You can be - I know

You can be my desktop background
You can be my Saturday night.
You can be my lazy sunday
You can be my starry night
You can be my favourite song
You can be my lucky pen
You can be my manchow soup
You can be my everyday yen
You can be my callertune
You can be my wanderlust
You can be the watch I wear
You can be the one I trust
You can be the book I love
You can be my chocolate shake
You can be my single malt
You can be the one for whom I wake
Now there's no cause for panic here
I know we are at just the start
I know that patience is key
To sort out matters of the heart
I know that there's some time for us
Till we brew such a chemistry
Till then my love if you don't mind
You can be my poetry

Bestowed Identities

We just want to classify people into stereotypes. It is just much easier that way. Simply be blinkered to the uniqueness in people and associate only a handful of attributes to them. Those attributes which match to the stereotype they are allocated. That way we think we can predict how they will respond to stimuli. Ideally they wouldn't, but because so many people classify them in that stereotype, they too start identifying themselves with it. That's how we loose the uniqueness in us - by adhering to pre-allocated stereotypes that we don't even choose ourselves. 

I think of myself as dramatic. I think of it it in a nice way. But if I look back, the people around me have told that to me more often than I have told myself. And as I sit here typing, I think that I've identified to an attribute that the people around me forced me to accept. This seems to be a gradual process. It all starts with poetry. Yes. Poetry is impractical. And to be a good poet you have to be dramatic! Another assumption! It might actually be true because I don't have the evidence to state otherwise and if I stop to research I will probably loose this train of thought. But to me it seems that I chose to be dramatic at times purely to maintain and fuel my identity as a poet. Is that bad?

Every time I tell people I write poetry, they immediately ask me if I have published anything. I don't know why they do that. Is it a challenge to my identity as a poet? "You can't call yourself a poet if you haven't published anything." Probably. And most of the times my reply to them is: I haven't, yet. But I intend to.  Again, is this me trying to protect my identity as a poet? 

But why attack my identity in the first place? Probably because I am engineer and an MBA working with a bank. What if I meet someone new and introduce myself as poet? My thought experiment reveals, that even then I will be asked if I have written something famous or well known in popular culture. Why? Why can't I just write and be known as a poet? Probably because, as a norm we choose to identify people based on what wins them their bread. 

Or it is simply the case with these kind of identities that if you're any good as an artist, you will be famous. Nobody asks me when I tell them that I am a banker whether I was instrumental in forming an RBI guideline, or was in the news for making a record sale, or if I was planning to start a bank of my own. They are happy knowing what bank I am working with. A few go a level deeper - what role, what location  but that's about it.  

We need just enough information to be able to classify them into one of our stereotypes. If I am a banker - the brand and role is enough. If a poet, then am I famous or am I in shambles? Nobody will ask if I am making a difference at the place of work. Am I increasing effectiveness? Am I writing good poetry? 

No.

We just want to classify people so that it's easier to deal with them. And it happens to all of us and we are ourselves the perpetrators. I have been asked to repair a fan because I am engineer. I was also asked to repair a mobile phone. Sometimes a mixer grinder. It just helps classifying me as an engineer. It is a different thing whether I know how to do those tasks. As a banker, I have been asked about IndusInd Bank's current account norms. Or HDFC Bank's debit card charges. I work for neither. I can wager a guess about the answers but would I really know everything? Another time a friend sent me her account number and asked me to activate some feature on her account. I refused of course. I am A banker. I am not YOUR banker. Stereotypes are harmful you see? And these are just occupational stereotypes.

At a house party, I met an old school friend after eight years. She was surprised that I was at a party. And positively shocked when I poured myself some rum. She had classified me as the studious boy who would always tread the 'right' path. Sleep early. Rise early. Meet friends for cricket. Never smoke or drink. If at all I attended a party I would have to be the one with the sprite. And Study. Yes I did that in school. But school was over eight years ago. Yet we look at people from the lens of how we once knew them. Primarily because it is easy. I am not saying that who I am now is the real me, but I am certainly not who I was eight years ago.

