Unanswered Questions

It was the last day of college. I was sitting in my convocation attire with my one hundred and twenty other batch mates. Listening to the speeches of the so called eminent guests had gotten boring one and a half years back. But that dullness had reached its zenith on that particular day. The countdown to the final moments of college life had reduced from the scale of days to hours to minutes over time. The students were desperate for the monologues to end, so that they could receive their degrees and share their last moments of celebration within the campus. It was written on their faces – each and every one of them. Yet, so challenged were the speakers in their understanding of non-verbal cues that they simply carried on their rants unfazed and undeterred.

As I was staring at the flex on the wall behind the podium, I used that time to reflect on my life over the past couple of years – especially the past few months. How tough it had been in the initial few months, how I had gradually gotten used to the hectic lifestyle, and how I had even begun to enjoy the chaos in my daily life. Six months back I had not even contemplated that this day would come, so caught up I was with trying to keep up with time in a race I knew was never going to win. But the day had finally come, and there was no way to wind the clock back. The best times in life were over, as a friend had put it, and only hardship and toil awaited on the other side of ‘today’.

The music of joy had grown to a crescendo over the past few weeks, and the hush that would come would follow suddenly, bringing about a deafening silence. The moments experienced would be gone, the laughter would fade away, and the tinges of apprehension about the unknown would make way to a profound sadness. I wished the sun would not rise the next day, that the night would stretch till eternity, that the moments would freeze in their places forever. Those wishes were intermingled with regrets that I had not lived these years to their fullest. My heart cried out as to why I had not done the things I had done in the past few weeks a bit earlier. And I was left with no answers but the drooping of my eyes and the fluttering of my heartbeat.

Why do we have to lose something in order to realize how much it meant to us? Why do we fail to appreciate something or someone we have, and take that something or someone for granted? Why do we assume that the person or thing will last forever and follow us till the end of days? Why is it that only when we are separated from it do we tend to look back on the mirror of the past, and realize how foolish we were to let it go?

Why is it that a soul's greatest cravings are born from separations? Why are the strongest longings preceded by goodbyes? And why are the most intense emotions those that arise from heart breaks? I will be pondering upon these questions forever...

Distorted Reflections

The digital clock on the bottom right corner of the laptop screen ticked to 11:30pm. There had been an announcement on the college notice board earlier that morning that the grades for the final paper of MBA would be declared that day. I had been staring at the screen for the past one hour, waiting for the mail which would reveal the final grades. I was both excited as well as afraid.

My grade point average over the past 6 terms and nearly half a ton of papers was hovering just below 6. And getting it to that number hadn't been easy. The first two terms in college had been tough and packed with extracurricular and placement activities, with little or no time for proper studies. After 2 terms, my average grade point was just over 5. And it was then that I had taken the decision to give it my all - to do whatever it takes to bring that to 6 by the end of the two years - a landmark relevant not just because of the wholesome figure, but also because many companies used to keep a cut off of a 6 grade point average for students in order to participate in their placement process. And I had done whatever it took - from pampering my professors, studying when all my friends were hanging out and partying, to cheating in exams over the next 4 terms.

And then I saw it. The mail for which it seemed I had been waiting for half a lifetime. My hand automatically shifted to the touchpad and my fingers instinctively clicked on the link. The next page that lay before me gave me joy which I had not felt in a long long time. I had done it! I had raised my grade point average from 5 to 6 in four terms! I was a hero! I danced around my room and congratulated myself over and over. I had achieved my life's dream! If someone had killed me at that moment, I would have died in peace, without regrets or remorse.

Today, when I look back on that day, I cannot help but laugh at myself for my actions. I was that dog which runs after cars barking behind it, but does not know what to do when the vehicle finally stops and the man steps out. The grade points had not really mattered during my placements in the end. I had been placed along with 11 of my batch mates in a Bank, and it is safe to assume that my grades had played absolutely no role in that. Till date, no one has ever asked me about my grades in college: not even a single person.

But still the grades had mattered then. It had given me a target during my MBA years. The figure of 6 had acted as a flickering light on a dark night, guiding the ship of my aspirations and pushing me to try that much harder. But sadly, somewhere down the line that determination had given birth to an obsession. That obsession for grades had made me miss out on many experiences I might otherwise have had in college. And that obsession today has finally given rise to feelings of amusement and guilt in my heart.

The past is like a funhouse mirror. When we look back on our memories, we see them as distorted. Memories often lack the intensity of the real experience. The reason is not because memories fade with time, but because our own attitudes and ways of thinking are often transformed over time. The emotions we feel from a certain stimulus tends to change as we grow older. Our reactions to the same event changes as time goes by. And so the resultant image of our feelings from a past experience or event is distorted - mixed with humour, shame and awe - ingredients arising from the difference in our inclinations and approaches with respect to time. As I write this down, smiling at my stupidity in running after grades in a past life, who knows how I might feel when I read this blog post 5 years from now? 

