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Sunday, May 28, 2006

Continuity of the Act of Hammering!

The other day I was watching Gray’s Anatomy on Star World. The last thing spoken about their inhumanly busy schedules was by a doctor, she said, right before crashing on the bed, and I quote:

“Know why I keep hitting myself with a hammer?
Because it feels so good when I stop.”

Late into that night, midway through my nightly ruminations, I kept thinking, how similar this was to the scenario we all get so trapped into sometimes, where we work and we work, before finally accepting defeat and declaring we can’t do it.
That’s when we start feeling the pain of failure, of incapability, after all the hammering we did, and poured everything into.

And this scenario is so typically and sometimes so often repeated into our lives, that after a while, we accept it and find ourselves totally helpless in handling it.

Since I (conceitedly and stubbornly, without heed to any denial on anyone’s part, but yet, eternally optimistically) believe to from my soul that any problem in the world, big or small, new or ancient, if properly thought of and planned, can be handled and solved, fully, cleanly and without any unexpected and unreasonable consequences, I decided there has to be a way out of this scenario too, and this is what I, (eccentrically and somewhat comically, yet astutely) concluded:

“If you don’t want to feel the pain after hammering,
You have only one choice, to never STOP hammering!”

Or until success is achieved anyway.

Good morning!

Wouldn’t you deny this too…………….?

I was speaking to Garry the other day, and she was telling me about her graduation days in the US. She said one of her professors had made a theory, that all Indians or those of Indian origin had a habit of saying a big NO to anything new said to them. He had observed time and again, and had completely failed to understand the connection or rather the affinity of an Indian and denial.

Just then a student got up and did the expected. “It’s not that professor, we just…..”

This might be just a funny anecdote, but come to think of it, aren’t we really adverse to accepting changes in our lives? At least initially, aren’t we relatively more reluctant to accept a newer line of thought or conclusion or hypothesis?

An intelligent person is someone who listens to everything with an unbiased open mind, and then decides about his actions regarding the new hypothesis.

But how many people you tell a bizarre idea to after considering the given proofs, actually confirm weather they subscribe to the same or not?

In my profession, we provide people with an unconventional line of business. Trust me; more than 60 percent can’t make up their stand on the proposal. I am fine with people accepting or rejecting, but when people cant even consider its practicalities in their lives, or think about its implications in their lives, get over the confusion or just plain react, it makes me think, is an average Indian male really that unprepared to handle the practicalities of evolution in business and the world? Is he really so underdeveloped to let go of the conventional security and surety that he had been clutching for so long, that he is scared even to consider a drastic change in his life?

And intelligence, they say, is something they know all about!

Work and the result.

Over the course of time, in my work, I’ve come across two kinds of people : those who do the work no matter what, and one who justify why they couldn’t do it. As obvious, I always like the first category better. Not that I have anything against the second category, they may have genuine reasons for failing, or rather not being able to do work, but then again, the hard fact remains, that they failed. Mohit Sardana’s book says, “You can either make excuses or make money, you can’t do both!” This tells us the essence of things, but does it answer all the questions? Does it convince us to forget all exceptions and believe in it alone?

Let’s consider this; Russell Crowe’s character in Gladiator was made to face a lion. He had to fight the lion, and whoever won, survived. Taking a similar case where one had to fight a lion, one has to make a superhuman effort to do it, and one failure or one small shortcoming or miscalculation could take one to instant death.

Suppose the same person had to fight a lion, but after having lost a leg in a previous fight. Will the lion make
any concessions in fighting the man just because he has lesser limbs? Would it take a lesser effort to win that very fight? No, in fact, it would take a greater effort!

Suppose the man had lost tow limbs, now, would the lion finally take pity on the man and not kill him? Will it require a lesser effort on the part of the man because, come on, he is a cripple, an invalid!

The point I am trying to make here is, it’s a genuine excuse on the part of a man that he can’t fight a lion and expect to win, if he is a cripple. No one can deny him that.

