Morning

The older you get, the fewer your comforts become. Drinking into the night and binge watching TV no longer helps you forget a bad day or to practise ceasefire from a domestic fight. The sharp edge of survival propels you inward, and you end up deriving sanity from small, harmless acts.

Right now that is your morning cuppa. Usually it is coffee, and it makes you feel grounded, the rising plume of steam from the cup creating a whitespace that calms. On other days it highlights the choppy waters that your uncontrollable life has become, prompting you to prolong that pause just a little longer. You also recently rediscovered the beauty of froth. Being hemmed in by the few minutes to yourself before the rest of the house - man, child, dog and the cringe worthy doorbell - awakens and trudges around demanding things, you are hyper focussed on that mug. With your brew in it. In the morning. It’s 6am and the night sky is wrestling with the day, slowly losing its midnight black colour to a conciliatory chalk grey. Standing against your spotless kitchen counter gleaming black you watch, head bent into your plain white ceramic cup, mesmerised. The placid surface of water the colour of dirty mud comes alive to the thin stream of hot milk that descends on it, creating tiny, perfectly circular bubbles, just one or two at first, moving this way and that, then more and many more, banding together to create a layer, layers of anticipation, all the while turning the concoction into a rich, fulsome brown. The brown of thick tree barks, with their age old wisdom, branches dancing to the breeze and sheer solidity. The brown of a milk chocolate bar, never mind that it actually has more sugar than chocolate. The deep brown of the labrador across the street, its tail wagging and perpetually wet tongue dripping saliva over your exposed toes as you rub him on his neck. 

Your fingers are cold and stiff from clutching the thick handle of the milk jar, a larger version of the cup in clear pyrex glass. They wrap around your mug, and the warmth seeps in immediately. You lift it and straighten up, the weight of your toil pleasurably heavy in your hands. As cup meets lip, the froth tickles, bubbles bursting into frivolity. So carefully created, so easily burst. A few more careful sips, this time your tongue feeling more confident, and the warmth spreads down your chest in a careful line of heat, gently pooling in your stomach. You flex your  chilled toes, wishing that they could get some coffee too. The smell of coffee is everywhere in the kitchen now, it’s hugging you and you lean in, wanting more, needing more. It is no longer small, or harmless. It’s a good morning and it’s almost everything that you will do for the rest of the day. 

It wasn’t always this way. Mornings used to be unrelenting, the cunning light cutting through the drawn curtains to prick your blissfully closed eyelids, forcing them open. Or your mother’s voice, booming like a drumbeat in a closed room, bouncing off the walls in her house and slithering under your door, “Wake up, you’ll be late for school!” They used to be cruel during the years you stumbled out of your room in a tiny flat in the city, eyes half shut, stubbing your toe on the raised edge of the toilet (we did it to keep the overflowing drain from ruining the house, you know, the landlady had explained practically) on your way to brush your teeth. Then rushing out thirty minutes after, late for the train and later for work. 

Now they are in hand, the mornings. Not because of your age, or because it’s a particular day of the week, or the fact that you consider five hours of sleep a luxury. But because, as the house wallows in chaos and the sun peeks through the clouds, you have a rite that creates it just the way you like it.

Letter 2: Diary Entry no 7802 (approximately)

Me time. Nice and proper. I got it today. Because I am lucky. I could go to Rajani early, and S was asleep by 730pm, after some extra screaming because she was tired. Today was a breeze. There will be other days that will be gales, hurricanes, tsunamis, or earthquakes. And I am going to quake on those days. The house will be a mess on those days, and so will I. I want to tell the Future Me that it’s ok to come unstuck and plop on the floor once in a while. If I want to work; if I want to do more than what I am doing now, it is always going to be a stretch. And I can only get through it if I go easy on myself, and on others around me. Life will happen like it did through May and June, and it is going to continue to happen. Initially I thought that getting back to work will be easier when S is older, but now I feel that there is no guarantee for the future. Or, in a very Interstellar-esque way, what I do today will define my tomorrow. If S is happy and healthy, and A and I are able to make something more out of living in the same house, then there is already a lot to be thankful for. 

