astute perceptions

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

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 t

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

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 w

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 o

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,

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 c

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 drea

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 ab

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

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

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