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