But the fact remains, he either wins or dies. So if confronted with the lion, he will have no choice to either make the same superhuman effort fighting the lion as he had to had he been fully fit, failing which he will die!!

The lion won’t accept any excuse. So should we depend on excuses, however genuine, for work?

In conclusion, making excuses is fine, as long as one realises that it is equivalent to death, had he been fighting a lion!

Monday, May 22, 2006

Big, Rich & Successful!!

I think I don’t like success.

Don’t take me wrong, I enjoy the satisfaction, the respect, the perks, the money….who doesn’t, but it’s not that. Allow me to elaborate.

About a year ago I entered marketing. My job was such that if you could think marketing, perceive your demographic, and talk sense to them, you had it made to good income and a loyal fan following for life! And I could see that I loved doing what I do. As time moved on, I got so much into it, I felt I was born to convince people.

But all throughout, I had promised myself that I’ll never let success go to my head. I would work as hard and with as much sincerity as ever for me and everyone in my team, now my army. As time moved on, things got busier, but I always prided myself that I had succeeded in my intention, that I had managed to work well while keeping a levelled head and my feet firmly on the ground. Until today an oversight forced me to introspect and reconsider.

I was late for a meeting at south-ex. As I was speeding down to my destination, Vandita, an associate smsed to inform me that two people wouldn’t make it as one had met an accident and the other one was delayed. Soon another sms followed inquiring further course of action. I called her and arranged some damaged control, and soon forgot after I pulled up at a petrol pump to refuel my car.

On reaching there, we got on to work quickly since we were already delayed, and the matter of two people not making it did not crop up until later, when I was so over-whelmed with the success of the meeting that I didn’t pay much heed to it.

But tonight as I browsing into my sms inbox for a phone number smsed to me, I came across that sms again, and it took only a moment for silence and an embarrassing realisation to make me forget everything else.

I never asked Vandita how her friend was after the accident, or that if she wanted to go see her, she would be relieved.

I wanted to call Vandita and ask her right then, but it was an indecent hour to call late into the night.

An injury to a fellow human being was completely overshadowed by the urgency and the exhilaration of something I do to earn enough to splurge on pretentious food and large tips at overpriced restaurants.

Right then, in that very moment in my successful life, I was suddenly not rich or big.

I was actually poor and very small.

In a Flawed world

I came back home disappointed;
I hadn’t the nerve to cry,
for it is almost a universal rule-
that boys don’t cry.

I had a heart of lead,
and cotton in my lungs;
I could not tell-
I could not share-
for I had no real friend.
all I could do was sulk alone-
be solitary,
fell weak, pathetic.

for I was a boy,
and isn’t it almost a universal rule-
that boys don’t cry.

how do we share our grief?
how do we stop the tears?
how do you lighten your heart-
for cry you don’t dare!!

so you sulk in peace you cant enjoy,
you long for a friend you can but find,
hate the universal rule and wonder,
why boys cant cry.


I wrote that a long time ago, in school. In 9th grade to be precise. Now when I read it, I feel how far I’ve come from that, and I can credit my sorrow only to my inadequacy to cope with it then. How I naïve I was then, and how far I’ve come since.

I don’t mean to imply that I’m perfect now, but I do advocate the fact that I’ve spent this time to analyse and overcome my flaws. I don’t mean to say I’ve succeeded completely, but looking back, I am somewhat proud of myself.

But still, in the areas I think I have managed to almost fully eliminate my shortcomings, have I stopped facing problems? Is it an absolutely smooth sailing there? If no, shouldn’t it be so?

(I guess the reason why I am speaking by way of example of the ship is that I don’t want to sound too pompous in naming the flaw I believe to have eliminated completely, as the very reason I’m doing this analysis is because I fear very much that I haven’t, hence leading me to further fear that while I fool myself with romantic ideas about my victory over this certain flaw, my titanic might just sink!!)

Well…it’s not exactly what I expect it to be, I mean, I this ship does bump an occasional iceberg here and there, so what does this mean?
There can only be two conclusions, one, am I still flawed and too pompous to face it, and two is there some other reason I still haven’t been able to fathom.