Yes, it's easy to classify. And convenient But my only complaint is that when we ourselves start accepting the attributes bestowed upon us, we forget who we really are. We start subscribing to an external identity. A set of ideas of how we must be. Don't let that happen. Don't lose your uniqueness. You can hide it and keep it safe or you can spread it flaunt it and spread it across the world. 

Just don't lose it for fuck's sake.

Of Old photographs and New

On a humid Sunday afternoon in July, Mother had put him to task of cleaning the old cupboard but it had now been put aside as he stumbled upon an old album of photographs. "Mom, who is this? And this? And that person behind Mama?"

Every flip of the album leaves posed a new barrage of questions.

They were soon joined by father who was just up post his afternoon siesta that he rarely got to enjoy.

The three were so immersed in the photographs, that they didn't realise how twilight crept into the room and how quickly it faded and it was time to switch on the lights.

Had someone seen them, sit together huddled up over those photographs, looking at old memories, he surely would've taken a photo himself. But what then? It would lie in the device memory till it was full. Or go up on social media. Or be transferred to a portable hard disk. And get lost among the millions of irrelevant unnecessary repetitive images in  colour, B&W, sepia, autumn, mayfair, X-PRO, X-PRO  II and what not.

Many years later, their grandchildren wouldn't huddle up like that over an album on a lazy afternoon and wonder who these people were and what they did.

An old photo then would be a photo taken two years ago. Maybe three. Who would then look at the fifty year old photos of great grandfather dressed up for the photo-session in the old house in the village that was sold to a builder once the village became a thriving town?

Who would look at the twenty year old photos taken in marriages of the grandparents?

Would anyone?

Would you?

Or would you just let them lie in the loft where old photos are spoilt beyond recognition. Or would you let them just be till there is nobody in the know who recognizes the smiling photos of the well dressed people in old houses.

Maybe those photos will just go away. But the photos you take today, will not. Sixty years later after you've died a peaceful death, maybe your grandchild will open up your facebook profile to see what you were like when you were twenty-five.

And they'll laugh at the immature status updates you posted.

And they'll Like your profile picture where you're actually posing but want it to seem candid. #nofilter

But it still wouldn't replicate the charm of poring over old photo albums with characters who have started fading away from the photos and your memories too. Sitting together as a family and trying to remember who the lady in the green saree was. Or looking at the old man in the old house smiling proudly for the photograph.

The Amicable Break Up

He feared. Feared that he might really start liking her. She was expecting this. She had almost seen it coming.

She said she wasn't romantically inclined. Not that it was about him. in general. Even at the peak of romantic involvement she would just only really like someone.

She never missed loving anyone.

All he missed was someone loving him.

Wasn't it a road that was set with obstacles? Clearly!

Yet they had taken it a couple of months ago just to see where it goes.

He didn't feel like he thought he should. But he wanted to see whether he can truly choose who he loves.

It wasn't altogether true. But he did have expectations. He knew how he wanted it to be. She was just OK about it. Happy because it was so hassle free. He clearly wasn't going to get what he wanted.

He too liked it being hassle free. But the little things he wanted, were probably hassles, for her.

They sat there, waiting for the waffles with banana syrup they had ordered. Hiding behind the nervous chatter, as if it was a translucent glass wall. Through which you can see the shapes, just don't know who exactly it is behind the wall.

Till he asked, " What else?"

That just broke the glass wall and they were out in the open. He broached the subject. But there were no questions and answers. There were explanations. and justifications. from both sides. As though both had a predecided agenda.

And it coincided.

She was ok with ending it right there. He was a bit appalled that he could have so little impact on someone in two months. He asked her to ponder over it a bit, "Go home, Think about what it means. I don't want us to get carried away and just because both agree, go ahead and take a random call."

To be honest, that was probably how it had started.

As they were leaving the cafe, she thought out loudly, "I wonder if it is a bad thing that I don't feel emotionally and romantically involved. Will Miss it?"

"You don't like ice cream", he said. "Doesn't mean you'll want it just because you see someone else have it."

She nodded in agreement.

As he held the glass door open for her, making way to the outside world of unconditioned air, he mused, "And I am just a guy sitting in an ice cream shop, giving out free scoops."

She smiled, knowing that she didn't want any more ice cream after the waffles.

