Shapes of things

It wouldn’t be called coming of age if it didn’t involve a sudden realisation – a sudden jolt from long-cherished ideals to HD reality.

And it always happens to people like us – the dreamers, the readers, the observers. The ones with a thirst to be more than commonplace in everything we do, whether big or small. We expect to go through the exquisite agony of desiring something/someone unattainable, somehow managing to get it and all of it is supposed to take place through a slo-mo, larger-than-life lens. But fuck that shit, life ain’t like that. The things which you think are gonna be earth-shattering – the first time you kissed or had sex, when you got admitted to that school, landed that job, met that guy, he proposed, got married to him etc, they always turn out to be better in your head than in real life.

So what you do is, little by little you keep burying your dreams and dealing with reality. And you don’t even know that you are, except for that microscopic niggle at the back which tells you something isn’t right. But you rationalise it, re-tweak your expectations and swat the damn bugger away. But hell, each time it comes back, the swatting becomes a little harder.

Cynicism ensues. You become practical (hate that word). And you deal. Till one day, you wake up and you look at the dreams of the 14 year old to the reality of the 26 year old. And then you cry. You cry for all the times you let it go and coped. When you accepted less because you didn’t know if more existed, or where to find it. When you were too goddamn scared of losing what you had, to seek out what you wanted not knowing whether it could be.

And sadly, you realise the book of your life (because essentially, we’re always writing it CONSCIOUSLY) isn’t gonna be a bestseller. It’s gonna be an also-ran. A mediocre piece of literature with nary an original thought. And the shapes of things to come get so clear that you wish that you had stuck by your dreams to escape this ordinary reality.

That’s all…

Nothing is original

 This makes me feel easier. This clarifies everything. This explains away the last post's post script...

“Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don’t bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: “It’s not where you take things from - it’s where you take them to.” 

― Jim Jarmusch


PS - Has this happened to you? When you're pondering some of life's big (and in my case, v miniscule too) dilemmas, suddenly you read/watch/hear something, quite by accident and suddenly the proverbial bulb lights up? It happens to me too often to document.

PPS So does this mean I'll soon read/hear/watch something that'll explain away this PS? The mind, it boggles :-P (The dog and the tail. Yes, that adage.)

Loop and Litost

I want to write this, I really do. I want this to be a Woody Allen-esque self-deprecating post on how I look down my nose at the 'au courant' people. I want to write how hilarious I think hipsters are. How retweeting or repinning or whatever  re <insert buzzing social network> they're all doing makes them seem pathetic, not cool. I want to laugh at people who think every joint in Hauz Khas Village is the cat's meow. You, sir, in your green ankle length pants, polka dot bow tie and oversized black frames, what gives you the right to laugh at that muscled guy in the tight v-neck tee sporting even tighter jeans and a g/p/f belt? How is your self expression cool and his gawaar/desi/delhi/punjabi/double digit IQ? You have your inspirations, he has his. And no I don't believe you when you say that this style is entirely yours. I know you troll the pages of the sartorialist daily to achieve that 'arty cool' look.
But the reason I won't write this post is because I am not quite sure of my motivation here. I could well be doing this because I am out of the loop, because moving back to Delhi after five years didn't quite prepare me for this multi-layered city. This could be my expression of very mild litost (A Czech word, brought to fame by the fantastic Milan Kundera in The Book of Laughter and Forgetting). I couldn't keep up so I must ridicule.

So that's why I won't write this post (must you point out the obvious)

PS - The book. Litost. Milan Kundera.

PPS - I don't believe I have ever met a person with a sense of style completely his own. Think about it, neither have you. Can it exist? Aren't we all subliminally absorbing images all the time? Aaah, now I am suddenly in a Huxley frame of mind. And that really would be too much for one (non) post.

Amused to death

So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion

Disclaimer - any relation between the title and the post is purely coincidental (unless of course the reader gets this author (all 2 of you) in which case it is glaringly obvious)

What is it like for things to fall into one's lap easy? To constantly live on the potential of what-you-could-be?  To have people idolise you through every passing phase of life for a myriad of things - your style, your looks, your brains, your wit, your multi-facetedness, your creativity, your academic achievements, your professional achievements - past, present and likely future? One word - heady. And if I had to think of a second - clueless.
No further explanation of heady is needed. Clueless - needs to be explained. Clueless because you take people and things around you for granted. You don't realise how much of you, exists from their adulation. And you function like you're an island. Like everyone around you will flow to you, and you go on sitting on your self-created pedestal waiting for your loyal subjects to lavish you with their attention and concern. And in a typically ironic fashion, you don't see any of it.
That little sister of yours who grew up wanting to be you, copying your handwriting, your mannerisms, she grew up. She is her own person now. That beautiful friend of yours who would feel insecure every time she hung out with you, because you intimidated her with your knowledge and wit, she too is happy in her little bubble now. You don't count with her anymore. That clueless friend of yours, who you could guide with your logic and understanding, she knows you too well now, she knows the chinks in your armor now. That boy who thought you were the light of his life, a kindred spirit, an angel - he realised it was mere infatuation and went on to find his real kindred spirit.
And as is the way of these things, the little sister, the clueless friend, the beautiful friend , the infatuated boy they never felt the change. It was all part of a natural progression. But you felt it keenly. But there were more where those came from, so life went on. But the insecurities began getting closer to the surface as the adulation grew lesser.
This supply is exhausted now. All things that made u u are on shaky ground. Your knowledge is - shaky and incomplete. Your looks - are less striking and more regular now. Your professional future - rests on a huge gamble.
Level ground never hit so bad. And so passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion

From here to eternity

Masked, unmasked
Blemished, unblemished
Baggaged, unbaggaged
Guarded, unguarded
Hysterical, sane
Always been the 2 of you
From here to eternity...

