life

Letting Go

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This has been a raging debate in my mind for some time now. 

What am I really supposed to be okay with and make peace with? What’s the ultimate formula for a peaceful existence? Is it learning to be okay with uncertainty? Or is chasing absolute certainty with regard to every outcome in life fully justified?

I think chasing absolute certainty can often be a lost cause, because that simply isn’t how life works. Yes, you get what you put out into the world more often than not. But sometimes, life can have other plans. I know it is fairly commonplace for a lot of things in people’s lives to not pan out exactly as they had imagined them to. And as unfair as that may feel sometimes, the key might just be to be okay with that—maybe not immediately, but eventually. 

Learning to embrace or simply live with uncertainty can often be nightmare fuel for the anxious mind. The infinite number of ‘what-if’ scenarios that can come to mind is almost akin to witnessing a multiverse of sadness. It is easy to imagine everything that could possibly go wrong, because most minds are trained to think in that direction.

But maybe there is another approach to making peace with a certain degree of uncertainty. 

Maybe that is to just embrace inevitability. 

Maybe the key is to accept that the way things happen is fairly uncertain in life. To me, just having an inner sense of knowing that everything will work out is what constitutes embracing the inevitable. That sense of knowing, that gut feeling, is ultimately what leads to flow—positive action without unhealthy attachment or expectation. It is where one begins to find that every layer of unfolding, be it ‘good’ or ‘bad’ in the moment, is contributing to one’s highest good in a way one can only possibly see several days, weeks, months, or even years later.

An aversion to accepting a certain degree of uncertainty or embracing inevitability often comes from a sense of urgency driven by fear. Urgency isn’t usually driven by intent. True positive intent values consistency of action, not the immediacy of the desired outcome. 

Maybe it’s all coming together. And maybe not in the way you’ve always imagined or the way anyone else has imagined. And that is okay. Being overly invested in the “how” is a recipe for lifelong disappointment. Much of the universe is beyond our wildest imaginations, and so are most of our lives, and that is exactly what makes the journey as exhilarating as it can be.

Mind-Trip

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For someone who is fascinated by the many possibilities of travel, I haven’t done a lot of it in the physical world. However, in the realms of my mind is a route that takes me way deeper into my soul than any road ever will. It’s a trip unlike any other and one that brings forth flashes of the good and the bad. It’s the trip we’ve all been to, and continue to take every other day… The trip down memory lane!

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It’s a lane that builds itself over time – it only needs you to live, and takes no dime. It resides within the confines of your mind and yet, goes way beyond a thousand miles. Getting there is no mean feat. Overstay your welcome, and you are dead meat – lifeless enough to miss the little things that come your way. Depriving you of all focus, and leading you astray.

At a time when living in the present is considered a necessity, this is a privilege many learn to do without.

“Why dwell on the past when I can live now?”

The memory lane is no flashy street -certainly not all the way.

Decrepit lamps and shoddy streets at one moment, and the likeness to a lively city on the other, makes this a location of contrasts. Damaged frames, shattered vases and broken hearts lie disheveled. While pictures of happier times, letters of appreciation and the laughs on repeat at an audio store – all make for a pleasant stroll while reminding me of my roots and the impermanence of things, tangible and intangible alike.

The walk is long and tires me after a while. The heart still beats sans any panic; but my emotions are on overkill – never a great signal. I decide it’s time for a breather, and sit down by the edge of the street, hoping to let my emotions settle. I ask them to sit right by me, requesting them to not go away. They take deep breaths and collect themselves, feeling sorry for all of life because it brought along shades of grey.

They join me in a while as I continue my journey – stronger this time, unaffected by the crests and troughs. The memory lane scares me lesser this time, as I build a resistance for everything that didn’t work, for occurrences that surpassed no expectation and toward an ego that refused to let me be.

I trudge from one end to the other, looking fondly at everything I once possessed – wishing I could hold it all once again. But such are the ways of the world they say, that nothing lasts forever.

