It's official

I'm the oldest 26 year old in history.

Last weekend I indulged in excesses that would have been nothing more than a mere blip in my teenage years. Not so in my mid-20s it seems.

Four days later, and my feet still hurt from dancing in heels, my tummy is still griping from something I ate (or alcohol poisoning), and my memory remains firmly in a foetal position regarding some things better not recalled.

Don't get me wrong, I had a great time! But now I need a vacation to recover from my vacation. And it seems that two nights in a row of staying up until the wee hours of the morning are enough to prove that wild-times, short lived though they were, are firmly over. Could it be that I am officially... (gasp!), a grown up?

I'll consider it while I take another day to recover.

Work in Progress

You can fill up your days with inconsequentials. Shop till you drop and buy things you don't need.

You can work and work and work until you've stopped counting the hours you clock, driving your mind to places where exhaustion doesn't even begin to describe how you feel.

You can socialise and talk on the phone and rebuild friendships from the scraps left behind, knowing all the while that these new ties won't erase the old, no matter how hard you try.

Try everything. Stuff your days with everything you can.

Because when night comes, and your mind goes quiet, it all comes back.

Your memories emerge, wave after crushing wave.

Until the morning comes and you try again.

I am what I'd like to think of as a born-whiner. It's a natural talent and one I've steadily improved upon over the years.

So for us born-whiners (and I know there are more of you out there than you would care to admit!), it's especially hard to drum up the energy to be happy and grateful. Grateful about anything really. Even if life is one giant bed of roses, and one teeny, tiny thing goes wrong, the whiner tendencies bubble to the surface quicker than you can say "I can rise above it".

So it takes years of self-restraint and training, and perhaps a harsh word from a well-meaning friend about how no one likes a whiner, to focus on the good things. The things that you can be grateful for despite the annoying bits that are vying for your attention.

I'd like to think that I've now arrived at this place. It's been a long, hard road, and by no means is the struggle over. On an off-day, I go straight back to my natural inclinations and complain about everything in sight (and some out). But for now, life could really not be any better.

Well, perhaps if New York were a little closer... but that's another whine coming along.

Focus!

Life is good. Work is good. Friends and family are great. Almost no one I love and care about is getting sick(er) or dying (just yet).

I AM GRATEFUL!

Yay!

Everyone's got problems

This was brought to my attention during a conversation with a friend (one of the select few that is privy to the less frequent but still energetic whining that I must indulge in). So she was taken in by the woes and troubles of a colleague, a minor something that was made to seem like the Armageddon, and only later realised how piddly and downright silly these complaints were in comparison to the significantly larger and more serious problems in her own life.

The point, as she told me, was this; whether you've got a broken toe nail or a terminal illness, your problem is great and all-consuming only because it's your problem. No one has problems bigger or smaller than anyone else. They're all big. And they're all terrible. And only because they're personal.

Now, this insight may be as old as time, but I've taken the little gem to make my own woes just a little bit better. So when I've got the broken toe nail, I think of those with terminal illnesses. And should I have a terminal illness... well, then I'll know that what's required to make me feel better is to think of someone out there who's hopping around with a broken nail and thinking that the world has come to an end.

Try it. I think it works!

100-114

That's the average IQ of the human race (give or take a few points depending on group statistics, etc).

When I was younger, I wanted to be the gifted child.

The genius who could do math without getting an instant headache, and remember all the formulas required for the chemistry exams.Even my doctor dream died because I didn't have the intellectual aptitude for it, never mind the mythical status of being an astrophysicist or engineer par excellence.

I had to face it - I was normal. Just regular, average, nothing special.

As far as academia went, I was nothing outstanding. I had no grades that would be legendary; I was just normal.

Now though, when I see the geniuses with limited (if any) social skills, or the eating disorders; the brainiacs who hate their parents for all the pressure; the heavy-duty achievers with all the accolades and not much else; I am more than grateful for my normalcy.

For every one genius that appears to be relatively well-balanced and still make it to the top, there seem to be about ten that are totally screwed up.

Lesson for today people, embrace the normal; it's sadly underrated.

The Party of a Lifetime

I'm not trying to be morbid, but I frequently think about my funeral.
I've planned it out like I would any birthday party. Given some thought to the food, the drink, the decor, dress code and of course, the entertainment; as with any other, the speeches should be kept to a minimum!

When my grandad died, one of my aunts knocked me on the head for laughing too loudly the next day. Someone had said something funny, and I'd reacted. But of course, this wasn't 'proper'. I didn't take into consideration that the fact that I could laugh made is seem like I was grieving less for someone I loved. When I thought about it later, it seemed to me that my grandfather would've wanted a whole lot more laughing and a whole lot less crying at his wake.

Anyway. Since then, I've planned my own funeral in elaborate detail.
There will be no wearing of black. I'd like colour to help brighten up a sad day with a little visual stimulation. People always talk about funerals as a celebration of the person's life but then dress in black and white as if going to an extremely boring business meeting. For me, bring out the blues, reds, greens and yellows, and look happy about it!

There will also be good singing. I've had this arranged before anything else - I told a friend he would sing either at my wedding or my funeral, whichever comes first. At this present stage in my life, it seems the former is nowhere in sight so the funeral it will have to be.

