The misadventures of the new smartphone generation: Admit it – we are all suffering from the inescapable ‘Digital Eye Syndrome.’
For a soul who was constantly on a laptop for close to 10-12 hours everyday, and at times even more, it was natural to have my eyes affected badly. To add to that, I never spared them even after getting away from the laptop; I continued to consume absolute trash on my smartphone, further torturing the windows to my soul.
There came a time when my eyesight could be best described as looking at the world through a butter paper. The same clarity reflected in my life vision. “Where am I going?, Why can’t I see my future?, What is the meaning to this digital existence?” I had over-fatigued my eyes and it would be in good faith for their sake alone, to undertake remedial action straightaway before I spiral gradually and permanently towards blindness.
I began accounting my time on screens, both laptop and smartphone. Realizing it was way too much for two little eyes in a 24-hour cycle, I made quick changes. Apart from work related reading, I restricted screen time to the absolutely necessary only. But, one can never get away in this digital age – there’s always a screen near you!
I also visited the eye doctor and he wasn’t interested in listening to the symptoms – blurred vision [check], double vision [check], pain in the eyes [check], pain in the head [check], pain in the … [ok, never mind!] He was just proceeding with different types of eye tests, all the while nodding at the symptoms that are now generic, not just restricted to the IT workers.
“No one ever injured their eyesight by looking on the bright side.”
The fact that you are finally able to book an appointment with him, in the next month, with Lady Luck favouring you over countless weak-sighted others, is a milestone of an achievement. Getting through to Kaun Banega Crorepati is way easier, I tell you!
A poster on his entrance extolled the virtues of eye donation, quite teasingly. I went back in, after having been diagnosed with a bad case of the Digital eye, and both long and near-sightedness, and asked in all innocence, “I am not eligible to donate my eyes, right?” “Wrong! Even a blind person can donate their eyes as long as their cornea is healthy, just ensure you (rather your corpse) is taken to the nearby government hospital within four hours of death.”
This immediately got noted down in my ‘Did you know?’ list.
Talking about interesting facts, the lady before me was asked to visit again after an HIV test. I was more embarrassed than her to hear the doctor’s assistant yell out the name of the government AIDS testing center. For a moment, I was quite muddled: Am I visiting an eye doctor or what? So it seems that STDs also affect the functioning of the eyes. One more to jot down in my ‘Did you know?’ list.
Now I look at the bright side of things. Because after all, “No one ever injured their eyesight by looking on the bright side.” I could get scarlet fever and go blind. I could get meningitis and go blind. In all likelihood, I could have an evil kid poke a pencil into my eyes, and cause blindness, not to mention severe shock and bleeding, too!
I indulge in eye exercises, these are all over the internet and that’s the irony of it! I meditate, the side effect of which is restoration of the eye and nasal muscles. I also give them adequate rest – you see they are your precious pair after all – the windows to your soul.
They say hindsight is always 20:20. Looking back now, I see many things I could have done differently. In fact, I have a growing list of things I’d like to tell my 18-year-old self, the time since I have been staring at a computer monitor. So, I caution my nieces, my friends and other folks to ration their screen time. Also, anti-glare screens and glasses do not make much of a difference.
Eye exercises, vitamin A-enriched foods and adequate rest are the only three weapons in your arsenal. Save your eyes, save your world in this digital age!
A close friend of mine, a mother in her late 30’s, feels a sudden sensation of ‘the world going round and round’, while waiting for her son’s school bus one afternoon. Next thing she remembers – parents of other kids hovering over, trying to talk her back to reality. Regaining consciousness, she is escorted back to her den, to her existential blackhole: nothing escapes her home. All her anxieties, lists of things to do, expectations to live up to, just about everything had taken a toll on her. They just made themselves home, they had no way to get out.
The blackouts had turned frequent. She joined Sri Sri’s Art of Living, alongside taking medications for low blood pressure. ‘I feel so good, you should try it, too!” she sang to me.
The therapeutic benefits of a meditation course have been proven time and again, but there is not much about the positive changes brought about by the simple act of ‘writing a journal.’
I began writing a journal as an 8-year-old. It may have not lasted even 8 days, given my extreme anxiety and sleepless nights over being spied on by my siblings. Reminiscing the entries, they were mostly a vivid description of my dreams, the ones you see with shuteye. One was about how I had discovered a particular mountain, just like other climbers had, with no gravitational pull on one side. The people ahead of me, slowly jumped down, giving wings to their ultimate dreams, and were soon floating about in air, maybe 1500 kms above sea level.
It’s now or never. I got off too. I became a bird, just gliding real slow all around.
Jotting it all down on those pages was so much bliss: the very act of recalling the feeling of being a bird, talking about my wish to, perhaps someday, set out on a discovery mission for the magic mountain.
