Spot the ironies for me
We unilaterally discuss a lot of stuff on this blog and some topics recur thanks to their intrinsic value. One such subject is growth. This 6-letter word intrigues me a lot. When a person says he is seeking growth, what exactly is he alluding to? Financial growth? Spiritual growth? Professional growth? Penile growth? What is it? After a lot of bearding with myself — yes, that stereotypical tugging at your facial growth — I’ve reached some forgone conclusions. Let me place it out for you. Growth, for a lack of a more millennial term, is a phenomenon that doesn’t define who you are. It’s merely a byproduct of what you are going through or aiming to go through. The problem with our society is it dearly lacks patience and goodwill in good measure. Because of which, false advertising takes place. If you do XYZ for PQR years, you will reach MNO destination. Like a greased formula. It’s only when you’ve experienced enough that you acknowledge the farce behind this scheme. Real growth is usually like hair. Silent as fuck.
If you are following the media closely, you’ve either already lost or on the verge of losing it. Obviously, I am referring to Indian media here. Never before has such a massive operation taken place in the name of distraction. When the country’s economy is in doldrums and a health crisis is necking ahead, the media — not just regional, even the mainstream ones — are obsessed with a circus. A beautiful, young man committed suicide in June, kickstarting a justice parade that has a lot to do with self-interest than anything else. At a time when the government is supposed to be answering tough questions, we are being fed updates about a non-event with such promptness that makes you wonder whether this is the most important case in independent India’s history. The answer is clearly no. But then, who’s asking the right questions anyway?
When Hillary Clinton lost the 2016 election, the left-leaning US media came up with a fabulous phrase: post-truth world. Apparently, we were living in a post-truth world because their sworn enemy wouldn’t have enough of his two favourite words: fake news. Whenever somebody showed the mirror of truth to him, he stared back saying that the mirror is false, overlooking the reflection completely. In case you’re forgetting, we are barely two months away from another American presidential election. In other words, we’ve already lived through the so-called post-truth world. However, the more you dive in, the closer you get to the brittle integrity of those who had appointed themselves the mediums of truth. Turns out they design truth as per their convenience. And when their influence faded, they couldn’t handle the change in regime. So, in conclusion, I am not so sure about the post-truth world. Yet, I am 100% certain that we are living in the post-content world.
Speaking of content, would it be fair to say that there is no such a thing as terrible content? I am posing this double-edged sword of a question keeping in mind the tsunami of content wave that was TikTok and the endless pursuit of likes and validation on other social media platforms day in and day out. In other words, there is content for all kinds of people. The word ‘genre’ is too inadequate to accommodate the range of tastes in the 21st century. When Japanese people were coming up with those cringe-worthy TV shows, I thought they were crazy. If only I knew back then that all cultures are similar to each other in their collective pursuit of nonsense. If watching videos of other people eating sounds stupid to you, you have no idea how obsessed our species is with food voyeurism. My point being, in case you like to create paintings out of water on the floor, you will find an audience eventually. There are no hard rules in place that only this and that content sells and others won’t. As long as you know how to pitch it right, you will get through to those who love watching the water paint dry from the floor too. That’s the power of the post-content world. Anything sells as long as you sell it to the right audience.
Remember when we used to be read in our early adulthood that there is no such a thing as a bad question? Which obviously struck a chord because our middle class raising couldn’t afford a lot of questions. By design, we were happy to seek a world where we could stay loyal to the questions instead of the answers. Last checked, we are yet to carve that world. Everybody is an epitome of equanimity as long as they are comfortable. The moment you step on their luxurious toe, you are shown the door. Good luck with either finding a Socrates or becoming one out here. I conduct 3-4 hour-long quizzes in a week and most of the time, I am amazed by the wrong answers. I mean, some of them are so good that I wished that they were the right answers. Good guesses get you admiration but zero points.
I used to be mad about chess. That phase lasted 3.5 years. Reading about chess grandmasters, following chess tournaments, playing chess, watching others play chess, and so on. One of the most soothing experiences in life is to be obsessed with something knowing very well that the obsession isn’t leading you anywhere in particular. I know this because I keep moving from one obsession to another. Like an empty metro train that stops once in a long while. Even when I was mad about chess, I was fully aware that the addiction had to end one day but the idea was to stay fully committed to my madness. Sooner or later, we get over everything. Caught in the throes of the chessboard, I’ve found myself on the terrace as I was busy playing online chess on my phone and kept walking up the stairs. I’ve snapped at my wife because I’d just made a bad move while she was politely asking me something. I’ve paid the autowallah more than what was agreed upon. Etc. Etc. So, yes, I was spellbound by this magnificent sport. As of now, I’ve moved on and I am nowhere close to being enamored by its cosmic spells. No. Which is strange because when I was posting chess-related stuff online, nobody cared. And during the lockdown when my interest started waning, it coincided with a massive chess boom in India. All of a sudden, people, particularly youngsters, are interested in playing online chess. What an irony!
