Two hearts, one embrace
For the longest time, over the past 15 years, I genuinely felt there is a book hidden in me. It could be a piece of fiction or nonfiction, even an anthology of 19 poems, but I was vaguely sure that I had something in me. Because of this belief, I kept pushing myself in all directions I could — be it composing bad poems, or writing short stories, or penning witty one-liners, or writing long-form articles in the name of journalism, or even weekly movie reviews, or dropping the so-called truth bombs via tweets, or writing corporate blog posts, or serializing events through concise paragraphs — as long as it was related to words. Design and structure aren’t for me. I am that guy who picks up the lyrics and then pretends to enjoy the music. Yet, despite all these revelations and realizations in the recent past, I haven’t dragged myself to the point where I could gift my thoughts a long flight of faith. In other words, I am far from writing a book. This, in spite of having so many fecund ideas — some missing torsos while others, missing limbs — floating about under my terrace. Hopefully, there will be positive developments in the near future and we’ll see a change in my approach. Until then, I shall continue doing what I love doing with words: pushing them before they learn to shove me away for good.
2019 has been a great year for cinema, not just due to the varied content (yes, I am thinking of films like Parasite) but also thanks to the conversations leading to the future of cinema itself. For a pleasant change, we witnessed the quietest of filmmakers and writers voice their opinions as loudly as possible. Maybe this has something to do with the worrying change in political landscapes. Artists aren’t depending only on their art to express themselves anymore. They want to speak out too, which is an encouraging move. Best to speak out before it’s too late.
Speaking of free expression, don’t you just enjoy watching people? Yes, just sitting silently and watching them go about their businesses. Could be at an airport or outside a busy railway station — anywhere with a human disposition to pass by without looking sideways. Yesterday, at the airport, I noticed a white old lady on a wheelchair. She was a tourist, nonetheless, and clearly wanted to see the world before she is gone. She rolled by, asking her help to leave her alone, and picked up two books from Crossword, before boarding her flight. People like her are the reason why people gazing is so much fun. So much free content. You watch them but you don’t judge them, and even if you do, you keep those petty judgements to yourself. Which is the exact opposite of what happens with films: you watch people there but you judge them because deep inside, you are conditioned to critique their performances in public. I must admit I love people because I can hate them in private and if you’re telling me that you don’t enjoy people gazing but love cinema, then it’s hard to take you seriously.
Lower middle class people don’t know how to express love and affection. Parents from this strata seldom hug you as they don’t use the L-word exquisitely. Children are meant to love their parents as selflessly as required — a rather strange paradox in any human relationship. I grew up in one such family. We were 4 members but we never get/got to tell each other how much we love each other. It’s a given; your actions should speak for you. No wonder we never hugged each other. Amma used to hug us when we were very little. After that, we only remember her beating the shit out of us for the tiniest of aberrations. In fact, it was much later in life that I learned how to express affection physically. At a tweetup in Bandra in 2009, my first social media gathering, I noticed how Mihir hugged everyone around him. There was warmth and genuineness in his embrace. He recently passed away and it’s amazing how people teach you how to do things the right way without sharing a word. Also, how we keep learning from each other. Ever since that evening, every time I’ve hugged anyone, I’ve tried to emulate him. Half a decade later, Visha entered the scene and taught me the power of a selfless hug: you hug a person so tightly that when you release them from your hold, they are healthier than before. Also, you should never be the one to release first.
Being in your 30s is like being a ship that has too many holes. Kids you grew up with have kids already. They are balding too. They look like they are carrying more than their share of domestic burden but won’t admit it. In comparison, you look like somebody who was smart enough to not dip his toes in untested territories. They can have their kids and EMIs (who called it real estate and not unreal estate?) — thanks, no thanks. You, being the wiser soul, chose to take the easy way out and yet, you feel hollow. Their ship is sinking just like yours but they are betting on tomorrow. Their kids are going to cure cancer and their house is going to be the epitome of peace. You, on the other hand, occupy yourself with heavy notions of knowledge and information that makes you appear smarter than you truly are.
If you go to China and don’t speak in Mandarin or Cantonese, you are bound to be in awkward situations. They aren’t willing to learn your language just like you aren’t willing to learn theirs. The catch being you went there, not the other way around. So, net-net, it becomes your responsibility to put in the hours to know the lingual basics. Similarly, when you are conversing with your parents, you need to treat them with utmost respect and consideration. They might be using WhatsApp and YouTube but they are like China. They don’t belong to your cred. Their generation has metastasized their being in the same way the millennial era is shaping/destroying ours. Calling them rigid won’t bridge the communication gap; you are rigid in ways you can’t see now but you will in the not-so-distant tomorrow. The best way to deal with parents is to understand them before speaking to them in their language. Failing which, you will be stranded in China filled with desi parents. You will end up blurting out harsh words that you will forget in two days but they will remember for years.
Two TV shows from the same decade couldn’t be more different than Seinfeld and Friends. Both latched onto the cool carefree spirit of the ’90s. And yet, the standards of writing couldn’t be more conspicuous. Almost every episode of Seinfeld pushes the boundaries of humour and observation of human nature. Almost every episode of Friends, barring the first few seasons, sinks deeper into its own mess. The former thrives on relevance and progressiveness. The latter settles in a nice-looking comfort zone. In 2019, chances of you laughing at a joke made in Friends are as high as Trump’s EQ. Yet, despite all these critical bashing, Friends enjoys something the most successful (syndicated) TV show of all time hardly does: it has created a place for itself in those who watched it during their growing period. People binge-watch it today, not because of its excellent writing, but because it takes them back to the days when things were simpler and the world seemed happier.
Speaking of friendship, imagine you being utterly useless. Somebody who is not leading a fruitful life and remains dependent on others for the most mundane of needs. Now, here, would you have a loyal friend who’d help you leave your body with dignity? Sounds grim but very practical. What’s the point in living when there is less of life and more of lifelessness? I often ask myself this question, throwing myself into an imagined situation of hopelessness, and wonder which friend of mine would do the deed for me.
Marriage comes with a lot of compromises and a lot many more questions. I’ve been married for over 3.5 years and currently at that stage where elders want the “good news” to drop soon. They want a grandchild on the pretext of having somebody to look forward to, not to mention, cement the marital bond with poop-filled diapers. Fair enough. In this condition, I can only hope the geeks (who genuinely rule the world) come up with an app that would be OK with renting babies on hourly basis. We’d rent one and take them to my parents, who can spend time with the child, and we’ll return the baby on time. Of course, this sounds like a horrendous plan but going by the present standards of humanity, not nearly half as surprising.
As promised myself, I’ve stayed away from chess this month and it’s been quite a respite. No more stress about making ill-considerate moves. This break is going to help me focus better when I come back to the board (online mostly). As of now, I tend to enjoy a chess match review video more freely than before, as there are no extra baggage of making notes, etc. Just watch and move on — the way one would watch football.
Wait.
Turns out Magnus Carlsen plays chess as neatly as he gets football. The world chess champion is also in the top-3 (globally) in Fantasy Premier League. And this feat makes you question so many factors: it’s not pure luck that he is great at prediction, there is more to it than what meets the eye, he is a genius, etc. On top of it, he is a Madrista. Which begs the question: what does he think of Messi? Is there any way to know his thoughts on the most remarkable — unmarkable, if you were to believe the defender Mats Hummels — man in modern football?