Another entry I remember is about how my mother taught me to ‘fly a butterfly like a kite’ while returning from school, and how I instantly rejected the idea, because passing a thread through butterfly wings might be hurting them. The other entries in the little journal may have been imaginary stuff – I can’t recollect any more. All I know is me tearing off the pages and then tearing each page into little pieces – me, the human shredding machine!
Later, I tried again but encountered only false starts. The fear of someone finding my diary lying about minding its own business, reading it and knowing the goings-on in my mind, was too extreme for me.
So, I stuck to blogging – logging on the world wide web. It was not personal anymore. I weaved cryptic words into little poems to express what I was feeling inside. I made fictional accounts of fictional characters, actually telling my story. People read them as poetry and fiction, not a soul knew the stories hidden between the lines. This was fun, but not as liberating.
Your diary is your road to inner peace. Your diary is your friend, your philosopher and your guide.
So I stuck to personal diary writing again – late last year, and have been going strong till date. It’s the best part of my day; I look forward to putting pen to paper and jotting down whatever comes to my mind that time.
Therapists have long proven the benefits of keeping a journal, specially after going through trauma you can’t explain to another soul. History is replete with famous people and their diaries, without which we wouldn’t have known their humane side. Inventors, Philosophers, Visionaries, Artists, Shapers of our world have maintained notes or journals of their random thoughts throughout the day. Explorers loved their travel journals while Thinkers loved their book of ideas.
The Anne Frank Diary is a classic window to the joy of journaling. Hiding from Nazis, this Jewish girl all of 12 copes with her anxieties, dreams and aspirations and the eternal fear of being caught, by making time to write the day’s happenings, and her ideas about growing up to be an adult.
Whatever be your standing in life, it can always be tackled by writing away your fears and worries, your anxieties and hurt feelings. I believe like reading, writing too, is to your mind, what exercise is to your body. It can purge out the toxins just when the pen touches the paper, the ink flushes out the unwanted.
Moreover, it helps bring clarity at the times you are quite muddled. In this age of instant gratification and mindless scrolling, swiping and virtual escapism, a diary is a real thing; you can savour it at leisure, look it up for ideas or just ogle at the vintage beauty of a bygone era, still very much yours.
Your diary is your road to inner peace. Your diary is your friend, your philosopher and your guide. Write your own story. Own your day. Jot down things that brought you joy and also those that made you cry, things you’d love to do, friends you’d love to make and places you’d love to visit. Go on… discover the daily joy of journaling!
Under the aegis of Swachh Bharat Abhiyan, the national transporter is apparently slaying two demons with one spear… err one dump at a time.
The Indian Railways is struggling with Rail Neer, its packaged drinking water brand. A product by the Indian Railway Catering and Tourism Corporation (IRCTC) under the Ministry of Railways, Rail Neer is a key revenue generator for IRCTC, but despite continued efforts, the bottled mineral water is failing to meet the demand. Last year, it could quench the thirst of only 20% Indians who were thirsty inside railway stations, and clocking sales of only Rs 150 crore.
The brand is now looking for growth. India has over 7000 railway stations and over 1000 passenger trains, but not many bottles of Rail Neer. This gives other brands a free pass to fill the void, and the Indian Railways a wasted opportunity. Rail Neer, a brand that reportedly contributes 10% to IRCTC’s annual revenue, could easily be doubled in a tropical country like India.
The problem statement and the identified objectives were both very clear. This set thoughts in motion for the Chief Innovation Officer of the Indian Railways, Mr. P K Shitamurthy. Inspired by Aajit Kumar’s bestseller, ‘Think Beyond’, Shitamurthy found his ‘Eureka!’ moment one fine morning as he sat on his pot.
So many travellers on a train and so many more at the stations. Imagine the amount of crap being generated at every railway station, and on every train. What if we could gather all that crap and put it inside ‘that’ machine that produces pure, drinking water out of it. NASA does that to quench its 19 or so astronauts in the International Space Station. Bill Gates took a sip of it years ago, and had said, “It was delicious.”
Surely, this would be a win-win for Rail Neer, the different punchlines could go something like – ‘Swachh Bharatiya desi pani’, ‘Boond boond – ek ehsaas’, ‘Keval pani aur kuch nahi’ or the direct ‘Hamara potty, hamara pyaas.’
Designed for areas with no access to clean, drinking water, this water-faeces machine could be implemented as a way to ‘think beyond.’ More like a ‘two birds with one stone’ solution for the problem at hand. The now even-more-famous Shitamurthy recalled at a press conference later, how his chest had puffed to a 56 inch one after having shared the innovative solution with topmost boss of the country, our PM.
Apparently, our PM immediately jumped up to the idea of fulfilling Rail Neer’s raw material needs as well as the addition of another shiny, clean feather on his Swachh Bharat Abhiyan. But, he also doubles up as the country’s ‘Make in India’ salesman, so he proposed to Shitamurthy to invite as many foreign companies as he can, to convert our poop into drinking water.
