Years ago, when we were kids, the happiest moment was something new coming home. A new TV, mixie, anything. In those days, TV didn't come with 100 channels and a mixie didn't mean a thing- but we still looked forward to their arrival. All thanks to those small little bubbles they came wrapped in- bubble wrap. How much we loved bursting each one of them. My elder sister always had her go at them first and left the remainder for us lesser mortals. How systematically we sat and burst them. In a straight line, one by one.
Amazing, how that teeny weeny plastic balloon would make you feel. Years later, when I started working, bubble wrap was available much more easily. For starters, there were no elder sisters and agencies, get loads of pretty bubble wrapped showreels. So there I was, in my bubble wrapping heaven- stress busting my way to the next headline. The feeling was always the same- beautiful.
But somewhere in the middle, playing with all those sheets of bubble wrap, I got trapped in a bubble myself. And I promised myself that the day that bubble would burst, would be the end of all things beautiful. How funny are the ways of the human mind, one moment you're bursting your way to freedom and the next, you're trying every possible trick in the world, to make sure your pretty little bubble doesn't explode. But bubbles have a life of their own you know, and try as you may, they have to burst. After all, they're just filled with air and trapped air must escape.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
I, Me, Myself
A few weeks and a very recent post ago, an observation was brought to my notice. It was on my writing, being self-obsessed. The writer in me, being self-obsessed. Thankfully, the comment came from my favourite critic, and the only one capable of surviving after passing such remarks. I was confused. To the point that I read and re-read everything that I've posted. And the truth was sharply staring me in the face. Yes, my writing revolved around me. But then again, isn't that what it's suppossed to be? The writer in you drawing from the person in you. So, I went back, maimed ego in hand, to the critic and asked- why would you say something like this? The answer came pat- because I've read your diaries, and here, you're writing for people, not for yourself.
After many days of pondering, ego-pampering, self obsessing, and most importantly, thinking, I am back. But the question still remains at large in my head. Do we spend too much time thinking about ourselves and what others will think? Do we draft and re-draft words to convey the desired message? Have we stopped waiting for people to form their own opinions, and have we started forcing our own world-views down other peoples throats? As a writer, I think yes.
As a writer, I think we've stopped writing. In advertising it's easy- sell fairness soap to sec b, sell washing machine to sec a and b, sell superb pre-paid connections to sec c, and let it be known to all that India is a force to reckon with, and that small time India is blooming. In life, it isn't.
In life, it's always about me. What I think. What I believe. What I feel. What I know. But is anyone really interested? It's not like there's a vacant space in some random kitchen waiting for my beliefs to fill it up.
Has the need to prove our intellect, gone beyond the desire to tell a story? Is writing just another form of showing someone, how much of what you know, so that over a random beer, you bask in a shallow halo that screams 'look at me'.
After many days of pondering, ego-pampering, self obsessing, and most importantly, thinking, I am back. But the question still remains at large in my head. Do we spend too much time thinking about ourselves and what others will think? Do we draft and re-draft words to convey the desired message? Have we stopped waiting for people to form their own opinions, and have we started forcing our own world-views down other peoples throats? As a writer, I think yes.
As a writer, I think we've stopped writing. In advertising it's easy- sell fairness soap to sec b, sell washing machine to sec a and b, sell superb pre-paid connections to sec c, and let it be known to all that India is a force to reckon with, and that small time India is blooming. In life, it isn't.
In life, it's always about me. What I think. What I believe. What I feel. What I know. But is anyone really interested? It's not like there's a vacant space in some random kitchen waiting for my beliefs to fill it up.
Has the need to prove our intellect, gone beyond the desire to tell a story? Is writing just another form of showing someone, how much of what you know, so that over a random beer, you bask in a shallow halo that screams 'look at me'.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Where were you?
I've been bombarded with a series of questions off late. The most persistant one being about the step-sisterly treatment towards my blog. Ok, Vimal, I'm back. It's these long never ending nights in office that actually help set the keyboard on fire. I've been sitting on a roller coaster for the past few days. I turned a year older, took four different modes of transport to get to one place twice in a day for six days, survived a huge attack by a horde of babies, and most importantly kept my sanity through it all. Life as I know it, went into a complete whirlwind of sorts and stepping out of it left me with much shorter hair than I started with!