I decide to let go and keep walking; hoping to find memories my mind may have lost. But I only get back to where I started from. Thinking I may have lost my way, I look around for a way ahead. “Memory lanes don’t come with maps”, they say. “They rebuild themselves from time to time.”

Unkempt and weary, I come back to the moment; looking forward to another free roam.

Memory lanes keep the present at bay, so you wonder if there’s another way to reminisce it all – only to realise that you have no other choice. So you hold on tight to your ropes, swinging past memory after memory and soaking it all in differently each time.

The Infliction

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Amir was an unruly kid, the kind most parents came close to resenting, but didn’t.

“Wake up already! Don’t you dare be late to school”, a commanding voice declared.

He had no alarm to help him know that the day had begun – he couldn’t afford one. Besides, his half-blind father did the job willingly. Having lost Amir’s mother at the time of his son’s birth, he had no choice but to oblige – the double role had grown to be a habit over time.

Amir and his father were some distance short of a proper place to live and breathe in – having spent most of their lives living on the streets of a bustling Baghdad. A make-shift shanty constituting of a rag and a few sticks was what they called home. His father worked as a cobbler and did his best to make ends meet. Amir never complained, but often scorned at the thought of his daily trudge to school. The journey to and from school, was the only Achilles heel to Amir’s strong resolve.

They had a few schools closer to home, but his father could only afford this one. It was more of a dilapidated building on the verge of a collapse – a facade no one was too proud of. The funds that went into maintaining the school were limited, and as a result, so was the infrastructure.

Amir left from home at 8 am every morning considering the fact that he would roughly take an hour to get to school. The journey was particularly treacherous that day. He hadn’t expected the winds to whip up a sandstorm of sorts and hand it over to him, or more precisely, his face. The grains clung to his face while occasionally finding their way into his eyes. Amir muttered a few abuses, but the sand and the winds were as insouciant as ever.

He never had anyone for company either.A few kids in his locality did attend the same school, but preferred to keep their distance when it came to Amir. Being seen as the arrogant kind had its pitfalls.And although he liked saying he was just a loner, his overly sarcastic demeanour often came across as rude. Simply put, Amir’s social life was long dead, buried and probably way past the final stages of decay. His existence was markedly devoid of hope and filled with frustration to the brim.

At a significant distance into his walk toward school, Amir felt something under his foot. A long hard look at a glossy portion of metal threatening to blind him fueled his curiosity further. He dug into the sand and unearthed a lamp – a shiny black piece, bearing every resemblance to the one Amir had read and heard about. Aladdin was Amir’s favourite protagonist. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He couldn’t help but imagine a life full of riches and comforts – of not having to work or glue his eyes onto a book ever again.

“Finally, a way out of this misery”, he exclaimed.

For once, Amir saw hope–and he saw truckloads of it. Recalling Aladdin’s tale, Amir rubbed the lamp expecting a fancy slave to pop out almost immediately.

About ten seconds later, a cloud of black smoke emerged. Everything that transpired in the minutes to follow, diminished any traces of hope or confidence that Amir had gathered.

“I know this is a nightmare,” he murmured in disbelief, expecting his father to splash a sudden stream of water onto his face effectively waking him up.

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And there stood the inhabitant of the lamp – tall, dark, with bloody eyes and horns akin to those of an ox.

“You sir, have been tricked. Your tendency to be allured is your weakness, I am afraid. And for that, you shall pay!”, the demon remarked.

“Your prize is replete with three curses:

The first –the phantom phone vibration syndrome, the second – a runny nose, and the third –a pebble in your shoe, one that accompanies you everywhere you go.”

Inflicting his curses, the demon proceeded to return into his lamp. Amir was shaken, and afraid of the consequences the curses could possibly bring.

The following morning, Amir woke up to a stain on his pillow. He had slept face-down all night and soon realised that the second curse had manifested itself.

He wore his shoes while getting ready for school, he realised there was a tiny pebble in it. As he removed his shoe and checked for a pebble, he saw nothing. But as soon as he put the shoe back on again, the pebble was there – declaring its sharp, annoying presence. Amir had expected it to happen, but it still felt terribly creepy.