Reality vs Dreams

All of us – tomboys-drama queens, low maintenance-high maintenance, good girls-rebels had our ‘perfect guy’ dreams. Most of us did not ever make such lists, these lists are very subliminal, made through trial and error during teenage and early twenties and maybe now when we are in our mid-twenties, the sacred list is more or less frozen (or maybe I’ll look at this 10 years from now and say, 25 year olds are so smug. Little did she know!)

So without much ado and armed with a sample set of preferences from my girlfriends, let’s define this elusive, ever-changing list shall we?

At 13

·         Resembles ________ (fill in the blanks with nick carter/Justin timberlake/ronan keating etc)

·         Likes to dance at mixed parties (unlike other boys his age who think they are ‘too cool’ for dancing)

·         Knows all the Backstreet Boys songs by heart

·         Very popular in school but thinks I am the cutest girl in the class

·         Makes me laugh

·         Remembers birthdays and most importantly Valentine’s Day!!

At 17

·         Resembles _______ (kurt cobain/eddie vedder/jim Morrison etc)

·         Not only does he know all of Nirvana by heart, but can play an instrument (preferably the guitar) and if he’s in a band, he’s golden

·         Long hair, facial hair is preferable – the scruffier, the more bad boy the look, the better

·         Girls throw themselves at him but only I rock his world

·         Makes me laugh

·         Has read more than 1 book in his life besides jim morrison’s biography

At 21

·         At this point, he does not need to resemble anyone, but tall, dark and handsome does help

·         Trips on Pink Floyd, Led Zep, The Beatles (must think Waters>Gilmour, John>Paul)

·         Can hold lengthy discourses on the auteurs and whether the simpsons is a better show than south park in the same breath

·         Has read a lot of Kafka, Hemingway, Orwell but his favourite books are Tolkein, Pratchett and Asimov

·         Makes me laugh

At 25

And herein lies the change, the big leap. Suddenly the list as you know it is dissolved and you realise that it’s all about the je ne sais quoi…that certain something that he has that you love. Yes, he is good looking, witty and sarcastic and reads/listens to/watches everything you love or respect but that’s not why. It’s so much more, it’s an indefinable quality and then you tear away all your lists and realise that hey, for once, reality does trump dreams.

Maximum City

I have a strange fondness for Bombay. I lived there for all of 1 year, and that 1 year was probably the most confusing of my life. But when I landed in Bombay a few months ago after a gap of 1 year, this strong wave of nostalgia hit me. In the black and yellow taxi, from airport to parel, that feeling kept getting stronger. The roads, the buildings, the smells, heck even the taxi drivers – everything was so familiar and strangely so mine

And then it struck me, this love for Bombay, where it came from…Bombay was where I think I finally became an adult. Delhi had always been home, with the comfortable cushioning of family, friends and familiarity…Ahmedabad, where I met so many like minded people and had 2 years of unabashed fun was more like a community…Bangalore too was easier, because 11 of us started our careers together, lived together and became each other’s support systems so quickly. But Bombay was where I was truly alone. It should not have been so; my boyfriend lived in the city. But things started disintegrating fast between us. I lived alone for the first time in my life. And it was not pleasant; I remember working till 9 every night, spending an hour in the gym after that just to tire myself out so that I would pass out from sheer exhaustion every night. I remember living from weekend to weekend, during the weekdays my friends and I didn’t usually meet – we lived too far away and it was our first year of work, so much to prove! So it was during weekends that we’d actually chill and party and suddenly those weekends became like us rising out of the water to grab a few desperate breaths before going under again.

It was where I got my heart broken (clichéd but true) for the first time in my life. And I want to tell you that I was strong and that I held my head high. But I wasn’t. I was a wreck. But I had this 1 wonderful friend, an unexpected friend who somehow made me forget the mess a little.

Bombay was all about new things, things that Delhi Tanvi would have never dreamt of, and no I am not talking about all that…but more about just being…a day at Colaba, just by myself…walking along Carter Road, observing people…talking to the Sales staff at stores for hours and actually building a rapport with them! Imagine hoity-toity me! Hardly, I think all traces of snobbery were left behind in Bombay…their problems became my problems, and I don’t think I’d ever felt so involved in so many people’s lives. My colleagues tell me they still ask about me (it’s been 1.5 years since I left Bombay) and it’s such a heady, beautiful feeling…to have made a mark on these people!

Bombay to go– never-ending nights…chatty cabbies…navigating ways and wonderful discoveries…kind strangers and random conversations…neediness and heartbreaks…unexpected friends…conversations that made me forget the worst, cigarette breaks …hot gym instructors and first love for watches…new people skills and wee bit more street smarts………………………………. learning how to be by myself, be alone…and for that I will always love Bombay.  If Delhi is the love of my life, then Bombay is that 1 intense fling, the one that you can never quite forget and which makes you wonder ‘what if…’ from time to time…

Someday, I’ll tell you about Delhi, the true love of my life. But it won’t be the Delhi you know; it’ll be Tanvi’s Delhi. And that requires toooo many pages!