Of Happiness and Suffering

“The burden of happiness can only be relieved by the balm of suffering.” – Shantaram

The above line from one of my favourite novels got me thinking today. Throughout my life I have always been fascinated by the abstract and the intangible. The philosopher in me has always searched for the answers to questions concerning matters like love and hate, good and evil, life and death. The emotions set upon opposite polarities, it may seem, are nothing more than the two sides of the same coin – one not being able to exist without the other. The definitions of each adjective and each quality seem to be coupled to their corresponding qualities in the other extremity.

The golden question every single being in this world supposed to ask itself is – “what do I really want from life?” An assortment of clichéd answers like success, power, prestige, money, love etc. will emerge. But once one delves deeper into those answers, once the layers of lies and false notions are peeled from them, the ultimate truth will reveal itself like the morning sun shining bright amidst dark rain clouds. The one thing, one simple thing everyone wants in life is happiness. Everything else – wealth, travel, friendship, love – is just a vessel for happiness.

And yet, that same relic has eluded humanity since time in memorial. The pursuit of happiness has always been in vain. The sands of bliss have left the fists of people no matter how hard they have tried to clutch at it. Maybe happiness is not something that can be captured or possessed. Maybe it is something that comes to you. Or something that emerges within one’s own self. Or maybe, it can only be attained by virtue of its own opposite – suffering.

As I write this I am forced to rewind the clock back 5 and a half years. I was in Mumbai, the City of Dreams, staying with my friends at Marine Drive – arguably the poshest location of the city. I had moved in there three weeks back, shifting from a paying guest accommodation in a drab and unclean neighbourhood which I had taken up hurriedly when I had first arrived here. The furniture in my possession had increased from an old bed and a broken steel almirah to two sets of expensive royal cushion sofas, a multi-tiered wooden cupboard, a bed with one foot thick spring mattress, kitchen accessories, a refrigerator, and two wall mounted LCD TVs. My daily office commute had reduced from an hour long struggle of walks, standing in jam-packed trains and two hundred meter long bus queues to a mere ten minute bus ride along the coast between the gates of our house and offices. And last but not the least, my mood had changed from excited to dejected.

Why was I not happy in spite of all this? I asked myself this question while returning from office one day. I sat on the brocade separating the sidewalk from the Indian Ocean and pondered. And it was the sea that provided me with the answers.

Before moving in to the new house, I had gone to Bhubaneswar for a week. Once there, the memories of my XIMB days, which had been suppressed due to the daily struggles of Mumbai, had come rushing back. I was reunited with many of my close buddies who were also visiting Odisha at that time. We had roamed around the campus for many hours, nostalgia gripping me as the waves of my thoughts drifted down the shore of memory lanes. I wanted to stay back there, to escape from the blaring horns and glaring lights of the Mumbai life. On my return flight, I went as far as wishing that the plane would crash, and death would save me from the clutches of India’s biggest city. But that was not meant to be. I was told to die another day.

I spent the next weeks thinking about the 2 years of college life, weaving my dreams of smoke and dust. I wanted to relive those days – the days of joy and recklessness. I didn’t care where I was – as long as that place wasn’t XIMB. It made me oblivious to the comforts surrounding me. My diet receded and I suffered from anaemia. That reinforced my hatred of the city and I tried desperately to cling onto the past.

As I sat before the sea that evening, the truth of life dawned upon me. I realized that everything in this world is relative – good and bad, light and darkness, happiness and suffering. Nothing exists as an absolute. Interpretations vary with situations and perceptions. I was suffering inside because I was comparing my current state with my college days, when I should have been contrasting it with the previous 4 months in Mumbai. The happiness of the XIMB days had become a burden on me, and the balm of suffering inflicted by the local train rides and soggy nights in the days before were the only way to heal myself. It was then that I decided to let go of my past, and live for the moment. It was from that day that I started appreciating the glamour and splendour of Mumbai.

Today I think about the days in Mumbai with a smile on my lips and a twinkle in my eyes. And yet I am faced with a dread. I fear that someday, those days themselves will become a burden. When that day indeed comes, where will I look for the balm?

The Underdog

Underdog

/ˈʌndədɒɡ/

Noun

A competitor thought to have little chance of winning a fight or contest.

