Please don't take it personal

I had been watching myself. 
Finally today, I stood up and said, "I am ready".
So, I am speaking about it, now. 

Here is what Life has taught me during this 'non-personal' time. 21 days summed up in 7 lessons (and more to come, as usual)- 

Lesson 1- Hope is the most stubborn weed. It is an obstinate child with a non-violent temper. I dare you get rid of it!

Lesson 2- Eventually all pains and happiness will dumped in one box called 'memories'. And the box doesn't have two compartments. You'll mix them both and treat them alike.  

Lesson 3- Solitude is the darkest truth about humans. It is inescapable. 

Lesson 4- Self-love is the crudest form of love. And we confuse it with selfishness. We have to learn to be by our side and stop punishing ourselves, even if we are taking time to forgive ourselves in the beginning. 

Lesson 5- Guilt is glutinous, whereas self-confidence is frictional. 

Lesson 6- The Time is not defined (read confined) by its superlativeness. It is an independent element.

Lesson 7- Each time you'd sit for a 'sagar manthan' session within your mind after an unpleasant incident or a dram-come-true experience, and churn your thoughts or scrape your memories; no matter how much anguish, pain, grudges or repentance oozes out of it, you will see that eventually everything evaporates, leaving you with only and only Love and Kindness (and not to mention the omnipresent Hope).

Lesson 8- Exactly how they phrase it at the time of Exit Interviews "Please don't take it personal" while they rephrase it no differently. Likewise, Life this time, said to me with a smile "Excuse me, Ma'am....Please don't take this personal". 

Good times and Bad Times

Good times and Bad times

are just shadows of each other;

A thin mirror in between

facing the Sun

determines Your side of the time;

And in front of this thin layer of mirror, stands You.

Destination

Does it also happen to you:
When you mix up your journey and destination 
And then you can't make out- which one is which one...

Recovering from Bad Time

Writing instead of typing

A 10 years' old Debt paid off

A surprise sale where Anil and Ali are treated alike

Ten years ago, something happened that left a permanent deficit in my Karma Account.

While driving in a crowded street, as I hurried my way to my examination centre, a guy crossing the road appeared out of nowhere and my speeding bike hit his bicycle and threw its wheels up in the air, disfiguring it permanently. Thankfully, none got hurt.

In India, at road accidents people assume the responsibilities that the government has entrusted to the Police. Hence everyone around you is a policeman and has the right to reprimand.

With my exam starting in next 15 minutes, and I being the witness of my own crime, I acted like a coward while saving myself from the public-police-squad and instead of helping the poor guy, I ran away from the scene.

As I drove past the brown haired guy whose life-line I just crashed, I had a look at his face- a tall fair young guy in his twenties with expressive eyes. His dirty clothes and dirty hands said the story of his burdensome life and with a meek look, he accepted the recent burden I just loaded him with. He picked up the leftover and with other workers walked in the other direction. 

As I kept driving and watching the scene in the rear mirror to see if the crowd was chasing me, I saw that there was no public action. You know why? Because it wasn’t me who was guilty here, but the guy on the bicycle. His crime- his poverty. If the situation had been otherwise- he being not poor, the public would have scratched every inch of my skin on the road. So yeah, I was safe.

I appeared for my exam, came back home but never shared this incident with anyone. But this kept  drilling every corner of my existence. I hated myself for the ‘inaction’ on my part and the pain never subsided.

I learnt a new feature of ‘regret’ during this decade. It never fades. Time doesn’t heal a regret. And probably nothing can. Until you decide to forgive yourself. Hence, I decided to forgive myself on the condition that I reverse my ‘inaction.

I decided to donate a bicycle to a needy. But the real question that popped up was as to how to recognize a needy. In Punjab where the whole state is suffering from the abuse of drugs, where drug addicts even steal public properties and sell them off for money- who would that be who genuinely needs a bicycle. To which, Mom suggested a brilliant idea.

While passing across a construction site, Mom asked a bunch of laborers if anyone needed a second hand bicycle that she knew was on sale. A very young guy came forward and asked her the details of the price, model etc. It was then, she declared that it was a ‘true needy’.

Today, we fixed the ‘surprise sale’ date and bought him a bicycle.

I was curious to know more about him. He is from Muradabad where his debt-laden father works as a mason in a Hindu-Muslim disturbed area, taking care of his 6 other siblings, none of which has ever been to school. He is new to the city and travels 15km on foot for his work to earn USD 4 per day as a daily wager. 

I didn't want to color my liberation in saffron or green so I didn't ask his name, but took a promise from him- never to sell this but in case he wanted to discard it, to give it for free to another needy. He promised back- he'll respect the 'gift'. The stupid guy thought that that it was a gift from me to him. 