More pictures are clicked in one day than the number of pictures clicked during the entire 19th century when photography started booming. Why are we so obsessed with our pictures? Maybe because it’s the side effect of our awareness of our decline. We are presumably the only ones who know that we are going to get old and feeble and die. Our youth, or our today, isn’t forever. And photography grants us the privilege of capturing a moment and turning it into eternity. Also, clicking pictures help us slow down those (memorable) moments. If you were just enjoying a group lunch, you won’t remember later no matter how delicious the food and company was that lovely afternoon. With the drama that ensues a phone camera, we get to slow down stuff for perpetuity’s sake. I think that’s a fair deal in exchange for mortality.
I might have a snobbish personality on Twitter but I am super-interactive on private messages. If somebody asks me a genuine question, I do respond with a genuine answer. That’s the set principle. Still, whenever somebody asks me about creativity and how to get better ideas or how to write, etc. I am dumbstruck because I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. The very essence of creativity is hidden in its obscurity. When Michelangelo got down to work and created David after two years of labour, he was not showing the world how creativity flows but hiding his secrets. Nowhere can you find the recipe of his masterpiece. Nope, that’s not how creative folks function. With practice, we hone skills but with time, we hone life. And therein lies the crux of being. Stay away from anybody who can talk for even 30 minutes on this subject. There is a reason why even the most creative of folks don’t understand creativity. Why? Because that’s how it is supposed to be.
Not to air my dirty laundry but I don’t sleep well. Over a period of 30 days, I might have slept well for six to eight nights. That’s how dismal things are. Mainly due to lack of physical activity and utter carelessness about diet I suppose. I’ve written on this blog about the connection between living well and sleeping well. Similarly, when you rest well, you dream better. When you are tired and stressed and anxious, you don’t sleep well either. It’s a vicious cycle. And I hate waking up from dreams that feel like a series of heavy punches to my face; the sort that leaves your eyes red and puffed. Last Sunday, I woke up in the middle of a bad dream as Ranga was nudging me to get up. I saw his brown eyes and his tail furiously wagging behind so I dragged myself up from the bed, thinking he has to go to the terrace to relieve himself. I opened the door of our room to let him out. In front of me, I see him resting peacefully on the sofa of our living room. I look behind me and there is nobody there.
Our dreams are our most original body of work. They might be influenced by our daily outing and outputs but all in all, they are quite true in their fakeness. For instance, I’ve been upset about the bulldozing of the green zone in front of our house. It’s already a rarity to witness such greenness in the middle of the city — birds and other creatures thrive in little spaces like these — and it takes a long time to recreate biodiversity. Trees take time to get up and so do the living beings that depend on them. At the same time, I fully understand the paradox of my sorrow: the house I live in is built on the land that once hailed natural life. My grieving over loss of habitat is similar to a person cribbing about traffic while being a part of the traffic. Anyway, last night, I saw a bulldozer dream wherein a yellow bulldozer was ramming down the chawl I grew up in, and there was chaos all around. I was supposed to call my dad, who was a waiter back then, but the pay phone wasn’t working and I couldn’t connect to the restaurant. The whole dream must have lasted at least an hour. It was an anxious episode and reminded me once again why I am a restless soul — awake or asleep.
Donald Trump has been nominated by the Norwegians for this 2020 Nobel Peace Prize. It’s a nod for his efforts in bringing Israel and UAE to the negotiation table. As expected, people on the internet are losing their shit. How can an orange president be honoured with a nomination from an elite organization? What these early reactionaries are purposefully missing out on is the blunt history of this blemished award. If you go through the past winners, you’ll be amazed how those who did too little (Kissinger) for world peace were celebrated while those who did a considerable lot (Gandhiji) were royally overlooked. Coming back to the 21st century, I still don’t know whether Obama got his Nobel for breathing or for stopping him from bombing seven countries during his tenure.