On his way to school, while he went past the spot where he had last seen the lamp, he was reminded of a curse that was seemingly inconsequential.

“I don’t even have a phone. How is that curse supposed to affect me?”, he wondered.

His question was answered at lunch time. He felt an eerie tingling sensation in his pocket, only to realise there was nothing in it. This happened several times during the course of his day.

A runny nose, a pebble in his shoe and a syndrome that was totally uncalled for –Amir had a trio of problems to deal with, which in spite of the inconveniences they came with, were only mildly annoying.

Days and hours of stress later, Amir eventually got accustomed to every inconvenience bestowed upon him. The pebble in his shoe could no longer trouble him as soon as he got home and took his shoes off, the phantom syndrome was as good as non-existent when he fell asleep, and as for the runny nose – he figured it was something he could put up with, albeit with some amount of irritation from time to time.

Amir soon realised that no curse was really so significant as to affect his way of life, and that no matter how many difficulties he would have to deal with, his resolve would always ensure he wasn’t down and out. Above all, Amir learned that nothing was ever as bad as it seemed to be – and that any tribulation could only be as powerful as his perspective allowed it to be.

War

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He was a man of few words and often of silence – seeking to overcome mountains of doubt.

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Climbing that mountain was a tedious task, one he saw as too much of an ask.

“I am no trekker”, he thought, imagining himself crumbling with the boulders.

“Besides, I would rather go for something suited to amateurs.”

“Someday, I’ll conquer this too. Someday.. ”, he said glancing at the tallest of them all.

“Until then, a good amount of practice on the smaller ones will help.”

Classifying his doubts as the minors and the majors, he cut out a strategy to bring them down one at a time. The minors looked easy with their innocent profiles – profiles that hid all their defiance. Five battles down the line, he realised that underestimating the minors was a mistake. And with that piece of wisdom, came more doubt. The antagonist’s army gained strength with every battle it won. More territory, more weaponry – the stakes were high.

The man’s weapons weren’t made to last –swords of pretense soon gave way. The shields his ego had so carefully built started to crack. He was fighting a losing battle.

He knew he wouldn’t win the war, so an alternative suggestion was accepted –there would be a treaty. Neither the doubt, nor the man would bother the other. That way, they wouldn’t have an opportunity to clash and there’d be no battle in sight.

The treaty went through and the man lived in peace for an entire month. That was until all the chaos in his mind came back to haunt him. He had been betrayed, the treaty violated. Peace, yet again, was a distant dream.

He consulted his cabinet of wisdom in an attempt to find a permanent solution. The ministers had an array of suggestions, but none appealed to him. The parliament lacked a sense of purpose.

So he picked up a pen and set it to paper, attacking his doubts word by word. Some perished, some stayed and a few others absconded – victory increasingly imminent with every letter he wrote.

And on the spur of the moment, a writer was born – fueled by his obsessions, relentless with a passion. This was victory, or so he thought. Doubt’s days were long gone.

Tired of the conflicts his mind so diligently conjured, he took to writing for it would set him free. Instead, it held him down with an inescapable addiction.

He was now a soul that was willingly imprisoned, yet inexplicably free.

 

 

Oh so practical!

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CH

As someone who tends to be overly formal or courteous at times, I would’ve loved to start this post with a few words placed consecutively to form greetings for the beginning of a new calendar year. I would have.. But Cyanide and Happiness have taught me otherwise. After a few seconds of pondering, I had to admit that I agreed to this comic, albeit a tad reluctantly (the optimist in me refuses to die).

Since the start of the new year yesterday, I’ve also come across folks on all forms of social media giving away a ton of flak to other folks who harbor a sense of optimism with regard to a whole new set of months to look forward to. And I can’t help but cringe at this bunch of whiny cynics that are going out of their way to dictate how the optimists and the hopefuls should think.

We all have our ways – particularly our own patterns of thinking. And in this case I am often compelled to say, ‘To each their own.’ This is strictly in line with the revered principle of considering each person to be unique. Revered, or as the preceding paragraph seems to suggest, probably not. The real problem here is that it’s revered or dismissed at will – as per our own whimsical conveniences. We suit ourselves without ever sparing a thought for the positivity brigade – an unofficial clan responsible for everything that’s sprightly, bright and ever-so-vibrant about the world. Why pull the others down when they’ve done no wrong? Why shatter their beliefs instead of aiming to build up our own?

