Mediocrity

When you meet people who are talented, intelligent or beautiful in the superlative, you tend to develop a slight inferiority complex that disturbs your self esteem you thought was ‘not that bad’. It reminds you of how insufficient you are in this world. It haunts you to no bounds, imagining that you may never amount to anything more than ‘somebody’ in the future. It is not the fear of being forgotten, or the fear of fading into oblivion. It is the fear of not being able to do anything even though you had a chance.

I am a self-proclaimed ‘Jack of all trades, master of none’ and deep inside, I loathe myself for it. I learnt music for five years and abandoned it because I didn’t make time for it, I learnt the violin for 8 years and left that because my heart was never in it, I procrastinate for every exam there is, until I reach a point where there is no reason for even picking up the book to read through it, I write, but it is obvious to anyone that I don’t spend enough time on it, I say I’m passionate but when it comes to the things I truly love, I don’t care about it much.

At least there’s something I’m really Passionate about and committed to it.

I believe I have reached a level of mediocrity and it is a vicious cycle that I am struggling to escape from. I wake up every morning, knowing that I’m going to be the same ol’ mediocre me, so I don’t give my best, because in the end, what’s the point, really? I’ll still never win in a contest, I’ll still never ace a test, I’ll still never be the funniest or the cutest or the smartest, because there are people who work day and night on their shortcomings to overcome them. And I am not one of them. Why even try, really, because in the end disappointment is all you get.

We go through our daily lives knowing we will reach somewhere, someday, and everything will then fall into place. But what if, instead of everything falling into place, it falls apart? It all falls apart because we weren’t good enough. What would we do then, when it’s too late and the damage is done? There’s no going back from that point, we’re stuck in this endless cycle of mediocrity, the constant thought that we aren’t enough for this world.

Then again, what if we were?

What if all the people we met, all the places we went to, remembered us? What if every little impact we made in this world lead to something bigger? Every little footprint we left on the face of the earth revolutionized the world?

Things like that are never true. Let’s face it, in today’s world, nobody really cares about your ‘little’ contribution. You may have people who appreciate you and love you for who you are, but is that really enough? Shouldn’t you completely accept yourself for who you are to be truly happy? I don’t know if I can ever escape this cycle and I don’t know if I ever will. Even my tries to stop procrastinating have been mediocre.

Well here’s wishing all of y’all mediocre people good luck. One day we will break free. Just pray that it comes before we die. 🙂

 

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Fighters

We hide our tears in front of those we love
Fight bravely in front of them.
But at night we unleash
The tiny droplets of water
That choke us from inside.
Relief is not here yet,
Just temporary freedom.
Today was a battle you won.
Tomorrow you will fight again.
You will emerge victorious.

Deep moments of homesickness at the beginning of college this month. I’m happy to inform you that no longer do I feel this intensely about being away from home. 😛

To the greatest man who lived

This post is dedicated to the greatest man who ever lived. I hope that wherever you are, you’re content and happy.

I will never forget the stories you told me, of the adventures you had, your progressive attitude, your love and passion for carnatic music, and most of all, your faith in your children and grandchildren. You were practical and right about everything and the coolest grandfather anyone could have.

If there was something I learnt from Muthashan, it was to give your heart and soul to the task at hand. He was always diligent and devoted to whatever he did and never multitasked. He didn’t believe in it.

From folding laundry so well that the clothes seemed as if they had gone through a round of ironing, to the impeccable way he counted and calculated the number of flowers required to make a garland, to the utmost concentration he gave when he listened to music, to the time he gave in cutting vegetables so that each diced carrot was of the same size, to the precision of the retelling of the stories he had read, to morning and evening prayers, he was extremely dedicated and passionate.

Apart from being a brilliant grandfather, he was also an excellent teacher- he helped me learn Malayalam, and taught English to so many of my relatives.

