Reflections of a restless eccentric

Time is the strangest of them all. We discretize it into seconds, minutes, hours, days and years. What not. But tell me, have you ever really felt the passage of time? Not until you stop and look back. Time feels so fluid. Like an ever moving river. You get so accustomed to the movement that it feels static. How things have changed, we mourn ruefully. And the immediate culprit that comes to mind is time. But is it really? Is the effect of moving through an ever changing dimension enough to produce change? Or is time merely a criminal whose charges are based on circumstantial evidence? We celebrate birthdays and new years and herald the beginning of something new. We express sorrow at the loss of something old. Is anything really new or old? Time sometimes feels like a mobius strip-no end and no beginning. Time is my favorite muse. I imagine it in different garbs. Often times I see it as a sliding window. (One of those things that they use to teach you filtering algorithms:P) It

Not very well-written. Spur of the moment thing. Apologies. A couple of months back, I valiantly decided to pursue a hobby in parallel with work. The reasoning behind was simple: Work would always be around, and I would never have a phase of life dedicated just for my interests. Therefore, it had to be done simultaneously. The hobby in question was music(vocal if you're curious) and this time I looked for something would work out long term. Maybe it was serendipitous, but I stumbled upon an online class. It had a wide variety of slots right from 4am to 10pm. This was perfect, I thought. No matter where I am, all I need is a good internet connection and I'm set. I could reschedule classes, do assignments in my own time, choose an alternate slot after a couple of months if needed, or even take a break and continue from where I left off. All the advantages of the digital world, I grinned in glee. I registered for the class, and it was just one hour a week. All was green a

Written on 9th Dec 2018 I turn 25 tomorrow, and is my custom every year, I make it a point to write about the past year and all that it has taught me, all that I have to be grateful about. Last year's is here :  https://virtualramblings10.blogspot.com/2017/12/thanksgivingchangelog.html 2018 has been a year fully lived. If the past year were to be a sea whose shore I now tread upon to look back, every alternate step would unearth a treasure of a memory. Has it only been a year, I wonder? And then, I realize, it has been 25 years. One quarter of a century. Have I used these years well? Maybe, my mind answers tentatively. I also despair sometimes: There is so much I wanted to do. I had imagined that all of it would be done by this time. That I would be well on my way in life. But it feels like I'm just starting out, still so clueless, still so lost. If my life were a jigsaw, there are ten pieces in place, while hundreds are scattered haywire, and I still have no idea wha

Humour is your oxygen, wit your ever present companion Well timed quips that seem so perfect I wonder if they are rehearsed Analogies so truly eccentric and so eccentrically true Bursts of scintillating conversation that feel like an infinite volley of pristine thoughts Ironically, the very same things that are your defining traits are also your armor You clutch at them like an infant its mother's garment-never letting go in desperation Any attempt at genuineness is lost in yet another sarcastic comment, masked behind a witty comeback Why this choice of facade, I wonder? More palatable? More aesthetic? Occasionally through those chinks in puns and allegories, there sprouts forth a tiny shoot of sincerity But at the first sight of acknowledgement or understanding, that sky high wall of defenses goes up again And all that I am left with is an insurmountable barrier of laughter and gaiety. What would you have me do : Scale up the wall and see the truth behind, or pretend

This is yet another inspired article (what is really original anyway?). I've been reading Grit by Angela Duckworth, and this article is a basic paraphrasing and personal retelling of the tenets outlined in the book. The primary thing I've marveled at and craved for in life is effortlessness. People who do something effortlessly fascinate me, and I watch them spellbound, trying to fathom the reason for their excellence.  Imagine this : you watch/listen to a magnificent performance of an actor/dancer/musician/athlete. What would you attribute this magnificence to? If you belong to the overwhelming majority of the population, you would undoubtedly respond in the blink of an eye: talent. I would have said the same. For haven't we all gone home and tried out the same feat, only to find ourselves bitterly disappointed by the result? I, for one, have. And this is a resounding proof of our hypothesis. That person you watched was way more talented than you ever will be. We b

