company to the peeling paint. I wonder which corner the dreams and purpose hid themselves in. Perhaps it didnt transfer from one generation to another. Lost in translation.
Or maybe it just ran out of steam in the maker’s mind. The idea had died but the building remained as proof that there lived this idea once upon a time.
For some good reason, somebody gave it that public certificate too and painted “ABANDONED” on it. Just in case, someone mistook it for a space that awaits its owner who has gone to Nerul to fetch some water. Bright red letters painted with care. It is not a random street sprawl. Someone took care to write that.
As I stood there, two horses, one named Tom and another, Jerry, passed me by along swishing their tails and dumping some poop. Those swishing tails knocked on the doors of my memory.
For some reason, many aspects that I started off with much hope and purpose before losing steam, streamed by.
Projects. Hobbies. Books. People. Resolves. Habits. Work projects. And much else. Many of them stood there without closure. Perhaps I should declare ones that I want to shut down and write them away like Google does. Abandoned and declared so.
And for other ones, that I still have some hope, perhaps I should dust the cobwebs, clear up the undergrowth and restart.
Restart.
One more time. Reading. Laughing. Friendships. Writing..
Ah! writing! I begin.
It was an overcast day and the Matheran air announced HORSE POOP with nonchalance. The Toy train had just chugged to a stop and as I shuffled my feet on the red stone below and walked along, there were old uninhabited and derelict buildings.
A Word Of The Year (WOTY) has served me useful purpose for a few years now. It has helped fix a North Star of sorts and constantly keep taking new bearing as the waves and tides of reality toss the small boat of life. WOTY 2024 got fixed sometime in early December 23. I had every intent to get it out on 31st Dec. That was not to be.
But here I am. With WOTY 24. A word that I am certain is necessary for every year that follows as well. And that word is ‘BELIEVE’.
I did dare to venture into areas where I have never done before. My eyes feasted on some amazing sights. There were incredible people who showed up along the way to help me along. And I dared to to keep going in what looked like a dark tunnel, looking for the proverbial light at the end of it. As I looked for light and ploughed on, guess who showed up? 2024!
And in more ways than one, I ventured into areas that were scary. I ended with some middling success, a few that fell far short of my target and in one case, with an one elaborate egg on my face. In all this, I am only glad that I started off and kept going. The scars remind me of my bounty of imperfection hemmed in with a silver lining of ‘dare’.
That silver is precious.
‘Believe’ as my WOTY 24
What the passing year has (not) offered and what the new year demands often blend into my word of the year. That’s how I have seen it work.
Dare has been extremely useful. This year has taught me that dare works best in tandem with belief. Bereft of belief, dare comes a cropper. A valiant one, perhaps. A foundation built on strong belief is essential for a full life!
To believe in ones own ideas. Trusting someone else that they too can come up with curve. Working with sense of possibility. Rowing hard with hope and prayer on a boat named abundance even when the sea is petulant. All of that is the stuff of ‘believe’.
No. It’s not blind belief. Or make believe. It is just belief that has been dipped in doses of reality, and coated with hard effort and courage that help take the next step, even when not knowing for sure, where that step will land.
Swami Vivekananda said, “The history of the world is written by the few who have faith in themselves”. I am writing my own history by living my life everyday. I seek to live it tall by choosing ‘Believe’ as my WOTY for 2024.
Travel is a pathway for growth and development. That’s why I say travel to grow. After years of conscious travel, I can say with emphasis that I have packed and unpacked disproportionately large self-awareness, new learnings and beliefs than I have of bags and suitcases. If there is one more thing that I can add with equal if not more emphasis, then it is this: Travel is hugely under rated as a catalyst for development.
My love for travel got accentuated after reading Pico Iyer’s famous ‘Why We Travel’ piece from March, 2000. It was comforting to realise that there was nothing wrong with me if I just didn’t want to go check places off a “must-see” list. For I was (and continue to be) slow in soaking up a place. In small conversations, observations and just hanging out!
There are four paragraphs from Pico Iyer’s post that have been my guideposts. They are here.
“We travel, initially, to lose ourselves; and we travel, next, to find ourselves. We travel to open our hearts and eyes and learn more about the world than our newspapers will accommodate. We travel to bring what little we can, in our ignorance and knowledge, to those parts of the globe whose riches are differently dispersed. And we travel, in essence, to become young fools again — to slow time down and get taken in, and fall in love once more.”
“Yet for me the first great joy of traveling is simply the luxury of leaving all my beliefs and certainties at home, and seeing everything I thought I knew in a different light, and from a crooked angle.”
“Thus travel spins us round in two ways at once: It shows us the sights and values and issues that we might ordinarily ignore; but it also, and more deeply, shows us all the parts of ourselves that might otherwise grow rusty. For in traveling to a truly foreign place, we inevitably travel to moods and states of mind and hidden inward passages that we’d otherwise seldom have cause to visit.”
