It's Alive

Sunday, August 17, 2014

I have avoided this page for the longest time in the past seven years. Coming back, it feels as though my worst demons are currently facing me and I'm suppose to cross them while addressing my absence in the past seven weeks.

Seven weeks of silence and nothing else on my blog would be blasphemous, at any point. This prodigal return is marked by a series of heightened emotions as felt in the course of time, at different times, given different situations by me. Marked by several life altering events, this post should be earmarked.

I apologize, to no one in particular but my conscience for this is the only thing that kept me mildly disciplined in the otherwise defiant, rebellious and unhealthy lifestyle that I have. I eat crap, all the time. I am clumsy to the point where I fall infront of people when they say hello to me and smile, while I admire their glistening white teeth and flawless, smooth skin. I commit cardinal sin by getting back to believing that Tool is the best example of post-modernist approach to skinning anything alive. If you didn't catch the last reference, don't fret. That's exactly how I've been feeling with my readings.

Readings, you ask? I assume by now it's a known secret, a fact, rather. I quit my job. My source of employment, income and all that I worked for in the last past so many years, I called it quit when I got a call from a very excited I.F. shrieking on the phone as to how both of us made it past the MPhil viva. It's been a little over a week that the course that started and I find myself brushing shoulders with my previous professors who are enrolled in the same department as doctorate scholars. It's extremely surreal, the whole deal. To be able to be a part of this giant circle where you're expected to carry a certain legacy, hold on to elegant writing and knowing how to really, read any piece of work presented infront of you and then articulate your response after using the same. It's extremely overwhelming when you get down to doing it. Specially when the stakes are so high. The stature you've been granted is no longer of a student working to 'clear' exams. It's essentially to learn, to improve and to scaling newer research material that can contribute your take in the exciting time of the acknowledging the change from celluloid to digital. It's a good time to be in cinema, as my Dean said, during the introductory session.

If the expectations are high, then the scope for falling down and getting your knees ripped is also at an all time high. I've made my share of mistakes at work which were considered to be massive bloopers. Several awkward run-ins with the CEO (including the one on the last day wherein, emails were exchanged- ahem), silly white girl reference infront of our new boss who'd taken us all out for team lunch- the lady is a white girl. Not literally, but visually. Misinterpreting vibes from the members of the opposite sex and flipping the fuck out after the offers were made, rather the set up was put forth.

No thank you, I'll quit my job.

It's not employment. It's me. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what went wrong. One of the key factors of not having the inclination to continue is the idea of ownership. Until you work on it like it's your produce, you can never feel any bit of affiliation. The idea of having original research (which will possibly bore anyone) is better than being trained to look into someone else's work as a part of it. I think it all stems from the missing connect that I could call the work mine and the fact that selfish research work will be mine entirely. It's only natural if this is what comes to someone who's been keeping it together on her own, with not much of brain hazard disposal nonsense.

Anyway, before I digress, the series of emotions as felt (in no particular order):


The idea of getting off at the cramped station and coming back to it occassionally. It was reminiscent of my KG Marg trips. Till today, that place remains extremely special to me. I can walk at any part and it feels like I never left the place. I become the raw 17 year old and Daft Punk starts playing. Gurgaon has it's own share of memories. Maps by Maroon 5 was my train track. Everyday, without fail it would be on my list and I'd be either dancing to it, or clutching on to the phone tightly just to see if it'll last the trip. Not just that, Magic by Coldplay was equally abused. Another transit track was Take Five. Take Five was reserved for those rare days when I took the train back home. I'll miss the certain sense of urgency attached with platforms and trains. Meanwhile, I'll take back with me two friends who I grabbed a bite with me. I'll take back sitting outside till 9 pm, with nothing but a tall glass of lemonade in plastic takeaway glass, where the rest of the world was in a rush to return home and I just sat with a ridiculous smile on my face, soaking the last few moments in Gurgaon and looking at the lights.


Of hearing a sick grandfather coughing in the room next to where I am typing this from. Fragility of life, demonstrated, once again when I'm wry and rotten inside and trying extremely hard to escape this with a brave front. Emotionally drowned in my own sorry of helpless that concerns the mortality of the being and how you can't do anything, sometimes. I am a wreck with sick people. People who I love unconditionally and until they're better, I don't know how to react to anything.


Pushing the world's easiest writing assignment till four days while doing nothing of great importance and only crying about peering through readers will be here, with one side of cheese fries. The ghost of the procrastinator returns and it hates me. The style of discourse is similar to what my head of the department followed in the final year during Philosophy and it's pretty nerve wrecking, if there are 50% of your credits attached to it. Also, unlike the previous stint, there exists no scope for incorrect interpretation. The document that is submitted to everyone, from your end is a sample of your work. Can you imagine the intense pressure of performance? You have to withstand the force of the text, the interpretation of the same and then your abstract/synopsis and finally, the feedback. Ofcourse, all I do is sit. I cry. I write. I repeat.


Of being tied to the word 'shame'. The word 'shame' beats the word 'killing'. The impact of both the words is quite soul stirring and receptively moving, yet both are used out of context and in almost all situations, without being moderated by the person employing them. Shame is one example of the words that put us all in a shackle that takes millions of years to change. "Have some shame!", yelled my mother at me for no reason.
I had to get back. I follow a strict not-more-than-15 sentences a day policy at home per day and when the matter reaches my lingerie and how I will parade with just a TShirt and not a bra, I'm unpeturbed. I'm unpeturbed till the point it is vocal and avoidable but what would my bra possibly do to me, is mine and mine business alone. I disapprove massively on those who have massive propensity to talk nonsensical crap and make me feel 'ashamed' of myself. For what? No, I'll not wear a bra. Yes, I won't feel ashamed either because it's my body and my decision. You own up the co-space and nothing more than the credit to the fact that you've brought me to birth. You can't snuck up and advice me to cover my legs.


Of knowing that the Metro regime to Gurgaon will end. To a good trip. A friend who's write sticky notes. A team at work who threw the best farewell to commemorate my first and last month at the job. Friend who'll offer me Babboogosha. A little confession and the details that follow. Going through all the pictures of college and life from 2009-2012. A gig in Gurgaon. Men in Gurgaon. The merit rank to M.Phil. The first paycheque in bank. Receiving virtual french fries and ketchup. Using the same pencil since 6th grade. Doobie with friends. Coming to work to find that the day's been cancelled and we were sent home. An internship call. Him. Them. Napping on the sofa while calming the guilt of not writing. Southall Fish and Chips. Watching a chick flick where the lead male and the female are not forced to part ways or be together. Fifty Shades of blue sky. Thailand.


By academics. With the idea of not being a practitioner. With the freedom to wear anything. With a student stipend. With the common disdain for sugar. Will to be with the giant, bearded baker. Will to be with someone and yet not be there. Him. Of a date, left me sad and dry. Of a heart that was kicked once again and now someone feigns any attention. Of being able to take control of your life. Of being able to decide somewhat, where life is heading. The idea of 'soon' and getting out of Safari Jungle. If this entire trip doesn't end with us awaiting the long and the tiring road to welcome us, we will remain here. Seduction with rules. Responsible man/father and responsible lovers.

Until next time. 

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