A gleam of light hit his face when he touched his ‘first bicycle’ ever. The smile on his face as if eased my ten year old pain.

I am sharing this incident not to prove that what I did was great, but to suggest that it is possible to liberate yourself from the imprisonment of any form of regret that you might be living with. Reverse the inaction. Free yourself!

P.S. Now I know what Khalid Hosseini meant in 'Kite Runner'.

Life- A Winter's Day

“Our Life is nothing but a Winter's day;

Some only break their Fast, and so away:

Others stay to Dinner, and depart full fed:

The deepest Age but Sups, and goes to Bed:

He's most in debt that lingers out the Day:

Who dies soonest, has less, and less to pay.”

―Francis Quarles

Mom and Whatsapp

Some topic make you think "I must write about this". This is that one.

While I am panting in my pants in the meeting room to meet the chairman, I get a call on whatsapp.
Me: Hi Mom, anything urgent?
Mom- "Yeah. I wanted to know how to forward jokes on Whatsapp"

Here, I wish to share "Mom's Whatsapp Logics"-

1. Social Pressure: 
● Mommy, it is 5:00 am your time. How come you are online so early.
● If I reply messages later, people will think that I got up late today.

2. Whatsapp bitching: 
● Mommy, how is Rita Aunty these days?
● Huh! that woman has changed now. Earlier she used to forward jokes on my number separately now she simply sends them on our new Kitty-Ladies whatsapp group.

3. Good Morning messages: 
● Mommy, you don't need to send me 15 different cup-plate/blooming flowers good morning messages every morning. 
● Huh! I am not selfish to share them only with others while my daughter doesn't get any.

4. Opinions: 
● Mommy, shall I buy this bed-sheet.. is it worth 500$?
● Yes, Nikki, Sheela and 22 others like it.

5. Selfies:
● Mommy, sent you pics. Which skirt suits me best- green, blue or red
● You look good in all. I have uploaded them all on Facebook

6. Profile picture:
● Mommy, no one puts 'good morning message' as his/her Whatsapp profile picture. 
● Huh! I do 
● @$&*)&$@@$%

And the list continues.....
                                                                                                               

Hazards of the Profession

There seems a glamour attached with every profession.

Like, if you are a defense personnel​, people look up to you with awe. Or, if you are​ Politician​ (in India​) (or even belong to one remotely) the probability of people presuming ​'stuff' about you increases manifold.

 “I am a lawyer”. Each time I say this, I receive an open-mouthed expression invariably. They don’t seem to believe. Some show concern-“But…You don’t look like one”.

 The next curious questions are shot -

“Do you fight for criminals or against them?”

“Do you have a selfie with a murdered body?”

“How do you manage to wear the bat-man cape all day long, does it not get struck in the wheels when you drive”.

It is believed that being a lawyer is a fun-filled movie script job where, in a courtroom, random people from far flung areas come to witness the proceedings where lawyers plead, judges question, witnesses dodge while continuous jokes are cracked, or red-eyed criminals with thirty inches shoulders are about to go scot-free to balance the crime in the city.

They imagine a normal day for a lawyer is when you attend court hearings, thump the tables and with a high pitch in the last dialogue win the case, with court-room filled up with chorus of people cheering you.

And then you return to your office where (lusting) women in pencil-skirts are waiting to celebrate your victory with champagne and your boss tells how awesome you are (And yes, this gets repeated everyday).

Then I turn them off by sharing that my life is not happening at all because I am an irksome corporate lawyer. Our bosses yell at us and our colleagues bitch (but yes I stay between criminals :) )

And our courtrooms are extremely boring and sleepy places where law sections running into several pages are read and re-read. Of course, you are free to sit at any proceedings while you have given your car for washing.

Last reaction that actually shuts me off- “You are a lawyer… How do you get time to write blogs?”  

P.S: And, certainly, lawyers’ lives are absolutely not like Harvey Spector’s. 

Why I hate Beauty Pageants

Do you watch beauty pageants- contesting for Miss/Mrs Universe/World/Whatever (actually I never do. Someone posted that on Facebook and I followed the link).

India has been recipient of many such awards. Whilst it is claimed that these kinds of competitions don’t judge the beauty alone but their brains (yeah yeah!). No wonder most of such brainy winners end up into film industry and post stardom, into philanthropically inspired convenient activities to keep their social media profile active.

If you watch the contestants closely you’ll see that not one but many contestants seem to have their body parts surgically operated. (You know what I am hinting towards majorly).

Girls, certainly, we don’t expect you to be what you are not. But at least you can remain what you are?

Because THAT IS WHAT YOU ARE COMPETING FOR!

HK government recently fined a professional with close to 50k grand for calling herself to be a member of a professional organization whereas she was enrolled as a student-member. This simply emphasizes that unless you have earned it, it doesn’t belong to you.