The Unconcern of Adam

I am presently engaged in a jigsaw puzzle of the famous painting by Michelangelo in the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, known as the "Creation of Adam". This painting is one of many that adorn this historical monument so it is hard for a first time visitor plus average tourist to absorb anything more than the sheer scale of the endeavour that is the ceiling. I got lucky - the free Android app that I had downloaded when I had visited Italy in June 2014 had skipped tourist places to visit in Rome, but had a beautifully detailed audio account of this very magnum opus. So I had spent 45 quiet minutes inside the Chapel with my neck craned upwards and my mind in awe. Wanting to take back a souvenir, I splurged on a 540-piece jigsaw puzzle for 11 Euros. 

My first attempt to put it together after I got back was abandoned almost as soon as it had begun, what with life's sundry pressures taking its toll. Two weeks ago I pulled the box out, craving an outlet for my wayward thoughts. So it was that three-odd years on, the exquisite form of this painting took a slow but steady shape on one corner of the bed. Four days later I was surprised to find myself more involved in this project than ever, contrary to my usual waning of interest in any new project that I undertake. Yesterday I googled the painting. Among other things, two points surprised me: that Michelangelo was a deeply religious man, and that one of the messages encased in the “Creation of Adam” was God’s ultimate power in the creation of man. Maybe it is my interpretation of the painting, but all I could see in the scattered pieces was not awe, but a nonchalance underlined by a satirical smile - driven solely by man’s incredible sense of self importance. 

Let me explain why. 

The key part of this work is Adam, the first man created by God, getting life through a touch of His finger. 

One of the interpretations I read described Adam as lifeless; being incapable of energy and therefore lying in a heap on Earth, weak. While God was surrounded by a halo and a bevy of angels, floating in the air. He is depicted in energetic (and of course, beatific) movement, stretching his fair, muscled and hairless arm towards Adam all the way from Heaven, as if to offer help.  

I did not see helplessness in Adam's glorious, naked form. In his lazy, lounge-like posture, I saw entitlement instead. And in the way he stretched his finger out at God, an irreverent carelessness. Almost like as if he was saying, “You owe me this, already. After all, isn’t this why You made me?” 

It is true that we do not ask to be given life. We are born because of someone else. But once we are, it is our responsibility to ourselves to make this life count. Ever since I convinced myself that I had a choice on how to live my life and went about doing precisely that, I have noticed with greater and greater frequency, how many others share Adam’s sense of entitlement. It could be adult children expecting their parents to support them financially even after they are capable to being on their own, or employees expecting a certain treatment by their organisations. But most of all, I see this helplessness manifested the strongest in times of crises. Beyond the “Why me?” is a feeling of hopelessness that they are “destined” to suffer, followed by an envy of others who are not sharing a similar fate at the same time. Why they do not ask “Why me?” when something good happens is apparently a moot point. 

Beyond the fleeting moment when we enter this world, we are on our own. To expect anything more from fate, destiny, our families or friends is misguided. After all, if God wanted to control everyone’s life, why create a living, breathing, thinking human form? Might as well have created amoebae that are scarcely aware of themselves, let alone the purpose of their lives. 

Seneca echoes this thought far more eloquently, when he asks: 

But how can a man learn, in the struggle against his vices, an amount that is enough, if the time which he gives to learning is only the amount left over from his vices?

None of us goes deep below the surface. We skim the top only, and we regard the smattering of time spent in the search for wisdom as enough and to spare for a busy man.

I think where and how we start out is no indication of where we end up. It does not mean that we disregard our origins; it means that irrespective of how we came into this world and began living, we should aim to become wiser and happier. In a life with limited time, energy and resources, we, and we alone must make the decision on where, and how to spend them. 

Annus Mirabilis

Tomorrow marks one year of being on my own, and I decided that it warranted a blogpost, irrespective of whether I had anything specific to say. Before that, first things first: I have definitely improved my skills in the naming of blogposts (check this out and the current one - fist pump!)

