On That Bleeding Note

  

Call me dramatic but whenever I’m sick, I make my mental list of things I need to do before I die. I don’t have a will yet (not that I have anything precious), but someone should be in charge of meagre possessions—my books, my car and cycle, and my gadgets—when I’m off. Not to forget stashes of clothes that I keep buying. So when my nose started bleeding today because of some mysterious reason, it was time to churn those rational wheels and ask, "Have I done everything I wanted to?"

Let’s see, I have travelled to two countries by far, but London is still pending. I have written stories, lots of them, but that book I always wanted to write, that's unpenned. Learning another language, opening a book café, taking dance lessons, making a sandcastle, going on a solo trip… there’s just so much I haven’t done yet.  

But the slate is not all blank: Bathing an elephant, game viewing in South Africa, skiing in the Swiss Alps, meeting and interviewing Irving Finkel, and listening to the stories of strangers in foreign lands. That has to be something, I reckon.

And regrets?

Nothing that I can’t live with. Oh sure, I could have done things differently a couple of times (or more), but there’s nothing I am deeply remorseful about other than breaking my brother’s tooth as a child, but what a kick that was!.  

And then I get better—the nosebleed stops—and it’s back to the business of living life instead of planning the sweet hereafter.  

Where Do We Go From Here?

Every few months, I have this feeling: What am I doing with my life? Sure, I’m a travel writer. Sure, I have a darn good job that most people dream of. Sure, I’m going places. But, what next? Usually during these few days, I sign up for more courses on Coursera, try to go back to learning ASL, or think of joining a dance school (as a student, of course). And then it passes until it comes back again. The feeling that says I have to go somewhere, do something. Life’s running out and I’m not walking fast enough to catch up. There’s more to it; there has to be.

But what?  

The Girl Who Never Went Anywhere

You know the girl who sauntered through the hallways with books tucked under her elbows? The one with big, round glasses who couldn’t kick the ball straight? The one who never fit in; the one who didn’t spend two waking minutes away from the TV; the one who couldn’t wait for life to happen. That know-it-all shorty with big dreams and even bigger doubts; who wanted to experience what was missing; who wanted to take a chance. The one who was not meant to follow a path someone else carved; never could walk in somebody's shadow.

I am the girl who never went anywhere, and I am the girl who has the enviable job of going everywhere. 

Losing my memory

When I was a little girl, my dad used to call me something. I had a nickname that only he used, a special term of endearment. A year after he died, I asked my mom what it was because I couldn't, for the life in me, remember. She looked at me in a strange way because it was a weird question, completely out of the blue, and told me. Two years later, I am ashamed to admit that I've forgotten again. That's the thing with my memory--it fails me. Especially when I try to grasp something too hard.

It has just been a few years since he passed away but I still don't remember my time with him that well, it's fading so fast. And sometimes that freaks me out. While doing a story for Better Homes and Gardens on Father's Day, I talked to people who had to grow up without their biological father (I always get sad stories), and it was then it hit me that I'm growing old without mine. I was still in college when I lost him, so he never got see me working for a job, driving my car, travelling for work, and basically turn into the spoiled woman (promotion from spoiled brat) that I am today. It kind of sucks because I know for a fact that he was the proudest of me (sorry bro, I win). And to make things worse, the past is being washed off too, like a name on the beach. 

So this one is for you, Dad, Pops, Papa. I remember I called you hundreds of names, I'm cool like that. This is my time capsule for you. May be some years down the line when I'm all rich and successful, I'll read this (I'll be a better writer by then, I promise), and think to myself, "Oh yes! I blogged about my dad once. How stupid of me, right pops?" And then I'll write another post on how foolish this 'personal diary on a public platform' business really is. May be this way, I'll preserve a part of it, a part of us, however small. 

Till then, I'll try to remember what that pet name was. Or, I can ask mom, but she already thinks I'm getting old. Can't let her think my best years are behind me, can we? 

Random Musings

Write. Write a novel—not a series, not even a big one, just one story you want to share. Invest everything you have, everything you are, and create a masterpiece you would be proud of. And in between, find time to have some chocolates.

Dream. Dream big, and never stop dreaming. Open a book café, a place where you’d love to go to have a cup of Joe, and talk about books with people who are there for the same reason.

Find. Find yourself again and again. Don’t look at others to serve you happiness on a plate, seek your own. Smile big and smile with all your heart. Find reasons to be happy, even when the situation is dire.

Travel. Explore the world, but start with your own country. See what the hype is about. Learn about different cultures and lifestyles but don’t judge.  

Do. Do as your heart desires. Do as your mind demands. Be good, but not a saint. Be nice, but not to everyone. Think about yourself, but don’t hurt others. Be just, be fair, be honest, be assertive.

Think. Think before you speak. Don’t think too much and let yourself go. Make mistakes, learn from them, and forgive yourself.