The answer to both of those questions is simple. It’s the burning desire to be seen as die-hard pragmatics. Because apart from making sure that you appear sane, a pragmatic approach ensures that upsets are few and far between. It ensures you always know what’s coming your way and how. There’s no guessing and consequently, there’s a truckload of security. But there’s something the pragmatics fail to realise. Or more appropriately, there’s something they’re missing out on.

It’s the power of faith. Of being okay with looking like an idiot at times. Of hope.

To try and awaken people to the fact that a change of calendar won’t significantly alter their lives, is to desperately try and deprive them of hope – which by all means is more evil than pragmatic. People might think they’ve outsmarted the world by doing so, but they haven’t helped anybody here – not the least bit themselves or their own lives.

To put it simply, I think hope should qualify as a fundamental right. We all have a right to hope, a right to look forward to new beginnings, a right to a momentary escape from despair from time to time. And no one can or should take that away from us. NO ONE.

I can’t resist quoting Andy Dufresne from The Shawshank Redemption here:

‘Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.’ 

Here’s to hope – to another year that’s full of promises and has plenty to look forward to.

Future Perfect?

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9:00 am:
This wasn’t the usual morning in many ways, or maybe it was? I have no idea why I have always fancied living in denial – as if it was an extraordinary thing to do. As I waited for the train to arrive, I could sense that I was engulfed by an aura of nervousness; a heart that couldn’t stop racing, busy hands, wobbly feet and a countenance that was far from composed. I liked to think I had little or nothing to worry about, a feeling that only lasted until reality chose to stick its ugly head out. If only, life was the little fantastical tale that unfolded in my head day in and day out.

Five minutes later, the train entered the station. Every prospective passenger was overcome by a sense of urgency – men holding their bags closer to their bodies, women lining up closer to the train. Train travel would normally be an indispensable part of almost every working citizen’s day here in my city. I rushed inside as the train barely grinded to a halt, and was lucky enough to find a vacant seat that day. For a moment right then, I was tempted to affirm that this was a wonderful morning, but I hesitated. Throughout my journey, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Today would be an important day at work – an all-important presentation beckoned. That would be followed by lunch with the who’s who of the organisation, the journey back home in the evening, an hour at the gym followed by dinner with my lovely family. A very simplistic schedule albeit one that stressed me out today. What was I worried about? Or what wasn’t I?

The adage, time flies is the truest of them all. Twenty five years of being an earthling, and I had spent the last ten chasing one thing – perfection. Was I any closer to it now than I was five years ago? Or was I going around in circles chasing something that could never be mine? Who knows?

For every problem I had in the now, I looked to a solution in the distant future. The present moment was always a haze. I couldn’t help but wonder if I was doomed – doomed to spend the rest of my life with the “what-if(s)” and the “if only(s)”.

I was nervous about the presentation – but hey! Wouldn’t doing it right fix everything?

Would I be able to maintain my composure during that lunch? I don’t know.

If the presentation is okay, I might. But what if it isn’t? – I shuddered at the thought. I just hoped to not embarrass myself and my boss.

I snapped out of my daydream just in time to realise that the train had almost reached Weary Road. The office was a five minute walk away from the station and I made it in time. The presentation was an hour away and I grew increasingly restless with each passing minute. In an effort to distract myself and alleviate my nervousness, I tried fiddling with my phone.

12 pm:

It was time for the presentation and my confidence was still an invisible entity. Every inch of my body was in ‘no chill mode’ which in turn led to a shaky voice. No matter how proud I was of getting these opportunities, these final moments made me have second thoughts, always. These were moments when I went from “I am so glad it’s me” to “Why me?” in a matter of seconds.

I took a deep breath, started my presentation and was glad that it went along just fine. Halfway through, the fact that I was supposed to be nervous had escaped my head. I wasn’t even thinking about it.