If the former be the case, then I should try to redo the whole algebra involved in deriving my current status of how I sail my ship today? But it is a fact that my ship has better navigation than the average person in its sea. Also, more than five people have asked for advice on how to sail their ship, and commended me later. What does this tell me?

Considering the latter and scanning the horizon, consistency tells me maybe I face icebergs only in certain waters, let’s call them imperfect waters for now.(and free myself of some guilt!)

I time and again recheck my algebra, be sure, confident, and lock the answer (yes, I consider it as crucial as answering the 2Crore question in KBC2). I self assuredly set out to another sailing, challenging the sea, waiting for the icebergs in the “imperfect waters”.

Come to think of it, shouldn’t I be looking at the broader picture? Maybe the icebergs I talk about are merely other ships who haven’t trimmed their helms like I have to face icebergs. Maybe it’s their imperfections that make me think I haven’t succeeded. Yes it IS true, it IS that.

That’s it, my dilemma is over.

I know it seems like the conclusion is something I want to believe, rather than the real picture, but believing what I want to believe isn’t one flaw I claim to have overcome. And if it finally gives me peace of mind, so be it!

Every one of us is flawed, and we live in a flawed world among flawed people following flawed rules in a flawed society. Flawed is the only way to be, if you try to be perfect, you just end up leaning on another flaw to find a, well, flawed answer!!

Secrets

We all have secrets. Some are facts we hide coz we don’t think they are impressive enough. Sometimes we hide something coz we think it might make us look bad. Sometimes we hide things coz they don’t seem to match the image we want to project. And sometimes they are just white lies.

I have secrets, things I wouldn’t really mind sharing with others, but sometimes it seems it will make them seem less close to me then I actually consider them. I have other secrets, regarding a few strategies I use in business, which I don’t share with anyone but my most dexterous associates. Then there are things your don’t really hide but don’t admit as well, kind of glamorising the truth, which is not really bad like lying or hiding anything, but on the borderline perhaps.

Over the years I have realised that the no of secrets a person has, and the time and energy he/she spends maintaining them or keeping them from others is a direct account of the insecurity that person feels. Not that I am judging, but talking about myself, there was a time in my life I used to really worry about my “image” in the world, n go to gr8 lengths to maintain it. These great lengths include letting people believe in what mightn’t be accurate but seemingly impressive, and in some cases, lying. But as time moved on, I got more in touch with myself, this whole plethora of secrets somehow seemed to shrink. Not that I was watching or keeping a track of this change, but now when I see others people doing the same, n I remember my days of indulgence, I cant help but wonder where it all went, and how. What did I do to make it go away.

The more one thinks about making an impression on the world, the more he moves away from his goal to do so. To be a hero, one has no option but to stop trying to be one, and just be himself. He has to be fearless about being the exact opposite, or he will lose. A hero is not who thinks like others, a hero is one who the world appreciates coz he thinks differently.

And that’s what we take so long to realise. The biggest victory is not over the world, but over self.

Nobody is perfect. But if we identify all our strong points and week points, then proactively work towards getting over every shortcoming and increasing our strengths, some day we will come as close to perfection as can be.

And this is very possible and very achievable. Remember, the soul has enormous powers of regeneration. Its like the phoenix, if we recognise it. Else, its just plain crap.

Life is what we make of it, not by regretting, not by self loathing, and not by ignoring criticism, but by imbibing the lessons learnt and told into our lives, being true to ourselves and our work, being clear about our goals and how far we are ready to go for them, and being convinced about our ability of doing the invincible once we set our minds to it!!

10 cynical rules to write a book

Ever wondered how people often dislike listening about other peoples’ detailed stories about their lives, but continue make bestsellers out of similar written accounts otherwise known as biographies?