In my opinion, such fake booty  body parties parts befail the sole purpose of such beauty pageant. Rather I am refraining myself from suggesting that they shouldn’t even be allowed to put on make-up (but considering that probably none would be interested to watch the show then, keeping  aside the fact as to how many it would deter to participate)

Such contestants who have gone under the scissors should be disqualified. Or, alternatively their cosmeticians should be rewarded for their work. 

P.S. When governments are banning use of plastics- why are cosmetologists not getting arrested!

Call Me by My True Names

As a wanderer I am on the internet, came across this beautiful gem- This poem by Thich Nhat Hanh embodies the essence of what he calls "interbeing," the innerconnectedness of all things.



Please Call Me by My True Names,
because I have so many names
When I hear one of the of these names
I have to say, "Yes."

Do not say that I'll depart tomorrow 
because even today I still arrive.

Look deeply: I arrive in every second 
to be a bud on a spring branch, 
to be a tiny bird, with wings still fragile, 
learning to sing in my new nest, 
to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower, 
to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone.

I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry, 
in order to fear and to hope. 
The rhythm of my heart is the birth and 
death of all that are alive.

I am the mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river,
and I am the bird which, when spring comes, arrives in time 
to eat the mayfly.

I am the frog swimming happily in the clear pond, 
and I am also the grass-snake who, approaching in silence, 
feeds itself on the frog.

I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones, 
my legs as thin as bamboo sticks, 
and I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to 
Uganda.

I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat,
who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea
pirate,
and I am the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and
loving.

I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my
hands,
and I am the man who has to pay his "debt of blood" to, my
people,
dying slowly in a forced labor camp.

My joy is like spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom in all
walks of life.
My pain if like a river of tears, so full it fills the four oceans.
Please call me by my true names, 
so I can hear all my cries and laughs at once, 
so I can see that my joy and pain are one.

Please call me by my true names, 
so I can wake up, 
and so the door of my heart can be left open, 
the door of compassion.

Finding Peace in Adventure

The more I have tried to restrict myself, the more life has pushed me. In terms of limits- be it geographical or inner. And each push has demanded a lot of pull from within. With each push it bombarded my assumptions and with each pull I busted my own tyranny.

And finally what it leaves me with? A better view. Everytime.

Yes, each time after the storm has passed, it is unexceptionably lovely to see my wrecked barge wobbling on the waves- a soggy body, drenched in water and blood. And I record on my timeline- I survived that too.

This journey of journeys has become so gratifying because I see that there is no way I wouldn’t have undertaken it. Even if I chose not to, this nasty woman called Life had been stretching her arms with a baton up my arse.

There is so much peace in adventure….

Sharing with Mom

I don’t share everything with my parents, like most of us. I have strongly believed in not doing so.
It started initially when I was growing up in a conservative set of family background, where children are not expected to 'share' but 'follow' their parents.

This took form of a habit and later when I started to stay away from them, this further shaped up in the 'need-to-know' based conversations.

Furthermore, I started to tell them only the best things or the favorable incidents and they were absolutely ignorant about the dark phases I was going through in life.

Until one day-

Some years back, I met one of my friends in Mumbai, who happens to be a mother of a girl of my age. While I was sharing a patchy experience with her, she asked, "So what did your Mom say about this". I told her that I hadn't told Mom anything about this as I didn't want to get her to get worried.

And then, her reply to this reversed my ideology.

She said, "I think what you are doing is very wrong. You are depriving your mother of the right she has as a mother over you. I'd feel very unfortunate if my daughter doesn’t share her heart out with me thinking I’ll get hurt? Ill be terribly hurt to see that she doesn’t chooses me to be a part of her life. It is gut trenching to note that whatever I gave birth to doesn't believe in me."

The thought hit me in my head. I had been terribly wrong and careless while trying to act right and careful.

On that incident onwards, I gradually (on test basis) formed this habit of sharing things with Mom to observe her reaction. And I found that she very well understood the fact that her daughter’s life wouldn’t be simple always.

She had concerns about me not living a ‘perfect life’ but I deliberately started involving her in my everyday chores and helped her see my definition of ‘perfect’.

I started discussing many things that helped me see her point of view, see her as a woman, not just as a concerned mother.

Consequently, I found that the more I shared my f'cked up stories with her, the more she believed me and the more she supported me. The second observation was- she too got rid of her habit of showing me only the rosy side, and her emotions became barer. 

Since the experiment was successful, sharing became important and a regular practice and so does the level of trust. Now, even if I happen to go to eat a buffet at Bombay Dreams Restaurant, I send her photo of my thali. I try an overtly sexy dress, I send her pictures from trial-rooms.

​Nothing great has happened to my life but just that clearing up mist from my window has made me see that my mother has always stood by me.