But the more important question here is not of what happened in all these days, but where I was. Actually, where are most of us, most of the time. We don't come with in-built trackers, but my gut tells me, jealous, over-inquisitive spouses will soon find a way of getting one installed. Coming back, have you ever wondered about all those places your mind travels to, while you sit behind a computer machine? One minute you're reading the news, the other you're seeing someone's pictures on facebook (or Orkut if you want the whole wide world to know!), travelling to all those places you've never. And then there's the biggest travel enthusiast- your mind. Never settling. It's always at all those places you're not. I envy it sometimes. The lightness of it. The escape that it always finds to faraway places only imagination can reach. To the tips of clouds and rolling fields, to concerts and most often to the arms of your beloved. All those physical spaces that you physically cannot escape to. Certainly not, when you're sitting behind a wretched machine.
I have nothing against technology really. But I sure miss the simple, old times. Letters not emails, phone calls that lasted for exactly 3 minutes and not text messages. Times when you would wonder about a persons whereabouts and wait anxiously to hear from them. Times when waiting was a game that usually paid off. There's this bundle of old letters I own, assorted stuff mostly, some from friends, from my parents, grand parents and some odd exs. Reading them is always such a pleasure always. The moments they bring back. Do emails do the same? Nah!
Where were you, these days is as simple as updating a facebook status and there in an instant people know what's happening in your life. It's easy, no doubt but it kills the mystery.
The other thing that I find happening to me on most days is a severe bout of nostalgia- times when I wish I could travel back to the academic days and gaze out of a window and have a teacher rudely wake me up, with a where were you? Can you read from where she left off? What a trip that would be.
As I sit here writing this abstract piece out, I'm not really here. Where am I?
A thousand different places, all at once.
But the more important question here is not of what happened in all these days, but where I was. Actually, where are most of us, most of the time. We don't come with in-built trackers, but my gut tells me, jealous, over-inquisitive spouses will soon find a way of getting one installed. Coming back, have you ever wondered about all those places your mind travels to, while you sit behind a computer machine? One minute you're reading the news, the other you're seeing someone's pictures on facebook (or Orkut if you want the whole wide world to know!), travelling to all those places you've never. And then there's the biggest travel enthusiast- your mind. Never settling. It's always at all those places you're not. I envy it sometimes. The lightness of it. The escape that it always finds to faraway places only imagination can reach. To the tips of clouds and rolling fields, to concerts and most often to the arms of your beloved. All those physical spaces that you physically cannot escape to. Certainly not, when you're sitting behind a wretched machine.
I have nothing against technology really. But I sure miss the simple, old times. Letters not emails, phone calls that lasted for exactly 3 minutes and not text messages. Times when you would wonder about a persons whereabouts and wait anxiously to hear from them. Times when waiting was a game that usually paid off. There's this bundle of old letters I own, assorted stuff mostly, some from friends, from my parents, grand parents and some odd exs. Reading them is always such a pleasure always. The moments they bring back. Do emails do the same? Nah!
Where were you, these days is as simple as updating a facebook status and there in an instant people know what's happening in your life. It's easy, no doubt but it kills the mystery.
The other thing that I find happening to me on most days is a severe bout of nostalgia- times when I wish I could travel back to the academic days and gaze out of a window and have a teacher rudely wake me up, with a where were you? Can you read from where she left off? What a trip that would be.
As I sit here writing this abstract piece out, I'm not really here. Where am I?
A thousand different places, all at once.
Monday, September 8, 2008
The Mindspace
I've always been tempted to write about it. Many of my friends have been victims of my constant yakking on the topic- to them my apologies. But I cannot resist the temptation. And I have a blog to run. I call a place in each one of our minds, a mindspace. The place that takes care of all your memories. It's that part of your brain that keeps fading as the years pass by.
We've all been dreamers. We never stop. It's that bit of us, that will always be the eternal optimist. And it's strongest when we're growing up. Ask any girl, and she'll give you an exact impression of that person she wants to spend her life with. She'll know how he laughs, will know how he walks and how he smiles. Her description will be so perfect that people believe that he really does exist somewhere. She nutures that image forever and dreams on and on. And then one day, she grows up. That picture begins to fade away, and she starts falling for the pieces of him that come her way. The whole package never really exists, so in some she finds the smile, in some the walk and in others the eyes. In whoever she's with, she's always looking for him. Because somewhere in the mindspace, he's still alive. Still kicking.