When I was preparing for job interviews during my college days, we were given a few example questions that are usually asked by the panel and were required to prepare answers in advance. There were lots of my fellow batch mates who did not seem to posses the necessary communication skills in order to deliver proper responses. The placement trainers did not have the time nor interest to develop those required skills in them. So they took the easy way out. They asked us to mug up those sample answers so that we could promptly state a reply without any hesitation or fumbling when the appropriate query was presented before us. And so we did.

One of the many questions whose answer we had to prepare in advance was ‘describe yourself in one word’. I had prepared some fancy response like ‘patient’ or ‘resilient’ – don’t remember which. I wish I had been as mature at that time as I am now. If only I could have garnered my subsequent experiences at that point of time. If I am asked the same question today… you might have already guessed what my answer would be.

Yes – Underdog. That would be the perfect word to define me, my character. The definition has already been mentioned in the beginning of this write-up. Only in my case, the opponent is the world; the contest – life.

I don’t exactly recall when I was labeled thus. It seemed to have started very early in my childhood. I was born nine years after my elder brother, and did I have big shoes to fill! My brother seemed to be the perfect role model for any kid. He was smart, an out and out extrovert. He excelled at sports, topped exams with very little or no study. He had been awarded the prize of best all rounder in his school. He was gifted with the charm, the charisma. He made friends wherever he went, won hearts of whoever he talked to. I was exactly the opposite. A skulking kid, afraid to go to school, breaking into tears the moment anyone raised his or her voice at me. I decimated people’s expectations. I was a termed as a disappointment compared to my elder sibling. And that is how the underdog was born.

To make up for my social skills, or lack of them, I did with utmost dedication what children in today’s world are taught to do – I studied. I filled out pages and pages on my notebooks, committed each and every historical event to memory, solved every possible mathematical problem there was to solve. I topped my class with ease. But initial impressions made on people are not easy to erase. I was termed as intelligent, but not smart. I had the dedication, but not the presence of mind. And so the underdog persevered.

When I was preparing for my 12^th exams studying at home, the sons and daughters of my parent’s friends were attending coaching classes, going to multiple tuitions for the same subjects. My parents lost all hope on me. I was destined to lose even before I could start the fight. I responded by finishing amongst the top 400 students from my state in the engineering entrance examinations from over 2 lakh candidates. That is when people started raising eyebrows. I had gotten society’s attention.

I had the option to join a good college in my hometown and live in my parent’s house during the course of my graduation days. But I needed to see the world outside the gates of my home. I chose to join a college in the state capital of Bhubaneswar. I had to stay away from home for the first time in my life. I had to say goodbyes to my friends who chose to study in my hometown.

That was one of the toughest times in my life. The hostel environment was chaotic to say the least. I was surrounded by over smart know-it-alls who hardly ever missed a chance to demean the other guy. Ragging sessions were conducted by guys from the senior batches – fear and humiliation were at abundance. I had never been so overwhelmed in my life. This was no place for a homely individual like me. I dragged myself through the lectures, waiting to get back to the hostel to take a shower – for that was the only place where I could get a bit of privacy; I only place I could cry my heart out. I asked myself why I chose this college, this city! I contemplated going back home on more than one occasion. But I could not; I dare not. The challenge was like none other I had faced before. The underdog had to endure.

I somehow made it through the first year. By then I had made a few close friends and we decided to take an individual house on lease near our college. We left the hostel for good. Life improved dramatically. I felt at ease amidst my friends. Two more years passed by, until it was time for placements.

A mock interview session was being organized in our college by some HR professionals with the aim of preparing us for the real deal. I went to the interview, oozing with confidence. But fate played its part – for better or worse and my name ended up at the bottom of the interview schedule. I waited outside the interview room for I don’t know how long, and by the time my turn came to walk inside, I had spent all my energy in waiting. The interview was a disaster.

I was shaking like frenzy, forgot all my prepared answers and ended up mumbling gibberish to most of the questions. Once the interview was over, the interviewer tried to encourage me by pointing out whatever strong point she had noted, which were of course, very few. But her eyes had betrayed her. They were screaming out the words “isse naa ho paayega” (this guy is beyond all hope). I went over the entire episode on the way back to my room. It hurt a lot. That was the last and only interview I flunked.

In the month that followed, my sole focus was to build up my confidence and communication skills. I even took to conversing entirely in English with my friends on a daily basis. Some of us organized mock interviews amongst ourselves and helped each other out. By the time the first company came for placements, I was ready. I cracked the interview on the first chance. As those of us who had gotten offers hugged each other and danced at 3am in the night, I thought I had silenced all my critics.