As always, I'm hoping to channel all that pent up frustration into some world-class humor and wit. Here goes:D  Since this is a personal account, I have to give the necessary background even if it be perfunctory.  I have never been a clotheshorse. My choice of clothing has always been decided primarily by comfort and secondarily by its ease of procurement(three cheers to online shopping!). Therefore, after those initial few skirmishes with tailors, I gave up on stitched clothes altogether. By the way, I'm not exaggerating when I say this. One of my first experiences goes thus:  There was a tailor to whom I gave a dress material and asked him to stitch a salwar. A chudidar/salwar is one of those Indian garments where you have a top half of clothing(kurta) and a bottom half(chudidar/salwar). S o the cloth for the top half had floral patterns, and the bottom half was entirely striped.  Now this bloke was extremely creative. So creative that I wouldn't be wrong in ca

Sometimes, it all feels new. I look around, as if taking in the changes around me all at once, and the shock feels like the backfire of a powerful rifle. My shoulders are strong enough to bear that now, and yet sometimes, I long for the fragility of childhood and adolescence. Sometimes, I wish I could turn back the clock to years and years ago. Sweet seem those times now, and I do not know if that is a tint bestowed upon my past by nostalgia, or if it is the bittersweet dregs of that drink that constitutes adulthood. I look at my aging parents withering away, and sometimes I cannot stand to see it. I would give away all my youth in exchange to see them as they once were, strong and capable, cheerful and resilient. But such is the carnage of time, one's youth is traded away for another's, and who am I to question what is inevitable? I look at this house that I have inhabited for the better part of two decades now, and the visuals that come to my mind are as fragrant as the jasm

I was one of those people who would get into cabs and immediately plug in their earphones, shutting out any attempts at conversation on the part of the driver and any other passengers. Till one day, a persistent cabbie ranted out to me over the din of my earphones: "All you IT people are the same. You get in and you plug in your earphones.Why don't you people speak to us drivers? I do this for a living, and I feel less and less like a human being. Most of my passengers pretend I don't exist, and by my tenth ride of the day, I start feeling invisible. It's bad enough that I have to drive in this traffic all day long, and to add to it people have forgotten what it is to have a decent conversation. Please talk to your drivers, Ma'am. I'm not asking you to talk the whole way. Just a few minutes to acknowledge our presence. It will make us feel very happy." This guy made a lasting impression on me, and since that day I have always tried to talk to whoe

How memories are inevitably linked to physical entities. Weird, isn't it? It's like the butterfly effect manifesting itself in your world. You happen to be doing something, and some minute facet of that brings up something totally unrelated, linked to it by merely a hair of the thinnest logic. And yet, you are transported to that freshly raked up memory ever so effortlessly. Without even being aware of this tiny connecting link. It happened to be a sunny Saturday afternoon, and the fan was on, in full swing to battle the heat. Lunch had bid its goodbye and evening was still a couple of hours away. When this happens on a holiday, people use this golden hour to grab a siesta. My parents were fast asleep, peacefully slumbering away. And then there was me, clutching my kindle at an awkward angle and trying to read. The sun was streaming brightly through the windows, the cool breeze was soothing, and all around was quiet. The only sounds that I could hear were the steady tickin

My silence is not a weapon intended to hurt Nor is it a sign of my condescension or superiority It is merely a part of me, one that refuses to be tamed into socialization Those awkward pauses and deafening bursts of silence that you curse  Are not a testament to your conversational skills, nor mine for that matter When you try harder to draw me into conversation, it only makes me cringe For it feels like you are condemning my silence Pulling away my comforting armor, which only makes me clutch it harder When I am quiet in the midst of cheerful conversation I can feel the accusation in every glance that comes my way In every question that is intended to draw me out, as if I were a snail in its shell When I do not make small talk every time I see you You assume it is out of hatred or disinterest But small talk is a language that shall always be foreign to me And silence is as natural to me as words are to you In a world that thrives on communication, si