Figuratively speaking, I closed my only door before looking for a window to open, 365 days ago. I just knew that I needed a change from my full time job but it took me two weeks of roller coaster like thinking, an excel sheet and a sleepless weekend to decide to freelance rather than get another full time job. 

My ex employer was the initial light for this untrodden path, offering me a 2-day-a-week consulting assignment even before I could articulate what I wanted. A much needed jab of reality for me, in hindsight. I struggled with the other 3 days at home, getting 5 days of work done in 2 and admitted to myself that I sorely missed the social environment that a workplace provides above everything else. 

I moved from binging on movies, to binging on sleep, to a higher frequency of workout at the gym. I met people, made project proposals for said prospectives, swished them off by email and then bit my nails to dust when no reply was forthcoming. I weaved huge dreams, visioning and then visioning my life 5 years from now, when I would be making more money than I have ever done, while having enough time for all my hobbies and my family. A juxtaposed utopia that seemed within my grasp. 

The hot winds of an early summer in late February brought with it a stony silence on the work front, something I was ill prepared for. I knew from watching my father (who was also an independent consultant) that Q4 was traditionally a quiet time. Plus, ups and downs of this nature are part of being independent. I wish I could say that I reasoned myself into a smile; that I took the silence, moulded it into a ball of clay and tucked it away in my pocket. 

When prospective clients popped out of their walls to message and email me again as April dawned, I could scarcely believe it. So much so that I undervalued myself a couple of times. I lived to learn from it. To date, I have worked on 4 projects with 3 different clients, and none of them have been anything like the other. I enjoyed the fast learning curve, and learned more about negotiation, people management and dynamics at the workplace from these projects than my 7 years of work put together. Ah, and the icing on the cake: regular expenses included, I have made money. Just don't ask how much yet, because I am only focussing on the colour of that number for now.

When speaking to friends, family, or prospective clients, I marvelled at my ideas - new, yet workable. I admired my new found adaptability and chided myself every time I grimaced at a change. I created monthly / weekly / daily schedules, didn't follow them and still got work done. Most of all, I learned to like myself a little more, and be more forgiving. I deserved a chance and this was life giving me just that. 

It seems like only yesterday when I signed up for this, because I didn't want to do anything else. Through ups, downs and everything else in between, it has been far, far more than I expected. 

Thanks to friends sounding so wistful about my new life that I wondered if I was cribbing too much, and to family for making me take things one day at a time. I am a reformed long term micro planner and proud to declare it. 

Thank you to the world at large, for not being the crazy place filled with evil intentions that I had thought it to be. 

Thanks to me, for just sticking on, day after day, month after month, watching time go by and appreciating the view from that window, always. 

It has been a truly wonderful year. 

Conform or Perish

The road to a job change, or for that matter any change, is a thorny one. It's no wonder then that we have all, with such alacrity, stuck our butts to our plush office chairs with Fevibond (the ultimate adhesive!)

The day I quit my full time, obscenely high paying job felt liberating. For exactly 3 days. Then 30 days of a free floating feeling with the soft cushion of the ocean on my back and the sun on my face followed. As the first month drew to a close, I filled the next 15 days with the purposeful vigour of determining the path that would catapult me to overnight superstardom (because that is my destiny, duh). I am now in my last 10 days of my job and feeling like the ground I am standing on is rapidly depleting. 

I don't think I am fated to be famous; I am snowboarding towards the abyss of a cracker that showed tremendous potential, only to fizzle out. The least I can do is to take a detour so that I can atleast pay the bills that pile up every month. 

My reasons to become independent were not because I had an idea that I was passionate about, or because I wanted to change the world, one person at at time. I admit it. I just got tired. Of people telling me what to do, over and over and over again. Of stupidity that got paid to be more stupid. Of obsequiousness and pandering and oily palms. I didn't think it through. I just thought enough to realise that I was unhappy in the present. The amount that got credited to my account every month was supposed to make me feel better, but it didn't. So I opted out. 

