Tempest

Wednesday, 28 March 2007

Moments in the sun

Tis' beautiful a sight,
to see the world white.
In the sleet and the rain
songs of beauty you gain.
And yet the spirit restless
aspires evermore in excess,
of warmth boundless.

With a song in your heart
you awake one fine day,
only to be joined in melody
by chirping birds gay.
As you gaze into the sky,
peeks the sun, initially coy.
And the world leaps in joy...
as if covered in golden alloy.

To run wild in a garden green,
amidst flowers and colours
as if in a far away dream.
soaking in a maelstorm of sensations,
nature's smells in varied translations.
Joy to be expressed in unabandoned exertion.
a mixture of sweat, smiles and satisfaction

Oh Summer! Bring on the exaltation!

Posted by Pavitra :: 01:30 :: 6 comments

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Monday, 26 March 2007

To be a Man

It was five in the morning. He slammed the front door and stepped out immediately to feel the crisp slap of the cold. The jarr did not help calm his temper. He welcomed its cold sting as fresh pain. It aided his self pity and self righteous anger. He began walking briskly down the road. He walked with a purpose but he had nowhere to go. He did not even keep an eye on the turns he took. He was lost not only in this world but in his own self. He could not get the various arguments out of his head. They plunged him into deep resentment at his life, his friends, his family, and his thwarted ambitions. He deemed it all unfair and walked with the purpose of getting away, of abandoning all those he loved and yet hated, all those who supported him yet choked him. He hated living a life for all of them. He hated being responsible all the time. "For what? Why? Why should I? I don't have to. Why did this have to happen to me? I didn't deserve it. Do I? No, I don't! He shouted silently into the coldness".

He had blindly walked onto Parliament Street. Had he been in a better mood, he would have taken a deep breath and appreciated the soothing beauty of the Rashtrapati Bhavan. But, not today. Not for the last few days. Not since last Saturday. He had forgotten the word ‘beauty’ in just these last few days. A week and bitterness had eaten into his young spirit. His entire life had been upturned. In the space of a minute he had been hit by the full import of the meaning of emotions like pain, death, responsibility, strength, courage, rage, self pity, helplessness, anger and the deepest emptiest feeling of immense loss. The loss of his friend, his companion, his mentor, his shoulder, his drive, his only pillar…his father.

They had brought him in and covered him with a white sheet. The family had not had the slightest inkling that this could happen. The first moment when he had heard of the news and seen his father’s body he had just stood still, like a rock. The men had thought he was a strong kid. But he had just frozen. He was completely numb from inside, absolutely still. And then in slow motion the reality of what happened speared through him like tiny explosions. The pain was so immense; it was almost like the numbness. From somewhere beyond his consciousness he had seen his mother rush towards the body and fall on the ground beside it crying, begging her husband to open his eyes just once. The five minutes that he had stood still before enveloping his mother in his arms had felt like eternity. An eternity he would always live with, an eternity he would die with. These initial hours after the death of his father; hours of pain, lament, and anguish were the slowest of his life. After that the week had passed away in a fast blur of actions, decisions and mechanical tasks. His feelings were choked and he had no outlet. He felt like he could not breathe. It was the shortest week of his life. It was the longest week of his life. He had never understood so much, he had never emerged more confused, more lost.

Everything came back to him on this walk. Every moment of betrayal and loneliness was heightened by the chillness of the morning air. He was angry. Angry at the way his father had died. Angry at the civilian funeral. Angry at his friends for being there, yet not being there. Angry at his mother for asking him to give up his life. Angry at his younger brother for just existing and adding to his burden. Angry at God for having cut short his life by sixty years. It was unfair. Tears pricked at his eyes and he roughly wiped his eyes dry.