Over the next few days, I no longer saw sympathy or discontent in people’s eyes. I could even see a touch of respect in some. But there was still a long wait to go. I had gotten a job offer from arguably the most sought after IT firm in the country; but so did one hundred and thirty other students of my batch. Software engineers were being produced as if from a factory’s manufacturing unit. I could not settle for this. I had to set myself apart from others.

With a job already in hand and not many papers to take in the final year, I decided to try my luck at pursuing an MBA. I started my preparations just 3 months before the CAT exam, while others around me had done so almost a year earlier. I was criticized by random people for wasting my last days in college studying when others were out partying. Even if I made it through to some Business School, I was told it was not worth it to spend two year’s worth of fees, time and lost salary for a fancy degree. Four months later, I had been selected to join XIMB, one of only three people from our batch. That was when several people realized an individual such as me ever existed in their batch.

Finally, graduation was over, and I readied myself for XIMB. My new college was no cakewalk. Having done little extra-curricular activity during graduation, I was desperate to prove a point. I joined as many committees as I was allowed to, and tried to involve myself in everything that I saw useful.

My horrors started two months into the first trimester, when the placements for summer internships began. I had no prior work experience, and nothing much to show in my resume apart from good grades during graduation. I ended up getting rejected during resume screening for each and every company. I begged for a chance at an interview. A typical day for me went like this – getting up at 8am, attending classes till 5, attending pre-placement talks and waiting for resume screening results till 9pm, having dinner and doing committee work till 4-5am in the morning, then going to sleep, only to wake up after two hours. The nightmares from my initial days of graduation resurfaced. I thought about dropping out. I was the underdog yet again.

Finally after two months of torture, I got the internship – but not before 90% of my batch mates had already done so. The committee work lessened dramatically post the college’s annual fest. Life was back to normalcy. The rest one and half years at XIMB were probably the best years till that date.

But fate, as it would have it, took another turn. I landed up on a job at a place I had dreaded the most – Mumbai. My inhibitions about the City of Dreams had begun when I had visited the place with my parents during graduation. Overwhelming like no other, the city had the power to crush the amateur and the weak-willed visitor. And I was to live there on my own – on a meager salary of Rs.30000 per month. People saw through me into the fears haunting me. I wasn’t capable of surviving in that place.

Getting pushed down from a crowded local train on my first day in the city did nothing to lessen my fears. The best accommodation, I was told by an agent, was to share a room the size of a typical kitchen with two other persons for Rs.8000 per month. I was helped out by my father and we settled on a single room as a paying guest for Rs.10000. Eager to pay off my student loan, I took to paying off about Rs.15000 as EMIs, leaving me a with an amount as big as Rs.5000 for my monthly expenses.

Over the next few weeks, many other friends of mine joined their respective firms in the city, and I was fortunate enough to move into a luxurious apartment at one of the most posh locations in Mumbai with three of my friends. The next nine months were a breeze – until circumstances made us leave the house. I was back on the road, searching for a place to stay. Back to square one. I had no other option but to share an ordinary apartment with a friend’s friend. But that was the least of my problems.

I was the only employee aged less than 40 in my team. My work was as mundane as it could get. There was no scope of utilizing the things I had learnt during my MBA in the company. My employment was contractual and I could not have carried on the way I was forever. I was already one year into the job, and no other firms had even given my resume a second glance. I started having nightmares that I would be stuck in this place forever. But one thing I had learnt thus far was to be resilient. I kept at it, and got an offer from a reputed IT firm in Pune. I left Mumbai for good.

Just when everything was sunny, a piece of news struck me as a bolt from the blue. I was to get married. I was anything but ready to take up such a responsibility. I sought sufficient time to prepare myself from my parents. All I got in response was a date of marriage eight months down the road. When I broke the news to my friends that I was to get married at the age of 25, it was met with shock and mockery. Word got around that I was committing a criminal offence for doing ‘bal-vivah’ (child marriage). People did not refrain from instilling my brain with horror stories of marriages gone bad. But she was beautiful, seemed understanding and caring. I agreed to marry her, not knowing fully the responsibilities that marriage entails.

What I did know was that I will have to get into a lifelong commitment, manage a household and leave my reckless bachelorhood behind permanently. The transition wasn’t easy. It took me a lot of time to get adjusted to the new life. I had frequent fights with my wife over issues as trivial as a little overcooked rice. And I was to blame for many of them. For a moment I thought my friends were right, and I was not ready for marriage. But I could not jeopardize so many lives over selfish thoughts. The underdog endured once more, and it paid dividends; for I subsequently realized that there were few women that could understand me better than her.

Now, life has thrown another challenge at me – the challenge of fatherhood. The realization that I am to be a father at 29 years old hasn’t been easy. I have again faced disdain at the hands of others for the possibility of not becoming a good parent at such an early age. My capabilities have again been questioned.