The Minister of Railways is reported to be very pleased with this innovative idea; he was fed up with being mollycoddled his way every year in presenting (somebody else’s) rail budget in parliament. When he was sworn in, little did he know that this was his only role.
“Let’s do this shit!” he exclaimed in an animated gesture, not knowing that he was to take the first sip of that water at a public demonstration of the wonder machine, amidst journalists from national and international publications.
Parallelly, Rail Neer is taking a deep look at cost-cutting measures. It has begun the process with its own. The Rail Bhavan in New Delhi has reportedly refused to provide Rail Neer to its officials. “Bring your own water else drink from the installed RO plants in the premises,” a circular stated.
Meanwhile, Shitamurthy and our PM are basking in glory, as reports have come in. ‘Crap in India,’ was an inside joke, taken literally!
Ajji is just like any other granny. She’s frail on the outside, her wobbly knees could give away any time. Yet she never ceases to run that feet-powered, ancient yet trusty sewing machine. What’s wrong if she can help contribute to her family’s meager income? And, what’s not to like if the family has a little girl all of 10? The girl’s mother sells home-cooked eatables on a bicycle and her father works at the factory. The family stays in a dark, dingy slum with a pregnant out-of-work prostitute as a neighbour.
Ajji is tender at heart, just like marshmallows she melts to her grand daughter Manda’s very being of existence. Still, the depths of her love can only be fully fathomed at the end. How far would she go, to save the dignity of her beloved Manda? Because, where there is a little girl all by herself, minding her own business, there is a big, bad wolf, too!
Ajji, the dark thriller directed by Devashish Makhija and co-written by Mirat Trivedi, is an Indian take on a Korean revenge thriller, but minus the action and the gore. It slowly builds up your hunger for a fantastic revenge by our wobbly, old granny, as it generates hatred for the bad guy in the pits of your core, but finally leaves you very satisfied in the climax.
One night Manda does not return home; a search party comprising the duo gets into action – our wobbly Ajji and her faithful companion, the pregnant prostitute. Together they find the little girl dumped in the trash, brutally raped and bleeding. They bring her home, call a cop who then proceeds with a fake investigation, and adds more insults to their collective injury.
Although Manda identifies her attacker as the son of a local politician, the cop refuses to file a report citing the family itself is into illegal/unlicensed activities. They could be jailed instead, he frightens them. So, life goes on as usual at home.
Our little Manda has no clue about what has happened with her, her mother is strangely aloof about the mental repercussions of this lowly crime on her 10-year-old. She is worried about having to cook eatables and then sell them on a cycle all around the area. “Is this my life?”, is her top most concern!
Ajji decides to take up the matter, and we begin to wonder – ‘How?’ On one side, there is utter poverty, helplessness and frail knees, and on the other, there’s political power dynamics at play. But, her single-minded determination takes her from pinning down the bad guy’s hiding den to ultimately pin him down – badly bleeding and bruised, writhing in pain, with no idea about what just happened.
Ajji is never, even for a moment, revealing in her expressions. There’s no inkling of an actor’s angst or pretentious venting out fumes of revenge. Just pure, effortless playing of an inwardly resolute but outwardly frail old woman. “I know what I need to do, and I’ll find my way to accomplish it, come what may.”
A particularly long scene between a female mannequin and the bad guy sets the level of gore and misogyny that exists in our society. Post watching that scene, just as ajji is from behind the bushes, you are scarred for life. Like her, you too sub-consciously start working out a plan to do unto him what he does to helpless little girls and women.
The cinematography is like truth; it’s ugly and you need to take it with a pinch of salt. There is absolutely no effort to hide the truth – the sinister truth about dark, unsafe places and big bad wolves. The hardly there background score only adds to the thrill.
The film’s poster is understandably dark in tone, but if one were to look at the wolf in it, they’d know they are in for a sumptuous meal of revenge!
The 2017 film has deservedly been a part of prestigious film festivals all over the globe, and is now available for paid screening if you’ve missed it. On a budget of INR 3.5 crores, in under 105 minutes, Ajji is one memorable film for lovers of dark cinema.
I’m a shy and introverted being, and have always been as far back as I can remember. When my dad took me to my first interview, I was all of four. The little me held on to my dad’s lap for dear life; I was certain the principal was a monster in disguise, and this interview was just a front to catch children.
The gentleman placed a colour chart on the table, and pointed out at the squares in random manner, while I whispered the name of the said colour into my dad’s ears. This is the only man I trusted, and would only tell him what I knew. “It is my supreme right to keep my knowledge of colours a secret, only meant for my dad’s ears.”
I flunked the personal interview and test.
It must have been a traumatic experience for my parents to see their intelligent, creatively-inclined but painfully shy last born, not make the cut for her admission to kindergarten. The road to ‘getting her an education‘ is already a bumpy one!