The body of his father had been like an overwhelming presence that had filled their small one room house. It had everything this house. It had a small cot on one side, a small square of an area where you could do the cooking, with a stove in another corner, piles of clothes and shawls on a rack high up on the wall and books everywhere on the bed. It smelt musty and there was one 60 watt bulb hanging by a wire in the centre of the room from the ceiling. They had all lived there; his mother, his brother, him and his father whenever he was on leave. It had been enough. He had been a good kid. He had studied in these conditions without a complaint and had always managed be the among the handful of students topping the class. He had made up his mind to get out of this slum and take his family with him. Cynicism had not yet tarnished his drive. He had dreamt of becoming a software engineer and working for a company like Wipro someday. It wasn’t a dream for him just a reality for the future, so sure of it was he. And so was his father… is father who had taken all these dreams along with him.

His anger suddenly dissipated as anguish and pain for his father filled his heart. His father had always been a staunch army man. He had recently retired from the army and begun work as a construction worker to keep them going in an expensive city like Delhi. When in the Army, he had been away most of the year and had been strong, ever smiling and full of love and loyalty for the country when he returned on leave. Even now after retirement, the man would have gladly died for the country with a smile on his face. Unknowingly tears dripped down his cheeks as he thought of the injustice of it all. Just because he had not died in war, just because he had not been shot down or did not die in a mine blast he had not been bid farewell with a salute. He had had an ordinary funeral and had been denied the honour that he deserved for having served the Army for so many of his years. It hurt like hell to have to accept the facts of life, to let go of the glorious perceptions that he had of honour.

So many things hurt and for so many reasons, he could not even begin to understand them. None of his friends had come home on the day he had learnt the news. They had not come the next day either. He had done everything on his own. He had arranged his father’s funeral and wiped the tears of his grieving mother on his own. But, they had turned up for the funeral and offered him words of support. Their excuse had been that they wanted to give him his solitude to grieve for his father but none had come when he had needed them most. They insisted that they would stand by him and support him in every way possible. But, he was already too betrayed by the brutal blow of life to understand or to show any kind of mercy. In that one moment he had distanced himself from it all.

Then, one by one the blows had come. Before he could even deal with the loss of his father, he had realised that his brother was still in school and had to be educated. His mother had to be supported. He would have to take up the full responsibility of the house. He had not even finished his engineering. It was this morning that his mother had asked him give up his dream, his ambition to take up a job as a construction worker to support the family. It was this morning that she had squashed every bit of life out of him. It was not like he had not seen it coming. But it was this morning that his deepest fears had been put into words. He was not just afraid of letting his dreams go and living the life of any other labourer. He was afraid of measuring up, of being the strong responsible person that his father had been, of being able to handle life’s injustices, of providing for his mother and brother, of becoming a man.

Without realising it he had slowed his pace considerably and the anger was all gone. He had unknowingly walked back to the slum area, to his house. The sun was beginning to peek from behind the slum and he could feel the first touch of its warmth. He had no more tears left in him to shed and he oddly felt exhausted; not in the body but in his soul. His mother stepped out of their one room and upon seeing him, made a feeble attempt to smile. The courage in that weary face was all it took. In that one moment he decided to let go of the dreams and make new ones. He decided that he would try and be a man. He decided he would give anything to put a few more of those beautiful and strong smiles on his mothers face. He decided he would work hard wherever he had to and take the new curve life had created for him. He decided he would still store those dreams for a later day but for today he would do what he had to now. He decided to wait for tomorrow. He acknowledged that he would still perhaps live moments of bitterness, anger and helplessness but he would stand for those who loved him because they would stand for him. He decided that this was what his father would have done.

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Posted by Pavitra :: 04:52 :: 8 comments

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Wednesday, 21 March 2007

Class & Beyond

We always wonder where we are going. Our dreams, ambitions and desires change every moment. We learn to handle our disappointments by changing our dreams with every failure. Sometimes we think we have found our calling and then give it our best shot single-mindedly. If then things don't work out the way we want them to, we shrug off the hurt and say "that's life". Even then we don’t give up and there is always a goal to work towards. Somewhere along the way most of us realise that doing amazingly well, becoming successful and rich, being appreciated as the best in what we do does not make up the entire contentment package. Being loved by friends and family, loving them back and being able to share the beauty of one's life experiences with those loved ones at the same level is just as important. Nonetheless we do always wonder whether we will someday be rich and successful, whether someday in a social gathering people would talk about our achievements, whether friends would look at us with pride and awe because of what we have become and where we have come.