The odds are stacked against me once more. I have to prove myself one more time. But from what I have faced thus far in life, I know I will win the fight. The reason the underdog wins is not because of luck. It is because of his resilience, and the overconfidence of the opponent. I will do what I have done right so far, and wait. For when the dust is settled, all the critics and the judges will be the ones sinking in the mire, reaching out with their arms , begging for someone to drag them out, and the underdog will be standing there, with a smirk across his face, having the last laugh.

Where Reality meets Illusion

There I was, lying on the mattress, listening to music ranging from English pop to Indian classical, admiring the tunes, eyes closed. Each note was bringing about a different emotion in me. With each rhythm a different picture was laid before my eyes. Images were dancing around inside my head, in tandem with the words that were flowing into my ears. What a wonderful feeling, I had thought. But that was just the silence before the storm - that one deep breath before the plunge.

The poison consumed the hour before had begun to take effect. Slowly but surely, my mind was being invaded. As the images grew in numbers, they became more and more indistinct. Thoughts came one after the other, slowly at first, but then quicker and quicker. A thousand visions seemed to run before my eyes at the same time. A million thoughts tried to make their way into my head, each fighting for the limited space available inside my skull. They came so fast, that it became impossible to hold onto one feeling for any fraction of time. I was thinking about my computer for a moment, only for the image to be shattered into a million sparkling pieces, juxtaposing themselves against the dark void around them to become stars in the night sky the very next instant. I was a mighty emperor commanding a vast army, but then again I was a small child, afraid of the monster in the closet. The thoughts became a blur, and I was thrown into oblivion.

I closed my eyes, trying to put myself to sleep. But how could the mind relax when it is being bombarded with a plethora of emotions? I seemed to be dreaming and conscious at the same time. My heart was racing, trying to keep up with my thoughts. Every physical action seemed to require the utmost attention and dedication from me. Every movement seemed to drain the last drop of strength left in me. I remember being asked to go to the kitchen to have some lemon water which would have helped with the intoxication. But as I tried to stand up and failed miserably, I felt a kind of helplessness never ever experience before.

My only constant in this world of chaos was the clock mounted on the wall beside my bed. I watched its hands move slowly forward, struggling to rotate like a rower trying to row upstream. With thoughts moving in and out of my mind at lightning speed, time seemed to slow down. Every minute seemed like eternity. Every time I reopened my eyes, I expected the night to end, to see the floor bathed in sunlight. But my hopes were always in vain, for the damned clock would have moved forward only by a minuscule amount.

My tired brain finally managed some respite in the wee hours of the morning. I had to contend with intense dehydration the next day, and I managed to lose about 750 grams in one night. It was almost twenty hours before I could fully recover from the ordeal. It took another’s night’s sleep for my ability to concentrate to come back to normal.

When I try to remember the things that happened that night, I am faced with a void where the answers should have been – almost as if someone had erased parts of a passage from a blackboard, and I am trying to make sense of it. I vaguely remember walking around the house, not knowing whether it was real or an illusion, neither being able to confirm nor deny my memories. Whether what happened, happened for better or worse is not for me to decide. But I am sure of two things – I am never letting myself be poisoned again, and I am never going to forget Holi’s eve of 2015.

Emotional Flip-Flops

Have you ever had extreme feelings about a person? Have you ever felt intense anger and loathing for someone only for the rage to transform into compassion and kindness the very next moment? How can the heart do such frequent flip flops? It is basic human emotion or just some exceptional scenario I personally experienced in a one off case?

The person in contention here is my driving instructor at Maruti Driving School. He would be around 35 to 40 years of age, average in height and build. A loudmouth and rough talking guy, he symbolizes the average lower strata individual of the society. He mentors well - strict when it comes to his role as the teacher, but friendly when he is the acquaintance. When I started my lessons with him, he told me that there would be 10 classes over the course of which he would be going from the very basics to somewhat advanced tricks in driving. Knowing that parking and reversing were the most difficult aspects of driving, I asked him when he was planning to teach me that. To this, he replied in his usual brusque way that I needed to learn to drive forward first, and then think about going back. He said those two exercises could be learnt only after I had become proficient in handling the clutches and brakes and hence would be covering those towards the end.

And so the classes went. He criticized me when I was reckless, complimented me when I was steady. At the end of the fourth class he told me that I had picked up the basics very well and from then on it was just a matter of practicing. I asked him whether it was time for me to learn the two most prized skills, to which he replied affirmatively. I was happy that I was just one step away from becoming a complete driver.