They confirmed that they would still be friends. Joked about a few things peculiar to each other. And parted ways.

He glanced back to see her walk into her colony. She didn't.

He smiled thinking of the cliche - don't cry because it is over. Smile that it happened.

He waited at the road crossing as he couldn't see clearly due to the wetness welling up in his eyes.

After a moment he crossed the road walked up to the tapri and bought two smokes.

Buses and Baggage

It all started from an old photograph of the bus on Route number 315. That is when I started grasping the true amount of baggage that these numbers carry with them.

I just commented on some old facebook photo and bang! It was in everyone's news feed. Someone fired a tirade about how severely he hates the bus. Several others reminisced about how, now sitting with an H1b waiting for the green card, they once sat at the bus stop waiting for this bus. Old habits die hard, eh? And so much more. I had my own memories that I ascribed to it.

It was like our memories are neatly classified and filed into cabinets and each one has a number.

Yes! The Bus Route number. I will call it Bus Number henceforth because that's what I've always called it.

Let me just try to pull out those cabinets for a peek and see what I find.

110 - VIT. It's like the four years on engineering come rushing at you when you think of 110. And that is a vast volume of memories.

212 - Adarsh Classes. Class tenth coaching classes. Some parts of Bombay Talent Search and some irritating times. Also Ruia a bit but those are a different set of buses. The bus that goes to Manjar's place.

1 - The route of the bus being similar to that of 212 I can almost group the two but I wont. Bus no. 1 also reminds me of the time I went to CST for some aptitude test and I returned home to find that a very close friend's father had passed away. 1 & 212 also bring to mind the era of IIT JEE coaching -another period of significance. 

86 - Deserves a mention for the 86 effect. The largest number of cute girls would always be on the 86 and no other bus. The route is what merits such passengers I guess.

85, 27, 521 and more importantly 315 - All these relate to the two year Ruia Junior College Stint. 315 had great strategic importance know only to a select few. But the bus even today inspires stories, rants, smiles and random blog posts.

33 - This takes me back to the MBA prep days at Juhu.

66 - The double-decker to Lamington Road reminds me of my electronics project and my attempts at autonomous robotics

83, 84 - These remind me of my first relationship. Funny how these are quarantined in this cabinet. I've never even been a frequent commuter on these.

But you may argue that I can do this only because I've lived my life in a relatively small part of a small city called Mumbai. And I agree. It is just symbolism that you use to number the cabinets. It could be different for you. But I bet that you have at least a few bus number memories. 

You still disregard this as not a foolproof system of organising memories. I agree again. In fact, I don't know what to do with these last two years of B-School in a faded reddish building near Churchgate. 

I have an idea though.

I think I'll name that cabinet : 11:37 Virar Fast

The Common Man

In my previous post I had referred to the word 'ordinary'.

If someone calls you 'ordinary' do you consider that as derogatory??
Do you feel belittled?
Or have you accepted that you are ordinary like all of us?

'The common man' is a phrase used so commonly. All most a cliche you say? Yes. Probably.

What does the soul of a common man say?
There was a time when I'd thought that it would sound something like this.

I am a simple man
with worldly needs.
I ain't a hero.
I do no great deeds.

I do my work.
I earn my bread.
To think beyond that 
I have never dared.

I survive in a shell.
Outside it, I never peek.
My life, my shell
is safe and dark and cold and bleak.

I am a common man.
I am born to die.
I am not from the ones
who reach for the sky.

And from inside my shell,
I tell you my story.
You might be shocked,
But inside, its not so scary.

I am not alone,
There are millions like me.
Being in the world
only because they have to be.  

Rejuvenation

It has been well over a year since I posted anything out here.
I now have some free time. ( I'll make myself believe so at the expense of neglected responsibilities)

Things have changed. So have I. So has the world.
Such senseless talk.

But people like senseless talk.
People love reading, seeing and things they don't understand.

Employment is the need of the youth. Primarily, it gives independence.
Independence spawns confidence. Confidence leads to success.
Too much success leads to complacency.
And complacency makes you ordinary.

But all of this leads to nothing.

I'd rather post some of my real work.

Keep reading.