That little faggot got his own jet airplane That little faggot, he’s a millionaire

I was in a bit of a funk today. My brain was playing its eternal what-am-I-doing-with-my-life monologue and I decided to settle it once and for all. So I went online and took a bunch of BuzzFeed quizzes to chart my own career path. Turns out I’m born to be a surgeon. Or a chef. Or a restaurant owner. Okay, close enough.

Armed with that expert knowledge, I tried to work out if I could indeed be somebody in this lifetime. When I was in school I had a clear vision about what I wanted to be — an award- winning journalist. I had to first tackle engineering though because that’s a rite of passage as far as my family is concerned. My grades were stellar all through school but in college I slipped majorly. I was a flunkie student with arrears the first two years.

I wanted to drop out of college, work at a cafe and moonlight as a writer/journalist. I’d dread going back home because I received a slap on my face from my dad when he came to know I’d flunked an exam. My mother cried inconsolably. And it was all too much to take. I’d lock myself up in my room and play November Rain and Winds Of Change on loop while being an emotional wreck. Thank god for music.

I managed to pick myself up eventually and even featured in the top 4 in my department in my final year, got a job that I was sure I’d hate but it was nice to have one. I lasted five months in the job (including the two months of training) and I was miserable. I just couldn’t get a hang of programming no matter how hard I tried. It went way over my head. It wasn’t what I was trained to do and I had no intention of becoming a civil engineer ( which is what I studied in college).

But I made it to ACJ – I’d wanted to study there ever since I heard about it in school and in the midst of my catastrophic GMAT scores and a possible MBA seat at Anna University, this came as a big big relief. I was working at a great publication in Madras and all was good but I felt trapped. Invisible. Saturated. And that seems to be the theme of my life all along.

The reason why I’ve narrated my oh-so-colourful (not) life history is because I don’t have the vision I had as a 15-year-old. I don’t see myself doing anything exciting. Yet I look around me and see women, men, new moms, old people do sensational work: I know of so many people who’ve followed their dream and started their own venture, whether it’s a home-baking business or a dream library. I don’t want to be an employee at a big firm and slave for hours together for a measly paycheque. But I do want to create something of value and make some money and have a career in the process. I’m just not sure what it is and I don’t seem to have the clarity and the vision at the moment.

But I have time. I’m much more relaxed now that I’ve weaned my little baby and put her in daycare for a few hours on weekdays. Which creates additional pressure to be productive, to do something and monetise it because now I have a block of time for myself. Sure I read, watch my favourite shows, drink coffee, walk, talk to friends and sort out the home but I must do more.

I’ve been a big disappointment to my folks, both professionally and personally. And my overachieving family with its NRI CEO cousins and highly influential uncles and aunts clearly looks down upon me for choosing this life. For giving up my job. For being an average journalist without credentials. Of course, success is subjective and it’s what you make of it personally yet I can’t tell if my idea of success is my own or if it’s something that has been drilled down into my head by family. It’s hard to tell them apart at this stage.

But my quest to do something worthwhile continues. For now, let me slurp my Maggi noodles and binge watch Gilmore Girls until D is back home.

Title flicked from Money For Nothing by Dire Straits

Secret lives, self-help jargon and honesty

I’m about to inflict another unrelated, incoherent list without as much as a warning. Take this.

1.) I inhabit a parallel universe for the most part of the day. In said universe, I’m the protagonist, I always say the funniest things and I have doting friends and family. In this version of The Secret Life Of Walter Mitty, I may not swoosh down from the air and rescue people from calamities and disasters, but I kind of make their day with my charming presence and wit. I heal broken hearts with sinful brownies that I whip up in my cozy chic kitchen. And brighten up weary souls with stellar home cooked meals as I regale them with interesting stories, great conversations and soul-stirring music. Sometimes, when the stars are aligned, my secret life and real life merge like a dream and even as I revel in it, I know it’s short-lived, temporary as all things in life, and life itself. I flit between these universes and I think they feed off each other in a strange way. This is not just useless distraction, as I see it; to me, this is insightful, it is a means of self-improvement, and it’s also a kind of mental rehearsal. But most importantly, the person in that secret universe is who I aspire to be. Living in it gives me hope, strength and makes me feel like I’m closer to becoming that person, that this is all possible. And that, my friends, is enough. A life ripe with possibilities.

2.) I sometimes come up with really cool, interesting thoughts or a great joke, but I don’t say it right away if it’s a private conversation with just one person. I feel like that thought deserves to be shared with a larger audience who’ll appreciate it better. (Bring on the applause and the standing ovation.) So I hold it and wait endlessly for said opportunity to present itself. It’s not like I’m going to address a Ted Talk, but hey, you’ll never know, right? Why do I do this? Because I want people to know that it’s mine. The thought, the words, it’s all me. I wouldn’t want someone stealing it and taking credit for it. I’m vain, like that.

