Lived in baby steps
Though he had seen more than most –
Benjamin Button.
Tag: postaday
Once in a lifetime
Last week, I took a break from my routine and went on a trip to the eastern part of India.
It was the state of Sikkim, famous for turban-clad gentlemen and multicoloured bead chains. With a budget I wouldn’t have spent if it hadn’t been an office team-trip.
Nevertheless, even though I was surrounded by my colleagues and their families, I still revelled every minute.
I tried river rafting, an experience I wasn’t so keen on during discussion, but cherish now. But what’s weird is that I didn’t realise how thrilled I was while in the raft. Sure, the ice-cold water splashing over my head, chilling every nerve of my body was fun — and even a little shaky. I laughed harder than I had in a long time, and I knew that. I smiled and waved at the camera, despite my camera-shyness. For the first time in my life, I became someone I didn’t know I already am.
That was the best part of the whole three kilometres on the raft: I was someone else altogether – in such a beautiful way. The entire 30 to 45 minutes were candid moments I’d never forget.
All this, I realised only when I saw the video of myself, being myself. I rafted not only on the lake that bridged two great Indian states (West Bengal and Sikkim), but also through my consciousness to self-realisation.
The new style
Together they stick:
Gelled hair.
From 33˚C to -6˚C
It was the best day of my life. It was the day I stood at the base of a near-frozen lake, with the cold piercing through every nerve of my body.
It was still the best day of my life.
Having lived all my life in a 30-above temperature, the sudden shock of falling ice and heat was more than just a life-altering experience.
It was the day I felt proud of myself: I had made it without falling ill. You’d think it’s easy climbing a tiny hill of about 300 meters — so did I — but it was far from easy. Despite a pair of normal socks, a pair of woollen ones, another pair of thermal socks, and rubber boots, I could barely feel my feet. My woollen gloves and the rented rubber ones didn’t stop my hands from going numb.
And we had a half hour to climb uphill and come back down before we ran out of oxygen. It was a battle against time and nature’s most freakishly beautiful phenomenon.
I don’t exaggerate.
When ice shards sting into flesh that’s only accustomed to heat, you’ll know what you’re made of.
And I realised I am made of stern stuff. I don’t just survive, I enjoy. And that revelation means more to me than anything else.
And that’s why it was the best day of my life.
Wonder what the hell I’m talking about? Details and photos coming soon.
Writers Need to Write
Warning: Contains no (intentional) philosophy.
I’ve been writing for a bunch of different audiences for a while now. And I realise why a writer needs to write for herself.
We know: Writers write.
But to whom?
Most often than not, writers write for someone they don’t know. In case of a blogger, the audience is their readers.
But for a writer working for a corporate, the audience is much wider, ranging from tech experts, to teachers, and even doctors. And oftentimes, the writer is so focussed on conveying a point to so many people, that she forgets that there’s reader within starving for attention.
When we write, we talk. We convey out thoughts to another person in such a way that we hope they understand. But do we even understand ourselves? Do we ever feed our own soul?
When we’ve been writing for so long for others — to meet criteria that fit external causes, to write in a way that others would agree or appreciate — that we lose our sense of personality.
We become writers who write what needs to be written. In other words, we write whatever we need to, to get the point across. Or, being honest, to pay the bills.
What’s then, the difference between someone who chose a professional career because that pays more and a writer who chose to write because she wanted to write?
If a writer is to survive (soul-wise), she needs to write something other that what others tell her to write. A writer needs to write imperfect prose. Because no one who writes for themself cares how it reads, it’s all about communicating your deepest desire; not just getting the right tone, the right call to action, and the perfect sentence length to match the design.
And sometimes, a personal journal is the way to go. Think about the days when you could just go, “Dear Diary, Jane was mean to me today…”
There’s something reassuring about writing to yourself. Because when you write to yourself, you write for yourself.
When you just let go of all the restrictions of a writing job, you understand there’s a whole world of ways to say the same thing. It gives you a shift of perspective your narrow-minded job would never approve of.
And that’s the beauty of it. When you’re just writing to make yourself smile a little wider each day, you see that it doesn’t matter what others think of your writing. It doesn’t matter that the word choice is a little awkward or the pun is too abusive, or, that your sentence has no emphasis at all.
Because when you write for yourself, you’re free to write.
The Chaos Within 