It's hard to teach a dinosaur a new trick.

I had started writing this post some time back but then decided to abandon it. No, not because of lack of inspiration or because I got stuck. It’s just that I don’t like the idea of voluntary confession. Yeah, yeah, I know, by definition, confessions are voluntary...but you know what I mean so I won’t tie myself up in knots trying to explain. Anyway, midway through the post, I realised that putting it up would mean handing everyone more sticks to beat me with. And, a stick, you’ll agree, can hardly be considered the motivation a man needs to update his blog. Like everybody else, I think leg pulling is great fun but, usually, I find the exercise is more enjoyable if the leg in question is not my own. And so, with nary a second thought, the post was abandoned.

But then, time hangs heavy...very, very heavy and, what the hell, there isn’t much else to do. Like Beckett said, “Nothing happens, nobody comes, nobody goes, it’s awful!” All the loose ends are tied up, everything is in order but now we must wait for another couple of weeks for the channel to give us the letter and the formal go-ahead for the series. And, so we continue to wait for our Godot, who, I think, is more deserving of the stick. And, up the wrong end too!

These boring, in-between periods, when you’re waiting for something to happen, can either drive the life out of you or force you to do things that you’ll quickly ascribe to temporary insanity when confronted at a later stage. I think that’s what I’m going to do too...go ahead right now and, if questioned on specifics later, plead innocence on grounds of having written the piece under the influence of utter boredom.

A good excuse in place, I guess, I can now happily toss caution out of the window and proceed...

Thanks to long distances, busy lives and rising prices of vegetables, I don’t get to meet my friends very often these days. But, when we do meet, it isn’t unusual for the conversation to, sometimes, find its way round to some of my...er, how should I put it...ways. In the middle of a perfectly decent conversation, some smart Alec always manages to find a way to steer it to my way of doing certain things. To say that it happens each time would be a gross exaggeration and unfair to those louts I call friends. About seven times out of ten is more like it.

By general consensus, then, I have a few quirks. And, I humbly submit that I suffer from a mild case of OCD. (Okay, just a tad, and I mean taddest, bit more than mild!) But, it’s nothing even close to what Jack Nicholson’s character had in As Good As It Gets or what Tony Shalhoub had in the TV series Monk. Or even what Courtney Cox had in Friends. Not even remotely close. (What Jack Nicholson and Tony Shalhoub’s characters had? Had makes it sound like a damned disease.) Anyway, the post is only marginally about the OCD...but mainly about some other things. For instance...

...if you accidentally knocked something over in my house...as in, knocked it away from where it’s meant to be...I’ll have a tough time trying to concentrate on what you’re saying till I’ve fixed what you’ve undone. On account of this, therefore, much fun has been had at my expense. And, I might add, many things have been deliberately knocked off from where they’re supposed to be.

...like most of you, I also line my dustbin with a plastic bag or sheet. But, I think, that’s where the similarity probably ends. Because, a lot of what goes into the bin in my house, goes wrapped in another plastic bag!

...my alleged OCD flares up when I’m staying on my own, when I’m the master of my own universe.

...I like to run through the entire lot of my socks, handkerchiefs and boxers before I use the said items again. Meaning, I will not wear a pair of socks again until I’ve worn every other pair I have. And so also with boxers, etc. However, jeans, tees and shirts are exempt from this rule.

...spoons, knives and forks follow the socks and boxers rule.

...in response to a simple, harmless question once, I was able to come up with the exact number of pots and plants I have. I realised I could do this by recalling each one’s precise placement in my courtyard. And, believe me, I have a few.

...when washing with soap, I have to wash my hands three times. No, wait, that’s my mad nephew. I’m okay on this one...I have to wash only twice.

... with one exception, I’ve never been happy sharing my soap with anyone and, usually, do my best to avoid it. In fact, when staying the night at friends’ houses or visiting friends in other cities, just as I would carry my toothbrush, etc., I would always carry my own soap. Now, under duress and diminishing ability to stand up to the withering looks that these matters of personal choice elicit, I’m no more the tiger I used to be and, alas, have reluctantly surrendered to the ways of the world.

...until four months ago, I was taking Homeopathy medicine for a dental problem. (Looks like I’m not much of a tiger when it comes to...many things.)