There are moments when in between the hanging out, going to school together, competing, ragging, showing off, sharing and growing up, once in while we sit in groups and wonder where we’ll all be 20 years down the line. We have certain stereotypes in our minds. The class toppers, the studious types studying for IIT and few others who with focus decide early on to become doctors, engineers or astronauts will always in our minds do well and attain fame. We even assume that the few without much ambition but who conscientiously work hard in a never ending fashion will get somewhere. And then there are those few bright ones, those who do excellently in extra curricular activities; winning most debates and declarations, dancing for audiences at every opportunity, showing extraordinary panache in sports. These we all assume will do great things in life if only they aren’t so reckless and fool hardy. There are also always some invisible ones in class who none of us as kids on our ignorant higher pedestals give any credit to nor pay any attention to. And so on and so forth, we like seers confidently predict and assume and presume the future of our friends.

And then there are some like Josi who cannot help but make you smile even now when you look back and think of them. Always giggling at the silliest of things and her laughter was so infectious. She was girly heaven to be around. I used to be petrified of whispering anything to her in class; she had no sense of decorum and would giggle uncontrollably until we were thrown out of the class. No amount of assignments or mean deadlines from the strictest of teachers could get her to sit down and study. It simply did not matter to her. I would always be amazed at her ability to be this carefree. She would have this constant look of mischief on her face and was forever fixing up everyone in class. Some of them actually managed to come through. The only two things that would truly get her to sit down and pay attention to what you were saying were boys (and that too if it was fun stuff about them being cute, anything more serious and she would begin to yawn) and shopping. Ooooh yeah shopping. You could literally see her start drooling once the word was uttered. She loved colours! From shaded greens to ribbed blacks, red trousers to fuchsia pinks (she introduced me to the colour and I couldn’t be more thankful). She’d drive you nuts if you went looking for clothes with her. You would be forced to try on almost every bit of clothing in every alternate shop on Commercial Street and for a person like me who considers shopping a necessary once in 2 years ‘cannot avoid so lets do it as quickly and painlessly as possible’ task it was an ordeal worse than shopping with mom (which is highly embarrassing trust me)! While we would be breaking our heads over discussions on entrance exams and what to next Josi would calmly say ‘lets see what happens’. She couldn’t be bothered with maths or biology or Arts or even English for that matter. Her only true love was love and clothes. Anything she said beyond that realm was never taken seriously by any of the classmates. No one thought she would do anything great but she did make us laugh a lot and fond of her we were. She didn’t figure in the future predictions of the rich and the famous but there were forever contemplations on how soon she would get married.

She called this morning. She has never sounded this hyper, excited, out of breath and happy. Hell who am I kidding? She always sounds like all these things but it was awesome to hear her voice again! Between all the excited jabbering and bits and pieces of gossip, I gathered that she was working and was doing bloody well. Our Josi had become a Wedding Planner!! It was quite unbelievable for a moment actually. Wedding planning in India…the world had come a long way. For me it was something that happened only in the rich, wild wild west or in the movies of the wild wild west. The entire phenomenon is awesome. The whole gamut of ostentatious pseudo rich middle class Indians spending lavishly on their weddings had opened a whole new market for people who were born to make these events a huge success (my take on these weddings is a matter for another post all together). Josi was working under Geeta Samuels who is one of the most acclaimed wedding planners around. It is one of the most popular and exciting new occupations in Delhi where extensive weddings are becoming a current fashion trend and people have the money to spend on such societal luxuries. A wedding Planner is looked to with much respect and many would aspire to be one today, not just for the money (and trust me there’s plenty of it here) but for the excitement and fun it offers.

