Turns and U-turns

Sometimes, thinking about tomorrow and the day after drives me crazy. Come to think of it, it is a strange concept – this whole tomorrow business. We spend a lot of time thinking about the future, working for the future and yet convincing ourselves that we are living in the present. I don't think I've ever been able to do a single thing in my life logically thinking of the future – the impulses are a little too strong to worry about the consequences... And yet, I find myself thinking about what life has in store and flipping out. Sometimes it is quite a liberating feeling though; you almost feel like a third person standing outside and viewing this strange phenomenon called you.

But yes, life does take strange turns and throws strange things at you. Some make you cry, some make you laugh... Some are just there. Most of the times, in the larger scheme of things it all doesn't matter. But the larger scheme is made up of a lot of smaller schemes and every experience leaves an impact on these small schemes, which could very well shake the larger picture. But you'd never know where it started, where it all began. I'm sitting here feeling a whole lot of love and pain within myself right now, but I really don't know where it all began. I'm thinking of five different things at the same time, and dreaming about some late night maggi, but would I ever know where it came from? And in the same realm of thought, as I think and obsess about myself and my life, I can't help but feel that I don't know a thing. None of us really do. We pretend, we wear cloaks, we make things make a difference, we smile, we talk, we love, we mess things up, and then we do things to fix it, or maybe we don't. We talk about ourselves, who we are, what we value, what we miss, what we love... But do we have any idea at all? Can you stop for a second and tell me who you really are? What makes you tick? Or are we all just pawns at the end of the day, part of a game where we have no clue about what is going on?

Let me tell you a story...

Let me tell you the story of a young starry-eyed girl, a very special starry-eyed girl. In fact, she was so special that she was just like all the other starry-eyed special girls! She dreamt of travelling to far off lands. Her heart resided in tiny little remote villages, sweaty train journeys and rickety bus rides. Sometimes, while she was lost in a world of never ending thoughts, she would hear the sound of train tracks, and she knew it was time to set out again! But not everyone could deal with her sprightly nature… There were those who cringed every time her eyes glittered with the thought of some unchartered territory and new adventure!

She had many friends, but of all of them, she truly loved only a few. There were a few others, like those migratory birds, for whom she cared. Some stayed for long, some only for short periods of time. But like I said, they were migratory. There was one thing that distinguished the perennial and the ephemeral in her life – the love for her. The ones she truly loved loved her back despite her many flaws. Oh yes, she had many flaws! More than other starry-eyed special girls! Those who knew her saw past those flaws, the pureness that lay hidden beneath the layers. The others were baffled by her sometimes capricious behaviour. What they didn’t realise was what lay behind the surface, the sensitive little child who internalized every experience she had. So as more people flitted in and out of her life, she withdrew deeper and deeper into her cocoon. With every passing individual, memory and experience, the shell just got thicker. Till one day... All that was left was a thick shell, the starry-eyed girl crushed under its weight – the cumulative weight of all the conversations she dreamt of having with someone, anyone...

 If I was ever to write the story of my life, I doubt it would be a fantasy fairy tale about a starry-eyed girl. It’s more likely to be – The World Under Prerna’s Dictatorship! But for some reason, I can picture an animated storyteller with a long white beard telling children the story of this young girl… Taking them through every adventure of her life, gripping them at every turn, making them a part of her hopes and dreams and everything else that is life. It is strangely apt, for a child like me trapped in an adult’s body. 

Being Grounded

I am not an easy daughter. I can be quite stubborn, easily irritable, impatient and I abhor questions. Ask me too many unnecessary, irrelevant and trivial details, and I will build a wall around myself and not respond to any conversation. Sometimes, I find this behaviour out of my realm of control. Or so I tell myself when I get unbearably angry. For parents two generations older, it is very hard to handle. But I do love my parents a lot (who doesn't).

My father has been planning a month long trek to Kailash Mansarovar for a couple of months now. I am in awe of his strength and determination to continue to push himself at this age, and I want to be there to support him for this journey in every way possible. But I have found it hard to come from a space of love, for no apparent reason. Sometimes, being snappy is just easier (sad sad truth it is). But the course of life has strange ways of driving home a point when required. Recently, one of my oldest and closest friend's lost his father all of a sudden. It still hasn't sunk in, and I don't think it entirely ever will. I remember the same friend's mother saying, when his grand mother passed away when we were some fifteen years old, that she has no regrets because she never had a useless fight with her mother. This event brought back a flood of very pleasant memories from a long time ago, accompanied by a twinge of pain, and a subtle reminder of the importance and fragility of life.