I have recently been listening to a lot of spoken word poetry, and I have come to appreciate it quite a bit. Spoken word poetry, when compared to conventional written poetry, is much more expressive. It provides a platform for the poet to actually give life to his/her creation rather than leave these things to the imagination of the reader. As a result, every nuance of feeling is expressed--an inflection that tells you just a little more, a catch in their voice that gives away exactly what they feel--there are a million subtleties and non-verbal cues that your brain registers. For people like me, who love watching good orators/speakers, this is one of the ultimate treats. I have spent many an evening listening to random people laying their soul bare for the world to see. So vulnerable, and yet so strong. But then I noticed this: most of the good poems were based on real-life experiences, and they were incredibly, unbelievably tragic. And I stopped to think of my favorite works of poet

I've been finding it increasingly hard to write of late. I envision this as a collection of brief drabbles--because to write a little is better than to write nothing at all, right? One of the things that has always piqued my curiosity is what motivates people to do what they do. Especially when they do something that is out of the ordinary, given their circumstances. I wonder, where did the first seed for this idea germinate from ? By looking into people's lives and listening to their own and others' accounts of said lives, I see this to be one of the most common motivations: Escape. A powerful desire, nay, need , to get out of something. When people flounder, like sinking ships in a storm, there are two things that can happen. They can conclude that the storm is their destiny, and let it carry them away as jetsam, maybe making a little progress before they drown. On the other hand, there are those people who even when they lack oxygen, look for a way out. People  who c

I seem to have been caught in the maze of life yet again. My writing average this month has been at an all time low and I'm trying to find out why. :P Interestingly enough, tomorrow happens to mark two years since I started writing on this blog. Time to reflect and analyze, I thought. In other words, I'm staring at the odds and ends that constitute my writing and questioning if they're good enough. If there's really any sense in continuing to do this. If I'm really getting better at writing. I happened to be reading an answer on Quora just this morning, one which went something like "What does it feel to suck at writing?". Weirdly, one of the answers happened to be from a writer I follow and look up to a great deal. Her answer scared me, because what she essentially said was this: "It doesn't feel like anything, because you wouldn't know that you suck. It is only in retrospect, when you have gotten much better, that you do realize that fact

The God of choices looks down on me His two faces at odds with each other One smiles at me,  The Universe gives you what you ask of it . Another frowns in warning,  Be careful what you wish for.   I wonder now, wherein lies my fault?  Did I not ask for the right thing, Janus?  Or did my wish get lost in articulation-- Wanted something but ended up asking for something else? I looked for the crystalline clarity of a million sunbeams,  Stumbled upon enough amorphous confusion to last a lifetime. I asked for a fort of unassailable convictions A moat with the drawbridge of impossible choices lowered greeted me I wished that I would always be a rolling stone Only to find myself mired neck deep in a marsh of complacency  I went in search of a rainbow called equanimity And was pulled into a thunderstorm of an emotional roller-coaster I asked for a soul as pristine as a lotus And was at once thrown into the murky gray waters of neither right nor

One of my favorite quotes is the Serenity prayer: " God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. "   I feel as if this is one of the most profound lines I have ever encountered, and it has enough distilled wisdom in it to base your entire life upon. The doctrine is seemingly simple: There are things in your realm, and then there are things beyond your control. You can change the former, but the latter you have to make your peace with. The catch is here though: It is futile to attempt to change what you cannot, and foolish to reconcile yourself to a state of things that can easily be changed. Before you take any action, therefore, you must first analyze and classify. And for this, you need wisdom.  It sounds easy enough in theory. Two buckets: Change it, Live with it. Toss anything into appropriate bucket.  But when it comes to real life, you most often get stuck at the wisdom part.