The end of a decent presentation was followed by lunch. In complete contrast to my expectations, nothing had gone wrong. And then came that rare moment again – of believing that I had nothing to worry about. This is always how I went about my days; swinging from one extreme to another – from wanting to worry about everything, to having nothing to worry about.

My presentation was a temporary respite. I wondered if I was doomed to live in fear. For every attempt I made at locking horns with my limitations, my fate reasserted the fact that it had other plans. I didn’t want to believe that my fate controlled every inch of my being, but I was forced to.

I slogged to no end for every single day. I was a thorough workaholic and trying to find life beyond work was a tiresome ordeal.

My schedule these days was simple – Eat. Sleep. Work. Repeat.

My personal and social lives were in complete and utter turmoil. I needed to pull myself out of this rut. And to do that, I was willing to go out of my way.

The mechanical and the mundane had consumed me over time. Contrary to what many believed, I really wasn’t living a life, for it had little that could be described as lively. My fears still managed to keep me in a shell. I was living in oppression – one that was imposed upon me by my own mind of all things. Breaking the shackles was going to take far more than a philosophical speech and plain courage. It needed me do what I feared the most – it needed me to act my answer out, to confront my fears head on without any consideration for the consequences. I could make it unscathed, or I could be shred to pieces. The choice was mine to make.

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It has been ten years since I retired. I dread living the life I had left.

Just as my old decrepit body struggles to get off the sofa, a loud alarm goes off.

Startled, I open my eyes and look around. I rush to the mirror at the other end of the room and heave a sigh of relief. I am still 25, have a presentation followed by lunch with the biggies and my usual routine to look forward to.

“Thankfully, that was just a dream. Or probably a nightmare”, I murmur. Shaken and stirred, I know I cannot be the same person anymore – for existing had always been my forte, but living was still a distant dream. Maybe I still didn’t know what I was looking for, but for once, I knew what I wasn’t looking for – because sometimes, that is just as important; or maybe more.

PS – This story is a work of fiction.

Hot & Cold

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Life is an experience that brings forth a slew of emotions each day, with each moment. And to me, it has been no different –except for the fact that mine has been filled with more than its fair share of contradictions. More often than not, it has been a case of extremes, and intermediates if any have been few and far between – Either black or white. No reds, blues and greens.

Catching a cold in the hottest of climates is something I have come to master over the years. Also, I don’t really like how the term catch is used figuratively here – As if I made a conscious effort to grab the goddamn virus out of thin air and shove it into my body. Or maybe I did – a few sips cold water here, an ice-cream there.

I remember reading a headline this morning stating that at 38 degrees – yesterday was the hottest October day ever. Bloody hell! Here I was, sweating and sneezing at the same time. And the confusion that followed was the last thing I needed.

To let the fan over my head run faster or not to, to sip on moderately cold water or not to, to do anything at all or not to for I felt far too irritable sometimes – all seemingly trivial concerns yet so significant in the moment.

I have a pair of football studs lying idle in my shoe-rack. I haven’t played footy in years now. I mean, I have in the casual sense, but nothing full on like sprinting after forwards on a real ground. Honestly, I haven’t always been great at it, but as far I can remember, I had fun playing – I miss the running around, being short on breath, making my lungs realise just how much I need them. Sometimes, I wish I could travel back in time and maybe play a game or two again, make stupid mistakes, cost my team a goal and even score once in a blue moon – all of it for the simple reason that I would enjoy myself and get the dose of adrenaline I often crave.From being certain I would every other day when I bought those studs, to barely even coming close to it in years – white to black, hot to cold.

There was a time when I had a bicycle and couldn’t imagine my life without it. I cycled day in and day out and lost an (almost) astronomical amount of weight thanks to it. It was my primary and (often) only form of exercise during my school days. And boy! It was exciting too – Until of course, junior college and science decided to make me fat again. Eventually, unrelenting attacks by the elements covered the bike in a veil of rust and it had to be given away. From cycling day in and day out to not having a bicycle anymore – white to black, hot to cold.