But it all went downhill from the next class onwards. I had expected him to teach me reversing and parking that day, so I was surprised when he asked me to drive on the same highway in the same manner that I had been doing for the past four sessions. His idea was that I should have a bit more practice. I was disappointed, but also willing to achieve perfection in what I was doing. But then he said something I had not expected him to. He asked me if I had a personal vehicle so that he could conduct some personalized classes with me. I realized instantly that he was planning to squeeze out a few extra bucks from me over and above what I was already paying for the course fee. Not in the mood to spend a single penny more, I immediately refused. I made it clear that I didn’t have a car and might not buy one before the next month.

I wished he would not broach that subject again. But in the very next class, he mentioned about a female student of his who had taken some private classes. The woman had gone through the ten lessons with him, thinking that she had learnt everything about driving. Then she had faced many problems and had even managed to violently scratch the side of side of her brand new car on a pillar while parking. As per the instructor, she had then called him up in tears, requesting him for some additional lessons. I knew he wanted to frighten me into agreeing to have the extra sessions with him. But I was resilient. I listened to his story intently, but neither commented nor showed any signs of interest.

And so the classes went – fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth – everyday the same routine, the same road, the same exercise. I was always in a hurry to reach office after the classes so never got the chance to discuss in detail what the plans for the subsequent classes were. Then, in the night before the ninth class, I recapped everything that he had taught me thus far. After going over my thoughts several times, I came to the conclusion that this person was not going to teach me any additional things unless I took the extra sessions with him. I was outraged. I realized that the person whom I was addressing as ‘Sir’ for the past couple of weeks was just a thug. I wished him all the ill will I could possibly think of. I went to sleep that night, deciding that if he was not going to teach me parking and reversing the next day, I would escalate the matter to the higher authorities in the company.

And then, it finally happened. The instructor announced from his side that he would be teaching me about parking and reversing that day. He told me the tricks, made me practice the moves several times. I was not just satisfied, but also relieved that I would not have to take the steps I had contemplated the night before.

On our way back, while chatting, he suddenly asked me whether I could do a favour for him. He said he was having classes during the daytime, but after 4:30 in the afternoon he was free. He was having financial issues so wanted to take up some part time work in the evenings to make ends meet. His demeanour had changed from bossy to almost pleading.  He asked me if there was anyone in my contact who wanted a part time driver in the evenings. He told me that he used to work as a part time driver for some rich guy – but the person had moved out of the city recently.

The word ‘driver’ struck me as a cold bullet. It suddenly dawned upon me that this person, whom I had initially respected as a teacher, then deplored as a cheat, was in the end, just.... a mere driver – a low income individual who takes orders from people like me, who gets bossed around, who gets paid to do chores for someone like me.

At that moment, all my hatred melted away, and gave way to sympathy. I understood that if this individual was taking private classes, he was doing so to feed his family. He was not compromising on his duties as an instructor of the driving school in any way. Moreover, he was willing to work during whatever free time he was getting to earn that extra money for his wife and kids. My respect for the person returned, this time, not for the teacher, but for the human being in him.

I have decided to help him out, do whatever is within my means to provide him with the work he needs.  I don’t know why my perception of the person has changed so suddenly. Is it because I am weak at heart; because I am easily emotionally blackmailed? Or is it because I want to make amends for the ill will I had wished upon him the night before? I am not sure. But one thing I am sure of is that this change in my thoughts has been for the better. I now feel that I can achieve something in life just by helping out a person I barely know. I have finally understood why the great sages and gurus say there is no greater happiness than that which is derived from helping out people in need.

A random post about love...

23.04.2010

Love sucks. I mean... what do you really get out of loving someone? What good comes out of being in a relationship? Sharing each other's feelings? Giving support to your partner at the time of need? Give me a break! All those are just stupid excuses for what is the biggest joke in life. I agree, love gives you a few moments of happiness. But then, it gives you a lot more than happiness - anxiety, frustration, tension... and the occasional bit of violence as well. Love makes you dream. Makes you expect something from life. Something that is often unrealistic and impossible to get. And more often or not, those expectations are razed to the ground due to one reason or the other. And when that happens, the above mentioned by-products of happiness come into full effect.

Here's how a typical love story goes: Boy meets girl. They chat, get to know each other. A little spark is born in their hearts. They talk to each other more and more. A time comes when they feel they can't live without each other. They feel they were always meant to be together. Then.... things start to change. Little faults of one another begin to get noticed. They realize that whom they had imagined to be the greatest person on the planet turned out to be just another average human being, with his / her share of problems and weaknesses. That phase is the true test of their characters. If they pass, it's all well and good. But if they fail, then it's back to square one.

