Category: Thoughts uncut

After a Year

I’ve spent the last year publishing a post every day. Today, it feels like a huge achievement, at least for me. When I started this blog, my brother — my sole supporter at that time — encouraged me to write a post every day. Whether I was sick or had an exam, I had to have a post out no matter what.

I couldn’t because I didn’t know what to write half the time. And when I took up the task in 2016, it was no different. Often, I’d have no topic sentence, no conflicting opinions, and no interest, whatsoever, in inflicting myself and others with bashful political stances. I couldn’t think what else I’d write about.

Some days, I forced myself to write something — a thought, a quote, or anything — because I had to keep going. Those were tough days; days I had to battle the block and doubt my abilities at the same time. So many days I wondered the purpose of my writing, and if people would bother at all to read. But when morning dawned, I came back to my computer and wrote. Because I just couldn’t do without.

However, for all the struggling, I didn’t write glorious pieces of prose. I just wrote a lot of crap, instead. I couldn’t help it. I even thought the bad writing was a result of forced writing, but I couldn’t help but write on. After three or four months of writing a post a day, it became a habit and I ached when I didn’t write anything in the morning. By midday, I panicked.

It pained me to put myself through what I knew was an ordeal that I didn’t have to. I knew people would understand if I just told them I’d had a bad day and don’t feel like doing a blog tonight. And yet, I’m glad I pushed myself. Today, looking back at the way I’ve blogged throughout the year, it feels rewarding. My blog has become a part of my being. It’s become my nature — my thing — to write something every morning. Even my colleagues know I come into work early just to write.

It came with a cost, though. Writing every day was taxing, and I had to give up a lot of other stuff. Like Facebook, for instance. I didn’t have the time to post pictures of myself pouting in front of punch bowls. I didn’t have the time to post quirky 140 characters, and my Instagram posts became so rare that my followers got notifications: “Your friend has posted something for the first time in a long time.” But none of that worried me too much. Sure, I would’ve liked a few likes, but I had made a choice to focus on my writing.

I wrote a lot of opinions. I figured out I had opinions over matters I thought I didn’t have opinions over. And since I knew people wanted to read what I wrote, I wanted to give them some sequence. I learnt to warp the chaos within to bring order — even if only for one post at a time.

The results were satisfying. I managed to hit a milestone of 500 followers. I know it’s a small number for someone who’s been in the blogosphere for a while. Despite that, though, I’m happy I’ve got a few people who I know want to read my blog. After a year of blogging, I’ve found myself out and I’ve found out how much I love my blog.

Save Our Souls

save-our-souls

When I realised I had to go into the city — about 50 kilometres — to get a document signed at the local government office, I groaned. That’s neither a fun nor a cheap ride.

I booked a cab. As soon as I got into the vehicle, I sent the vehicle number, the driver’s name, phone number, and my destination to a close friend of mine. And then I called my friend and enquired — loud enough so that the driver heard me — if she had received my text.

It’s the safest way (until proven otherwise) to travel in India. And to cope with the local needs, cab companies have now introduced various options for riders to call for help with just a tap. As soon as you book a cab, you’ll get a message prompting you to share details of your ride to at least three people. During the ride, you’ll see a flashy red banner that’ll call your emergency contacts in seconds.

It’s protocol.

—

Having wound up a rough week at work, I was home texting a friend of mine. He had just moved abroad and had been busy unpacking and settling down. It was the first time we got to chatting in weeks.

We were discussing work when my friend said he was considering a job as a cab driver. He mentioned Uber, but anything similar would do too. Plus, this friend of mine loves driving, and the street plan in his area is great for that.

We were still talking about Uber when he informed me that cabs in that country don’t have the SOS option.

It took me a while to register that. I thought back to the previous day when I had hailed a cab and realised — with shame — that I live in a country where caution is ingrained so deep into our brains that we want them even in our apps. We don’t trust our society and we’re proud to showcase SOS as a marketable feature.

People halfway across the world, however, don’t even see the need for it.

It seems insignificant, but it says a lot about our lifestyle. We’re so obsessed with being careful that if a cab company doesn’t have the emergency feature, we look down on it just because it doesn’t have the emergency feature.

Well, that says a lot more about us than it does about the cab company’s morality and ethics.

Our conversation lasted a good 40 minutes. But every minute after that, I’ve been thinking about the SOS. So we’ve become a nation that deprives the assurance of basic safety to our citizens. Who’s to save our souls now?

—|—

And with that question, I’ll wind up this year. It’s been great publishing a post a day, every day through 2016. It’s made me realise a lot about myself, all of which I’ll cover next year.

Have a happy new year, folks.

Judge Not

We’re all always judging others. We take one look at people and pass decisions. Attire, attitude, or anything in between, could make us roll our eyes and drop our jaw.