That is my earliest experience of stress caused by panic I caused to my parents. They tried a few local schools but our education system is full of assholes – they are trained to say No! “We cannot take this kid, she just hides behind you tugging at your trousers, or climbs onto your lap and replies into your ears. How do we know if she has any cognitive skills at all?”
My dad – the impossible optimist and a teacher in his early career – had a long talk with the first principal. He got him convinced that there is no learning hurdle here; this child is only shy. I guess writing and some drawing assignments ensued. It saved my life. I was cleared for Junior Kindergarten!
I am 40 now. From 4 to 40, nothing has really changed. I am awfully shy still, and yes I can write and paint to save my life!
In fact, if someone were to harm me like an assault or something, I choose to get my revenge by writing about it. It could take the shape of poetry or prose, but write I will. No revenge is as sweet as describing all the bad things I would do to that person. In hindsight, I believe my parents should have taken me to a counselor, or probably enrolled me in dance or martial arts classes.
Let me not digress. This isn’t about failed parenting, quite far from that in fact. This is about my anxiety that could be at best a reluctance to step ahead and say a ‘hello’ even if I’m dying to be friends with a particular person, and have already imagined a lifelong bond until death do us apart types, and at worst a sudden choking by this invisible monster, a feeling consistently experienced when I enter a party, a meeting or a group interview.
I had so many chances I blew cause I was too damn shy!
One time I nearly began gasping for air, my throat went dry and I forgot all about C and C++, programming languages I was supposedly good at. I felt like I was speaking but words were stuck somewhere between my head and my voice box.
I knew later this was a repeat stress interview, just like the trauma I underwent to get into kindergarten. Nobody cares if you know the right answers, they just want to see you speak while looking at their eyes.
The perks of being shy are none really. Like an old Hindi idiom goes: ‘Jis ne ki sharam, uski phuti karam‘, meaning ‘The shy ones mess up their own destiny.’ And I’m a shining example. I revel in my shyness. I also got sick due to it.
I used to avoid having lunch for a whole six months, during my very first job as a ‘Field Researcher’ with a market research firm, at the tender age of 17. You see I just couldn’t face the stares. People are really rude when it comes to staring at a girl eating her food alone. This is trespassing and should be treated as such.
But, the worst part was me choosing to store all my waste liquids in my bladder, because to empty it, I would need to use the loo – the keys to which were kept at the reception. This was a common toilet, shared by many of the offices in the nearby buildings.
Shyness just didn’t affect my overall well-being; it has kept me away from discovering new friendships. I hardly socialize with new groups. I prefer to stick to my old ones. But, some things are good with being shy – I don’t talk much and that makes me look intelligent. First time acquaintances are under the impression that I probably know a lot about the discussion at hand!
The other by-product is a focused channeling of my expression. There is no anxiety or a sudden welling up in my stomach when I indulge in creative writing or painting or just reading a book. It’s like my life is so happening – I’m writing this on a Friday night while relaxing Zen music plays on SoundCloud.
Party for one is my kinda life. My kinda Friday chilling out. At 40, there’s no changing that. In case your kids are shy, don’t yell at them. My parents never did, and see how I turned out! 😀
I saw the sun today. A glowing ball of red and yellow gradient, It’s not so often that I happen to steal a glance at the sky, early in the morning when I’m watering my plants. But, this one time I did, and I found myself transfixed. It felt like I was shoved inside a time machine, and transported back to the days of little me looking at the sun in stark wonder.
This shining ball in the sky, its purity, its simplicity and it being the source of all life on earth, never ceased to fill me with wonder. It looked like a beacon of hope for all of mankind. And so, I became a morning person, not like an early riser and all but more like a person who craved for the beauty of the sun!
My mom was really happy to know her youngest always wakes up once the sun rays hit her eyes. A sureshot way to wake me up was to pull the window curtains, letting the majestic sun rays do their magic. At first, I had all kinds of creative excuses, very much justified for a little mischievous mind. I would complain that the early morning sun rays were harmful for my eyes, and I could go blind if she continued to do this. Thank the Sun God, my mom didn’t stop. I got addicted to those sun rays.
It became my early morning dope. The rays injected me with a sudden explosion of consciousness. The wall between my deep dreams and the everyday mundane school life would fall apart. I would slowly come into a reality zone, brushing aside that fantastical world I was at, a little while ago, fighting strange creatures and protecting my people. Yes, I was the king of a mythical world and my sole duty every day was to kill the enemy forces attacking my people and bask in the glory of victory that was always mine!
A look at the sun was my reality check. Today is school day, slaying monsters can take a break now. I would usually have to run to school, along with a friend of mine, to avoid the punishment of having to run the school grounds a whole ten rounds. But, again in my class, through the window I would stare at the sun. One teacher named me “Dream girl.” The truth is I never dreamt when I looked at the sun, I was just amazed by its breathtaking beauty. That shining ball in the sky!