Shorncliff Pier, Brisbane
“So travel, at heart, is just a quick way to keeping our minds mobile and awake. As Santayana, the heir to Emerson and Thoreau with whom I began, wrote, “There is wisdom in turning as often as possible from the familiar to the unfamiliar; it keeps the mind nimble; it kills prejudice, and it fosters humor.” Romantic poets inaugurated an era of travel because they were the great apostles of open eyes. Buddhist monks are often vagabonds, in part because they believe in wakefulness. And if travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end.“
Every time I have stood in the queue of a land where I clearly am ‘foreign’ irrespective of the passport I hold, I learn something new. Especially so, when am not peering into my phone or consumed by the desire to see more. Just being present to all thats happening around me and reflecting on the experiences and thoughts those experiences brought alive for me have been life-altering in many ways. Because, even if I dont immediately change or do something different, I am very present to the fact there is a different way.
When I get back to where I start from, I rarely find that some pronounced changes have taken place since the time I set out. But to my eyes that sprout new lenses because they have absorbed different places, everything seems different. My mind colours old realities with new beliefs, ideas and hopes. Giving new energy for action and reflection.
If that is not a pathway to development and change, I don’t know what is.
I have been fortunate with winning the teacher lottery. Every year, there is a jackpot of some sort. Perhaps it is a consequence of winning an early jackpot and then enjoying the spoils year after year. With copious fresh additions! Maybe, my teachers in early life have taught me tricks to hit jackpot every year.
A quick accosting of my memory bank surfaces multiple instances where what they taught me back then stays with me and guides me. And has added on to the memory of the day.
“Be the best you can be. And remember, there is ‘better’ beyond your ‘best’. Always.” A hand written note after a play said.
“Stay kind”, another teacher had said. “Help people”. In December 1992. When he spotted me really upset on a sepulchral day.
“Stay curious. You are dead without it”. Another said.
“If I catch you slacking, I am coming after you. No matter where you are”. Said the Biology teacher after I won a quiz competition.
Time after time, they saw in me what I didn’t see. They looked at a scruffy imperfect chap but always looked beyond the imperfections. They pointed me to an eternal spring of hope and promise. That keeps me going.
And one wise lady who pulled me at the end of the year, gave me a hug and said, “Stay thankful”. I want to tell her and all my other teachers from the past and present, that I try. Every year.
They don’t publish the good news. The good news is published by us. We have a special edition every moment, and we need you to read it. The good news is that you are alive, and the linden tree is still there, standing firm in the harsh winter. The good news is that you have wonderful eyes to touch the blue sky. The good news is that your child is there before you, and your arms are available: hugging is possible. They only print what is wrong. Look at each of our special editions. We always offer the things that are not wrong. We want you to benefit from them and help protect them. The dandelion is there by the sidewalk, smiling its wondrous smile, singing the song of eternity. Listen! You have ears that can hear it. Bow your head. Listen to it. Leave behind the world of sorrow and preoccupation and get free. The latest good news is that you can do it.
I sit a row away from the last and witness another ‘Sports Day’ at my young lady’s school. It’s been a while since I got to a Sports Day. Covid killed many memories before they became one. I have no doubts that events like a school’s sports day evaporating into a ‘could have been’ has been a very cruel cut.
Parents of different shape, size, colour sit there as the kids march by. I smile as I discover that for the kid, Sports Day is a shy wave and a quick dart of a signal at his loud hooting parent with a big camera and a loud whistle. A signal that seems to say “I see you. But I am doing my thing in the field. Please behave”. I watch all of it and smile.
For, the spirit of sports day is more than merely sport. To run. Cheer the other. Lose. Win. That is par for course. But most importantly, sports day is also about being a good sport! Not just playing one.
I am often reminded that this is a world where “It’s not about winning and losing” is a refrain that is accompanied by a pause and a quick question, “who won?”
My auto affiliation is with the outlier and my eyes are trained on the kid who is out of shape and out of sync. You can say that I ought to be out of my mind to think these kids have a chance too.
But, I really think so.
All kids run. Throwing everything they have at whatever that comes in the way. They fall. And then pick themselves up. They fall again. In some sort of a way, they remind me of a person I know. Myself.
There are other kids who play football. A tall kid scores a goal and screams whilst running around the field like Cristiano Renaldo. I look at the goalkeeper. He picks up the ball with disappointment and and rolls it forward. He then shouts to his team mates, “come on guys, we can do this”. I wish I had some of his spunk.
In some time kids in Grade three canter in with their Lezims. They bring home the point that Sports day is about synchrony. To understand that every move is music and harmony. And if you are out of step, you can hear it!
Sports day tests you best when things don’t go to plan. Like when your Lezim breaks and you are there in the middle of the field not knowing what to do. It is then that your grade three intelligence tells you to put your broken lezim down. And move your hands and legs to the tune of all those around you, as though you had a lezim in hand.
The relay races remind you that it is important to pass the baton on. And trust that the next runner will better you. To know that the baton has to be passed on, no matter which track you run on and how fast you have run is a good lesson to learn from Sports Day!
You are never done with sports. Sport is how you live. Shortly after sports day is done and we get home, the young lady turns around asks, “can we play?” Reminding me that a sense of play is necessary to live a good life.
By that logic, everyday better be a sports day! Which is a good lesson to have at the end of it all.