So, it would be best if you don't fall in love at all. There are better ways for a boy and a girl to be with each other. Here's how it should go - You meet a girl. She makes it clear that she doesn't  want to make a commitment. She is just lonely, eager for some company. You decide to give her that company. You make your intentions clear - there would be no love stuff, no long term commitments. You tell her that you both would pretend to be going out for whatever time you are together. And at the end of it, all you take back are the wonderful memories you shared together. Memories not to be tarnished by time.The perfect memories. There would be no expectations. No dreams. No promises made. No responsibilities. No worries for the future. The girl accepts. You chat, gossip for hours and hours. You go to amusement parks, have the best dinners in the classiest restaurants. You enjoy every moment you share together - take every moment as it comes. You wish that those moments would last forever.

But then after a couple of months, you suddenly realize that time's up. The day of your parting has come upon you. But you don't want it to end. You just want those days to go on and on. You have forgotten the fact that you two were never meant tobe together. You have forgotten the ground rules. She bids you farewell, turns around, and leaves. You stand there, looking at her. Counting her footsteps as she leaves. You are happy for the great times you shared together. Happy for the wonderful memories. But deep down inside you know that you're never going to be with her again. She is going away forever. Never to come back. Those moments are never to come back. And that makes you sad. You understand the only flaw in that kind of relationship - that the one memory of her going away is meant to shatter all the good memories of before. You stand there for hours, hoping that she just might return, even if it is for an instant. For you would die to get one more look at her. But she doesn't come back. She is gone.

Metalhead

metalhead

mɛt(ə)lhɛd/

noun

informal

A fan or performer of heavy metal music

There is a fair chance this word won’t be found in any of the prominent dictionaries. It is something which is known as an ‘Urban Expression’, meaning it is a jargon used by geeks to refer to a specific class of individuals. Metalheads may be from different genders, races, ages and regions of world; but are bound together by one commonality – their love for metal music.

When I utter the term ‘Metal’ in front of people not familiar with various genres of music, more often than not a question similar to this one is posed - “but how can you listen to iron?” I have to explain to them that the music has been so named because it is ‘hard’ or ‘strong’ in nature – a fundamental characteristic of most metallic substances. The reaction to this music is always extreme – either people love it, or they despise it. In Western countries, metal is seen as the music of the low-class society; the rich and sophisticated preferring a classier form of music. In India, it is adopted only by the higher-strata individuals; the majority population treating it as a curse of the white people. Like the music itself, the reaction to the music is always strong.

I got the chance to experience Western music at a very early age, courtesy my brother, an avid English pop music fan. My days used to start with Michael Jackson’s ‘Bad’ and end listening to Madonna’s ‘Papa Don’t Preach’. Michael Jackson and Madonna may be as far away from metal as a desert from rainfall, but they, directly or indirectly, were the catalysts that drove me to eventually discover the magic of metal music.

Pop wasn’t the only kind of music I had heard before I discovered metal. There was Indipop - symbolized in those days by Shweta Shetty and Alisha; Ghazals – pioneered by the likes of Jagjit Singh, Ghulam Ali and Pankaj Udhas; Daler Mehandi’s Punjabi Bhrangra, Nadeem-Shravan’s classic melodies and many more. Be it Blues or Jazz, Dance or Trance, Classical or Techno, I had the privilege to witness all types of music. I have to be honest and admit I liked most if not all of them, but as good as their music was it did not bring out that special feeling in me. They did not produce that high for the listener in me. It was then that I came across Rock.

Rock music was different from everything else that I had heard till that point in time. It brought about a freshness and novelty which amplified my hunger for good music. I instantly became a fan of Bryan Adams, Bon Jovi, Aerosmith and Roxette. Electric guitars were as much a treat to my ears as a loaf of bread is to the famished. And yet, I wasn’t satiated. The void in my soul remained unfulfilled. Rock seemed to be the thing that I almost wanted, but didn’t. Now as I look back, Rock, and each of the other genres of music appear to be a step in the ladder that elevated me higher and higher to ultimately discover the music that I love.

It happened shortly after I joined college. My brother had come to visit our home and had brought along some music CDs from his friends. Knowing him for his good taste in music, I was curious to find if there was anything I would like from his collection. One day, as I was searching through the albums, I came across a cover with a picture of a chair on a blue background, with the name of the artist printed at the top with a ghostly glow. I decided to give it a try. We didn’t use to have a CD player at that time, so I opened up the computer, and played one of the eight songs that were there in the album.

It is not easy to describe the sensations I felt then; but if I could use one word to express that emotion, it would be fear. Only when I learnt about the history of metal and the significance of terms such as tri-tone, chord of evil and dark music at a later point in time was I able to appreciate exactly why I experienced dread that day.