Not wanting to limit the options in my future, I pressed every button that would get me a call. Any call. Only to realise that I was not ready to do anything than talk to myself. My first interview went somewhat like this:

Interviewer: Nivedita, I think you are obscuring the contribution that you have really made to your team. Don't worry, I am not going to get confused if you get into details. So what I would really like to hear is how you solved this particular problem, using a framework. You see, I love frameworks and it would be great if you could use this approach to explain your work to me. 

Me: (Grinding teeth and punching my stuffed toy's face) Sure. Can I take 2 minutes to compose my answer, please? 

The worst thing a criminal can do is to create more criminals. That's why today's prisons are not exactly the epitomes of rehabilitation. Needless to say, I did not make it to the next round. Frameworks are for dudheads who don't know anything about action but know everything about talking. My personal opinion, but hey, I am entitled to one, right? Oh, right. Am not!

My second call was with a recruiter, who, after calling me at 9.30pm on a Thursday night, proceeded to apologise for "calling late" in the most insincere tone I have ever heard. He asks me if I have "2 minutes" and when I affirm he asks me, "Can you tell me more about what you do currently?" 

Now, both him and I know that this is not a 2 minute question. So I decide not to oblige, because "I want to put my best foot forward", and well, I am just not ready to interview on the fly. He insists. I insist right back. I finally request him to call me the next morning. It's been a week. 

The reason we are all the way we are is a complex network of incidents, experiences, influences and a whole lot of other things that scientists and thinkers today are all still trying to decode. What we have done, with this absolutely unique, precious and highly evolved science is to dumb it down to conformation. A rigid set of rules. 

A + B + C = Smart

D + E + F = Stupid

A + C + G = wait, what's this? Oh, ok. Stupid!

I refuse to conform. I have spent too much time and energy trying to be A+B+C, feeling like being packed into a 2x2 carton. The only upside was that no one asked me any uncomfortable questions. No one noticed me either. 

I refuse to perish. Like animals in captivity who lose their inborn skill of hunting, I refuse to forget what I have painstakingly built. Sure, it doesn't fit into a financial model and doesn't massage anyone's ego, least of all mine. But I don't care. There's got to be a way out and if I spend the rest of my life digging myself out of this tunnel, so be it. That, at least, will not be a life in vain. 

Honour

I heard this word being bandied about at a wedding last week. Sure, I had heard of it before, although recently it had been famously paired with another by now familiar word, “killing”, in articles splashed in newspapers, starring enraged parents and indignant community leaders. 

As personal experience amply demonstrated, reading something in the newspaper and having it do the rounds at a wedding I was attending, are two very different things. One always tends to read unfortunate news with an admirable sense of detachment. Simply because “it will not happen to me.” If we were to employ this studied detachment in our daily lives they would be a lot more peaceful. 

The wedding itself went off smoothly, but the venue rumbled that the bride’s younger brother was ‘opposed’ to her marriage to one outside her community. He famously walked around with a sword in his hand in the days leading to the happy event. I had only to surmise that he was waiting for the right time to kill himself. Here’s why: Imagine that I were to meet this visibly angry person, furrowed browed and thin lipped, a sword dangling at his waist, a possible escapee from the set of Bajirao Mastani. 

Me: Hey, what’s up? 

Angry Brother (AB): Nothing much, just took a selfie with my sword. Uploaded it on FB and got 110 likes already, see? 

Me: Oh. That’s a cool sword. What are you doing with it? 

AB: Apart from the selfie? Waiting to kill my sister, and the traitors who support her unclean marriage to an outsider. She has destroyed my honour and that of the family!

Me: I see. 

AB: No, you don’t see. You don’t know the meaning of honour and how important it is to us, men. Women are supposed to protect it by behaving with discretion and respect. When they commit such sacrilegious acts they bring shame upon us! They don’t deserve to live and neither do the other traitors!

Me: Yes, you have mentioned that already. Um, can I ask you a question?

AB: Sure, sister. Anything. 

Me: So you say that your sister has destroyed your honour?

AB: Yes.

Me: And honour is undoubtedly the most important thing to you? Because you are ready to kill for it? 

AB: That is correct. 

