It might be too late, but I'm finally done

I just couldn't bring myself around to write the last blog, so I finally wrote about this very same thing. How I want everything to be perfect but I procrastinate and I am aware of this. Although, it's just not the fact that I kept this blog-writing hanging for too long, it is also that I, most of the times could not find a perfect topic to write about, perfect according to me. 

As a little child, I hated crayons. I was proud of my fine motor skills and always coloured inside the lines, even if I took twice as long. I always had neat, legible handwriting, that might not be the case anymore. To my five year old self crayons symbolised everything that was wrong with the world. The colour was always coarse and lumpy, so it was impossible to colour perfectly inside the lines. Even worse they smelled like burning cardboard and broke too easily. 15 years later, I still have something of a keen obsession with perfection.

To me perfection is not just a state of mind and being a perfectionist has really never been my motive. Although, quite the opposite is ultimately what it looks like. Once, while I was giving a creative test sort of thing for my kindergarten “entrance”, I coloured the cats ears green, but neatly. Sometimes, I'll compel myself into thinking that every now and then some wild power will capture me and I might go berserk, trying to pretend not to care about things that really matter.  But there also times, times like these where the “perfectionist” within me seems to go into hibernation. 

I’ve always been rebel refusing to conform. I will refuse to study for a test. I will defiantly procrastinate and smirk at all the post-its in my room filled with assignments to be done. As a strange sort of torture, I sit and scowl indifferently at my work. This probably also the reason I haven't posted my blogs for a while. And just like a convincing Faustian myth, the devil within me always wins. Either way, everyone has high expects too much out of me. That's what I keep telling myself. If you don't do well, I think, you're disappointing everyone. But most important, I am disappointing myself. That is what has finally compelled me into writing most of these blogs as a chunk. Although, this isn't an excuse and I am aware there will be consequences. But it is the truth. No matter how many times I scheduled this blog-writing task for the last month, I just didn’t feel like it and ironically, this is exactly what I wanted to write about. 

And now reality hits me, full force.This rebel and procrastinator infused with a little bit of perfectionism is a drug I am now addicted to, and it's taken me over the edge. In trying to perfect what could never be perfect and then end up procrastinating. I waste hours that could be better spent and I have come to realise that, even though it might be too late. 

The Illusion of truth

Like any concept, the truth is a construct of intelligence, and it is a construct of men. But we do not have complete control over how it is constructed, because it is based on the input we gather from our surroundings, and produced using various methods and formulas. We'd like to believe our truth coincides with reality. But, in hindsight, it seems as though we hardly ever knew what we were talking about, which makes anything we believe now or in future, to be suspected. 

For a long time now, Akira Kurosawa’s film Rashomon has kept me thinking about whether or not the truth is out there. It is true that with every incident the truth is distorted, simply because it is filtered first by those who’ve experienced it and then by those who have heard about it. Rashomon (1950), is Kurosawa’s masterpiece which transports viewers to a unique dimension - challenging their thinking on screen, moralising not through any structured argument, nor in incomprehensible language, but with the help of tasteful storytelling, enthralling imagery and exquisite cinematography. 

A brief background about the movie will place my argument better.  A samurai – is killed in the middle of a forest, while his wife is apparently attacked by the attacker too.  There are a few witnesses who engaged with the couple before the incident took place and after. One by one, all those involved in this incident are brought before a jury. The woodcutter who saw the dead body of the Samurai talks of the horror that seized him when he stumbled upon the body. The priest claimed that he had seen the couple earlier and identified a suspect. Then the attacker, Tajomaru, is brought in. In his version of the story he tied up the Samurai, seduced his wife right in front of him, and afterwards killed the Samurai in a sword-fight, honourably.  It’s then the turn of the Samurai’s wife to give her testimony. In her story, she claims to have been raped by Tajomaru, who left without harming her husband. After she was raped, she untied her husband, but collapsed right after only to wake up and find her husband dead next to her, also claiming that he committed suicide.