He also loved us so much, it was a great feeling to know that a man like that could love so much. Every summer spent with my grandparents was always eventful because they were there beside me. I loved playing on the swing set when I was little, my grandfather pushing that little plank I sat on attached to ropes and as a surprise, the next summer I arrived, he had gotten a large swing custom made, just for me. My grandfather, despite his heart problem, even joined me in playing badminton one summer, and boy, was he good. He slept beside me every afternoon and regaled me with tales of his encounters at the office, or mythological fables, or something he had read out of a book recently. He loved Ayn Rand and absolutely adored war movies and watched them with fervor. He even gave me word to word descriptions of the things he had read that always left me flabbergasted with his ability to remember words. I never tried reading it, but I wish I had done it- I think he would have been more than glad to have been able to discuss the book with someone. Now I know the next book I’m going to read.

He loved to talk. He talked so much that during his later years, we had to tell him not to talk that much because it interfered with his breathing. But he never did small talk. His words always had wisdom behind them.

He loved his house and the helped the land around it become green as ever and made sure to plant the right trees in the right place in our yard. He supervised everything that was part of the place. Even as he watched it burn down in front of his eyes, he stayed strong and simply helped my grandmother build a new house. He was a source of strength and inspiration for so many of us.

He lived a full life, with adventures, and with the people he loved. He suffered a lot, in terms of how the people around him were. But he never gave up.

I swallow down tears as I write this because oh God, I miss him so much it hurts. It’s not only missing him, there’s also that little bit of regret and hopelessness that surrounds it. It’s not explainable in one word.

I have never seen any other man like him and I’m sure I never will. One doesn’t just stumble upon people like him. He was one in a ten billion, his perfectionist attitude just a tiny part of his great personality.

But this is how it is, isn’t it? Death is inevitable, and unpredictable- as I learnt from this experience. But we all want that one last chance. I wish I could’ve talked to him one last time, feel his calloused and knobbly, yet surprisingly tender hands clasp mine, and wish me luck.

I wish I could have met you and talked to you one last time, and I wish I could’ve listened to thousand more of your stories. You always had an inspiring tale that never failed to amaze and entertain me and your unlimited knowledge about the world and India’s railway lines always left me awestruck. You are an idol to me and I sincerely hope that wherever you are, you are happy. The world was unfair to you so many times but you never gave up on the world.

I want to thank you for whatever you have done for all the people in your life because without you, we would not be who we are today. You were instrumental in so many things that happened in my life and I wish I could have thanked you for every day that I spoke to you. I will forever be grateful to you for all the things you have done.

Thank you so much.

Here is to the greatest man in the world.
Rest in peace, Muthasha. I love you.

Love and Love equivalents

In Accountancy, one of the major components of a balance sheet is ‘Cash and Cash Equivalents’. These are items that are cash or can be converted to cash easily. A company cannot run without cash. That much is obvious.

As a soon to be commerce graduate, and a word enthusiast, I now bring to you how I connect and apply Commerce to daily life.

These two final years of school have not been a walk in the park. I certainly would not have survived it without the help of all those people that gave me hope, kept faith in me and made me smile.

Here’s to lots more years of being with you. 🙂

Presenting to you,

Love and Love equivalents.

The ultimate component of life is love. Evaluating this love and acknowledging it should be done on a regular basis. Take time to appreciate the things around you and the people that make your life what it is.

When we think of love, the first thing that comes to our minds, unfortunately, is roses and hearts and probably how single we are. We don’t instantaneously think about loving and accepting love from the bigger things in life.

I talk now of my parents, who have loved me to bits despite my hundreds of flaws. How they don’t give up on me, is beyond my understanding. Raising a child like me must be taxing on them but they’ve never shown it. The nights where I sought their warmth because of my fever that made me shiver, the days I couldn’t find my socks in the morning, the days I told them that I failed to meet their expectations again and they said that I could, the afternoons crawled together watching television on the couch, the long drives at night, the silly arguments just so that they could watch me laugh, the positivity they radiated through their smiles, the foamy coffee which was so good, the ice cream with cashews and strawberries, and the dinners at a variety of restaurants.