I was watching the sitcom Friends the other day, in which Joey invites everyone to a one woman play called “why don’t you love me-the story of a women’s life”, which set me thinking about one person plays, then about plays about self. Which is quite similar to autobiographies and biographies. So when Chandler was talking about the play which only he landed up watching as nobody else showed up for, he mentioned it quite fondly to Monica and said he loved the play, and wanted to know about Monica’s first period. She was quite freaked out at this. In another scene, Phoebie identifies with Chandler’s description of the show.

The point I’m trying to make here is that nobody would be interested in knowing about details of anyone’s’ lives, at least to everyone’s’; don’t we often hear people complaining of others who just don’t end their sob stories? Well just make a play or a book or a seemingly glamorous piece of written form of art, and it sells like hot cakes!!!

This puts things in a new perspective. Is literature such a strong form of art that it can glorify otherwise absolute crap to something so interesting to make topics of discussion at book clubs around the world?

A little part of my mind says I might be missing the point here, being so pretentiously exited about writing this column that I didn’t actually think this through. Isn’t it that biographies and autobiographies that are in demand are only those of famous or successful or rich people? I mean, who would want a biography of a common man who works 14 hours a day, has never taken a day off except Sundays which he likes to spend sleeping or relaxing. But then if we extend this discussion to include stories and novels and plays as well, what would the scenario be like? I am currently reading a book by Alex Hailey, in which he describes the last 9 generations of his family, starting at a village in Africa to slave trafficking on to American soil. The cover says it’s a bestseller, and I too bought it with much enthusiasm, which I think is the only factor today which keeps me reading it, but how interested are we in lives of villagers and slaves in actual life? Yes it stirs a few strings of sympathy in our hearts, but really, how much time will an average person in today’s life spend in pondering over such topics? Just convert it into a book and Voila!! Its art, so big in demand that it’s 1 million books in print. With all due respect to Alex Hailey and his book Roots, which I vouch for is quite a piece of art, the point I am trying to make still remains, that written word has the strength to turn irrelevance into relevance. This means,


Rule # 01: It’s not just what you tell; it’s also how you tell that makes your book sell. The art of telling is what makes people listen.

I think I reached to this point of discussion because I subconsciously wanted to. I consider myself a budding writer who wants to write a famous book someday, which can be remembered long after I’m gone. I dream to join the list of great authors of all times, but I’ve always put off writing it because I haven’t found something moving enough to write about. I’ve read many books in my life, but only a shelf-full of them have given me something to chew on and made a change of an affect, however insignificant, in my life. This brings us to

Rule # 02: focussing on what the reader gathers out of your book rather that what you want to tell will help with the sales.
and

Rule # 03: With the art of how to tell, if you also have something to tell, now that’s something.

You might ask, how can I be unqualified and still be pretentious enough to frame these rules of writing a book? Have I ever written a book let alone a bestseller? Have I written ANYTHING that’s ever been published?

I would (trying to sound unpretentious, but at the risk of sounding stubborn bordering on arrogant) answer that by saying I am just trying to learn from the mistakes of other writers and authors, in a way, I may not be a good writer, but I most certainly am an intelligent reader with a sound opinion! So, that makes me somewhat of a (self-proclaimed) critic!! Come to think of it, isn’t this pointing to..

Rule # 04: keep the critics in mind, think what they might complain and be a pain in the a** about. (Profanity, for example!)

But its not just critics who read your book. There is a group of actual intelligent readers who may not like your book. Now the trouble here is, the actuelly intelligent people keep their opinion to themselves, don’t brag about their intelligence and discredit your book. The fact is they can be very good critics, but choose not to, as they are intelligent enough to mind their own business. Unfair, how do we writers know how close, deviated to or bang-on is our idea on which we hope to write that perfect book?

Rule # 05: criticism that shouts is important, criticism that drops subtle hints, more so!

“If intelligent man disapproves, its bad; if a fool applauds, its worse!”