More than any of these version the one which is quite compelling, is the version of the dead samurai himself. After Tajomaru sleeps with his wife, the attacker begs her to go away with him, which she falls for on the condition that he must kill her husband. But Tajomaru suddenly changes sides and supports her husband. Somehow the woman manages to escape and the bandit unties the samurai and leaves after which latter commits suicide. What we hear next is yet another version of the woodcutter’s. Even though he witnessed the entire incident he does not tell the court. He opens up after the trial is over. In this account after Tajomaru sleeps with the lady, he begs her to marry him. Unmoved, she frees her husband and challenges him to fight Tajomaru. The samurai engages Tajomaru in a sword-fight, in which he succumb his injuries. 

Kurosawa’s characters look at the same world, yet for moral or cognitive reasons their accounts of what they see are worlds in themselves, making it impossible to know what the truth of the world is like. The film’s ultimate message is that we are inherently unable to speak the truth. The ideology and philosophy behind the film and at the core of Kurosawa’s direction is clear. What if we can never really know and figure out what’s going on? What if every version we produce or are exposed to about the world around is a world unto itself and what if each person’s account is completely separated from other accounts of the same incident? The only conclusion that can be drawn here is that we will never know the truth or the true version of anything that we hear about unless we experience or witness it first hand.  

Truth is a concept that has exists independently. It all starts by having a look at the fundamental laws of logic and the first principles of reason. The notion of truth is a subject untouched in the world today as most people don't want to bother thinking too much even though most if not all of us hold on to absolute views and supposed ‘truths’. If we all hold to certain truths then what is the source of these truths? Does there even need to be a source of truth, an absolute truth by which you derive your conclusions from? Can we know what a crooked line looks like if we have never seen a straight line? Or is this where faith comes in? Do we need faith or something to keep us believing something to be true? Is truth something we cannot really know?

Welcome to adulthood

As I write this, I have a cup of black tea in my hands. It tastes has no sugar and tastes surreal. While growing up I never understood how people liked any sort of beverage without sugar. It doesn't taste so bad now. In fact, anything with too much sugar reeks of calories and that’s not something that I would want to reek off. Adulthood is not just turning 21, but so much more than just your age. It’s doing and loving things you never understood or could fathom in the first place, it’s things like coffee or tea without sugar, it’s travelling alone, it’s engaging in conversations about life and death. It's enjoying the little things in life. 

The first time I realised I was growing up was when my father picked me up on his shoulders went for a walk, put me down, and never picked me up again. The minute I became aware of this fact, I grew up. The second was turning 21, falling ill on the same day as my birthday. I sat in my room, alone and binge watched ‘Friends’ with a cup of hot soup - this was probably the best birthday ever. 

Although, I am still feeding on my parents money and can not even manage to earn one-fifth of what they send me. Basically, I’m broke most months of the year. I don’t even know if I classify as an adult anyway, but Universal Adult Franchise says so and I can vote a government to power and that I can get away with things with the argument “Ugh, let me be mom! I am an adult after all, I can take care of myself!”

The amusing fact that my conversations, or rather gossip with friends has rapidly transgressed  to the kind of discussions our families indulged in when they got together and all the kids were kicked into a separate room. This transition into adulthood has been disappointing on many occasions yet it has been rather thrilling. I don’t know what my future holds for me. I don’t know if I will even get placed into a decent, well-paying job or manage to make a mark in the industry. 

There are random thoughts that clutter my mind. Am I good enough? Will I be just another faceless human being that walked the earth or will the generations yet to come talk about me? Do I have the potential? Or am I an average person under the impression that I have the extraordinary ability to make a mark on the world? The fear is, maybe I don’t. The thrill is the possibility of having that infinite potential and that’s what I like about this phase of life we’re going through. We question ourselves and everything around us, we look for inspiration, we make friends that we hope will stay, we also make ‘friends’ who we think will get our work done. In the last leg of college my college life, I knew we were capable of completely ignoring the insecurities of our future, all we need are our earphones. Still, there’s a constant and growing struggle in our heads which we deal with it in our own way, as adults. 

We, as ambitious 21 year olds might not have the power or capabilities to change the world, but we believe we can, and that’s what all of us need to keep telling ourselves. The desire to bring about a change and the possibility, no matter how minute and statistically non existent, of being the change.

Step back into your cocoon

We human beings are social animals and are born to communicate. It is true that we cannot survive without interacting with others. As an extrovert, my social life has always been a priority because I've always associated being busy and surrounded by people with being happy. I'm sure others do too. 