When the first song ended, I had to catch my breath for a little while before I could fully comprehend what had happened. The music was so unique to me, the experience so unusual. After I had settled down a bit, I listened to a different song from the same album – the music this time was similar, but a lot more sinister. My heart was pounding by the time the song ended; I knew I could not take any more that day. I ejected the disc, noting the name of the artist and the two songs – ‘Metallica’, ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ and ‘Creeping Death’ in that order.

I made steady progress in my endeavors of listening to more metal in the next few days. I played the other songs in the album, then other albums, then albums of other bands. I streamed songs on the internet, read about the bands, researched more and more into the music. For the next year or so, I would listen only to metal and nothing else. I locked up my older audio cassettes, set the volume to mute whenever a Bollywood song came on television. Not a day went by when I didn’t bang my head to Lars Ulrich’s drums, not a moment passed without Kirk Hammett’s solos travelling across my mind. I was so immersed in the music, that I suffixed my new mail id with the name of Metallica’s lead vocalist. I did not need alcohol or drugs to get high. My music was always there for me. Whenever I felt down, I relied on metal to pull me through. It took listening to only a couple of Metallica’s songs to fill me with energy and enthusiasm. Metal was my dope. It was my cocaine.

I discovered different sub genres within metal starting with the conventional Heavy Metal of Iron Maiden, coming to Children of Bodom’s Power Metal, Cradle of Filth’s Black Metal, Slayer’s Thrash Metal; each one’s melody unique, yet connected by the ringing of electric guitars and percussions, head banging and devil horns. I learnt to play the guitar in XIMB just so that I could play my favorite riffs. I bought an electric guitar instead of an acoustic one, just because I wanted the heavier distorted sound. While the beginners were practicing the tune of ‘Tujhe Dekha Toh Yeh Jaana Sanam’, I was playing ‘Fade to Black’. When they were learning to play ‘Jadoo Teri Nazar’, I was jamming with ‘Fear of the Dark’. I had transformed into a Metalhead. I was destined to become one.

But not everything has been rosy in this journey. In addition to providing me with an abundance of soul-stirring experiences, metal has also presented me with my fair share of problems: the greatest being not able to position myself clearly in society with respect to the music.

It may seem strange, but in spite of there being thousands of Metalheads around the world I haven’t been able to find too many people that I could really connect with in the aspects of this kind of music. Those unfamiliar with the music have been quick to dismiss it as garbage. Hailing from a small town, almost all my school and college my friends had grown up listening to only one type of music - Bollywood. Their tastes had become so bland, their visions so narrow, that any music apart from the usual Sonu Nigam or Sunidhi Chauhan had seemed blasphemous to them. Realizing the fact that I was listening to this kind of noise and seeing that I was not on the verge of insanity were two major contradictory elements for them. At that time, a promising Pakistani band named ‘Call’ was rising up the ranks and a couple of their songs were being played on Indian television. While watching the video on television together, one of the guys said something on the lines of “Why is this on television? Who the hell listens to this shit?” This surpassed the threshold of my patience. I was quick to reply “A frog that hasn’t seen the sea doesn’t believe that anything bigger than its well exists in the world. Just because you don’t like it doesn’t’ mean that no one in the world does.” I had secured victory in a small battle. But the biggest of wars lay ahead.

This is just one end in the spectrum of people I have had to contend with, and these are the ones that have been easier to handle. On the other extreme lie a people of a different variety – the know-it-alls. These are those individuals that know very little of what metal is, and yet act like they are the greatest metal fans alive on the planet. I have seen many a guy call another person a rock star and address them with ‘Yo Yo’ (which is actually a phrase chanted in Rap music, not Rock). Then there are those who would upload pictures of them holding guitars on Facebook; their postures evidently suggesting they are touching the instruments for the first time in their lives.

Lastly, there are the archetypal Metalheads – long haired, drunk, sweaty, pumped up males that characterize what metal is all about – vigor, passion and aggression. I had the privilege to witness a whole army of such fanatics at the Metallica concert in Bangalore a few years back.  These were people drunk, an aura of cigarette smoke surrounding them, shouting obscenities at the top of their voices. There used to be a time when I considered them my role models. But times have changed.

I have understood that one need not smoke and be on drugs to be a Metalhead. Being a Metalhead is not about long hairs and tattoos. It is about passion. It is about enjoying the music. It is about believing you can make millions of people dance to a note on your guitar. It is about being strong. It is about showcasing to the world that you are strong and will not back down whatever life may throw at you. That is what metal does for me. That is why I continue to drown in the music even today. That is why I still dream of shredding solos on stage whenever I see a band performing live.