Then there is the waxing eloquent about how lovely and perfect the dead person was. Hardly any eulogy tells the truth. Again, no one wants to be disrespectful of those dearly departed, prefering instead to lie in church about his/her nonexistent virtues. I'd like whoever spoke for me to keep it short, and keep it honest. A ten minute talk perhaps, outlining the main points - I had a terrible temper, made some horribly impulsive or ill-judged decisions, had more friends than enemies, loved my family, my dog and my food - all in equal measure, and for the most part, was pretty darn happy.

And then on to the things I love best - food, drink and merrymaking in the company of fun people.
The party of a lifetime, to celebrate mine.

Everyday People

We have an extraordinary ability to adapt. I don't mean in the scientifically proven sense of evolution, but in the way that we get used to changes in our situations, possessions, people, etc.

Wherever we are, we build a network of everyday people. They are not necessarily soul mates or best friends, but they become such an ingrained part of our lives simply because at a point in time, we have a shared location.

And then you move, or they move, and you find new everyday people, as do they. You keep in touch and write long emails, chat for hours on the phone perhaps.

Or maybe not. Maybe these people who you saw everyday, ate every meal with, spent some of your best and happiest times with, maybe they just fade away into oblivion. A memory you call on occasionally, if at all, with no great emotion attached.

Here's to all my everyday people, who are still slipping away as I'm writing this.

Cancer Chronicles

It seems to be the season of recurrence and death.

You can pray hard for things to not happen.

You can believe in the power of 'good', and that 13 year olds don't die when there's still so much of life that they haven't seen or done.

And yet, my pint-sized hero, older and wiser and calmer than any adult in his situation is dead.

When recurrence and death do occur, the rationalisation process begins.

I can imagine he's in a better place, no longer suffering etc etc; because really, what else is left than to explain it any which way I can?

Unfortunately, whether I can comprehend what happened or not doesn't change the fact that a little boy died, a family lost their only child and the rest of us feel guilty and grateful for still breathing.

Getting older and all that

It's been a while.

But what better time to make a reappearance than when I'm supposed to be studying?

I have a birthday coming up and that's got me to thinking about where I am at this point in my life etc etc.

When I was 8 years old, I was pretty certain that by 25 I would be married and have at least one kid. It was what my mother did and therefore it was good enough for me. This was before I discovered I did not like children.

When I was about 15, I wanted to be a hot-shot professional making tonnes of money and living the good life sans husband and kids. Never realised that knowing what you wanted to do and then being good at it was part of the criteria of being a hot-shot.

By 20, I wanted to stay young forever and never get a job unless it involved loads of travel to exotic foreign lands. A year later I got a PR job that took me to Delhi, Chennai and let us not forget, Baroda.

Ah well.

A few weeks short of 25, I know nothing worked out as I planned it.

So my new plan is to have no plans unless it involves deciding tomorrow's lunch.

The next 25 years (or however long I last) is going to be a series of menus.

(Over)Cautious?

I'm so busy trying to avoid the mistakes I made before, I making huge, brand new ones.

That perfect balance of learning from the past and enjoying the present while not fearing the future.

It eludes me.

Tonight, I realised a gift my parents gave me....

was the ability to sit in a fancy restaurant, drinking expensive alcohol and the knowledge of which knives, forks and spoons to use without embarrassing myself.

It is the same ease with which I can sit and eat a simple meal with no cutlery involved (true Indian style!).

When we were young, my sister and I used to hop over the wall of our garden and go to a labourer's shack next door. The lady was working on the renovation work of our neighbour's building. We sat on the floor, ate from her plate and played with her baby.

Looking back, I see the house was makeshift and tiny, the food simple.

But the enjoyment was the same as any we had when we ate out with our parents.

One day we were at her shack. The next, we were at the five-star President Hotel eating at their famous Thai Restaurant.

It never seemed strange or out of place, the dichotomy of our social interactions.

But now, when I see how uncomfortable some people are when they are not at a place that serves food 'just so', or see friends who are used to simple food shift uncomfortably when they are invited to la-di-dah restaurants, I am able to appreciate this gift.

So to conclude, I was totally and completely able to enjoy Lahore Kebab House tonight.

Just as much as I was able to enjoy Assaggi, Status, Global Fusion or any other place I went to.

The fact that I'm a foodaholic has nothing to do with it of course.

Onwards

While looking through some old folders in my email inbox, I cleared two thousand emails from my 'work' folder.

Yup, that's right. Two thousand.

If I choose to look at the bright side, I am grateful for the job through which I learned a hell of a lot about the real world, how to get along with all sorts of people diplomatically, met amazing colleagues who became friends and gained immense respect for at least two clients.

If I choose to be realistic about it, the job was hell. Sure it had its perks and the pay was great, but anything that makes you want to not get out of bed in the morning and want to have a drink by noon, is not a good thing in the long run.

So as I head toward a career change away from being the 'yes' person, here's my wish list for whatever I work at next:

- I won't receive more than ten emails a day. More importantly, I won't have to answer them within five seconds of receiving them in order to appear to be 'on the job'.