Me: Would it be fair to say, brother (it seemed fair to return the favour bestowed to me), that a life without honour is not really worth living? 

AB (removes his sword from his waist and holds it towards the sky with a fierce cry): Haan ji, haan! 

Me: Great. So then shouldn’t it be you who should be killed? 

AB: What? Kya bakwaas hai yeh? 

Me: Yes, see it’s perfectly logical. (I count the points on my fingers under his glowering eye.)

One, honour is the most important thing to you.

Two, honour is irreversible. Once it’s gone, it’s gone.

Three, a life without honour is not worth living. You said so yourself. 

Hence therefore, you should be killing yourself. Your honour has been irrevocably removed and cannot be gotten back now that the dirty deed is done. And let’s face it, it’s easier to kill yourself than so many people, right? I hear that the groom’s father has five siblings. So that’s five into two plus two children each on an average, twenty plus the groom and his parents twenty three. 

(I eye his slim sword skeptically.) Did this come with a warranty? 

Dance

When A told me what ran through his mind while he was under water, I became aware of the seed of my love for the sea. He said that if we ever needed inspiration for forms and colours, we only needed to look here. This was where the world as we knew it began approximately 4.5 billion years ago, covered in blue all over. Marine life is far more evolved than us, like billion years evolved. To just think of the advancement, the maturity that exists when compared to us, possibly the youngest animal on the planet, surpasses my ability to imagine. 

What I absorbed first was the sheer beauty. If I did not have to remember to breathe steadily, not bump into coral and basically try and be buoyant I would collapse in a heap wherever I land and just, stare. Even then I would not know where to look. At the coral, which formed the base of the marine life? Hideouts of small fishes, go-to places for the bigger ones at meal times? Or the ones lolling on the sea beds, sweeping into themselves plankton and anything else that chances on their path? This time we saw, fifteen metres deep, above ridges of coral, fusiliers, hundreds of them moving around in curves. They seemed to have created an infinite loop, engulfing us within it when we moved closer, pulled by the magnetism of their movements. Stone fish, expertly camouflaged on the coral, but not too far away from their passing prey. A shy octopus scuttled into the nearest cave, its curious head black in the dark, moving this way and that, observing us covertly.

Fusiliers in Dance

The perfect proportions and unthinkable combinations of colour. How do you know? How do you know what looks good with what and create something so compelling, you could spend an hour looking at it and still not have enough? Not just one something, millions of somethings. Over and over and over again. Each more perfect than the other.

Then I understood the rules. Not our rules, the divers’. They are aplenty, starting with don’t touch anything. The rules of the ocean. One, swim in the direction of the current. Swimming against the current is like calling someone at the other end of a cricket pitch during a match. Futile. Two, be benign. If the fish help the coral by identifying when predators are in sight, the coral will hide the fish when danger approaches. Like animal calls in the wild. The monkeys famously have alert calls for the jungle when the tiger is on a prowl. They share knowledge, let it out in the universe, trusting that it will be used for the greater good.

Clown fish and coral

Finally, I got a glimpse of wisdom. We did not belong in the water; we were foreign beings. With bubbles following us wherever we went, awkward movements, careening towards and away from surfaces. Shouting our approach loud and clear in the way we displaced water when we moved. Yet we were tolerated, welcomed, even. Fish moved around us. Nothing approached us and we were told that the only injuries came from touching or provoking animals, which otherwise just had better things to do with their time. Like look for lunch, find a mate, or just sail with the current. While boundaries exist, they are defined by the nature of the habitat like water temperature, currents or depth rather than being forceful, or contrived.

An enlightened friend once countered that we are also a part of nature, so surely we come imbibed with some of these qualities. To say that we behave unnaturally would be harsh. Perhaps, he is right. I hope to reach his level of optimism one day. 

Till then, I remember the silence, the colour, the purpose. Which, far from proving the next big thing, is just to exist. And, to dance. 

Willy, nilly, silly old Bear!

Oh, bother!

As I write this post on my all time favourite Bear, my heart beats faster than usual and I can feel my ear lobes heating up (that's what happens when I blush).