Why do people like being surrounded by others all the time, is a question that I have begun to ask myself lately. What is it that draws people to each other? Why can't people be alone and enjoy their own company? This brings me to the main argument of this blog :  How many of us are comfortable being alone, with our own thoughts and imaginations? I'm guessing, not a lot of us. 

A few hours before writing this blog, we had a session wherein we spoke about the need of communicating. Many of my classmates came up with various arguments such as the sense of belonging or the need to feel accepted, the fear of missing out and feeling insecure about the things you've missed out on. This is true, but is it also possible that we might want to spend some time alone with our thoughts, just the two of us? I don't think many of us would be comfortable being alone for longer than a few minutes. Have we ever thought about it - we are literally never alone. Even if there is physically no one around us, we probably have at least two forms of technology around us that can connect us to the outside world in just about any form of virtual communication and we do not refrain from using them to keep up with our surroundings. 

Most of us have struggled with being alone. We thrive off the energy of others and that's our source of happiness. We always need others around us and this is one of the reasons we over-schedule ourselves  - to go out, work, meet people and interact. I have been living in a different city since 2014, initially the idea of spending weekends alone at home and not having enough friends would frustrate the hell out of me. Especially, when you're living in a city like Mumbai. I felt like lost, even though I was in a brand new place with brand new people. It was hard to be okay with letting things take time. I missed my people back home, but with time I managed to make a great set of friends, and Saturday nights didn't seem so bad anymore. 

This last move to Pune has been different, but not as weird as I'd expected it to be. I vowed to myself that I would take the right amount of time to establish myself. With that, I've been working on trying to understand why I've never been at peace with being alone, and I’m trying to figure it out. The only obvious conclusion I have come to is that my constant need for the company of others means I'm not comfortable within my own skin. I've never understood how someone could be happy as an introvert and how he or she actually enjoyed that much time alone, but now, I'm actually starting to enjoy it myself. This does not mean that I have stopped interacting with people. But once in a while, it’s nice to just sit with an empty mind, peacefully think about things and introspect without feeling bored. 

The one thing that being alone teaches us is to listen to our own thoughts and feelings, that sometimes get lost in the company of others. Soon, we also realise that we have become extremely dependent on our adeptness to talk to anyone at any time. By not taking time out for ourselves, we have been stopping ourselves from being confident on our own selves and in our own skin. There is no doubt that it is really hard to find and listen to your own voice when you are in the midst of others and their voice. 

There's something to be said about stepping into a cocoon for a little bit, even if it's just for an hour or two. Listening to your own mind helps so does finding peace in the silence. If you realise that you’re being forced to like yourself, at least try figuring out why you don’t. A little self-realisation never hurt anyone. It's hard to ignore yourself when you're the only person in the room and it’s high time we make peace with our own self in this era where technology has become our new best friend. Start to cherish your own company just to reconnect with yourself. 

The lost art of conversation

Chai and cigarettes (Sutta) is a match made in paradise. Have you at any point felt that occasionally two entirely irrelevant things now and again fall in imperfect but cooperative energy? Indeed, Chai and sutta are one of them. Obviously, these are unusually different things - Chai is probably the most beneficial drink out there, while cigarettes just harm your body. There is particularly no science behind this combination. They just happen to be made for each other. These are two of the most addictive things I know of (being a chai addict myself).

It is from here that the Bengali term adda has emerged and one that defies translation. Are you making conversation? No, that’s too formal. Adda is not made. It just is. To be true adda, it has to flow freely. I don’t know why we never say we are “doing” adda or “making” adda, we mostly “maro” adda. There's something easygoing and somewhat illicit about a genuine adda. It is a chance stolen for the sheer joy of sitting down and discussing anything and everything under the sun. To be a decent adda session it must not be intended to have any saving grace whatsoever. It is the long winding street to discovering the importance of life.

Being brought up in Calcutta, adda was inevitable. Usually, a huge group of people would gather around a dhaba or a tea stall, occupy all the wooden benches and just sit and talk without any count of the amount of chai they’ve had or cigarettes they’ve smoked. As I grew up, the concept adda changed along with the people who sat together for adda sessions. From fervent discussions about politics, economics and even other people it has turned to youngsters meeting at a dhaba or tea stall, sitting playing music on their phones, texting and using social media but there is no one to initiate any conversation. But that’s just us millennials, who prefer interacting virtually rather than in person.