As the years pass by, she gives in to fate. She gives up. The picture is almost gone, but it's still there. Through all those years, there's one constant fear that always nags her. The 'what if'. Will in true Mills and Boons style, the earth move and sky conspire to make your feet lose their ground? Will 'he' ever arrive. Ironically, he does. He always does. And that moment is inexplainable. (best experienced, first hand) Your life changes and the mindspace comes back to life. But what next?
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Additions and Subtractions
Things that come, will go. Things that are to come, will. Can you control them? No. Do you wish you could? Yes. Ironical as it may seem, we've all been in this boat more than once in our lives. Physics was my first love. The whole thing with relativity and Newton vs. Einstien, always kept my mind in an eddy. And then I grew up and realised that what physics was really all about was Mr. Murphy. I hate that man. I mean, abhor him, from the bottom of my heart. He just knew it. And he's never wrong. He's always been the 1% in every life situation. What's going right, could at some point or the other turn turtle.
Fate, they say is life altering. It's like one of those sudden storms that sweeps in and changes almost everything. In one moment, everything changes. You're helpless and you credit it all to the hand of fate. But then you realise, that you cannot control it. That at some point or the other, fate will step in yet again. Arrgh! It's the most disgusting feeling in the world. I've often heard that fate and destiny go hand in hand. But the two never really sit down and have a chat, before they decide to knock on your door. Your fate decides your destiny and your destiny decides your fate. And they both are directly proportional to Mr. Murphy. That's physics for you.
It was a humid october afternoon, when fate decided to alter my life. It was a cold February evening when fate decided to alter my life. Time was the only thing that set them apart. Spaces were different and everything at that point was relative to my position in time. (For all those, wondering what I'm yakking about, refer to your class 10 physics notebooks, E=MC sqaured, (don't know how the hyper text thing works)). And standing there, I, a small part of the infinite cosmos, was a part of a bigger law. Not a part really, more like a specimen- like a lab rat.
Earlier in the day, I was having a chat with a friend who sits behind my workstation and we were discussing the impact of the teach india campaign. We both were eager on enrolling and trying our best at giving life to childhood dreams of playing teacher teacher. I discovered, that I've forgotten fractions, we fought over LCMs and tables. And I discovered, that I can't be a teacher. Imagine teaching Newtons laws of motion, when you know that Einstien ripped them apart. Imagine teaching relativity when you know that it can rip you apart.
Fate, they say is life altering. It's like one of those sudden storms that sweeps in and changes almost everything. In one moment, everything changes. You're helpless and you credit it all to the hand of fate. But then you realise, that you cannot control it. That at some point or the other, fate will step in yet again. Arrgh! It's the most disgusting feeling in the world. I've often heard that fate and destiny go hand in hand. But the two never really sit down and have a chat, before they decide to knock on your door. Your fate decides your destiny and your destiny decides your fate. And they both are directly proportional to Mr. Murphy. That's physics for you.
It was a humid october afternoon, when fate decided to alter my life. It was a cold February evening when fate decided to alter my life. Time was the only thing that set them apart. Spaces were different and everything at that point was relative to my position in time. (For all those, wondering what I'm yakking about, refer to your class 10 physics notebooks, E=MC sqaured, (don't know how the hyper text thing works)). And standing there, I, a small part of the infinite cosmos, was a part of a bigger law. Not a part really, more like a specimen- like a lab rat.
Earlier in the day, I was having a chat with a friend who sits behind my workstation and we were discussing the impact of the teach india campaign. We both were eager on enrolling and trying our best at giving life to childhood dreams of playing teacher teacher. I discovered, that I've forgotten fractions, we fought over LCMs and tables. And I discovered, that I can't be a teacher. Imagine teaching Newtons laws of motion, when you know that Einstien ripped them apart. Imagine teaching relativity when you know that it can rip you apart.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Pardon the enthusiasm
I've never written a blog. Infact, apart from frantic emails, I've never really used the internet as an expression. But honestly, I've always been fascinated with the idea. And finally I've arrived.