Josi had found her calling and I couldn’t help but absorb the happiness and glee from her voice. Surprises oh surprises for all those who had dismissed her match making skills and taste for colours as silly. She had actually become the first of us to begin a career and not just a career but a lifetime of doing what she loved doing. Everyone has a place. There is no definition of talent or ability or area of success. It feels wonderful to know she got to where she belongs and life did not throttle the carefree enthusiasm out of her. I wonder how many more of the predictions will fail, but am glad that this one did.
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Lilith called a little later in the day to announce she got a job as a reporter with the Indian Express. Calls it her dream job...saw the dream with her a few years ago. In school we'd all assumed she'd grow up to be one of the best surgeons in the country following in her parents footsteps.
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Thats another prediction proved wrong. I love it!

Posted by Pavitra :: 07:10 :: 4 comments

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Friday, 16 March 2007

Epiphany

There is a sort of squeamishness teamed with dizziness that comes with anxiety. Sometimes, in spite of knowing what the outcome will be one cannot help being extremely strung up about the possessively, obsessively, consistently hoped for desired result. The wait up to the declared result of the test can drive you to a breaking point of being suspended from a thin wire in mid air, dangling just within reach of that outcome. You can see it but its still not in your hand. Eventually you know it will be but right now its playing mind games with you. The doubt that in spite of knowing that it will be and yet being at the mercy of nature's superior unpredictability of mysteriously changing results at the nth minute sits on your head and heart instigating severe symptoms of insomnia, anorexia and nausea. You count the passing minutes and the tension builds subconsciously because it is too much for the sanity of your fragile conscious mind. In denial your conscious mind attributes the symptoms to change of weather and ignores the existence of the subconscious. Life goes on as it is or you try to over normalise it in an extra effort to trivialise the anxiety. And then comes the moment. The moment of truth...like the day of reckoning. Your heartbeat stops and in suspended breath you wait to hear the outcome...

When it comes, you suspect there is a vacume in your head because of the held breath and you heard wrong. In disbelief, you ask for it to be repeated over and over again. The funny part is, that instead of being over enthused and overjoyed that you almost outshone Nostradamus in predicting what the result will be, you feel this odd, all encompasing, over whelming dizziness at the expected result and bend over trying to let the blood rush to your head willing yourself not to throw up. Waves of sickness consume you and it is only then that you realise how anxious you were. In weak, wondrous personal epiphany you comprehend the true meaning of absolute relief.

Even victors are by victory undone.
- John Drydon

Then what are you and I?