It was a simple but poignant article in today's newspaper that set me thinking about dedicating a blog to Winnie The Pooh. It was also through this article that I learnt that Winnie the Pooh was created in 1926! Almost 90 years of being cuddly and still going strong. 

Like most children in my time, I grew up watching many kinds of cartoons - Tom & Jerry, Bugs Bunny and Warner Bros, Scooby Doo, Captain Planet, Mickey Mouse. The only one that stayed with me after I graduated to Rom Coms, and then to Documentaries and Oscar Winning films was Winnie The Pooh and his adventures in the Hundred Acre Wood. While Pooh Bear cuddly toys and other licensed products are commonplace nowadays, my first (and unfortunately, the last) t shirt with Winnie the Pooh on it was bought at Colombo Airport in Sri Lanka in early 2003. It was a store for children and I had bought the largest size. I had worn the t shirt long after the rubber print had worn off, leaving faint shadows behind. 

Shortly after that a friend gifted me an A3 size poster of Pooh Bear and his friends. The poster occupied pride of place in my tiny hostel room in college, never ceasing to cheer me up, because: 

“Rivers know this: there is no hurry. We shall get there some day.”

Then I was privileged to own, for a very short time, a Pooh cuddly toy. Sadly it got wet in the rain and never really returned to its original splendour after that. I had to give it away as its dank odour was making its position on the centre of my bed untenable. 

Like Cinderella, I have tried to rationalize my love for this fluffily stuffed Bear. The oil for this eternal flame, I now realise, is that Pooh has many facets to his nature, not unlike a diamond. I have discovered each part over time. 

There is an endearing simplicity in the Pooh stories, where all that mattered was protecting Piglet from fierce thunderstorms, or finding Eeyore's tail. If I could choose a life to lead, even from tomorrow, it would be with Pooh in the Hundred Acre Wood. I could borrow books from Owl, help Rabbit with his carrots and give Eeyore a hug when he loses his tail. Again. Maybe Tigger will teach me how to bounce like him, and Pooh will teach me that Life is as simple or complicated as we make it out to be. With Hundred Acres of Wood to explore, we would never run out of Adventures. 

Cutting to the present, my most recent discovery is his penchant for the bon mot. 

When he said, 

"How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard." 

I thought about all the things in life that I take for granted. It is only when I have lost them that I have realised their worth. 

“What do you like doing best in the world, Pooh?”

“Well,” said Pooh, “what I like best-” and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn’t know what it was called. 

We are on a journey, and most of the time it is easy to mistake the journey for the destination. Where we are, every day, is at that point just before we begin to eat the honey, which is, like Pooh the Wise says, a moment that is better than the best. 

There are many, many more pearls of wisdom that Pooh has mouthed, and some of them can be found here. 

If it's too much to take in at one time: 

“Don’t underestimate the value of Doing Nothing, of just going along, listening to all the things you can’t hear, and not bothering.”

Why Cinderella is my all time favourite story

I watched the film adaptation of Cinderella yesterday. While watching Lucifer trying to catch Jaq and Gus and crashing into the chest of drawers under which the mice scurried, I got transported almost 20 years back, to the first time I had seen Disney's 1950 Cinderella.

I had been completely enthralled. Since then I have watched the first adaptation many times, more than I care to count. I have always loved stories and over time I grew to love animated movies as well, but Cinderella stayed my favourite.

Firstly, the story. The quintessential fairy tale where a girl reduced to a servant in her own home catches the eye and the love of the Prince of the Kingdom. While the Prince did not slay any dragons or break anything (or anyone) to rescue her, he presented her with the opportunity to prove her identity, through the famous glass shoe.

Secondly, the animation. For 1950, the animation was definitely one of the best, not to mention the grandeur of the sets at the palace, Cinderella's home, her dresses and the wonder of her night at the ball. The effects blended with the story beautifully and became more than just a medium - they became the only medium through which the magic of the story itself could be felt.

I have often tried to dismiss my (irrational) love for this fairy tale, which I will admit has some regressive overtones. I pride myself on being logical and am fiercely protective of my independence, so submitting to the charms of such a tale is hypocritical.