3.) I’m all for self improvement but I cannot stand people who speak like they’ve ingested every cheesy self-help book in the world. I have friends who speak in self-help jargon (read gibberish) of aligning their past self with their present and extension of identity beyond societal norms and for the life of me I don’t get it. Whatever happened to simple, honest talk? The more I hear friends spout such BS, the less I’m inclined to spend time with them, or most of all, trust them. Drop that mask, honey. I can see right through you.

4.) That brings me to honesty, the number one trait I look for in people these days. I’m not in college anymore, so I know that you can’t build everlasting bonds based solely on taste in music, books, movies, food, TV shows and fashion. I just want to meet real people with whom I can be more of myself. I don’t want to be impressed so stop trying to seem cooler than you are. I want to know who you really are. Your deepest fears, your imperfections, your flaws, your dreams, your genuine ideas, thoughts, feelings. I want to be able to share my world without judgement and scorn. And without the need to pretend or be restrained by political correctness. I want to be lost in conversation on things close to my heart and I want to rest assured that the other person has my back always. It’s the kind of community I want to build, where people care for each other and make time for each other, no matter what. And don’t dish out unsolicited parenting advice.

Am I a good writer?

I’d been obsessing over an article for days. It was for an international in flight magazine. I wrote the piece, re-read it a million times, and was pleased with it. I thought it was a well written article with authentic information and strong sources.

Today I received a mail from the editors with a bunch of corrections they wanted me to carry out on said article. My heart sank. My pride was hurt. I went back to the original piece and when I read it this time, it seemed average. I felt rusty. My writing felt redundant. Sentences and ideas seemed templated. The article seemed flat and laboured.

I dug into my inbox and fished out some of my older articles. Pieces I’d written for The Times Of India, Hindustan Times, Discover India… some of the pieces had me grinning with pride, while some, not so much. I read some encouraging feedback that had come in from readers, from people I’d interviewed, from editors… and felt good for a fleeting moment.

I couldn’t help noticing though that my older work is in fact a lot better than the writing I’ve been doing over the last couple of years. And it made me wonder if experience really makes you a better writer. Or does it have to do with the passion with which you get involved in the work? Or the nature of the assignment itself? Or is it the lack of stimulation that an office environment provides? Or is it because I’m not as invested in work as I once was? Or the fact that I was in a darker place then and as is commonly believed, all good art comes from a dark place?

Too many questions. The answers elude me. As I sat at my desk reluctantly making those corrections, I felt like an imposter who’d been caught in the act. My time was up. The mask had fallen. I was just an average person peddling substandard articles that no one really cared much for. I can’t even trust my own judgment when it comes to my work. When I feel like I’ve done justice, I’m asked to change things around, rework certain parts of the article, and given instructions on how paragraphs and sentences need to be shorter. And a complete paragraph – which I still think is central to the story – is carelessly hacked to death.

While I do understand that guidelines need to be adhered to, and that you need to write for your audience, it kills the joy of having written what you think is a good article. You start doubting your skills and your sense of judgment. And from thereon, it’s a slippery slope down the rabbit hole — I could feel myself sinking, my confidence and self esteem had taken a beating and I was just at a loss as to what really constitutes a good piece of writing. Is my lede really strong? Does the concluding paragraph pack a punch? Does the article flow coherently? I couldn’t tell.

Thankfully I was spared more such paranoia because it was D’s bedtime and I had to stay calm to handle it with some grace. It’s amazing though how babies can help you gain perspective. Just a moment ago I was thrashing myself for being a complete failure, but as I lay cuddling D on the bed and planted a kiss on her forehead while she slept, I knew instantly that at this moment, this is all that matters. This moment is special. Everything I’d ever done so far have led to this. At every instant, you are the sum total of all that you’ve endured in life up to that point. Suddenly work seemed trivial, easily dispensable. But not this moment. This moment is everything. It demands that I be fully present. And it’s the least I can do.

Entertain me

I’m perhaps one of 100 odd adults in the world that hasn’t watched a single episode of Game Of Thrones. I haven’t read or watched a Harry Potter or Lord Of The Rings book or movie. Trust me, I’m not smug about it. I honestly never felt the urge to pick up the book or watch the film. And I doubt if I ever will. It’s so far removed from the kind of entertainment I prefer and to an extent, I have serious commitment issues with these franchises that seem to go on and on with no end in sight.

It’s one of the reasons why I simply can’t watch a TV series , for instance, that runs to ten seasons. It’s anxiety-inducing and once I start, I fear that I’ll never be able to follow it through to its logical end. It is a big commitment and I’m so not ready to take it on. On the other hand, I like sitcoms because you can pick any random episode, have a good laugh and move on. Case in point: The Office. It’s not all-consuming. It makes no lofty demands. Each episode is a stand-alone situation with its own mini plot so there’s no compulsion to watch all seasons and no nervous anticipation or twists. It’s absolutely liberating. The only TV show I binge watched was How I Met Your Mother; I was going through a rough patch in my personal life and sought solace in this mindless show, which I now realise is full of misogyny and rife with objectification of women.