I’m sorry for everything I’ve ever done to hurt you.

Thank you for your unconditional love that was and will always be so important to me.

I hope that when I grow up, I can be atleast one tenth of the parents you are to me.

Next up, are my two pillars of support, my cousins.

Without you, there would be lesser fangirling, lesser tears, lesser laughter, lesser happiness, lesser excitement about anything, lesser life in me, and ultimately, lesser me. I wish I could carry the two of you in my pocket so you can be with me on every step of the way. With your support, affection and encouragement, you made these two years a little easier. Thanks a ton.

Third on the list are my closest friends.

Namely- I.M, V.V.T, S.G      😀

Sometimes I can’t believe that I have friends like you. Time makes you feel old all the time. But knowing that you have stuck with me for so long, makes feeling older feel much better. I can’t believe that you believed in and stuck with this scatter-brained-music-loving-story-telling girl. Thank you.

The other people I would like to thank for their relentless love, prayers and prep talks are my grandparents. I looked forward to every Friday for the phone call in the morning to hear your voices and cherished every word you had to say. Thank you for being there for me and believing in me.

To everyone else who has touched my life in some way or the other, including my teachers, who, by the end of the year I grew to eventually love them all (albeit some a little more than the other), my classmates, who gave me the confidence to develop my personality and accepted me open heartedly, my Aunt, who helped with my homework through skype sessions and my other relatives who wished me luck throughout the way.

School was an ethereal experience. If I took some lessons home, it would not be much of studies, but more of friendship and respect and love. Thank you for making my fourteen years memorable.

Last of all, I would like to thank the universe for letting me be and for letting the earth exist. Without the Earth, I’d never be able to graduate.

Love is everywhere. Stop looking for it in a single place. Be more passionate. Be more real. Be more you. Because at the end of the day, you have only yourself.

Love and love equivalents is all you need.

Who needs money?

The weather

Dedicated to the weather in Dubai right now. ♥

The sun played hide and seek

The wind played catch and cook

The trees danced to a familiar rythym

The rain sang a nursery rhyme

The clouds joined the sun

The sea threw a raging fit

The sand stayed calm

And so did the earth

It was another typical day

In the play school of the weather

Chalk doodles

Today I found chalks in my drawer. My first instinct was to draw over my black table. Here are the results:

Daisy?

Production Possibility Curve in Economics

A little sketch of someone 🙂

Not bad, huh?

A rant about writing

Do you know that feeling after you’ve read a great book? That sense of completedness and infinite possibilities that consumes you and makes you giddy with it?

I think that writers are truly underappreciated. The quote  ‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ has never felt more relevant to me. Lasting physical injury can be caused accidentaly or unintentionally, but emotional pain inflicted by words can never be unintentional. Somewhere, it was intentional at some point of time to that person. It really was.

A writer is one who gives a sense of belonging to the littlest of things, like the brown splatter of dirt on the grey tar road. A writer is one who makes concrete structures out of wispy clouds. A writer is not just a writer, but a multitude of things. A writer is a scientist, experimenting with thoughts, emotions and feelings along with possessing a large amount of knowledge. A writer is an artist, giving beauty to everything and everyone around.

Many say that writers and are lost. But I believe that they are the least lost people in the world. They give meaning to life’s little inconsistencies, they answer unanswered questions in their own way and bring comfort with their explanations. They belong in a world of their own. Others may be lost, but never writers. They mould castles and dreams from the void, they are great finders of truth and live their lives from an outsider’s point of view, just so they can cherish each moment, grasp every opportunity and bend every rule to turn people’s lives monumentally.

Intentionally or unintentionally.

Writers don’t have boundaries. They use words as weapons and sentences as soothing balms.

A book, however incomplete, may be complete within itself.  It is, quite literally, the soul of the writer poured carefully into the pages. A good book can make mice of men or mice into men.

But all this has been said before, hasn’t it? Through the years, I’ve had to choose between a successful career or writing- it could never be both. Why did it have to be that way, I asked. Any answer I got was never enough. Now I know why. Maybe I was supposed to find this out by myself.