My counter argument to the claim of hypocrisy is that seeing it so many times did little to change my world view of my destiny and the role I can play in shaping it. I am definitely not Cinderella. I would not have just sat there, slogging my life out for ungrateful people and then singing in happiness because I was too pure to feel otherwise.

This brings me to the third and possibly the last reason - the beauty. I think Cinderella was my first real brush with beauty. If we were to notice everything around the central characters, we would see perfect proportions, understated elegance and royal colours. It was the seed of my belief that for one to create beauty, one had to first experience it. I can, therefore, understand the lure of Paris and Venice, high costs and stinking canals notwithstanding.

From today's perspective, the taste of the decor featured in 1950's Cinderella would be called 'traditional' but for a 9 year old girl who spent most of her time reading books and creating alternate universes in her head, Cinderella gave my imagination glorious wings to spread and fly.

Like the Fairy Godmother says: "Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo!"

The Sea Movie

I touched the damp material to my chest. It smelt mildly of saline and something else. Nostalgia. Barely four hours after I had had the time of my life. This is bordering on the perverse, I thought. I could be forgiven, though, because I had no other proof - no selfie with the diving equipment on, no facebook photo with a 300 likes and 164 comments with a pic of my being suspended in open water, watching fish of all shapes, sizes and colours dart past me, and no words to explain the feeling of being 50 feet under the sea, watching an alternate world at work.

I did not want the material to dry. I wanted it to retain some of the famous Andamans magic in it. Every time I touched it, I wanted to get transported back to those moments, those special moments when I knew beyond a doubt, that this was what made it all worth it. The splurge on a four day trip, for which I had paid the equivalent of almost ten, thanks to the flight tickets, an internationally certified course, and premium accommodation so that I could stay at the same place as the dive site. 

School of Bumphead Parrotfish

It had felt, alternately, like driving on a whole new road with new rules and new vehicles; like watching strangers going about their day through a one way looking glass; and like starring in a movie about the sea, a movie like Finding Nemo. Neither of these comes close to what it actually felt like. Maybe it was a combination of all three. But then again, the mind can only conjure what it already knows. Who knows what all colours were there in the fish that passed me when we dived near a ship wreck, looking all stately and purposeful? Who knows what the majestic Sea Horse was thinking when it popped out of the sea bed as we hovered a couple of metres above, almost like as if it was waiting for us to arrive? 

Black Sea Horse on the sea bed. The diving team said it was rare sight. 

It was surreal. And I was grateful, for being allowed to view the magic up close. To all the creatures of the sea, who made me feel at home in their home. To the schools of parrot fish that majestically wove their way through the water right above us. To the three black and yellow striped fish, swimming in decreasing size in front of me as I descended particularly choppy waters, tired after a hard won battle with waves and wind at the top. They fluttered along in front of me as I descended slowly, a mild ear block preventing me from moving any faster. I looked at them and moved closer, wanting to study their colour pattern and look into their eyes. A little further and then a little more further, till I reached the bottom. And then again in the last three minutes of the dive, during the safety stop. There they were again, fluttering along next to each other in decreasing size. Almost as if wanting to know how my dive was and whether I would see them again soon. 

The clown fish which zig zagged between the live coral, and Long Fin Banner fish, of Finding Nemo fame. Schools of different kinds of fish zipping in one direction and another, reminding me of a busy highway. 

Long Fin Banner Fish

Sea Urchins, Scorpion Fish, Lion Fish and the lone Banded Sea Krait. And many, many more whose names I did not know. So many colours and so many shapes. I could have spent the whole day there, just watching them. Each one of them so beautiful, so graceful, so perfect.

Banded Sea Krait. We saw one hiding in one of the many caves created by dead coral. Its venom is one of the most toxic in the world, but it is very shy and non-aggressive.