Believe. Believe in yourself. Believe in people, but not too much. Don’t give your trust for free. Believe in something bigger than all of us. Find a cause and do something, however little, to support it. Don’t lose hope.

Respect. Respect yourself. Respect those who are worthy of it.

Celebrate. Celebrate live. All the crappy moments shall pass. All the happy moments will remind you that there is no better time to be alive.

What The Future Holds

Only half an hour to go and I have made my list of resolutions. It’s fairly simple: stop complaining; chase your dreams no matter what; be more assertive and decisive; stop depending on others; write, write and write; do whatever the hell you want and just be happy.

I don’t remember what I wanted last year, so I am not sure if 2013 panned out like I wanted it to but what I can say with 100 per cent certainty is that at this moment, I am quite happy. It’s not because of the pizza I ordered or the fact that Romedy Now is playing my all-time favourite movie (still thankful to God that Airtel finally listened to my pleas and started the channel) or that I have found another show to be obsessed about. Cosy on my bed, I’m sipping my coke and watching television without any care in the world and I’m positively content.

Before I bid adieu to this year, I want to record one memory from the year gone by, lest I forget it. My first article got published this year and that feeling that I’m on the top of the world; that rush of seeing my name in a magazine for the first time was indescribable. Will I get this emotional every time my by-line appears? I know not, but for those few minutes (hours and days), I was incredibly proud of the work I had done. While I was basking in its glory, I realised it was just mine. No one had any inclination how that one article steered the course of my life and in all honesty, I couldn’t tell anyone. For as long as I could remember, I had wanted this, more than anything in the world. My triumph, my success, my moment of glory. Mine, all mine. I don’t want to share it with anyone for the fear that they won’t get it and it just might take something away from me. Besides, it’s just one pearl in my string of accomplishments.

This year was definitely different. Different than every other year and that’s how it’s supposed to be. I’ve spent an eternity looking back at days gone back – things that happened, things that didn’t happen, things that I wish had happened. Moving on, I will keep my eyes ahead. History does matter, but not as much as the present and the future. I look forward to turning over a new leaf. So good riddance 2013, and cheers to a fresh new beginning! Bring it on, 2014!

Hope and Hopelessness

I was 13 when I read the article about Jessica Lal in The Times of India. What caught my eye were the words “No One Killed Jessica”. My mum explained to me briefly what happened but an online search left me appalled. 300 witnesses and no one came forward. 20 people turned hostile. It was bizarre, outright stupid that the accused were still at large. That was the first time I realized that our Indian judiciary system was inept; justice a mere two syllable word in our dictionaries.

Cutting clips of the articles that were published in TOI after that, I kept a close eye on unending case trials and soon, I lost faith. Years later when the accused were actually convicted, I felt nothing. It didn’t matter now - it was too little, too late. One of them had actually murdered another man while the case dragged on. 

I was 20 when Keenan and Reuben died. Arnab Goswami demanded justice. People protested and supporters organized candle marches. I fervently hoped that their sacrifice would be inspirational to others, that their lives and death would mean something to the apathetic spectators, that justice will prevail this time. It still hasn’t. Reading the account of the girl they saved that night, I was reminded of Jessica Lal and the feelings it had stirred inside me. I won’t be surprised if this case would go on for years and finally the perpetrators would be freed due to “lack of evidence” or given life sentence because it wasn’t “rarest of rare” enough for death penalty. 10 years down the line, Keenan and Reuben would be two young men who lost their lives because of “some women” and should have known better than to go out at night for dinner. The girls would be called shameless for hanging out with boys and life as we know it will go on. But what will never change is the hope Keenan and Reuben gave me. No, it doesn’t mean that I go on the street expecting someone will save me from prospective rapists but I know for sure that someone somewhere is fighting for what’s right, that not everyone in this world is a coward. And no, not all men are cut from the same cloth.

Keenan and Reuben

We need more Keenan and Reuben to save the likes of Keenan and Reuben. Had those 50 spectators jumped in to help, the headlines would have been different: “52 against 17, aam aadmi saves the day!” “Men protect honour of women” “More saviours than rapists”. But they were immovable and unmoved as onlookers always are.

Jessica Lal deserved more; Keenan and Reuben deserved more and in a better world, they would have survived, heroes that they were. They didn’t and we have to live with it. We did this.

Funny thing is that nothing has changed. A year after Keenan and Reuben’s tragic ending, a guy harassed a woman at that exact same spot where the duo were attacked as two policemen gawked mutely. Keenan’s father intervened and the cops threatened him instead. Not really funny, is it? I didn’t think so either. 

Read their stories here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Murder_of_Jessica_Lal

http://www.ndtv.com/article/cities/keenan-s-girlfriend-describes-how-he-was-killed-146488

http://www.punemirror.in/article/3/2013021120130211171521938a18f0719/Cops-abuse-Keenan-Santos%E2%80%99s-father-for-confronting-pervert.html