...when I used to buy a pair of jeans in my growing years, the first thing I would do after getting home was to wash it and make it look like it’d been worn a few times. Obviously, I don’t do that any longer. Now I just buy jeans that look old. Nah, just kidding...I don’t always do that.

...when I’m making my rice at night, which is about 3-4 nights a week, and the whistle on the pressure cooker blows, the thought that the cooker is going to explode passes my mind at least once.

...after a bath, I don’t dry my hair with a towel...not even in the bitterly cold winter months. I let it dry in its own sweet time.

...it’s almost nine months now since I last had my hair cut. But, because I usually wear my hair really short, it hasn’t grown that long. In the coming week, however, it’ll all go.

...when I have no plan to buy, I don’t much like going into bookshops and music stores. Not even to look around. I think it leads to unnecessary frustration.

...I swear I have some hidden, inner weirdo magnet because I attract all sorts of strange people. I don’t feel safe even at home because, sooner or later, they find me here too.

...for a very long time in college, I would insist that Sting’s full (assumed) name is Keith Sting.

When you’re in the middle of something, have you ever had the feeling that it isn’t going too well? Well, I’m getting that feeling just now. So, without further ado, I think I’ll stop now. But, as compensation, I hope the powers that be will allow me to lead a sinful life, in perpetuity, without having to worry about the consequences. And, without having to answer any awkward questions either.

Disparate notes. Or, not.

For those who’ve read the Wedding belles! post, the news is that my friend has turned out to be one fast worker! She seems to have found someone she thinks is it! He thinks pretty much the same about her and, apparently, they talk till the wee hours of the morning every day!! Although he’s based in New York, fortunately for both, he has been in India on an assignment for a while. And, they’ve met quite a few times already!!! Clearly, things are going well for them and I’m really glad for my friend. However, each time she calls, as she did this morning, I do try and tell her to take it slow. Of course, I try as hard as possible not to sound like a wet rag but, thankfully, she also agrees.

They met over a month ago but things really took off only a few days ago. I guess I’m being a little cynical and wary but, then, that’s the only way I know. I’m not sure what it is about this that makes me tell her to take it a step at a time...is it the speed at which it’s all happening or is it the sudden emotion that she says she is feeling? I don’t know. The trouble is that, while she may not be a babe in the woods, my friend is an extremely innocent and straight person...the kind that you don’t come across these days. And, I guess I just don’t want her to get hurt...especially because she really likes the guy. Anyway, I’ll be keeping my fingers, and toes, crossed that it works out for her.

***

A few days ago, I received a picture postcard, on which the sender had written some lovely lines from Neruda. For some reason, and not necessarily because there is a direct or indirect connection between them, those lines immediately reminded me of what must rank as some of my favourite lines in poetry.

And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

— T.S.Eliot

That’s life, isn’t it? A constant process of learning and, if I may tweak the words a little, of constant disillusionment. Of having to start over.

Call it my defense mechanism, but I don’t expect that things will work out for me or that a project will materialise or that someone will live up to my expectations...because I have no expectations. Sure, I’d like a lot of things to happen but I just don’t have any expectations from anyone or anything. In fact, my friend, whom I’ve mentioned above, always asks me if I’m excited about the upcoming TV series. I should be, I know. Because, all said and done, it is a bloody big project. But, over time and with experience, I’ve learnt that things don’t happen until they actually happen...and this is true of everything in life. Just because something should happen, doesn’t mean it will. So, my answer to her, as always, is that I know better than to be excited. Cynical? Maybe.

But to return to what I was saying, what strikes me as really funny, on the rare occasions that I can see the funny side of this, is that even with the lack of expectations, people still have this amazing ability to disappoint you. Not in who they are but in the way they conduct themselves.

On second thoughts, then, maybe I exaggerate the absence of expectations in myself. Because, maybe, I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t have any.

All this, of course, stems from a recent experience but, to be honest, it’s nothing serious or even important. One lives and learns...and that, I think, is what worries me more. Because one learns to be afraid. One learns to be distrustful. And, one learns to be cynical.

Really, Brutus is an honourable man!