I recall the working class men who used to gather around a tapri every morning. They would read the daily paper, adjusting their teacups, and articulate judgment on the world, the neighborhood football group, Communism and the legislative issues in the nearby Durga Puja board of trustees. The street dogs would stick around sitting tight for a layer of bread or half a biscuit. As kids we would string our way between these "uncles" as we went to school. The adda would part for us and afterward would resume behind us again consistently.

In Kolkata, adda is inescapable. Although every Tapri, dhaba and tea shop is still bustling and have jazzed up crowd pleasers like momos and biryani. The pavements have shrunk and there isn’t any place for people to walk because hawkers and chai wallahs have taken up most of it. All the adda baaz crowd has to sit on wobbly plastic chairs or dilapidated wooden stools on the edge of the street with their newspapers, balancing their teacups precariously. But it’s the last stand of the great public adda in every little neighbourhood in old Calcutta.

Change is inevitable. We hold the world in the palm of our hands now. The new medium for adda is the mobile phone. Our adda happens over social media. There’s no real conversation happening. Now as the spaces for adda are endangered and the time for it in short supply, there is a great sense of loss for it. But that’s the sentimentality that nostalgia breeds. Adda was not always regarded with such favour by our families. It was what kept us in canteens and cafeterias instead of going home. It was housemaids gossiping about scandals in the homes where they worked. And when the men of the neighbourhood gathered for the evening adda, our mothers and grandmothers sighed, for it was they who would have to make the endless cups of tea and snacks to fuel it. For some, adda was not just time-pass, it was time-waste.

The old adda is fading because that luxury of time is gone. But it still happens in the dive bars of the city, on the grounds of the Nandan film complex, around carrom boards in front of clubhouses, and sometimes even in the synthetic brightness of the chain coffee shop. What's more, if nothing else, it still imparts
the most significant lesson an adda can teach you – that you can argue, and argue eagerly, about everything, but meet up again the following day, and the day after that. In this time of awful trolling, that may very well be more significant than the importance of life itself.

Game of Thrones - Made in India?

It’s time we make peace with the fact that the entire cosmos surrounding GOT is actually ‘Made In India’

Let’s establish two things here :

i)                    I am huge Game of Thrones fan myself.

ii)                   This blog does not aim to hurt the sentiments of fellow GOT fans, it is just a mere comparison and a fun take on the series. 

When we all started watching Game of Thrones, we realised that such gore and explicit content could never be replicated in India and that nobody in the right mind would agree to produce a show like this. Even if they did, it would just be a sad rip off. So Game of Thrones became the show everyone binge watched and those who did not, let’s just say they don't matter.  For a minute or so let us forget and not think of all the nudity and gore in Game of Thrones. Almost every character in the series possess some traits that we might recognise as 'very Indian'. It is also possible to draw parallels between, not all but a few incidents in the series and Indian society. 

So, let’s start with the shaming nun. This character represents all the Indian aunties and uncles who have the ability to humiliate those Cersei’s already facing the terrible consequences of their decisions. The gossip mongers that they are – this is their dream! To be the first to yell “Shame” and strip any person of all their dignity for a fleeting moment of moral superiority. The only good thing about it is that they don’t make you parade the streets without your clothes. Although, every little rumour spreads like wildfire and every time you cross paths with them, the death stare is all that you’re greeted with.

Second, Indians are well known for pompous and very colourful weddings, literally and figuratively. Most weddings look like they’ve been borrowed from a fairytale, but that’s how we do it.  So does the West, with their Red Purple weddings in Game of Thrones. For those who haven’t watched the series, we’re not talking about the decoration or the colour palette of the theme. We’re talking about the result of mixing masculinity with alcohol, for those who cannot handle either of these. Clearly the people in the West and George RR Martin were unaware of the marriage ceremonies that take place in UP and Bihar where a wedding is considered incomplete unless half a dozen guests are wheeled into the ICU.