Posted by Pavitra :: 04:41 :: 4 comments

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Wednesday, 14 March 2007



To be able to
Yet be unable to…

Locked all alone in the old house, she sat huddled in a corner on the cold stone floor. Thin wisps of clothing covered her young, healthy body. Yet despite the youth she shivered uncontrollably. In sudden movements she kept clutching at what was in her hand. There was no fear in her actions, nor in her misty eyes…just a deep wistfulness, an even deeper longing. She sat next to the window and watched her old friends. Friends she had shared everything with…friends who had been confidantes of her every thought, dream, fantasy, emotion, ambition and desire. Through the glass window, she stared at the sun, at its golden glow flooding the morning skies. She imagined feeling its warmth seep through every pore of her body. She played with it in her hands unknowingly. She imagined being embraced by warm gusts of wind, running through the green meadow with her skirts flying. She could almost feel the breeze lift her skirts playfully. She closed her eyes and so close to the warmth was she that she in her minds eye actually felt the light fluttery caresses of the butterflies, she actually heard the secrets of the chirping birds, she actually lay down on the sunflowers swaying lightly under the blue sky. She could just open the window and be enveloped into the comforting world she loved. She had walked into the house on her own accord. With each passing moment the cold had seeped further and further into her bones. She kept tossing it in the air and catching it. Yet her heart hadn’t forgotten the warmth. Everytime she sat by the window, she touched the cold panes…willing the great warm sun to melt it down so she would be freed. The cold and the warmth contradicted. She could never understand whether she shivered because she was cold or because she was not in the warmth. It was so close…the golden, the green, the blue. It beckoned her, it lured her, and it brought her down on her knees in temptation. She moved it from one hand to the other. So deep was her craving to be out there, to be held in the comfort of that embrace, to be ensconsed in its protective warmth that she almost gave in and forgot all vows, all the promises she had made when she entered the house. She stopped playing with it and almost hastily, desperately reached out to the window and began to insert the key into the lock. She had to get out. She had to breathe; she had to get away from the bone deep chill. She had to give in to something stronger, larger, something that would stand forever. She had to surrender. She fumbled with the lock and the key fell down from her hands and clanged on the floor. It was only a split second, it felt like she had stood staring at the key for eternity. She knew she couldn’t open the window. The keys weren’t hers, they belonged to the house and to the house she had given her word. This happened once in a while, when she would forget that she had no ownership. But then she would jar out of her reverie and smile at herself, the cold walls around her, the window and what lay yonder. Suddenly the cold would disappear; the warmth would remain in her heart. Smiling, slowly shakily she picked up the keys and placed them next to window sill. They couldn’t tempt her anymore. One last time she wistfully brushed her hand across the windowsill, fleetingly touching the keys and breathing in a memory of the meadow. She would be out there someday, but not today.

To be able to
Yet be unable to…

Posted by Pavitra :: 09:22 :: 2 comments

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Thursday, 8 March 2007

Pensieve

No matter how condescending it sounds, ignorance is always bliss.

Life never allows you to bury your head in the ground like an ostrich, it blows away the sand in a gale.

You are always stronger than you think.

No matter how strong you are, you will always be vulnerable.

After every night the sun rises again but, nightfall is always around the corner. Never forget that.

A brave man is brave just five minutes longer than the rest. Sometimes even that is not enough.

They say life is short, live it...but, sometimes for some it is just too long.

Immortal souls are all mortals except they have unflinching self belief whereas the rest of us don't.

The most obvious sign of happiness is laughter. Sometimes in the midst of laughter it hurts to even smile.

Some hear, some listen, some understand, some sympathise, some support. In spite of all this, some are helpless.

The man who said, 'it is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all' was blissful in ignorance until the gale blew the sand away.

You never wake up on the wrong side of the bed. You just sleep in a foul mood.

'The truth is out there'. Some of us spend lifetimes searching for it...some of us understand early that ticking time is the truth.

Our only weakness is not that we love. Our only weakness is that we do not know how to let go.

The wisest thing a drawf ever said was, 'Eat, drink and make merry for tomorrow ye shall die.'

For some bizzarre reason, we always only remember our mothers smiling. I wonder why?

Hope is a funny thing. Without hope a person gives in to death. Isn't hope then a synonym for life? Is living without hope a synonym for death?

We know our apprehensions are tosh. Yet we fear. But, we wouldn't fear if it wasn't for the gale. Not everyone has seen the gale. But, then humans are funny beings...they communicate that fear.

Is it wrong to fear? Is it good to hope? Is it wrong to sound hopeful in fear? Is that the same thing as fearful hope?

I love long walks under the trees. Does that make me an escapist?

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Posted by Pavitra :: 11:32 :: 12 comments

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Wednesday, 7 March 2007



A completed sentence...a missing part of an unfinished thought...I woke up with the words on my lips,

Life isn't about falling...its about flying.

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At one time I used to worship these lines...

"Begginings are kind of scary,
endings pretty sad but,
its the middle that counts...
the part where you give it your very best"

...now they're the crassest lines I've ever heard.

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Que sera sera
Whatever will be will be
the future's not ours to see
que sera sera
When I was a little girl
I asked my mother
What will I be?
Will I be pretty?
Will I be rich?
What will me future be?
Que sera sera

I never did ask her if I'd be alive.

