Reflections of a restless eccentric

The "new normal" is a phrase that is overused in these times. What does this phrase mean to you? What do some scenes from this purported normalcy look like? These are some questions I attempt to answer, from my perspective. The other day, I stepped out of my apartment to collect groceries that I'd ordered. I did that, and started walking back to the lift. I noticed a somewhat old person in front of me, carrying a bag of groceries and heading towards my block. I reached the elevator bank merely seconds after him, and he stood there wearing a mask, not pressing the button although the elevator was on the same floor. I waited for a few seconds behind him, then quizzically conjectured that he did not know the purpose of the button, and reached forward and pressed it myself. He immediately shrunk back, and when the elevator arrived, refused to get into it with me, although it was more than six feet long and quite spacious. By this time, I was a little annoyed. He didn't

This was an article I wanted to write on Mother's Day, when I saw several people glorifying the sacrifices of women. It is yet another form of patriarchy, I thought. But I did not type this article out, because I felt that my words weren't yet ready for the world, they needed to percolate in my mind and gain clarity. Today, a week later, I have found inspiration in a movie, and at that a Bollywood one, which is a very rare occurrence for me. If you haven't watched the movie yet--it is called Thappad (slap in Hindi) -- and would like to do so with a mind that is untarnished with my opinions and descriptions, please read my article after you watch the movie. I do not wish to spoil something so wonderful for you. :) This movie is a superb work of art, something perhaps a little ahead of its time, at least in Indian society. It is a very nuanced exploration of feminism, domestic violence, patriarchy, agency and social conditioning. Without further ado, let's get into what

A few days ago, my mother asked me for the credentials to her gmail account, which I'd been maintaining for her for the last decade. I sent her the details and promptly forgot about it till evening, when I asked her if she was able to login. She replied in frustration: No, I've been trying for hours! This just doesn't work.  I wondered if I'd given her the wrong details, and quickly checked. It worked. Tell me more about what you're doing. She explained to me, unable to use the right jargon, mixing up things, and ten minutes and ten questions later, I came to understand that she was trying to use her gmail credentials to login to another website. Sigh! I could have saved her so much time had I known this. That won't work, I told her.  Why? She asks me in puzzlement. Isn't that my login and password? It's like locks and keys. Different locks need different keys.  My mother has been a technophobe in a digital world for the last two decades. Sm

Today, I choose to narrate one of the scariest incidents of my life, which after a year has gone by, seems less scary and more humorous. :) On a day which started as normally as any other, I found myself alone at home. My day began at 5a.m, and I headed to work after having breakfast. Work was as hectic as always, and around lunch time, I felt the weird sensation of a skipped heartbeat. The most likely first question in your mind, as so many others asked me during that time is this: how does a skipped beat feel? This was what it felt like to me: I felt my heart suddenly thudding into life, and realized that it had stopped for a teeny tiny second, for the space of a beat. The first time this happened, I attributed it to a one-off anomaly and shrugged it off. I was a healthy young person who'd just turned 25, and had no cardiac history. Then, in less than half an hour, I felt the same thing happen again. This time, I took it a little more seriously. I tried to remember if I'

At the turn of the 21st century, my grandfather, freshly over 70, came to live with us. He was the type who had grown up with rivers and cattle, and even city life had been kind enough to be peaceful to him. After decades of such a life, he found himself in the traffic-laden bustle that was Bengaluru, without knowing the local language, struggling to adapt. My mother, in a creative spurt, suggested that he and I go on walks together. Neither of us could think of a reason to oppose her idea, and thus began our journey of a thousands walks. I had always loved walks, and exploring an area by foot. Finally, I had a companion; I rejoiced. My joy was short-lived, for my grandfather walked at one-third my pace. My strides bubbled with energy and enthusiasm, and he walked at a pace that seemed abysmally slothful to me.We made a rather odd pair- at every other step I would pause and linger, waiting for him to catch up. Neither did we know each other very well, and we quickly exhausted the th