A few years ago, a mentor-like personality told me we should strive to be like the sun. I was stunned by that statement; how can human beings be like the sun. Then she explained: be like the sun, an entity that only gives and does not expect anything in return. That is so humanly tasking an effort, we are so hardwired to get something in return, that when at times we do good, we wait for good to come to us, and when it doesn’t we are quiet disappointed. The sun never asks for anything. Point taken!
Elon Musk’s Solar City is hedging our future energy resources wholly on the sun. The visionary believes only the sun will save mankind from total extinction, even if our planet is destroyed, we could colonize Mars and other planets by harvesting energy from our good old sun. The man has concrete plans in place to make that a reality. That is a smart move because his raw material, the sun will not have any demands!
There are many odes to the sun. In ancient civilizations, the sun is a male God worshiped for a whole list of reasons. In Hindu religion, there is the Gayathri Mantra dedicated to the sun. For me, the sun is a representation of the divine. The ultimate creator of all life. It fills me with hope and charges me up for the day, just as it did when I was a little girl.
That shining ball in the sky is my aerial charger. My messenger of hope saying “You are loved.” The sun makes me feel significant, however small I may be feeling inside. What does the sun say to you?
We are all together in this – this Fear Of Missing Out on the best things in life, actually the best things in other peoples’ lives. This endless scrolling through our social feeds right through till midnight – lest we don’t miss out on Ms. Darjeeling ki Babydoll’s special surprise birthday party, which surprisingly was planned by her two BFFs (read sidekicks), and executed by Babydoll herself, of course without her knowledge!
We never fail to amaze ourselves with our ceaseless energy to troll others. Glancing through ex-colleagues’ LinkedIn profiles, trolling through a target individual’s Facebook and Instagram feeds, carefully scrutinizing the hashtags, decoding the meaning between the lines and arriving at our fantastical conclusions about his or her’s glorious life. What to do – we are like this only!
Like ‘eavesdropping’ is a legit human instinct, so is ‘trolling’ in this social networking age.
The Fear Of Missing Out is so acute and widespread a phenomenon the world over – the first world that is – that most of us have quietly succumbed to the fact that FOMO is the new normal. Everybody has it, so it must be OK. Which implies FOMO equals OK. When was the last time you heard someone is OK with their phobia?!
Most of us live with phobic disorders for the larger part of our lives without being aware of how acute our condition is. We walk back when a black cat crosses our path, heaving a sigh of relief from the horrors that would have been the order of the day otherwise.
We do not share our pregnancy news early on, lest evil eyes kill the baby in the womb itself. We do not tell about the recent slip disc episode that kept us from being oh so productive at work and somehow uncool in this age of the fitness rage. And we certainly do not share about our secret love affairs, despite the umpteen conditions that form the foundation of it, cautiously sticking to the – ‘We are just buddies’ phrase.
We thrive on FEAR. Our insecurities make up for most of our pseudo hashtags.
FOMO drives trolls, some of whom go to the extent of making sarcastic posts or comments, bringing upon themselves more harm than they could have possibly brought had they not trolled in the first place. We know our lives are good, we are often reinforcing it every time we share a picture on social media with the hashtag #lifeisgood, but we hardly believe it. For most of us, the grass is always greener… on the other side of the fence.
But, this is far from the truth. Because, the grass is greener, where you water it, my friend!
Fact of the matter is that true FOMO is essential, the Fear Of Missing Out On Real Life. FOMO ORL. FOMO in 2018 must be relegated to missing out on what truly matters to us, what brings us inner peace, what remains with us till the grave.
In 2018, we must fear missing out on the best things in life, like savouring a hot cup of tea at ease, without indulging in the pointless affair of sharing a picture of it on Instagram complete with the hashtags #hotcuppa #teaporn #iamatealover #teaaficionado #chaipanti #ifeelnaughtea and oh, not to forget the universal hashtag – #lifeisgood! (Fun fact – Yours Truly is a certified criminal in the use of #lifeisgood :))
In 2018, we must fear missing out on holding this little bundle of joy in our arms, lazily enjoying its cooing, rather than subjecting it to pure mental torture with endless selfie attempts to get the perfect one – baby nephew and bua all smiling away inside the perfect happy family frame. You know Instagram feeds have a short shelf life just as babies who grow really fast. Enjoy the purity of a baby, these little humans do not ask for much.
In 2018, we must fear missing out on the joys of travel. Getting lost in the wonder that is a sunrise, is way better than clicking a snapshot of it and sharing it with sleepy people on the other side of the planet. Clicking selfies with the locals only because it looks cool on your social feed is nothing enriching compared to the experiences you would have, had you spent time talking with them exchanging tales of love and longing.