This morning, I was reading an article about Natwar Singh, who is caught up in the ongoing oil-for-food scam. The piece is written by Vir Sanghvi, who I consider to be one of the best journalists in India today. I’m not sure what parameters are usually applied to make such an assessment but, really, I couldn’t care less. What makes him the best for me is the fact that he is eminently readable. He doesn’t talk down to the readers and, unlike most other pretentious big-name writers, doesn’t try to be the scholar that he is not. Besides, he doesn’t try and bury the readers under copious but meaningless facts and figures. Perhaps the single greatest reason why I like to read his articles is because I can identify with his approach to the given issue and the way in which he views a ‘story’. So unlike this other big shot, also known as motor mouth, that I’ll be working with very closely in the near future. But, as usual, I digress. Singing hosannas to this journalist I like is hardly what this post is about.

Somewhere towards the end of this article I’ve mentioned above, the writer wonders if it’s alright to remember Natwar Singh by the single misdeed he has committed. He says, “...it would be wrong and unjust to judge him on the basis of his behaviour during this period.” Because, the writer insists, the ex-minister is essentially an honourable man. I don’t wish to start a debate about the writer’s contention not only because I believe him but primarily because, again, that is not the point of this post. It’s the writer’s statement that I’m interested in.

The moment I read that, it started a chain of thoughts in my head. At once, my mind went back to something similar I have mentioned in my book on cricket. (Incidentally, only the binding work remains and the long-delayed book should be out by the end of the coming week.) I had said that Greg Chappell, the current coach of the Indian cricket team, should not be judged only by the underarm bowling controversy that he was caught in during his playing days. There can be no two ways about it: it was a stupid and unsportsman-like thing to do. Technically, it didn’t break any laws of the game then but was rightfully seen as a shameful violation of the spirit in which cricket is expected to be played. But should the man be judged by that one silly act he committed in his zeal to win? Then, there is the recent Dean Jones story. An ex-Australian cricketer and a popular television commentator, he referred to Hashim Amla, a player of Indian origin and a South African cricketer, as a terrorist while on air, during a South Africa-Sri Lanka Test match. For those who may not know, Amla is a devout Muslim and sports a traditional beard. What Jones said is unforgivable and, rightly so, the TV channel has fired him from the assignment. Now, I’m no Jones fan and have never been, certainly not of his style of commentary, which, I think, borders on the sensational. But, again, should the man be judged only by that one incident? Sure, all three men must be criticised and, where necessary, suitably punished by law for what they’ve done but, my point is, is that all there is to them?

I don’t know any of these men personally and, therefore, cannot comment knowledgably about their essential goodness or otherwise. For all I know, they maybe the worst boors in the history of mankind. Or, not. In a sad sort of way, what makes it all very interesting for me, and binds all three by one common thread, is that I find some resonance of all this in my life as well. Without meaning, or even trying, to equate myself with them, either in the eminence they enjoy/ed in their respective fields or in the magnitude of what they’ve been guilty of, I can empathise with the frustration of being judged by a single deed or a careless statement.

Of course, my experience was on a much smaller and personal level. The ramifications, if you ask me, have been just as severe and damaging as the consequences of events I’ve mentioned above. An off-the-cuff and, I admit, careless remark was taken completely out of context and misunderstood. And, I fear, I was judged for that one remark and punished. I was never allowed to explain the remark that, without meaning to sound dramatic, went on to change quite a few lives. And, unfortunately, not for the better.

Those words come back to haunt me even today and, I know, I’ll never be able to live them down. Not because they were insulting or offensive or abusive but because of what happened as a consequence of those words. Yes, I regret them and wish I had never uttered them but, most certainly, they didn’t warrant the reaction they elicited. In a different time, a different mood, a different setting, the very same words wouldn’t sting one bit, I know. However, they were spoken in the time, mood and setting they were and that can’t be changed but nor can ever I stop myself from wondering whether they were such harsh words. Or, if they should have brought about the consequences they did. Or, if I should’ve been judged solely by those words.

Months ago, I had written a post about regrets and how I feel amazed that, when asked, people can say they have no regrets in life. Maybe I’m odd but I have plenty of regrets in life and what I have described here is, perhaps, one of the deepest. And, ironically, I’m writing about it on a day that holds one of my sweetest memories.

Wedding belles!