Automatic replies have become an ordinary thing now. I was recently subject to one of these experiences, when I forgot to turn off network sharing for a position update on Linkedin. It got sent out to my 500+ connections, which I immediately regretted but sidelined as spilt milk. What I did not expect was the number of replies and comments I received. But this isn't the point. The point is that over 90 percent of those replies said the exact same thing. The first prompt that LinkedIn's auto-reply feature gave users. For people who haven't observed, most applications have started doing this of late. For instance, Gmail reads through your email, and if it poses a simple question, you get a set of standard responses that you can choose from. LinkedIn, similarly, gives you a few choices that you can instantly use to reply/congratulate/message people. While this is definitely an advancement on the technical front, the writer in me hated it. Maybe I'm being naive. But isn

This is not going to be one of my abstract posts. Or even one on psychology or philosophy. So fret not. Following the true blogging style,I'm going to be talking about my life as such. Whenever I tell someone I'm from Bangalore, the first and most common reaction I get is this:  Wow, you're from here. That means you have the best of both worlds. You have your family around, and you also get the best infrastructure in terms of academics and career. How lucky! We guys leave everything behind for our education or job. While I do not disagree with this, it isn't really that rosy a picture. Let me repaint that for you now. Recently, I had to make a tough choice: a good job and a great job. But the good job was 16 km away from home and the great one 36 km. A true Bangalorean will tell you this and vouch for it repeatedly and staunchly:  Distance, especially here, is always measured in terms of time.  30km in certain parts of West or North Bangalore may be completely fine

I'll start off with a confession. I've always been a breadth person. I love learning new things. As a kid, I was interested in a multitude of things. I loved singing, reading, writing and a dozen other things. It wasn't a spurt of interest that quickly fades away after the initial allure, whatever I liked I genuinely had a passion for. I found serenity and a sense of higher fulfillment in them. Up to a certain age, let's say around high school, I was able to actually devote time to all of these and even pick up a few other hobbies on the way. But then, somewhere after that, I realized that breadth and depth are mutually exclusive. If you want to be an expert at something, then you have a better shot at that if you devote the majority of your time to it. Another sad realization was this: People, in general, frown on breadth. 'Jack of all, Master of None' says it all. If you want to be taken seriously at what you do, single-mindedness is what is demanded of you.

Dated 6th Aug,2018 This is something I'm doing for myself and not for my readers. Therefore, pardon me if I'm vaguer than usual and also if everything I'm saying doesn't really make sense to you. You have been warned. :) There are those times in your life when you arrive at a crossroads of sort, when you are supposed to make a decision. Scratch that. When you are supposed to make a multitude of decisions which are a cascade--your first decision would influence your second and so on. You spend a lot of time thinking about it, and then you reach the point where you decide to ask people who have been there and done that. That's where it gets complicated. People's perspectives are colored--by their own circumstances, experiences and primarily by who they are. Now you listen to all this information, try to compensate for all their biases and get to just the kernel of their opinions. But despite all that, sometimes, it feels wrong, you know? You wonder if you'

"Circumstances make a man". "Circumstances do not make a man, they only reveal him to himself". Right. Wrong. Black. White. Easy concepts, wouldn't you say? And if you have a strong moral compass, you would always want to stay within the line that separates right from wrong. But as you grow up, you find that things aren't that easy. Right by whom? Wrong at what cost?  For the greater good or for your own? Long term or short term? If damage is unavoidable, which option would you choose? Permit me a digression here: This is not only relevant to our own moral quandaries, but also to present day tech--autonomous cars is one example. You might have heard of the trolley problem: If a trolley is hurling down and is bound to either kill a single person or a group of five, which would you choose? This might be a slightly exaggerated dilemma, but self-driven cars definitely need algorithms capable of handling such ethical questions. Anyway, going back

This quote is something that I find extremely simple and also extremely profound. The first, most common interpretation of this would be in today's consumerism based market. I've always hated those sales, you know. They ever so subtly rob you of your perspective--from questioning whether you really need something, you move to debating whether it is a steal at the numbers on the price tag. And more often than not, you buy it and carry your conquest proudly home, under the delusion that you've walked away with a really good deal. After the initial glee though, it remains unused, because you never really needed it in the first place, and worse still you didn't even like it all that much. Now look at it this way. If you're giving away a piece of your life in exchange for this product, would you actually buy it? Do you think it's worth it? Is it a good enough investment of your life?  Here's another take. The choices you make in life. The paths you