Irrelevance is the word that comes to mind. (no, not by the contents of this column, shut up!) readers have known to omit reading paragraphs from books that don’t really manage to hold their attention, and that keeps a book from being perfect!
Rule 06: sounding intelligent is not important, what you write should actuelly BE intelligent.
Many of the recent commendable novels and works of art have included or inspired by current issues, political, geographical,

next ones are

Rule #07 Be informed

and

Rule #08 be original

Use all your knowledge of figures of speech you learnt in school, similies, metaphors, even the weird sounding transferred epithet! Just pour everything to blend that perfect juice!! (see how I do it?)

Rule#09: be witty, funny, a little light-hearted fun never harmed anyone (or any book!!)

Not really rocket science!!


Shri Harivansh Rai Bachchan’s “Madhushala” doesn’t need any introductions. It’s a true example or resurrection and determination, connecting with one’s soul, read the subconscious thoughts and deliver it on paper in a manner legendry! It will be remembered and will inspire the likes of me for the next many generations without the dust of time diminishing its sheen.
I respect Vikram Seth, to a degree unsurpassed! A recent interview I read of him on the launch of his latest book told me how simple he is, and just writes from the heart. Reading his creations enchant one with the purity of his soul!
These two examples are of great writers tell us they don’t follow any rules, just their hearts. So,


Rule # 10: Write from the heart, without giving a thought to any rule. Be true to yourself in your writing, and the world will connect to it as sure as you are a human.
Write what you actually feel, without paying heed to this or any other worthless rule-book. That’s when you will present a work of art and wouldn’t that be something!!

Quite amusing, but also mighty true!!

Indigestion: The Story of my guilt.

It started down my stomach in similar fashion as bubbles rising in agitated cola…restless, dynamic, upsetting, scorching, in accordance to the beats too: 5…6…7…8…, a constant ally since my biggest mistake.


No. The correct word was Crime. Yes, I was guilty of treachery, sinful of betraying trust, betraying faith put in me by the team I had lead, and whipped up a recipe for disaster…sheer disaster!!



“…5…6…7…8…
…1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…
…2…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…”

The count of beats seemed to echo even in the mention of the entire three months we had practiced for the fest. It was hard work, deciding songs to arranging equipment, selecting dancers to acquiring practice space, planning steps to tackling college bureaucracy….not to mention the endless hours of practice. I had spent many nights visualizing steps, deleting what didn’t seem right in my mind, thinking of new ones, analyzing, playing the routine over and over till it seemed perfect.

We were preparing for the performance of my dreams, the finale of my student life by performing an Indian-western fusion dance in the university fest. All my college life I had felt like I an outsider, and to make up for the fact that I never seemed to fit in a crowd of people whose lives seemed governed by science, technology, equations and seemingly revolting theory of science, I had decided to leave my mark by something that made me feel really alive and reminded me that my life wasn’t a complete waste: a choreography.

I made my way out of the university gate thought the crowd pushing to get in, shoving and resistant, hoping to be a part of the celebrity musical night that I was leaving behind. The gala had become for me as vile as the warm scorching bile that had risen to near my heart, making me breathless in effort to deal with the crowd with one hand as I put the other one on my chest.


“…5…6…7…8…”
It was like a happy journey: dancing, teaching, practicing, seeking approval of the faculty and the management, encouragement of friends and skepticism of cynics. And nothing could dampen the morale. As Erich Segal once put it, “without dubitation, they lucubrated indefatigably!!”
By Jove!!

Even more memorable was the time when we finally relaxed: ate bad food in our disgusting canteen, drank Pepsi or whatever was available, laughed till our stomachs hurt, bitched about rivals, cursed the system, cleared our visions, endeared our goals….just being together felt good, our zeal uniting us into a kinship, an affection bound neither by the world nor by ourselves.

They felt like my children, sometimes they looked up to me, pulled my leg, danced themselves to exhaustion, frustrated me with their clumsiness….but they were all gems, every one of them: willing to be driven, motivating me to motivate them in a journey for perfection….and to improve beyond that.
And they had chosen me to lead them from the front.