A couple of months ago, I wrote a profile for a matrimonial website. No, it was not for myself and shame on anyone who thought otherwise. It was for a friend. To be fair to her, she never really asked me to write it. She’d told me that she had put up the profile but she also said that she wasn’t entirely happy with it. Thereafter, each time we discussed her profile and the responses she’d been getting, I got the feeling that she wanted to ask me to rewrite it but was feeling shy to say as much. So, I volunteered to do it for her and she agreed. So, that was that.

She’s had a pretty good response so far...at least, as far as numbers go. Frighteningly large numbers, actually. There has also been many an interesting ‘candidate’ but nothing’s been quite there yet, if you know what I mean. Actually, not just not quite there but nothing even close. Not by a long shot. As she says, then, there must be some truth to the lament that all the good men are either taken or gay. (What that says about un-taken and un-gay people like myself is something we’ll discuss...never!)

Having written the first couple of lines some time back, I had consigned this post to the backburner. Maybe I was waiting for inspiration to strike. But, the problem with inspiration is that she doesn’t come my way very often, if ever at all. Besides, I doubt she has my address. Which is perhaps why I have many half-written posts lying strewn around, all over the place. Anyway, what got this post going again was something that one blogger is currently facing and the questions another is expecting to be asked at an upcoming wedding. Of course, they’re both in completely different situations. While the former, Sonia, has put up this post about it and is feeling rather oppressed about the pressure she is facing, the latter can laugh about it. Then, there’s my other friend, with her profile on a matrimonial website, who’s putting unnecessary pressure on herself to get married.

What’s with all this marriage business anyway? Don’t get me wrong...I think it’s a good thing. But so is bungee jumping and, just as there will be people who’re squeamish about hurling themselves down from unnerving heights, one ankle tied to a tenuous rope, there are others who’re unconvinced about the idea of marriage. They’d rather go jump. So, why can’t we let them be? Then there are others who, as you’d expect from nervous first-timers, need time to gather all their courage before they take the plunge. Why must we rush them?

I’m convinced that this whole fuss around marriage owes itself to conditioning. Growing up, we watch everyone around us obsessing over marriages in our immediate and extended families and imbibe that we must be married by a certain age. We learn that marriage is as much a necessary milestone to be crossed as vaccination. We observe that those who remain unmarried, perhaps like a distant uncle and the neighbourhood spinster, often become the object of ridicule. Just as with our choice of career, then, the decision to get married is taken early in life. Because we find that everyone gets married! In fact, like a good job, marriage becomes one of our cherished goals in life, albeit at a more subliminal level.

Coming from me, this may seem odd because I’ve never been married but, really, I think a lot of us have lost track of what marriage really means. We seem to have forgotten that marriage is a matter of personal choice and not some obligation that we have to fulfill. One shouldn’t get married because one has to, or is expected to, but because one wants to. You have to first meet someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, hope to hell that s/he also wants to be with you, and then think about getting married. The arranged marriage concept, on the other hand, works on the reverse principle...you or your parents decide that it’s time for you to get married, after which the mighty search for a bride/groom begins. I have nothing against this concept and I’m not one to judge those who opt for it...as long as no one is forced into it. If it works for someone, why not? My oldest friend, in fact, has had an arranged marriage...well, sort of...and seems none the worse for it. But, unfortunately, not everyone is allowed a say in what has to be one of the most crucial decisions in life. It’s when people are forced into unwilling alliances that I cannot pretend I understand. In the name of culture and tradition, I’m afraid, we’ve allowed a lot of crap to clog our brains. As a result, hypocrisy and false pride have sent countless unfortunate souls into miserable marriages. And, I fail to understand how that is any better than remaining single.

And, while I’m still playing this Mr. Know-all, let me also add that, I think, there’re just as many problems with what we call love marriages, as there are with the arranged ones. Almost all of us desire companionship and most of us, if we can help it, wouldn’t want to be alone all our lives. For many, in fact, the thought of being alone is unbearable, if not downright scary. It’s an insidious desire this, to be with someone. It is so overwhelming, and often so bloody tempting, that it blinds us to reason and logic and, indeed, to the very requirements of a long-term association. We dispense with the essentials and, confusing the initial flush of enthusiasm for the real thing, jump headlong into matrimony. The consequences, unfortunately, are disastrous for everyone concerned.