In 2018, we must fear missing out on the joys of cooking for our loved ones. We cook in haste and spend most of the time in making the dish look good, for our social feeds. Missing out on the ingredient of love is like missing out on salt, well almost! What is the point of #homechef #instacook #sundaycooking #notagreatcook when the taste buds aren’t happy?!
FOMO in 2018 needs a new definition. Let us resolve to FOMO on the best things life has to offer this year. Cheers to #FOMO on the best of 2018!
It just feels like yesterday that we rang in the New Year. January 1, 2017 was an eventful one in so many ways, little did I know this new year not only would I experience the amazing feeling of snowflakes falling all over me, but also ushering in an absolute change in origin and scale of my life. For starters, I was at a very high altitude at a village called Tosh in Himachal, with the kinds of temperatures I’ve never felt before. I was as Madonna crooned: Frozen, at many levels than just my body.
I was certain this was my last night on this beautiful planet, I remembered my mother fondly nursing the infant me. I was chilling to the bone the whole night, but miraculously stay awoke and alive to see the morning of January 2, 2017. Well, Happy New Year to me!
Now as the year draws to a close, my life needs a closure too. The many expectations from this year that came crashing down just a few months ago, the many goals that were left untouched as I didn’t feel worthy enough, and the million unsaid words that will remain so, all of it now deserve a closure.
I imagine myself writing them all on a sheet of paper, or perhaps a bunch of papers, folding them and shoving them inside a bottle and throwing it in the sea. Swaha to the Sea Goddess!
A wise man once said that for the things we have to learn, we learn by doing them. I have to learn watercolour painting. I have to master the medium, else I might just shrivel up and die. The last four months I haven’t painted at all, it all felt so pointless. How do you laugh when you are being strangled?!
A harsh truth had revealed itself, the beautiful world I had so lovingly built came undone. The reason: a human parasite, a being that sucks out your light, your energy, your dreams, all the while flashing a crooked smile at you while you are looking away. This being was always there: hidden, discreet and a smooth operator in stealth mode. But, The Universe always gives you what you need and not what you want.
I needed this. This tight slap of reality. This series of lies, deceit and mind games needed to come to an end, And, it did, thank the good lord for that. Now I am empty. My slate is clean but with a thousand words wanting to weave themselves into poetry, a thousand colours wanting to blend together as a painting, a thousand wishes waiting to come true.
2017 was as much filled with love as it was with loathing. You know love and hate are two sides of the same coin, they are mutually dependent; without one the other cannot exist. And I also met with a new personality, a new me – a human being with a kind and compassionate heart. I almost want to embrace myself in a big tight hug!
Part of this is credit to my upbringing. “Forgive those who sin against you, as it is your own Karma, else it would have never happened in the first place!”
It is so true when they say that character is what you are in the dark. I could have become a monster out on a journey of revenge, but as an old Chinese adage puts it so wisely, and which I so followed, “When you go on a journey of revenge, dig two graves,” the rainbow is back in my life. I no longer seek to hurt this parasite, it is anyways sad that it is incapable of surviving on its own.
But, I do feel a lot disappointed in myself that I did not achieve the 50 paintings target I had set for this year. I barely touched a little over a quarter of that number, only 16 paintings to be precise but painted with heaps of gratitude nevertheless. It is really fortunate to be able to earn a decent living while you go about following a deep dream that’s been brimming forever inside of you.
I hate goodbyes but such is life. Adios 2017, you have been thus far the most significant year of my life. I have grown a truckload wiser!
Cheers to all my loved ones and admirers, may you have a great 2018 ahead. Sharing some of my works from this year:
Hi dear, good morning, go through my profile once again & decide or pass this message to those who really need my help. i have just started my journey in the titanic ship as dassan and looking eagerly for rose to share everything whatever i have with me till reach my destination. In the ship i like to do romance, like to help her and support her fully. waiting for a chance, whoever she may be, i dont know, expecting the luck of getting good and nice girl or women as a normal human being. it is not a friendship in the ship and also not necessary to make friendship but it is beyond the friendship level because sharing love and affection with a girl has totally different meaning, it has more value forever. it is not neccessary to get marriage. Marriage is just a approval ceremony to link male and female only. friendship is different, making love & affection is different, marriage is different. i am in second catagory. come, we will enjoy. see my face and talk, leave me if u dont like. give me a chance to go with you.reply me. dont be silent, be frank, nothing to fear,it is not a very un-usual thing, the way just to be happy in safe manner, waiting for your favorable reply, thanks. no compulsion, it is upto your own wish and decision”.
The above letter is unedited, unadulterated version from a certain ‘Mister Peri Vendhan’. Just copy-pasted here as is, else it would lose its very essence of existence; its very reason to be. And hell no, I haven’t made it up. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. This one is a gem of a proposal.
A while back, I had received this email proposal; I would have given it a pass had it not been bombarding my inbox every two days, like an incessant banging on my door. When I couldn’t take the banging [pun intended], I risked a read and am still recuperating. The after-effects of a catastrophe may take time to fade off, but not considering Mr. Vendhan‘s kind offer of help will leave one immortally wounded in the heart.