As a kid, I was more of an avid cricket fan than I am now. A bat, a ball, a few square metres and voila! A game of cricket was on. I have broken windows, lost cricket balls when I hit them too hard and knocked batsmen over with some unreal inswingers – all that until a few years ago. From playing bat and ball within the tiniest of spaces at every chance I got, to playing once in four months – white to black, hot to cold.

I acted in plays in school, wore the weirdest costumes, forgot dialogues, improvised and made people laugh – Never had the chance to do the same post school. From learning to embrace an art to never going back to it again – white to black, hot to cold.

On the contrary, I didn’t think writing would be something I looked up to as a real hobby someday, hadn’t read half as many books as I have since, had never sketched cars and had never been on a roller coaster either. All that and more has materialized over the years, and while my life continues to contradict itself from time to time, the differences keep me interested.

Dilemma

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I am not sure if any of you have been through this, but I have over the years and continue to. Man is a social animal and conversations are a significant part of our lives. You might talk about current affairs, sports, your favourite TV series or movie, careers, family issues or relationship concerns. While most of your conversations would obviously be in the company of a friend, colleague or relative, there are some which are limited to the confines of your minds.

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You wouldn’t usually declare this to anyone around you at that point in time because it might seem irrelevant or just plain crazy. “You need a shrink” is not even the last thing you want them to tell you.

Everybody talks to themselves about something or the other, sometimes in their minds and sometimes, out loud. If you say you don’t, you’re a liar!

(Still in denial? Let me help you change that. Click here)

In my case, the questioning never stops. It’s not that I am fond of disagreeing with widely accepted norms; but my curiosity always gets the better of me. When someone tells me to do a certain thing a certain way just for the heck of it, they can always expect me to counter question, out loud or otherwise.

I have a great fondness with talking to myself. Especially when I travel, this becomes very obvious. I am always looking around and talking to myself about anything and everything I see. It could be anything – hurling abuses at an idiot causing traffic snarls, ‘reviewing’ a hoarding, pitying a dilapidated building or just my views on a tree by the roadside. I don’t make sense half of the time and that’s okay – because I am the only one who’s ‘listening’ which means no one’s going to judge either.

When it comes to social interactions though, I think and analyze everything I am about to say, perhaps to avoid making a fool of myself. But as it often turns out, it doesn’t work – not for me, at least. People often get frustrated by my lack of conversational participation. Those are situations where they would love to know and hear more of me, but I won’t let them for some stupid fear of appearing to be less than a skilled conversationalist.

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I have come to discover that going with the flow can feel a lot better and while I might still make a fool of myself, it could be worth the risk.

Awkward silences have haunted me eternally – those are moments when I am trying to collect myself and utter a few words without any erratic pronunciations resulting from the dread of being murdered for uttering something that could only be regarded as immensely nonsensical. (In other words, I take the proof-reading bit too far) My apologies for all the awkwardness if you have experienced any while I struggled to let out a syllable.

I tend to run out of things to say faster than most people would, and that’s not because I speak too fast.

I tend to contemplate if my utterances would really interest the other person. Now, this will not be the case if I am absolutely, undoubtedly, positively sure that you would be – this applies to formal meetings. I can be great at formal meetings, but the informal ones? well..

(You might read this and wonder why I feel the need to be a designer and not an analyst – for all the knack to be analytic of every single thing). 

I also get fascinated by people who can literally talk all day. That must be some talent. Yes, to me, the ability to make small talk is talent.

I’ve tried defining myself as an introvert, only to realize that I wasn’t doing the definition enough justice. Unlike most introverts, I enjoy going out with people and I could spend a lot of time interacting with the lot that has me company so long as we click. But there are times, when I just need to be by myself.

Ambivert might apply, but it’s not something I fancy. I am trying not to give myself a label.

The advent of this blog has been the beginning of an adventure in many ways. A journey of self-discovery, of getting to know myself a lot better along the way while also giving myself something to look forward to each weekend. With each article, I learn to accept myself (quirks included) a wee bit more.

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And in a journey of self-discovery and acceptance, if this isn’t success, what is?