Third, and this character is the mainstay of the show. Ekta Kapoor inspired character, Jon Snow is the Mihir of Indian soaps. He is the only character who has convinced viewers of his flair for melodrama. Although, it doesn’t help that he keeps dying and then coming back to life, because after a point it’s just not plausible. But on the brighter side, the fact that he single handedly battles white walkers and innumerable characters including estranged family members and heroically overcomes all obstacles is every role Amitabh Bachchan has ever played in Bollywood. No matter how melodramatic it looks or sounds on screen,  we  still hope he will become King of the North. Although, Ekta Kapoor could give Martin some tips on bringing the dead back to life and making it look conceivable.

Daenerys Targaryen, breaker of chains, mother of dragons and everything else about her makes her the perfect example of the over-achiever. She’s like those kids in class, timid, soft and probably a broken teenager who goes on to become a ferocious queen, freeing the oppressed and planning to take over all the seven kingdoms. She can tame fire and emerged from her husband’s funeral pyre unscathed. She also happened to give birth to non-human creatures. Now, how is this related to the Indian scenario – There’s a love triangle. And one of them has been friend zoned. 

Finally, the underlying theme of the series might require blood and gore and sex to push the narrative forward but that's not all there is to it. The series is much more than what has been described on this blog. It reflects considerable storytelling that calls for extensive research into the medieval fantasy epic and one of the very series that actually keep you engaged. 

The Revenge of Ms. Cunningham

The year was 1803, the place was London.
The city was thriving, flourishing with the bustling of the newly launched railway line.

Here, in the heart of the city lived Miss Amber Cunningham, a young girl of twenty one, a well known, smart and accomplished debutant. Miss Cunningham was the daughter of of the Earl of Devonshire, Sir Richard Cunningham owner of the sizable Devonshire estate. Being of marriageable age, her father was eager for her to find an advantageous match. But little did her know, his daughter had lost her heart a long time back to the son of a neighboring estate. Sir Samuel Griffith, Baron of Bloomington. Amber and Samuel had plans to marry after this last season, combine their estates and live peacefully.

All was going well, Miss Amber had avoided the schemes of the Society Mama's and was waiting to go back home to inform her father of her inevitable courtship and then marriage to Sir Samuel. But three days before the season was going to end, came a person that sent all the Society Mama's into a frenzy. Sir Barthamelow Pittsbury, Duke of Hampstead and personal advisor to King George III. A distinguished gentleman, twice the age of Miss Amber. He created quite a stir by announcing he was finally ready for marriage.

Sir Barthamelow took a shine to Miss Amber and approached her father with an offer for marriage. Not one to resist such a profitable offer from a Duke, the Earl agreed readily. Notably, Miss Amber was not pleased with this decision. Knowing her father was not an agreeable man she thought it was bet to approach the Duke and be truthful to him about her feelings and engagement. Joyous, she went to Riverfield, home of her lover to inform him about the recent developments. Unfortunately, to her dismay he refused to grant her audience, claiming that she had already been promised to another man and he would never stoop so low as to meet with a claimed woman.

Heartbroken and deeply hurt by the incident she went back home only to be faced with the most shocking news of her life - her father in a fit of drunken bravado gambled away his estate, leaving them both penniless. Unable to bear the guilt, her father took his life and left Miss Amber to fend for herself. Miss Amber had no choice but to turn to the Lord and enter the nunnery. It was a few years later that she found the identity of the man who had taken her home away. It was Sir Barthamelow Pittsbury, the man because of whom her life had changed for the worse. Furious, she vowed revenge.

Knowing the Duke was a patron of the arts she snuck away from the nunnery and under the guise of 'Sherriford', a man, she joined a theatre group. Sherriford worked hard, gaining enough favors till 'he' went from stage hand to understudy and finally to being an actor. Forging the proprietor Brinsley's name she sent tickets to the private box on the opening night. The night could not come fast enough. It was the moment Miss Amber had been waiting for. The play was based around the workings of a circus. There were people walking on tightropes and tigers being tamed in cages. The people gasped and screamed, taking delight in the chaos on stage. Taking advantage of the chaos, Sherriford stole away a knife, slinked to the corner of the stage next to Sir Barthamelow's private box and screamed "My name is Amber Cunningham, you killed my father, stole my land and destroyed my life, prepare to die!" Taking aim she let the dagger fly, crying tears of triumph and she saw her dagger hit its mark.

The screams from the private box were masked by the screams of the crowd. But when the chaos died down people were horrified and no one knew where the young, bright actor had vanished. He had slipped away into the night, never to be heard from ever again.