That said, I do enjoy a few shows that I recently watched on Netflix and Amazon Prime. The Marvellous Mrs Maisel is the best show I’ve ever watched in my 33 years of existence. That’s a tall claim and I stand by it. The first two seasons were released in instalments on Amazon and I devoured them; can’t wait for season 3. I like that there’s a waiting time, and that the seasons are not thrust on your face all at once. That would be too overwhelming. The other series I really enjoyed was The Kominsky Method on Netflix. Such impeccable writing. I watched this one in batches too, and I’m through with season 1. I’m hoping the show puts out more seasons. And oh, I remember now that I did binge watch another show – Master Of None by Aziz Ansari. I was plonked on the couch all afternoon watching all episodes of the season back to back, and I’d watch it again. I love that show.

I find it easier to watch movies on online streaming platforms rather than committing to a series. That way, I spend less time on my device – of course, I don’t ever get to watch a movie in its entirety. I catch an hour of it when D sleeps, and then continue watching it the next day around her nap time. So it typically takes me a couple of days or more to complete the movie.

Watching shows and movies on my phone is strictly a nap time activity. I only do this when D is sleeping and it’s only during her day nap. I either read a book or if I’m done with the book and I find something I want to watch online, I stream a show or movie. The rest of the time I’m either working or playing with D, taking care of her or pottering about at home. At night I turn off wifi around D’s bed time and once I get through the Herculean task of putting her to sleep, I retire to bed too.

I’m trying not to use gadgets and screens when I’m with D during the time she’s awake. My mom has already been handing over her phone to D around meal time, much to my chagrin. Besides, my parents spend more time staring, swiping their screens and watching videos on Whatsapp than I’ve ever done! I do not want D to be exposed to all of this and I’m making an effort to stay away from my phone and be present in the moment. In fact, being present in the moment is my goal, and in the coming days, I’m going to take baby steps towards attaining it.

Belated gratitude

gratitude: readiness to show appreciation for and to return kindness

Don’t we all aspire to be grateful? Maybe we’ve even dabbled in keeping a gratitude journal, diligently noting down five things we’re thankful for every day. Or every other day. Okay, once a week. Realistically, once a month. And then forgetting its existence for a long time only to fish it out one particularly rough day hoping it would soothe your violent heart. But no. Instead it seems forced. Your gratitude journal is one big fat lie. On one seemingly uneventful day you’d written ” I’m grateful for a quiet evening spent reading a book and sipping coffee”. But you’d spent said evening sulking at home and wishing you could go meet a friend.

Maybe you truly are grateful… but only on retrospect. The full force of it hit me now as I lay next to a sleeping D on the bed. I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude and moved to tears thanking the powers that be for the gift of this little squishy in our lives, for her enthu-cutlet-ness, her relentless curiosity, her sense of wonder, her overall cuteness and the boundless joy and love she brings.

Cut to a few minutes ago, though, I was a mess. I lost my cool while dealing with bedtime; I’ve never seen anyone fight sleep as much as my baby does. She was tossing and jumping about on bed, kicking me and biting while I was trying to keep calm and nurse her. And then something within me snapped and I literally yelled at D telling her she’s troubling me way too much and if she doesn’t sleep, I’ll go nuts. And I meant it. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to call my mom to help me settle D to bed, and while she slept peacefully in my mother’s arms, I broke down into tears.

I remembered just how grateful I really am for D, for my family, and felt guilty about what had just happened. I shouldn’t have yelled. She’s a baby. But at that moment, when I was battling bedtime with a fidgety baby, I was honestly not feeling grateful at all. When my mom came upstairs to help me, I wasn’t particularly thankful either. Why is this gratitude thing always an afterthought? Why is it so hard to remember to feel grateful when you are bang in the middle of that moment, no matter how happy, sad or overwhelming ? Is it just me or does anyone else have a problem with acknowledging the moment you’re in, being fully present and reacting in a way that does not make you cringe with guilt later on?

I used to jot down things I’m thankful for, as an exercise. And I noticed that it simply seemed too forced at times, especially on days when nothing significant really happened. Arbid entries like “grateful to be alive” or “thankful for a nice meal” evoke zero feelings of genuine gratitude. It’s also confusing because I don’t know whom I should be directing my gratitude to for staying alive, for instance. The Beegees? (Worst joke) Plus, there were entries that seemed to suggest I was grateful but I really wasn’t; definitely not when I was in that predicament. “Grateful for the long wait at metro station and conversations with a stranger”. That’s a lie. So not grateful at all because who likes to wait endlessly for the train after a long day at work? In retrospect though, it just seemed like something you ought to have been thankful for. It’s very tricky, this gratitude thingy; even when it’s real, it seems fake. And when you ought to be genuinely thankful for something, it’s always too late, it’s always on hindsight. If only we knew we are grateful when we are in the thick of the moment! If only we were more mindful and consistent, there’d be no need for things like gratitude journals on bedside tables. Or therapy.