I spent two hours talking with my parents today evening, the longest in a long time. We talked about everything – from my work situation, to my life plans and philosophies. My mom and I as usual argued on the way I choose to live my life. But we argued peacefully, gave each other the space to talk and express our views. I did not lose my cool, stomp out of the room announcing how difficult it is for me to have a conversation with her, and shut myself from the world for a few hours. We talked about my dad's trip, which is only a week away now. About how we would keep in touch while he is trekking. For an evening I shared his excitement and faith in what he is going out to do, despite resistance from the world around him (no guesses for where I get that streak in me from!). For an evening, I let him openly see how inspired I am by him. For an evening, I gave my parents the opportunity I should have a long time ago – to be able to share their life with their youngest daughter, and to be a part of hers. I have always felt that nothing is more important for me than family, friends and human relationships. No work, ideal or passion can replace them for me. My biggest passion is my loved ones, and an ever expanding circle of relationships I am willing to give of myself to. This is the first time I feel like I am truly living it.

Being able to overcome my petty issues with my parents, I have been reminded of the interdependence and love with which we all live. I have been reminded of the importance of patience. And most importantly, I have been reminded of the importance of humility. I am grateful to my parents for bringing me up in a manner such that I am strong enough to be open to learnings at every stage of life.

I love you a lot Mom and Dad!

Lone travelers and Deserted Beaches

The beach in Gokarna is beautiful. Not as rocky and raw as Diu, but it is beautiful and clean, green forests all around. I've come at the wrong time of the year people say – it's off season, hot, and not many people around. But that is the way I like to travel – experiencing places during their seasonal virginity. Desolate and deserted almost, the sun beating down on me as I sit on a secluded rock on Om Beach. I reached here by chance, almost like an impulsive accident. It was like the tides were pulling me towards them. And as I sit here on my deserted beach, I can see the ocean grow, and the last falling waves sprinkle me with water from head to toe.

I like traveling alone on a shoe string budget. I don't know what it is about sleeper class travel and congested, slow state transport buses that makes me feel so alive and present. Maybe it is the elimination of personal space and the forced connection to humanity, on the surface, only physical, but on a deeper level an emotional connection, that gives me a feeling of belonging. Whatever it may be, I feel like I have earned my spot to be here at this very moment.

I reached Gokarna yesterday night, quite late in conventional terms for a young girl traveling alone to a small beach town during off season. At every point people asked me if I was traveling alone – from co-passengers in the bus giving me directions, to the auto-wallah who took me from the bus stand to the beach, to the receptionist at the place I was staying at, and even some of the other travelers I met. But that's okay – I'm used to being called a little adventurous and crazy :-). In fact, I think life is almost a search for crazy adventure and excitement for me. I wish I had more time here, but I must be heading off in another ST bus in three hours. However, the one day spent in Gokarna has put it on my list of places to come back to, along with many others. Though I can't say if I'll head back during peak season :-P. I'll end with a statement that represents my time here pretty well - “For party, go to Goa. Gokarna only shanti!” (A German traveler said this to two guys I met at Namaste Cafe).

Psst psst... I'm missing Gokarna right now, and I think the next job I take up will be of a beach bum! :-D   

A glimpse into 'My Delhi'

For a traveller, there can be no single favorite place to visit. Every trip is a journey, right from the nascent stages of planning to the very end, when you're still recovering from the thrill and the exhaustion. I feel lost when I try to pick a single favorite in this massive expanse of hidden treasures and abundant love. But there is one place that keeps nagging at the edge of my conscience. Delhi – my home town, a place I fondly call 'my' city. Over the last few months I have been on an endeavour to experience the city in a more intimate, meaningful manner. I have grown up here for the vast majority of my life, yet I feel disconnected from a vast majority of this ancient land of seven cities.