So like all firsts, I'm a little confused about where to start from. I've been a copywriter for six years now, but this time, I'm at a loss for words. For starters, there's no brief, there's no client and there's absolutely none of those 'life saving' USP thingeys. There's just me, a keyboard and a blinking cursor staring me in the face.
Anyways, it's 1042pm on a windy, mumbai night. In the distance, I can hear 'Singh is Kingh' which often gets punctuated by Nusrat. Normally I would have been home, staring at a bunch of wannabe celebs fight it out in an open house, plot, contrive and plan each others fate. Would have eaten my dinner, and crawled into bed. But today's a long night and nothing seems to be going anywhere- least of all me. Like most of my counterparts, I've resigned myself to a lesser life. The kinds that starts and ends at a workstation. Where the only friends you have are the ones you made in school and college and if you're not careful, they'll be gone too. I don't remember the last time I was a part of the plan. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a social recluse, just that each time any of my friends have made a plan, I've never made it. Work, edits, recordings, re-edits, bosses, brainstorms, artworks, 360 degree, debriefs and briefs have made sure I'm right where I belong. Do I feel bad? Yes. And no. Yes because all the pictures that I've posted on facebook, are of me alone, me in office and me on a shoot. And I get a brief glimpse into the evenings that I've missed out on other people's facebook accounts. And then there are those 'wall' messages. Always tucked into all the sweet, we missed yous are the one off snide ones- 'aap toh bade log ho'- GOD!!! reading that makes my blood boil. But that's another story, reserved for another long evening. Coming to the No, well, I love my work. I love the madness and I love the way it feels. It's mad, it can drive you insane, but it leaves you with a sense of liberation- sweet slumber is more like it. Beer can have the same effect, but the difference is best experienced in the morning after. And the best part, I get to skip the hangover.
I read somewhere, that writing a blog is like writing a diary- only the whole world gets to read the incoherent ramblings of your mind. But writing a diary does not have a beginning, a middle and an end. Because the only one reading it is you, so it really doesn't matter where you start and how you end, yet each time you read through it, the picture is always crystal clear in your head. So well, this is an experiment. An experiment to see if beginnings, middles and ends are really the only things that hold a wandering thought together.
So like all firsts, I'm a little confused about where to start from. I've been a copywriter for six years now, but this time, I'm at a loss for words. For starters, there's no brief, there's no client and there's absolutely none of those 'life saving' USP thingeys. There's just me, a keyboard and a blinking cursor staring me in the face.
Anyways, it's 1042pm on a windy, mumbai night. In the distance, I can hear 'Singh is Kingh' which often gets punctuated by Nusrat. Normally I would have been home, staring at a bunch of wannabe celebs fight it out in an open house, plot, contrive and plan each others fate. Would have eaten my dinner, and crawled into bed. But today's a long night and nothing seems to be going anywhere- least of all me. Like most of my counterparts, I've resigned myself to a lesser life. The kinds that starts and ends at a workstation. Where the only friends you have are the ones you made in school and college and if you're not careful, they'll be gone too. I don't remember the last time I was a part of the plan. Don't get me wrong, I'm not a social recluse, just that each time any of my friends have made a plan, I've never made it. Work, edits, recordings, re-edits, bosses, brainstorms, artworks, 360 degree, debriefs and briefs have made sure I'm right where I belong. Do I feel bad? Yes. And no. Yes because all the pictures that I've posted on facebook, are of me alone, me in office and me on a shoot. And I get a brief glimpse into the evenings that I've missed out on other people's facebook accounts. And then there are those 'wall' messages. Always tucked into all the sweet, we missed yous are the one off snide ones- 'aap toh bade log ho'- GOD!!! reading that makes my blood boil. But that's another story, reserved for another long evening. Coming to the No, well, I love my work. I love the madness and I love the way it feels. It's mad, it can drive you insane, but it leaves you with a sense of liberation- sweet slumber is more like it. Beer can have the same effect, but the difference is best experienced in the morning after. And the best part, I get to skip the hangover.
I read somewhere, that writing a blog is like writing a diary- only the whole world gets to read the incoherent ramblings of your mind. But writing a diary does not have a beginning, a middle and an end. Because the only one reading it is you, so it really doesn't matter where you start and how you end, yet each time you read through it, the picture is always crystal clear in your head. So well, this is an experiment. An experiment to see if beginnings, middles and ends are really the only things that hold a wandering thought together.
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