Writing can never be compromised. It has to be given one hundred percent devotion, dedication, love and passion.

If till today, I had any resentment towards those who were against my dreams of becoming a writer, I have forgiven them completely. A good writer has experiences like no other has had and that is how they write with great empathy.

Maybe one day, I’ll publish my own book. Maybe I’ll fulfill my dream of seeing my name on print. Maybe  books will become obsolete then. Maybe I won’t ever become a full fledged writer. Maybe I’ll never be good enough to publish my own book. Maybe the passion I have for writing will eventually die out like everything does in some people. 

There are infinite possibilities in the world. We should take things as they come.

I don’t know anything about the future. What I do know is that if I become a writer, I’ll become the best damn writer the world has ever seen.

My neighbour is a spy

Ever had that neighbour who’s so interesting all the time?

I’m convinced that my neighbour is a spy.

My neighbour is a tall, thin man, who never talks or even smiles at anyone.

He is often seen with a cast on his hand (injured in battle, of course). Every morning, at about 6:40, he walks out of the building wearing a completely black attire and a determined expression. He carries even his garbage in really expensive cardboard bags, unlike everyone else who use polythene bags to throw their trash (Of course he’s got something of national importance in it, which he has to give to the intended recipient via a garbage truck.).

Once, when I spotted him coming home from work, he (nervously) dropped his keys when he saw me looking. Suspicious?

I THINK SO.

While everyone else may laugh at my wild accusations, I know for sure that my neighbour is a spy.

And am I hoping that somehow, something happens that forces me to be involved in his spy-mission and then become an excellent spy myself?

You bet.

The wheels of the bus go

As my school days are coming to an end, there are often pangs of realization that hit me- sometimes leaving me depressed and scared for the rest of the day, and other times, just a passing feeling.

I have been to the same school for the past fourteen years and leaving this school would not be as painful as leaving the people that make up the school.

My school life can be broadly divided into three categories:

1)      Bus Journeys

2)      Classes

3)      Friends

Bus Journeys have always been fun in the years I spent in school. In the beginning, my school was located near my house and the bus ride was about fifteen minutes long. Later, when the campus changed, it increased to forty-five minutes. Bus journeys were ALWAYS noisy. The front was filled with kids and the back was occupied by the seniors. The kids sat in threes while the “elders” sat in twos or even one person per seat. The bus windows did not have curtains so we were left shielding our eyes from the scorching sun by using either our hands or our books. The Air conditioners were tiny and frequently broke down in the summer, leaving everyone to make paper fans out of old circulars and papers. Despite all of this, every single person in the bus had a good time.

In the morning, the bus was generally quiet, as people were either sleeping, or whispering because the seniors had just told them off for making too much noise and disturbing them for the test they had later that day. The sleeping kids were fun to watch, some of their heads lolling here and there until they woke up with a start to realize that they had slept off, and just after the moment of realization, the sleep deprived kid would have drifted off to sleep again.
The sixth graders would be animatedly chatting or reading their textbooks, and in some cases, fast asleep. The seniors were almost always sleeping. When I was a kid, I never understood why they would want to waste the precious bus journeys on sleeping, when they could be doing anything else. But now I laugh at my kid-self because only I know how valuable sleep is to a twelfth grader.

Afternoon bus journeys were on a whole other level.

Filled with exciting stories to tell and relief from the fact that their tests and/or homework had gone well, everyone was energetic and active. It was very ironic that this was our state at the end of the day. Maybe it was the feeling of knowing that we were finally going home, where we could change from our sweaty and uncomfortable uniform and rest under the comforter after a nice yummy meal made by Mum. Maybe we wanted to compensate for the lack of interest shown in the morning.