The bile rose up further, shrinking in size but gaining in heat, burning into my throat like a deep-red smoldering amber of coal refusing to be doused by bucket-fulls of self assurance I constantly poured on them, fueled by a single deliquescent yet potent fuel: Guilt. I kept walking, I had to cross the road but I couldn’t trust my legs.



How I managed to pour myself into the metro was a wonder, the only thing I recollect is reaching into my wallet for the smart-card, and the choking and the burning in my throat that refused to go away like a bad throat itch, no matter how much you cough.


“…5…6…7…8…”
It was a tensed day, the final competition. The semi-finals had warned us of a flaw, and we were lucky to be short listed. I had changed certain steps in the boys’ routine, and I knew we hadn’t had enough practice for that. The responsibly of the performance weighed heavy on my shoulders. We tried to relax, but the long wait before the performance left us with cold sweat and naked fear.

At last the performance began. We were ready, and while speaking the final words of encouragement in my teams’ ears, I tried to feel the confidence I was radiating, of the boys adjusting to the new scheme of steps.
The girls had a head start, and as they gracefully finished their classical part, we walked on the stage, hearts pounding, fists clenched. The view in front was nothing more than a haze, as we started. I wanted to glance back and check if others were fine, but I told myself it would be, trying to scare the stress and the fear away and concentrate on my performance.

And when the point of change came, it was I who forgot the steps.

I stood motionless for about four seconds, and caught up with the rest, but I knew our grand drive to victory had closed forever.

I finished the rest of the show in automation and to avoid facing the crowd, left quietly.

I felt my tongue lased with that dreadful taste; so much so, I wanted to cut it off. My mouth felt on fire like my throat, and the metal rod I clung to for support felt cold and grimy against my wet face. A final violent reflex of effort to vomit it out of my system left me crying bitterly, sitting on the floor of the metro; helpless and incurable, beaten and solitary.

Woman in the café

That day I was sitting at my favourite open air café I often go to, to clear my head. I was getting bored at home, the weather was mesmerizing; it was drizzling and then not, perfect for coffee and the air, gentle breeze copulating with the light playful sun made it a perfect day. Among a sandwich, a latte and a book, I looked up to notice her sitting at another table in front of me, alone, staring at her now-empty cup. Despite the dexterity in the writing of Khalid Hussaini, I just couldn’t bring myself back to “The Kite Runner”.

She was dressed casually in a dark blue levis and a while linen shirt, a wallet, a cellphone and some keys with a yellow Volkswagen beetle Kay chain lay forgotten on the table. Her eyes were unfocussed, her back relaxed, hands toying with a single rose from the vase. She had the expression as if she had been waiting for someone, but he hadn’t showed up. She was unaware and unaffected by the many curious glances she was attracting, including mine. Totally absorbed in her thinking, looking slightly to her left, rose in both hands constantly turning and tossing, her hair blew in the wind, troubling her, but she dint care. She seemed lost and totally involved in her actions, her thinking; as if recounting a part of her life that had brought her to this, probably with whom she was waiting for, trying to find a conclusion to it all. Her face was beautiful, with a slight tinge of sadness, as she kept on waiting. She seemed beautiful without makeup, free of the pretentiousness and the corruption of the world. Tiny lines under her eyes made her look tired of the charade that had gone on for too long, like a bus ride with no stops that life sometimes seems. She looked pure, pristine, vulnerable....it made me want to go there and hug her and comfort her, tell her its all right and he will come and meet, whoever it is who is was waiting for, as its must be no less than a sin to ditch such a beautiful soul!!

As for her beau, he must have to be really inhuman not to be thankful for the love of such delightful and graceful a woman!

Throughout this she didn't see me see her, and she must have decided to leave since she paid her bill; that’s when her query seemed to arrive-a middle-aged couple, her parents! I was wrong the whole time! She hugged them and suddenly the moods changed, her quiet lips now stretched to a smile as wide as the Boston harbor, and among the affection and the fondness, they sat down to talk and to lunch. Figures out the parents got a little late driving in from out of town.