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Posted by Pavitra :: 04:09 :: 3 comments

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Friday, 2 March 2007

Under the trees

I've always had this subconscious fascination for the breeze and winds. In my every imagination the breeze has played some sort of role. It comes in somehow or the other. I've been wondering why something in all my posts is so repetitive. Now I have it. I think my fascination was because it gives the feeling of another being or existence on another plane. It is as if the voices or whispers are from somewhere else, yet from within…the feeling that I exist on another plane as well as on this earth and inside my head. Like my head isn't all that you can see defined under the tough skull (and it is tough; proof being my umpteen number of head injuries). Like beyond that in a metaphysical space it extends for miles and miles and even I can't see the boundaries of it. The breeze gives a stamp of justification to my sudden loftiness when I'm out for a walk. It beckons, tempts and tantalises the other mind within my head to fly haphazardly through the mist. I always ask funny questions when am out for walks under trees (Don't snort Musafir!). I love the walks. I never quite manage to answer those questions, only to go back home with more. Maybe am a sucker for confusion.

Lured by the breeze (there it’s back again) I went on another such walk yesterday. I don’t know where the thought came from but it was as if it had been waiting for me to go for walk to pounce on me! Why is the majority so afraid of the minority? Why is it always so threatened by it? I mean isn’t this a natural question to ask when it is said that only the word of the majority works (keeping aside obvious exceptions)? Take the case of trans-sexuals. They don’t even constitute 0.5% of the world’s population. They are biologically neither here nor there. We know it is merely a discrepancy and the species cannot move forward in this way. Yet they are ostracised by every race be it by the whites (no doubts there!), the blacks or the Asians. Maybe it is because of the fear of what man cannot understand. Maybe it is because they aren’t part of the so called ‘normal’ majority. But then again so what? How do they threaten your world apart from your subconscious instinct that this is an abnormal deviance and this is not what ‘man’ is supposed to be? Apart from the bizarre, irrational fear that all of mankind could end up being Trans at some point because of this 0.5% of the population; why else would they be shunned?

Too many thought processes and reasons to be explored here. So, my unintelligent, fickle mind jumped to the other end of the spectrum. Imagine being a teenager and at an age wherein you consciously begin to understand sexuality and coming to realise that you don’t fit in anywhere. Imagine not knowing what you are. Imagine grappling with the most basic ‘What am I?’ question of all which is decided for most of us when we are born! Imagine having to deal with this confounding question without being given space to do so in peace. Imagine trying to understand your place in this world while all the time being told that you have none. I wonder how you have the clarity of thought to pierce through such a fog and make a life and such a decision. And such a simple decision it seems to be of whether to be man or woman. We have trouble accepting a simple fact that all of us have an underlying subconscious homosexual streak in us. At least we know that if we were to have a homosexual partner our like would either be a male or a female! I can’t even begin to understand the pain of such an existential angst.

The funny part is in spite of asking all these questions I don’t think I feel any pity or empathy for them. Like am asking all these questions and I am removed. It is as if I ask these questions only out of curiosity. They are only thoughts and not emotions. Should I be ashamed for not feeling any sort of pain? Am I not part of this world? Do I not share in its pain and the issues that are part of my existence?