Back in the room after a scrumptious lunch (diving is rigorous and I was always left with a healthy appetite after), I wondered what to do. We started the day early, going out on the boat by 7am, and we were back by 1pm, after two dives. So the whole day stretched before me, languid. I could read, write, go to the beach for a swim, walk to the market. Eventually I settled for sitting on my bed, looking through the little holes in the mosquito net tied to the poster above, to the painted pattern on the sloping cloth roof and reliving those moments underwater. When I awoke, it was past five. Ah, the perfect time for a walk on the beach to watch the sunset. And to say goodbye to my new marine friends. 

A bientot. 

P.S. All the pictures are from the internet. 

My Search for Satisfaction

You know this feeling when you are sitting in a group and someone says something significant and you chose that exact moment to get lost in reverie? By the time you are back to the World the information is dated and the moment has passed. But the lingering feeling that you have missed something does not. 

I feel this way all the time. It's like as if everyone has struck a deal with their conscience to forget its duty for a while, so that they can push, claw and do whatever else it takes to clear their way to the top. If that is indeed the top (The Ladder of Mediocrity tells you more). I forgot to do it, and now it is too late. No one listens to me now, let alone my conscience. 

The human trait of perennial dissatisfaction has been termed as one of the major differences between us and other species in this world, and has also been attributed as the reason for mankind's progress today. This dissatisfaction has also manifested itself in the Attitude towards others. Acquiescence and compromise are the new words for backwardness. It's the New Age Theory-of-Relativity. Why bother with the universal definition of good when being better than bad is enough? But the single thought that my dull brain is unable to wrap around itself is: everyone is ok with it. There is smugness, superciliousness and maybe even a hint of resignation, but no one is asking why. Everyone is only talking about the what. 

To be honest, I was one among the madly rushing horde till recently. When it hit me that the Ladder everyone is scrambling to climb is actually an Illusion, I lost all interest. Phat. Just like that. Because I knew that this was not going to give me Satisfaction. But then, is there anything else on offer?

I don't have an answer to this question. I have just started the search, and I don't expect it to end well. But I cannot be without trying. If there is one emotion that I do not want to have in my life, it is Regret. 

Till we meet again. 

The Good Book

I recently got gifted an Amazon Kindle Fire HD. Needless to say I was thrilled to bits. The Kindle Fire was exactly what I wanted - a one stop shop to access and to read all books. I love reading, and over the years I have had a tendency to read multiple books at a time.

This presented a unique problem when I started working. Whenever I would travel on work I found that not only could I not take all the books I was reading along with me (as this would mean that the size of my suitcase will almost double), I could only carry one book, and that too the one which would fit into my laptop bag. Not for me was the bulky backpack! I carried a sleek laptop bag in orange with brown borders. While this ensured I was up to my teeth in "style" quotient, I was nowhere near there in the "ample reading material for the travel" quotient. If I felt like reading that business book on the flight when all I had carried along was the fiction book, well, too bad.

So you see, the Amazon Kindle Fire is Perfect for me. Absolutely Perfect. It is sleek and light. I can carry in it hundreds of books at a time, if I want. When I close a book after I am done reading for the day it automatically bookmarks the page so that the next time I open it, the book opens in the same page. I can also copy extracts of the book and make notes while reading. Yesterday while reading my first ebook in it I realised that I can also highlight words from the text and consult the dictionary. And all this is just the tip of a super long list of features that it claims to sport. What a beautiful gadget!

Just as swiftly as I reveled in the advantages of the Kindle, I realised what I would now be missing, possibly forever: the weight of the tome in my hand, the crackle of the page when I turned it, the feel of the paper under my hands - slightly coarse but abundantly promising of the fascinating journey it was to take me through the course of the book. More than anything else, I would miss the intoxicating smell of paper whenever a new book was opened. I would inhale it deeply and the smell would stir in me restlessness, a longing to plunge into its depths right away and discover its secrets.

The Amazon Kindle Fire HD does not smell of anything, and it is extremely smooth to touch. It needs to be charged every now and then when the battery goes low, and sometimes when the ebook is loading it makes a faint whirring sound, like a fan.

The Good Book had character; it had a personality which was part of its charm. Goodbye for now. Till we meet again.