I do it quite a lot, too. When I see someone hailing a cab, for instance, for a distance they could cover in public transport, I raise eyebrows. They’re the cause for jammed roads and blocked walkways. And yet, today, when I took a long-distance cab, I requested my driver to drop me at the doorstep. I could have just walked from the street to my door — that’s what I always do — but I’d had a bad day and was too distraught to walk that little distance.

That’s when I wondered. How would’ve I reacted if it had been someone else? The painful realisation: I would’ve raised eyebrows and shaken my head in disapproval.

Sometimes, it’s just too easy to assume. It’s too easy to brand someone as lazy, selfish, or arrogant. What’s difficult, though, is understanding their situation. We expect others to sympathise with our problems before naming us names. But when the table turns, when we have to understand someone else’s situation, we’re seldom willing.

We think first impressions make the best, but we forget that anyone could have a bad day. We think second chances don’t make a difference, but they mean the world sometimes.

Today, I learned a lesson: never judge a person on the first encounter. We could be correct, but we could also be in the wrong. Because we’d never anticipate who’d surprise us when.

And Bob Marley said it best:

Judge not

Before you judge yourself.

Judge not

If you’re not ready for judgement.

The Task of Gift-Giving

It’s my mother’s birthday. For weeks leading to today, I wondered what present I should get her. It wasn’t easy figuring it out.

flowers

My dad’s birthday falls at the end of the week and I know he’d appreciate the book I got him. He’s always said he wanted it.

My mother, on the other hand, never says what she wants. And so I had no idea. I wanted to gift her with a surprise, but I didn’t want to stick to age-old conventions of wall hangers, posters, or ornaments that collect more dust than memories. I wanted to give her something that she’d use every day, something that would make her smile when she looked at it, and something she’d cherish on a day-to-day basis.

It was a nice thought, but I couldn’t think of any such thing.

I don’t know what my mother likes because she’s never told us what she likes. Even in my earliest memories, my mother’s always been the kitchen figure, with a floured nightgown and butter-covered fingers. Thanks to her I grew up knowing I needed baking powder for baking. Because of her, I developed a passion for artisanal cooking. And she who taught me to treat the kitchen as a place of worship. But everything she ever made in her kitchen was for us. Sure, she’d have a couple pastries, but even when she’s unwell, she’d push her boundaries to make our favourite food.

I didn’t think there ever was anything that’d justify my reverence.

So I asked her, instead. From past experience, I knew she’d only want something for the kitchen or our home. She’s never once wanted anything just for herself.

This year was no different. She asked for a lunch box to pack meals for my dad. I got her that lunch box, chiding her all the way. But then I also got her a pair of soul-comforting soft-soled slippers. Her feet has seen so many bad days, and no one deserves pampering more than mom.

My Big Fat Fake Society

If you look up “caste” in Wikipedia, the first thing you’d see is a detailed explanation of India’s caste system. We pioneered the art of classifying people according to their birth. We mark and judge others by something they have no control over themselves. We are the vile people who shun our fellows because they’re different. Oh, and we’re also the first ones to name America a racist country.

We, Indians, are a fake society. Here’s how our system works: We live inside a cocoon of a society pretending we’re all-inclusive forward-thinkers. However, every day, every meaningless conversation at home or at familial gatherings would revolve around caste.

Shocking? Wait till you hear the rest.

If I announce to my family, at dinner, that a friend is getting married the following month, their first question would be if the couple is from the same caste. The second question, whether they belong to our caste.

And if I even dare to tell my family that I’m considering working abroad, their biggest worry would be to find a groom (in our caste) who wouldn’t be threatened by such a wife. My, it’s an abomination to want to live in a foreign country alone.

Even though plenty of men (in our caste) nowadays live in first-world countries, they’re nevertheless reluctant to marry a girl who’d talk about something more than what’s for dinner. It hurt a lot to hear it from my mother herself because I only see absurdity sprawled all over such a situation.

I had thought no one would be so silly now, but when I look around, all my married cousins went through the same excruciating filter. Pity some of them didn’t even recognize it. Some, of course, just didn’t care because they could immigrate to a country that sees snow. I know a friend whose parents had her blood group matched with her husband’s; she didn’t care a bit. It’s a little unrelated, but you get the idea.

It’s one thing to live amidst a limiting society, but another thing altogether to live in a closed caste system. There are plenty of tribes and societies across the world imposing unthinkable restrictions on women and children. But the difference is that they don’t hide it. They declare it as their tradition and take pride in it. (Whether it’s right or not is a debate for another time.)

The beloved caste system I’m in, however, hides in plain sight. It isn’t uncommon for a bunch of men at a family wedding, to brag about how shaving twice a day, every day would uphold their caste pride — because some castes ban men from growing facial hair. Amidst a larger crowd, though, they’d pretend as if caste is the last thing in their mind. Sad story: Until a few weeks ago, their pretense had me fooled too. It’s little things like these that make the biggest mark and hurt the most. And it’s shenanigans like these that degrade and warp the minds of every youngster in our society.