I again flittered off on a tangent. I do not really feel bad when horrible things happen. I am not one of the most empathetic persons one could meet. I did feel disillusioned by the way stories are done in journalism today. When I did not go onto studying medicine I pacified myself that Journalism is the only profession that will help me gratify the same needs, intentions. A means of helping people and making a difference. Hah big words! Am not idealistic (alright alright not a blind idealist at least)! I always knew that’s not the way it works. What you see is never what you get and also sometimes what you see is blatantly what you get. Both leave a bitter taste. A journalist is supposed to be a dry removed human being and just do a story for its facts (more so today because of the speed and time factor). He isn’t supposed to empathise and become emotionally moved by the tragedies of life. In fact the word tragedy isn’t supposed to be in his vocabulary at all. A rape must not matter to him. Wounded soldiers shouldn’t matter to him. Grieving families should not affect him. Bombed citizens should just be a story. All this must be recorded in the best ever frame of shots and most hard hitting of words. All this should be first page material and all this should be portrayed effectively enough to be put on prime time 8 pm news. These are just events that happen and he has to record them. Why then does it feel like this isn’t a definition for a human being? Why does it feel like this is a definition for a journalist whose body composition is chemicals alone and is a robotic being from Pluto? I don’t have a problem with him being a hard shell and doing his job objectively without letting his emotions mislead him. I have the highest regard for such men and such an ideology put to practice or even an attempt of it being put into practice. But, I do have a problem with the fact that the intention behind all of this is not to make a difference or to bring out the truth for the world to see but, it is simply just to be part of a profession where you’re striving to be the best in your job simply to climb the ladder and be the on the top. I would say striving for both is an amazing self goal but just for professional gratification? For some reason this doesn’t sit well with me. Not in this field. There are certain things that you do for a different reason. These are the professions that uphold the honour of men. The defence forces, the doctors, the journalists. They do not have a right to de-humanise themselves. The corporate corruption and the two-faced credulity of men in the race to make more money is acceptable in business, engineering, management, in every other profession but not in Journalism. By acceptable I mean it does not feel like an outright blatant crime against humanity. But here it feels like sacrilege. It hurts. It tears apart every belief that you have in the race, in its salvation.

I agree and for my own self preservation vehemently believe that there are still men and women in this profession who pursue it for the right reasons and grapple with the day to day disappointments, hurts and frustrations of following their ideal and meeting road-blocks and half accomplished tasks at every step. I agree that they have to put up with the management and its opposition to the kind of stories they would want to do or the way they would want to treat such stories. But I did not meet many and it hurt too much to have to succumb to the will of management just because I am an insignificant graduate. It hurt too much that I will have to succumb for many years to come. It hurt too much to think that for every one battle that I might win against them in a year I would lose a thousand. It sometimes feels like I chickened out. It sometimes feels like I should have stuck because each one of those rare battles won would have been worth it. But at that time I could not bear to think of the amount of blasphemy’s I’d have to commit just for that one victory. The number of dissatisfactory stories I’d have to live with feeling that I did not do justice to them. I decided to do management in the same field...another stupidly idealistic move. I fell hook, line and sinker for the ‘if you can’t beat the system, join the system’ line. But, the majority works everywhere. I figured the only way you can make a difference is with power. I know this sounds like am a Nietzsche follower but then it is a small nonetheless potent fact of this world. I sometimes wonder if given a chance I’d change my mind and go back to my dream of being a reporter. But I know I have no regrets. I know I couldn’t have continued the farce. I applaud those brave people I know who will strive and I perhaps feel the brush of guilt that I did not stick through it. But I know that I don’t regret it. I wonder what difference I’ll make or whether I’ll make any at all. But I somehow believe that I’ve given myself a fair chance.

Wondering why I made the statement about not being an empathetic person two paras ago? Because I am not. It does not really hurt that bad. Most of the time I think I think of these things simply because I have a brain (most would disagree). Because asking questions is a just another instinct we are born with. Sometimes I think that I do not get that badly affected by what I see then what right did I have to let journalism go?

I’ve been here six months now. I don’t miss home and friends. I mean I do miss them but it’s not like a craving or that I think of them often. I feel that slight guilt then again. I mean how thick skinned am I? I know I’ve been contradicting myself through out. But the fact of the matter is that I really am an aloof removed person. Then how can I say that things hurt me or even talk about morals or ideals?

Lilithian Lady and Musafir....in memory of our many a existential discussions under the trees. I miss talking to you. I wish you would leave me alone in peace.

Prude at her contradicting best.

Posted by Pavitra :: 07:04 :: 9 comments

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