Tag: blogging

Jet lagging

I love waking up early. I love challenging the sun and facing it upright just as it shows its face from behind the clouds. But not even I enjoyed being wide awake at 2:45 am.

Well, my preferences didn’t matter, because the day after we landed in a timezone about 11:30 hours away from home, my system was so messed up that at two am in the morning, I felt as awake as I’d have felt at 1 pm at home.

Ah, the miracles of jet lag.

on air

The weird thing about being jet lagged, though, is that for the most part of the flight, my symptoms were different from the rest of my colleagues. Sure, we were all up by 3 am, but while they were all hungry at odd hours and remained jet lagged for over three days, I was in and out of jet lag in less than 24 hours. Apart from being jealous, to everyone else, I was the elephant in the room—the only one comfortable with the drastic change in time.

When some of my colleagues heard that I’d be traveling over the seas, they all said the same thing: regardless of how drowsy I felt, I shouldn’t ever sleep before 11 pm on the day I land. That shouldn’t be too hard, I thought as I boarded my first plane to Dubai. It was an overnight flight starting at 4 am and no sooner had I gotten on that I yawned far and wide. A few minutes into the flight, however, I was still up. I couldn’t sleep even though my eyes drooped and my brain bored. By the time the sunrise became visible over the clouds, they had served breakfast and I felt active again.

It didn’t take long for me to to doze on an off, but I didn’t ever once fall into proper sleep. It hit me hard only when I landed in Dubai. It was a brief transit, and we spent no time looking around at the massive airport—something I regret to this moment. Our next flight was even longer: 15.50 hours.

The enormity of that flight dawned on me when I felt as if I’d spent 2 days on the plane when we had in fact flown only for an hour. But we made it through, and landed not as excited as I’d hoped I’d be, but thankful beyond expectation. In hindsight, though, the flight wasn’t too bad. But at that particular moment, I was glad my feet found land. I still wasn’t sleepy, though. It was only while in the cab with end-of-summer breeze whizzing past my ear that I realised how sleepy and tired I felt.

To ensure we didn’t sleep, our colleagues sponsored dinner and we spent a long night wolfing down fancy burgers and kickass milkshakes. When we called it a night, it was early in the morning back home. Tired as a log, I had a peaceful nap—until I woke up at 2:45 as fresh as a flower, cursing the colleague who predicted it. That afternoon, the weight of the sleepless nights came crashing down on me. And it didn’t help that I was in a boring meeting with sleep in my mind.

That night, things started falling into place. I fell asleep on time and awoke on time. From that day on, I’ve been one of the few to tolerate the time zone variation without a pill or pain.

And I couldn’t help but feel proud.

A fancy flight

I was aboard my first fancy flight ever. It’s one of the biggest airline carriers in the world, some of my closest colleagues and friends recommended them. Expecting all things nice and welcoming, I trudged along the aisle of what seemed like a highway of airplane seats, to find my own small corner.

It awaited me with a small pillow for back support, a set of headphones to help drain the noisy kids around, and an open window shade to deliver awe throughout the next four hours. I gaped at the mild lighting and fell into the arms of my seat with thankful abandon.

I had stayed up all night walking through immigration and customs, and then sat through a couple of hours at the lounge cranky and headachy just so I could grab that soft violet pillow and snuggle away. As the hands of my clock inched towards the 4 am mark, the captain’s voice boomed overhead, excited and welcoming.

It did seem a little ironic for him to be so cheerful when almost all of his passengers were sleep-deprived and as dull as doormats. He remained unperturbed, and wished fus all a pleasant journey, promising that his crew would serve us to our satisfaction.

After the customary warning messages and announcements, which no one heeded as per custom, the captain set the wheels in motion and we were away. After cruising on the runway for a few minutes, I ascended above, along with three hundred other passengers. Dubai had called and I had obliged. Now all that separated us were time, space, and a long plane journey.

I’m not a first time flier, but every time I step on a plane, I feel the same excitement and the same anticipation as any first timer. And I enjoy the feeling. That’s what made me twist around in my seat, admiring the massiveness that surrounded me. Unlike domestic carriers, international ones accommodate more people — I realised the obvious a little later than usual.

Over my head, the airline hood mimicked the sky outside. Star-like glowy things flickered down at me from a blanket of blackness. In front of me just above the tray table, a complete entertainment system sat waiting to entertain me. Live footage from the various cameras fitted outside of the plane would’ve displayed all that lay below us among the clouds—if only it had been a day flight. Nevertheless, the entertainment system was more than enough to keep passengers occupied. The moment we settled down, my neighbour — a ten-twelve year old by the looks of her — switched on her televised screen and navigated to Ballerina the movie. She ripped open the plastic bag that contained a set of headphones and immersed herself for the rest of the journey. Next to her, her mother settled with an air pillow dozing right off. Frequent fliers, I observed.

