Tuesday, 25 June 2013

A realistic list of things I wish to do before I turn 25 in a few months' time.

People simply love making lists. What they love more is to tie that list up with a life-non-event which somehow makes it more worthy. If you ask me, it’s got very little to do with the feeling of physically writing something and it acting as a motivating factor. If doing that has ever helped you cross off important things from your life, good for you, for you’re a better human and you need to shout that off the rooftops. All that making a list achieves is relieving some mental space. You’ve finally managed to remove all that glug and now that it’s on paper, it’s time to fill up that space with more unearthly aspirations. That said, there’s also this issue of ‘What next?’

Now that I’ve adequately contextualised my cynicism, I shall proceed to bore you with a list myself. This is, however, a list I will not fling into the trash can unless I finish crossing off each item. Before I come across as extremely ambitious, I only propose to do things that I can do within a week. So you see, I am actually buying myself some time and making sure it coincides with my birthday, as if that’s some grand event, but that deserves a whole rant some other time.

A realistic list of what I can and might end up doing before I turn 25 in three months’ time:

1. Resume playing badminton – There was a time when I was half-decent at it.

2. At least start that story I’ve been thinking about since who-knows-how-long – If not for the story, at least write. A lot more.

3. Watch one movie each week – Already doing it, but there simply has to be one thing that you’re sure of doing. Satisfaction and all that jazz.

4. Talk to her. Seriously, it’s getting well past pathetic now – Well.

5. Finish the damn kimchi story – One damp Sunday, a few 30-day-cycles ago, my boss watched some documentary on the making of kimchi on TLC and happened to read something on the increasing number of South Koreans in Chennai. Cue phone call on Monday.

6. Get the camera lens looked at – Damn thing won’t autofocus any more.

7. Do some couch-to-10k type thing – I know I can run a 10k at a moment’s notice. But something tells me having to work for it would somehow make it better.

Tuesday, 11 June 2013

And then what..

I've suddenly realised that this summer marks my third year of being back home. It only seems like yesterday when I was in class in Delhi, attempting to understand a classroom whose occupants would run about claiming to be right in a few months' time, with what I can only presume to be - in hindsight - goggles that closely resembled beer goggles. It also seems like it was yesterday when I was wearing my heart on my sleeve, running behind a girl in an attempt to garner her attention, only to be told that I didn't know what I was doing. Why, thank you, Miss.

Sometimes I am a sellout. I go on this diatribe about nostalgia being useless and how indulging in the past doesn't, in any conceivable manner, affect anything that should matter, other than may be make you pause and waste time, for whatever it's worth. I don't understand things. When I don't, I try to and when I don't, I am heartbroken.


What I am undergoing right now at work can be summarised by something someone said, I can't for the heck of it remember who. If you're good at three things, he/she said, it's the perfect scenario. If, for instance, you're good at sticking to a deadline, your work is good and your colleagues love interacting with you, that's the ideal scenario.

I am not, thankfully, a slave to that ideal. I am a pain to work with. My senior colleagues have all but gone down on their knees begging for me to discuss story ideas with them, but may be they've unleashed a monster (heh, it's good to flatter the self at times) by not appointing a colleague for me to work with.


I find myself, disturbingly, in the same situation that I was in this time last year, with regards to work and my plans for the future. When the plan was about to go haywire this time last year, I told myself I'd make some radical changes. May be having to live alone is a big change enough - or may be I've convinced myself of that.

Things change and shit happens and you're glad and you lose sight and you travel the circle like some blind fcuker with a misplaced sense of elevated confidence. You watch and attempt to understand work that is supposedly inspirational and life changing and it ends up having the same effect on you as the terms drag co-efficient and pitch and yaw would have on a three-year-old. You begin to think the wall you built to repel the advises of chatty folks had outlived its purpose. You might come to realise that there's little you can do and will do and you start blabbering in your head and you think it'll sound better on paper and start to write and your pen won't work but you have to put it down so you reach for a keyboard connected to a bright screen and you start typing and you realise the crap-factor of your thoughts hasn't changed in over years. That makes you happy.