I have considered His Highness’s kind offer of help and am carefully evaluating his way ‘just to be happy in safe manner.’ Here is my reply to you, kind Sir, hope you do not mind the open letter format I’ve chosen to respond to your offer, I gathered there are other nice girls or women who could do with your generous offer of help and support.
Dear Mister Vendhan,
Kind Sir, May I please have the honour and privilege of addressing your Highness as Dassan of my Titanic, only for the purpose of this open letter? Dearest Dassan of my Titanic, I am deeply touched by your deep efforts to search for your Rose, with whom you wish to ‘share everything whatever you have with you till you reach your destination’. You know, the Titanic was doomed – it never reached its destination.
But, I understand your idea of destination is more inclined towards a romantic kind, you certainly do not plan to travel any place with your Rose.
You mentioned about what you intend to do in the ship: your idea of romance, help and full support for Rose is an exhilarating one. Any nice girl or woman would jump to that, but I sank, I’m unable to fathom the depths of your love for Rose. You say that ‘it is not a friendship in the ship, it is beyond’. You say that ‘sharing love and affection with a girl has totally different meaning.’ I think that was deep. And the Titanic sank real deep… oops!
I am a lowly nincompoop, what to do! I fail to comprehend the meaning of ‘totally different meaning.‘ All I know is that boy meets girl, falls in love, they get married and live happily ever after. But, in your story, I fail to see a ‘happily ever after.’ Will Dassan fall off the raft so his Rose could live? You know you seriously need to watch that movie.
So Dearest Dassan of my Titanic, I went through your profile a thousand times over, and like you so desired, I decided to pass this message to those who really need your help. I sincerely apologize from the depths of my heart for rejecting your kind proposal. Although there is no compulsion as you state, it is upto my own wish and decision ‘to see your face and talk, leave you if I don’t like’, I am deeply sorry for not giving you a chance. Believe me, I too wish ‘to be happy in safe manner.’
And, I do understand your point about there being ‘nothing to fear,it is not a very un-usual thing, the way just to be happy in safe manner’. Trust me, I am not scared at all to sail this ship with you, dearest Dassan of my Titanic. The issue is me: I just can’t see myself as your Rose. Who am I and what have I ever done to deserve you, your kind heart, your generous love and affection?
I’m deeply sorry once again for dashing your hopes ‘of getting good and nice girl or women as a normal human being.‘ I am a nice girl. I am normal too but just not privileged enough to set sail with you, dearest Dassan of my Titanic. Perhaps your Rose is blooming somewhere, some place as she reads this offer coming from the depths of your heart. I wonder how she will express her wish to sail with you.
Anyways, good luck to you Mister Peri Vendhan, I hope and pray that you two are united soon. Hoping this is a favorable reply.
When I was in school, I would collect scenic postcards sent to my friends from their aunts, uncles, cousins holidaying or staying in distant countries, most of which came from Europe. The intention behind this was simple – to build a rich collection of sceneries – seascapes, cityscapes, mountain-views – so I could paint them at leisure.
The scenes from the postcards somehow managed to turn into a pleasant memory deep in my mind, although, over the years of growing up and shifting homes, etc. I lost the postcards! But, our world has been blessed with Instagram now – every scenic picture (no matter what part of the globe) is just an insta click away!
Last December, me and the Mister happened to vacation at Himachal Pradesh, and the experience was uncannily similar to the postcard memories in my mind. Snow-capped mountains that reflected the colours of the sky – whites and blues during the day, pinks, yellows and vermilion hues at sunset. The deodar and pine trees helped add the earthy greens and browns to the picture-perfect views. No wonder then that the state of Himachal (Sanskrit name for snow-mountain) is also called as ‘Devbhumi‘ or ‘Abode of the Gods’.
Wherever we went, little homes and cottages dotted the hills, as the townsfolk went about lazily in their dreamy world, undeterred by the chilling weather, or bothered by travellers like us (especially me) starring at them in stark disbelief.
Here I was – chilled to the bone, praying to the Sun God and there they were – school kids with rose-blushed cheeks merrily dressed in their slick uniforms, men and women going about their everyday chores, with just a little in the name of warm clothing. The local fauna too – the dogs, goats, buffaloes, sheep and yaks roamed around like it was their business in the hills.
For a city-bred woman for whom adventure meant getting into a fast Mumbai local and being able to successfully alight (read: in one piece) at the desired destination, I knew I had a lot of learning (or rather unlearning) to do!
Our journey commenced from Old Manali – which we promptly reached in the early hours after a night’s travel in a bus from Delhi. (there are many state transport and private buses plying from Delhi to Manali from Kashmiri Gate).