Every afternoon, when the bus would start moving, the adventure would begin. Kids would stealthily take out their tiffin boxes and eat from them, hiding it behind their bags (we were not allowed to eat in the bus), some would take out their pencils and start drawing in their books (also stealthily- sharp objects could hurt kids). Smaller kids would begin their games of rock, paper, pencil, scissors, or play pretend or even start fighting (in the case of boys). The girls would fight with frequent calls of “She is pinching me!”, or “She called me a bad word!”, or “She took my pencil!”.

 The others would be animatedly talking and gesturing furiously, some singing, and others laughing loudly.

Since we were an all girls school (except for Primary section), there were girls in our bus who were quite desperate. When a boys’ bus passed ours, some girls would whip their hair open and wave airily at the boys. Most of the boys reacted with equal enthusiasm, winking and waving at them. These actions would meet either giggles of the others or even disapproving nods.

The bus was also a main hub for rumours and truths to spread. Girls from different grades and sections often listened to each other, and through word of mouth, the news would spread throughout the school, effectively and within no time at all.

My friends and I often arranged Bus parties, where we told our moms to pack a little extra food for our friends to have. Some of the parties were quite elaborate, with Lay’s chips and Doritos and marshmallows. Others were unplanned, the leftover food in our tiffin boxes, would be equally distributed among the rest of our friends.

The bus was also the best place to make friends. For me, bus friendships have always been amazing. My best friend and I used to be in the same bus at some point of time, and my closest friends are in the same bus as I am. So, plans to see the movie that had just released, or for a slumber party during the Eid holidays would be discussed.

When we reached our stops, no matter how old we were, we would wave to the person outside with one hundred percent enthusiasm. 

The silent watcher’s life: Lost and Found

Children get lost all the time. In every mall, supermarket or any crowded place. I’m used to hearing announcements that give out the details of the lost child and the parents are asked to recieve their lost kid from the reception.

When something remotely scary happens, our minds blow it out of proportion and it ends up on the worst scenarios ever so that we are forced to think that the worst has happened. One of the most common examples is when you’re alone at home and someone rings the bell.
Complete silence engulfs the house and you think that a murderer is definitely out there to get you so you stay behind the couch to hide from him. Then it rings again but you still choose to stay behind the couch.
Your Mum is on the other side of the door and now she’s imagining the worst. What if you were kidnapped by a murderer? In frustration she rings the bell repeatedly until you realize that its just your mom. When you open the door, both of you sigh in relief and say nothing to each other.

This incident took place in one of the biggest malls in Dubai and Asia. We were at a store , looking at some clothes to buy when we heard a man screaming out someone’s name.

The Dubai Mall

He repeatedly screamed ‘Johnny’ at the top of his voice and everyone stopped whatever they were doing and turned to look at him.
We then noticed a lady who must be The Mother who instantly broke down to tears when she learnt that her only son was not to be found. Some people ushered her elsewhere while The Father ran frantically to the security guard and asked him if he had seen a small boy with a red shirt. He then asked everyone else who had gathered to watch while shouting his son’s name. The worry and concern in the father’s eyes was so heartbreaking that even the audience that were watching tried to search for the lost toddler.

The father ran out of the store and walked the whole length of the mall, calling out for his son. He was maddened with worry and everyone  stopped looking for the boy and chose instead to watch the father in turmoil. Some kids who understood what was happening called “Johnny” along with The Father.

The security  guard meanwhile, had informed  all of the staff from the mall of a lost child and they got to work immediately.

For what must have seemed like hours to The Father , a security guard came running from the other end of the corridor, a child in his hand , and yes , the child was wearing a red tshirt!

The father ran (quite dramatically, I must say) to the security guard with tears in his eyes.

The onlookers followed the father to witness the reunion with his son. It was quite a show to see about thirty people  following a running man. The Father was in tears and kissed his son lovingly, the look in his eyes of pure relief  and a promise to never lose him again. The boy , completely clueless about what he did to be receiving so much affection, I’m sure was glad to be back with Dad. We then saw The Mother arrive wiping her tears. I’m quite sure she was immensely  relieved too.

In the coming years, this will be  a story that will be said to him every year to remind  him how much his parents loved him and cared for him.