- I can leave work at a decent hour and not get stared at on the way to the door (I swear to God this actually happened every single time I left before six o'clock!).

- I will have a Monday to Friday job that actually entails not working on Saturdays from home.

- Lying about what is possible to do will be an anomaly, not a part of the job description.

- Most importantly, I won't have to smile all the time when talking to idiots.

Here's to the dream job!

Villa Prisca

I don't need to re-tell my story.

Because you know it already.

You know why I speak the way I do.

Why I prefer the company of older people.

You know I hate loud, noisy folk.

That I prefer hugs to kisses.

You know my scars,

my short-form words that don't make sense in real languages.

You know my family,

my connections, my attachments, my stupid little 'happy' thingamajigs.

I don't want to explain them any more.

The re-telling emphasises the pointlessness of it.

Every once in a while, I'll catch myself mid-sentence

wishing I could just take a deep breath

and go home, where I can be quiet.

Because you know it all already.

I know what I want to say but...

No one who knows me will ever accuse me of being at a loss for words.

Unless it's under extraordinary circumstances, I usually have a pretty good handle on what I want to say, when I want to say it.

Lately though, I feel like someone stole my words.

There are a loads of things I want to say, but the articulation is proving trickier than I imagined.

In the usual structure of introduction-body-conclusion, I have the beginning down. But then...it sort of trails off and dies. Or gets lost in the muddle of other things that need saying, all at the same time.

So I end up staying quiet.

Coasting along in silence, because it's easier than persevering with my broken sentences.

It's beginning to show though.

The silences beam through the cracks in the words.

Therapy

When intuition and paranoia are at odds.

When confusion meets happiness along with denial.

When blissful numbness gives way to a whole host of tangled emotions.

There's only one thing to do.

Eat.

The Liberal Illusion

I thought acceptance and tolerance had become the norm.

I was taught that everyone is equal and though we come from different backgrounds, colours, religions and economic classes - everyone had to be treated the same and with respect.

I had friends who were rich and those that weren't so well off; friends who were Hindu, Muslim, Catholic and certainly a whole bunch of disillusioned agnostics and atheists.

It was lovely, and to a large extent, it still is.

But now I'm finding that the norm has limits. Tolerance and respect is all very well, as long as you don't bring it back to your doorstep. Friendship is great, but if you marry - make sure it's from the right religion, caste, community and socio-economic class. When push comes to shove, even the friendship lines will be drawn on the side of those we can see in our 'groups'.

The Liberal illusion is well and truly shattered.

The exception to the norm is not the intolerant person.

It is the person who says he/she is accepting of all, and is able to follow through with more than just words.

Life is full of disappointments

Like when you discover the lovely fragrance you always associated with your Grandma is actually the smell of the psoriasis cream she used to put on her hands.

The dramatic void

Today I overheard a familiar conversation. It went something like this:

'Yes, he did this... so I did this... and then he said... so what is the deal? I mean, what did he think he was doing?!! It's so ridiculous... etc etc'.

That wasn't the exact conversation of course, but pretty much the essence of it.

The reason it sounded familiar, was because I'd heard it before. I recognised the dramatic urgency of each sentence, the way everything sounded as if it were a matter of the utmost importance. In fact, I'd even been a part of many such conversations.

The only difference is, I remember it from school.

When I was younger. Much younger. And every minor hiccup seemed like a major catastrophe.

Since then, I've encountered some real mishaps... actual catastrophes that made school-time gossip seem like story books. It seems like most other people have as well. Or maybe it's just the majority of people in my life, who have moved on to a place where we can not sweat the small stuff quite as much, and appreciate that the small stuff isn't as horrible as the big stuff.

Then again, there are those who remain in this enchanted void, where 'he said... she said' continues to be the main dramatic theme. Where nothing is more gut-wrenching than a two-month failed could-have-been relationship and every day life is filled with all the emotion of a day-time soap. I wonder if maybe they're better off?

I feel old.

There's no such thing as perfection.

That's one of the big disillusionments isn't it?

The perfect life, the perfect man/woman, the perfect house, the perfect car, oh yes, the perfect job.

They don't exist. So chasing them is pointless.

The bitterness of that lesson doesn't fade with time or the number of reality checks.

Today I was reminded of it again.

But as I sat there, having dinner and conversation with someone I loved like family, that was perfection right there.

My brothers' hugs, countless times of perfection.

Shoes that fit just right, perfect!

Maybe all those fairytale stereotypes of 'the ideal' whatever won't come true.

But I'm quite content with living from moment to moment of my own perfect constructions.

There's a lesson in here somewhere...

While two friends and I were walking along a busy street in Bombay at rush hour, I pointed to the sky and said, "Look! That's such a pretty sunset".

One of them looked up as well and said, "Huh. Funny how little we bother to look up since we're so preoccupied trying to see where we're going".

Over the next few months, I tried hard to be philosophical about that moment and look up at the sky more often. The colours, the cloud formations, the sheer artistic brilliance of it is truly mesmerising.

I currently have nine pairs of shoes.

In the span of three months since I had this revelation, seven of them have had dog poop on the soles.