Well, I wasn’t a frequent flier and so wanted to get the most I could from the 4-hour flight. Almost hugging on to the window pane, I anticipated the sun rise. Perhaps it was because we flew back in time, but the sunrise didn’t happen for about one hour before we landed in Dubai. In any case, I was awake when it did. It was more of a sunset because I’ve never seen the sun rise over my head — a juxtaposition by itself. Even then, it was a magnificent sight.

By the time the sun had risen in the world below us, on the plane, our air hostesses had begun handing out breakfast. That’s when I realised the rumbling I’d been hearing for a while was my stomach and not the air craft’s engine.

Masking my greediness, I accepted the tray with grateful hands. People complain about airplane food being cold and unpleasant, but I liked mine. Minced lamb omelette, mashed potatoes, and a green pea patty made a decent breakfast. Plus, fruit slices, bread, and a muffin completed a fine meal for a sleep-deprived soul. It was my first time trying such airplane food and I did enjoy it more than others said I would.

By the time I finished, the drooping sensation that had shrouded my eyes cleared up and I felt more awake than ever.

Little did I know that it was the premise for jet lag — a devil by itself.

Essaying

essay writing

Over the last week, I prepared for an English exam. That’s when I realised how pathetic of a test taker I am. I had to take an academic-grade exam for work, and having been away from the official learning arena for over four years, I had no idea what to expect. I returned to the classroom environment and its fierce competition, with a little apprehension and more than a little nervousness. I could only think of all the things that could go wrong.

I was reading through sample essays when I noticed how much I had changed since my years at school. The recommended essays looked nothing like the ones I now write. When I write a piece for my personal blog or for a work blog, I try to focus on my voice and my opinion, and then form logical structures. The essays for the test, however, seemed childish to an extent. They tried too hard to be unbiased and cover as many points as possible, resulting in too much generality. It was at that point that I also realised—with much dread—that I too had to write in the same way if I were to acquire a proper score.

Gulping much air and all my doubts, I read essay after essay. Every one of them had the same structure: introduction, merits, demerits, and a conclusion. That should be easy, I thought before sitting down to write my own. I read the first essay prompt and felt all sanity evaporate from my mind. I blanked out. I couldn’t, for a moment, understand what to write or how to write.

I had a meagre amount of time to go from an outline to a final draft—a feat I’d never attempt elsewhere. Yet I had no other choice. I could’ve written a scrappy blog post in that time, but to construct a proper academic essay was harder than I assumed.

The samples looked easy enough, and they read like an immature person’s way of presenting their ideas. And yet only when I had to balance two sides of an argument in one essay—with a time crunch of 20 minutes and word limit of 300—did I understand how hard it must be for students. With so many things to consider, it’s no wonder academic essays lack quality writing, overflowing, instead, with stuffed and half-baked arguments.

Accepting that shamefaced reality, on the day of the exam, I wrote an essay so contrary to my nature, and walked out of the room. I had done what I had to do. I didn’t know how I did, but I know now for sure that I’d never enjoy writing academic essays.

Morning’s here

My alarm goes off as it always does, and I wake up to my well-crafted routine: yet another week of working all day and reading through the night.

I’m awake tireless as the fresh morning oxygen spreads through the room, seeping through me, soaking me from within, waking the rest of the deep-sleeping cells in my brain.

Though it’s only five AM when I look through my mosquito-proofed window, I see that the navy sky has already lost most of its depth, while lighter hues of blue appear in batches like patches on rough skin. Day breaks early, the long-lingering aftermath of a dry and scorching summer; a May that followed months of rainless skies.

Somewhere far away, a lone young cuckoo calls, jerking the others in the family awake. They all call to each other greeting the rising day, as I turn away—it’s time for my workout.

A few burps, some burpees and lunges later, I put a pot on the stove and cast my window’s curtains aside. Turquoise has replaced the navy and white streaks meld with the blue as the morning prepares to wake the sleeping sun. Grabbing my tea, I sit facing my window, looking through the checkered mosquito-net, looking beyond at the now cloud-filled sky.

I look closer, harder, squinting my eye at the unblemished white blanket that hangs over my roof, trying to catch a glimpse, a peek, at the waning crescent of a moon while she waits in stillness for the gliding clouds to gobble her remains. As she goes by, a gentle breeze wafts through the bars of my window, bringing with it, scent of warming wet sand and photosynthesising begonias from the neighbour’s balcony. It tricles my ears, whispering morning hope as I close my eye lids to embrace it. It kisses my eyelashes, teasing me to fall back, to grab a pillow pressing my face against its cool surface.

Breathing in deep, I open my eyes. For to fall back asleep would be to waste away the glory of day rise I had experienced. I drown my tea and reach for my towel. Turning away from the window where the sun steps out from under his covers, I head for a shower, a rhythm in my head.

Ah, June, how I adore thee.