Recently I landed up in one corner of Delhi known as Majnu ka Tilla (MT). MT is a Tibetan refugee colony located in northern Delhi, along the ancient Grand Trunk Road, or National Highway 1. It gets its name from a Muslim saint around the time of the Lodi dynasty (15^th century) who spent years lost in meditation on a hillock here. His neighbours named him Majnu, 'crazy' in the local language. The founder of Sikhism, Guru Nanak, while passing through, was impressed by Majnu's devotion and named the place 'Majnu ka Tilla' or the hillock of Majnu.

On a hunt for some delicious Tibetan food, I was pleasantly surprised by the experience this little settlement had to offer. For the two hours we spent here, I felt like I had been transported to a quaint little village in the Tibetan countryside. As we walked into the tiny lane, we were greeted by two old men sitting on a bench, sipping tea and quietly discussing what seemed like the daily musings of life. Walk in a little further and coupled with mystical aroma of incense sticks was the soft voice of vendors selling everything from flip-flops to backpacks to Oreo cookies. Amidst all of this, both sides of the lane were speckled with little Tibetan restaurants that proved to be a gastronomical delight for my starving tummy! But the image of what I saw next will forever remain etched in a special corner of my heart. In front of me was a community square with two sides lined with restaurants. Outside the restaurants, three to four women had set up their tables and were rolling what looked like minced meat into thin strips of yellow coloured flour. And along one wall was a Buddhist temple, with a life size image of the Buddha sitting cross legged, prayer flags flying and at least 50 lamps lying in front of the temple, their flames wavering to the evening wind. Outside in the courtyard children played in free abandon and came giggling to shake hands.

Majnu ka Tilla was a unique community experience in Delhi. There was an air of spirituality combined with the commercial pursuits of a suburb in a cosmopolitan city. But at no point did it feel like one was taking away from the other – the blend was unique and peaceful – something I have never really witnessed elsewhere. And while I spent a mere two hours here this time, I cannot wait to go back to learn and experience more.

Nightmares and The Absence of Presence

I woke up today morning feeling choked and claustrophobic. I had a bad dream. A bad bad dream. About things I shudder to speak of. No, it wasn't really that traumatic, but there is always something in everyone's life that touch a sensitive spot, and the reactions to that you can't control. At first I kept delaying my getting up, and then after I finally did get up, I tried to be normal for half an hour. But then I gave in to the feeling of shitiness, anger, despair and hurt that usually follows my nightmares. (Yes, bad dreams are somewhat of a frequent occurance in my life).

I would talk about the dream here, but that is irrelevant. I need to talk. Blabber. Get my mind off the shit my mind is trying to concoct. Though, I believe dreams have a message, and my repeated dreams about one thing in particular are not doing a good job of sending that message across. I think the next obsession might just be dream interpretation. Anyways, at 8:30 AM I do not know who to blabber to. Most of the people I usually talk to would be sleeping, or I just wouldn't talk to them about my dreams. Some I would talk to without blinking my eyes, I have unceremoniously cut out of my life for the time being. Though this is testing my iron will at every point, to succumb and pick up the phone and dial that one number I don't have anymore for this very reason. And then I remembered this – my blog. I've been meaning to write a blog about what made me start a blog. I've come up with different reasons – rebellion, expression, talking at large. But the answer is simple – the absence of presence. I started writing Peppered Insanity because there was an absence of a certain presence in my life that allowed me to express and be myself. A presence that allowed me to talk without thinking, think without talking, and never ever judged. The presence was human, but replacing human presence with another human is a long drawn process involving emotions, heartbreaks, mistakes and magic that I don't quite want to deal with at this point. So I chose a virtual presence instead :-). And it does a pretty darn good job I say! :-D

So while I try to get over my dream, and move on with my day, I give Peppered Insanity a big fat hug for just being. For the presence. For helping me overcome the absence in my weakest moments :-).  

psst - Who deleted this blog entry last time? It wasn't me!!! Aaaaa my blog has been compromised! :-P

Lines running through my head...

Oh, how beautiful things turn ugly...

You know it is over when you dispassionately remember the good times.

Trust is like an eggshell. Once broken, you can't put the pieces back together. - Shashwat Gupta

In retrospect, everything looks beautiful. - Source Code

An idea is the most resistent pest. - Inception

What is it with people in my life adopting a twisted sense of morality and sacrifice?!

Don't you just love the romantic notion of a romantically tragic life? Get over it buggers! Just keep it simple!