This brings me back to my friend, for whom, I must confess, I worry sometimes. She’s quite good looking and clever, works in a senior position in a large organisation and earns an obscene amount of money, has travelled far and wide, often to places that many will have trouble locating on a map and, generally, has a lot going for her. However, when it comes to stuff like marriage, I’m amazed that she’s willing to make the kind of compromises she wouldn’t even dream of in her professional life. Besides, she won’t take any time off from work to relax, pursue an interest or socialise. She concedes that she isn’t allowing herself any opportunity to meet anyone but, as an excuse, will cite pressures of work and responsibilities as major stumbling blocks. While I can understand the need for companionship and the pain of loneliness, the attempt to fit someone into that need is beyond me. I keep telling her that it has to be the other way round and, incredibly, she agrees. Yet, she continues to make excuses for any ‘candidate’ who shows the slightest promise. Thankfully, she hasn’t done anything silly yet but for how long, I wonder.

Is this need so great that we’re willing to risk our entire lives to try and feed it? Okay, don’t answer that. Sure, the need is real and great but should we be willing to satisfy it at any cost? Is the huge risk that it entails worth it?

Why do parents force unwilling daughters into alliances that may be doomed from the start? The only plausible answer that I can muster up is their fear of being branded irresponsible. After all, an unmarried daughter means that, in the eyes of the world, they’ve failed to fulfill their primary responsibility as the parents of a girl. Oh, and then there’s that thing about the glorious Indian tradition! Never mind if the poor girl is crying herself hoarse, protesting and dead set against the marriage.

Anyway, I have only one more thing to say but, I’m afraid, I’ll have to borrow the wonderful words of the wonderful Leonard Cohen: Take the only tree that’s left and shove it up the hole in your culture!

Sleeping dogs

Living in denial, they’ll tell you, is a sure recipe for disaster. If you ask me, however, it’s a pretty good strategy to deal with issues you don’t want to deal with...if you know what I mean. And, I’m not trying to be cute here. I know this will amount to a bad analogy but it’s like, in cricket, when a batsman does not play at the ball pitched just outside his off stump, we’re quick to endorse it with a “Well played”. This when the batsman has made no attempt to play a shot and has, in fact, let the ball go.

I’m no expert on the subject, I know. At the same time, however, I also know that my own experiences cannot be ignored. Even if what I believe runs contrary to conventional wisdom or popular belief. The trouble with theories, I think, is that there’s too much generalisation. To suggest that a theory – and I don’t care who propounded it – applies equally to all of us is dangerous. Because, then, it enjoins upon us a specific reaction to a given situation. Almost as though we ought to behave and react in the instructed way. A learning by rote, if you will.

That two and two add up to four makes sense. But, to suggest that the same logic should apply to emotions and human experience is absurd. To me, at least, it is. Because our emotions are a little more complex than mathematical computations. The latter is based on a cold, logical progression that allows room neither for deviation nor any creative approach. There’s the straight and narrow and then there’s the wrong answer. Emotions, on the other hand, are rarely, if ever, guided by logic. And that’s perhaps why, many times, we find ourselves reacting differently to similar situations at different times. There’s an unpredictability about us, which, as far as I can tell, is a pretty good warning against painting everyone with the same brush.

Just as we react differently to physical stimulants and physical trauma, among other things, we’ve also evolved different mechanisms to cope with emotional stress, difficult memories and particularly painful experiences. My approach needn’t necessarily mirror yours. Unlike you, chocolate might be the last thing on my mind when I’m down. Unlike me, kissing a stranger on the street when you’re the happiest you’ve ever been may be unthinkable for you. A neighbour’s death may cause you to instantly burst into tears. I, on the other hand, may be completely devoid of tears even when the death occurs in the family. So, if we have completely different responses to sadness, joy and loss, respectively, why should our approach to dealing with past issues be the same?

Sometimes, people are unable to deal with certain aspects of their lives...certain experiences and memories. Sometimes the demons are so large and well-fed that one just doesn’t have the courage to take them on. Sometimes it seems that confronting them will lead to an even bigger disaster. Sometimes, therefore, people choose not to mess with them. To leave them to their own devices, perhaps in the fond hope that, some day, these demons will get tired and lose their way in the deepest recesses of the mind, which is where they reside anyway. And, what’s wrong with that?

Let sleeping dogs lie, I say.