Its times like these that one remembers, which the woman had nothing to do with, while I felt a part, yet apart from her, and it strangely made me feel elated to witness it give such pure joy to my heart!


Sometimes I look back and wish it was me she was waiting for.

5 minute poem: Creativity

Trigger the mind to stumble on a colour
A clown’s clumsiness to a crusaders’ valour
Doodling characters set the subconscious free
Upon the sea, we grow a tree

The thugs, the silhouette, the individual galore,
From Venice to Greenland to Tahiti to Bangalore,
Yet all in the mind for the chef to whip up
A masala dosa served with jelly in a cup

Each dish very different, sensational, azure
Sometimes rib-tickling, sometimes bizarre
Appallingly shining orange marmalade
Or some exotic dish from Adelaide

Games of mind, capturing reflections
Creative writing is inscribing perfections
The scrumptious, peristaltic, plethora of gems
The kind, singing corners and hems

Gives wings to our dreams, limbs to the subconscious
Create what we wish, from dreadful to gracious
Open arms to sky, smaller then imagination
I love to feel this feeling of regeneration.

Make failure work, perceptions regenerate
We play God ourselves in whatever we create
When flowers can fornicate, and food can shout
That, my friend, is what creativity all about!!

My crime

I was in college then, n he was one of the best friends I had. The kind who remembered to involve me in everything the gang did, who helped me all he could, in whatever whacky way I asked, who accepted me as I was, without getting critical.
He was the best friend one could ask for, for support, to stand through thick n thin, to have fun n to hang out with.

But I wasn’t all that. All my college life I tried to fit in to the rest of the gang, in with time it did give me a lot of identity crisis. At times I would try to prove to others and to myself that I was cooler then the rest, and believe me, it could get pretty weird!

It was one of those fits in my final year. Overconfidence and pride had taken me to the height of being conceited. In one of my pathetic deeds, I lied to him. It was about a girl I knew through him. And he found out my lie. I will never forget his face when he finally confronted me, it was not just anger, he was genuinely upset. And I was still conceited enough to not care.

Its been more then a year since then. I have apologised t him a number of times, but I guess that wasn’t enough. I guess it takes a lifetime to build trust, and as I found out the hard way, you get just one chance.

After college we went separate ways, and in the one year sinc college ended, life has taught me a lot. More than once I have thought about this incident, and felt insanely guilty and ashamed, but I didn’t get a chance to say it.

Dear Amit, if you ever read my blog, consider this a public apology or a account of guilt, just know that I am really sorry. Even if we never meet again in life, remember I treasured your friendship as I still do, and if could get just one chance in life to turn back time, I would.

My insult: insult poem

Short fat and balding
Speech-blunt n scalding
Overconfident, impulsive, proud
Think I’m da hero f da crowd

Self as big as Eiffel
Insults pointed as rifle
Critical as ur dad
Love to see u sad

Rebel without a cause
Crusading without a pause
Insensitive, crude, obtuse
Tongue uncontrolled and loose

4pm I get up n sleep at dawn
Wonder why I never can follow the sun
Someday the price I’ll have to pay
Of lack of routine, time n day

I eat what I want, when I want
Pull up my car at a fast food joint
Eat junk n drown with diet coke
Burp, with a finger my belly i poke

Shave I don’t, cut my nails I forget
Believe me it’s not the pleasure I get
Too much f a hassle, too lazy for that
Forget my manners while I yawn n scratch

I think I’m better then the rest
But hesitate to bring my skills to test
My skills I say I don’t have to prove
To heed to a camel, mountains don’t move

Am Stubborn, short-tempered and patience I lack,
Proudly brag of my wit n tact
When I used them last I don’t recall
Rather, I’d say, ignorance is a ball!

Insults are what I’m really good at
Love getting even, saying tit for tat
Even if m the guilty one
In that case I say, it’s all in good fun!

That’s all my faults I swear to thee
Any others I refuse to see
And the few I do see I shamelessly deny
Coz in my poem, I claim, the rest don’t rhyme!!