Old Manali is the quaint hill town one would prefer to stay at, if the idea is to mingle around with the local folks or just observe their days and nights, and not to be confused with New Manali (only a few kms apart) marked with distinct tourist-y crowds – the loud, selfie-obsessed, littering-types. While Old Manali attracts the backpackers looking to connect with themselves, New Manali is for those Indian families looking to cross off their ‘Manali’ holiday from the list of 50 must-do Indian tourist spots.
Anyways, we stayed a few days in the guesthouses at Old Manali as we visited the must-see attractions during the day – Hadimba temple, Vashisht temple and hot water springs, Jogini waterfalls, and Mall Road. And, how can I forget Solang Valley – the most scenic place with adventure sports like paragliding, parachuting, skiing, etc.
The guesthouses in Old Manali offer a comfy stay with decent wi-fi, expect many foreigners, hippie joints, and cafes catering to all kinds of cuisine. A special mention needs to be made about The English Bakery that offers lovingly-baked cinnamon cakes, apple pies, carrot cakes, hot coffee and the likes.
I feel Manali has something to offer to all kinds of travellers – the seeker, the adventurous, and the shopaholic tourist. A 4000-year-old wooden temple still surviving, natural hot water springs (of which there are many in Himachal) all gel comfortably with the hundreds of shops selling everything from rainbow-coloured mittens and apple jam to dreamcatchers and woolen pokemon beanies. (There’s also hashish if one’s looking for earthly nirvana but the buying and selling of it is illegal!) Take your pick but don’t lose track of what you’re in Manali for!
Our days were slow. We watched local television channels or just wandered off the many trails in Old Manali, feeding our souls at the amazing line-up of cafes. From our guesthouse, I looked on at the surroundings. For every house built with a foundation of rocks and then strengthened up with the wood from the trees, there is a guesthouse beside.
A tea stall owner eagerly shared that nearly all families earn their living through tourism. Fact is – the whole of Himachal feeds off tourism. And, that has taken a toll on the valleys. The snowfall has delayed, adversely affecting the local farming, leading to a sad chain of events, those that are often marked by excessive tourism.
Still, it feels nice to watch life in its present form. Mornings started at around 10 with smoke bellowing out from every house, the wood-based boilers heated water for everybody in the family. Villagers gave their yaks and buffaloes a bath, while I mostly gave it a miss. All guesthouses have water heating and room heating devices but the moment you step away, you start chilling!
Another memorable experience was at Vashisht temple with its natural hot water springs. There are separate bath wells for men and women, and wash basins too! (TIP: Carry a towel and a change of clothes in case you want to go skinny dipping in the hot water spring baths).
One of the days was dedicated to Solang valley, we took a local bus from Manali depot and reached in the early morning. It hadn’t begun snowing hence the winter sports had not been up. So ,we took the automatic ropeway right up the summit, to be welcomed by snow-capped peaks and revel in the bliss of nature’s beauty. The mighty Himalayan peaks stood yonder, while I looked on and on and on…
Returning down the ropeway, we saw that the valley was now jampacked with tourists – moms, dads, kids all dressed as paragliders. The paragliding activities did not start until late afternoon as the wind conditions weren’t right. By the time it did by 3 pm, there was a long queue of super excited tourists waiting to buy their tickets, and that included us too.
But, when the counter guy asked us to pay 6K in cash, the Mister was livid. We were already saving our cash for other travel expenses and it just wasn’t right, especially post Modi’s de-monetization call when most ATM’s in the country offered limited cash withdrawals. The Mister requested them to take card payment but they refused. Left with a tough choice, we let go our paragliding dreams:(
But, our journey down was a breathtaking one – we were blessed with heavenly views. We trekked down for an hour and then found a local bus to Manali.
The next day it was goodbye to Old Manali, we headed to the Jana falls, a scenic waterfall in Jana village near Naggar, a few kms from Old Manali. It is a popular picnic spot with great local food and some adventure activities. We stayed for a night in a tent with nothing but a bonfire and some 115 sheep for company!
(Travel is very convenient through local Himachal Transport buses from the depot at Mall Road market in Manali. The buses have specific timings so if you happen to miss one, there are private taxis available anytime.)
We were told that Jana waterfalls is lined with apple orchards and offers a breathtaking panoramic view of the mountains, but unfortunately it wasn’t even close. It was not apple season and nor had it begun snowing – only dried branches jutted out from everywhere one could lay their eyes upon. In the name of a waterfall, there was just a trickle, perhaps we needed to trek up some more.
A giant hoarding with the picture of a majestic waterfall amidst lush greens and browns was the only testimony to the majestic beauty that it was… once upon a time! Our host later informed us over Whatsapp that the falls were transformed the next day when it began to snow heavily, and also sent the Mister some pictures as proof!
On our return to Naggar, we visited the Naggar castle, famous for its ‘Jab We Met’ song shoot starring Kareena Kapoor and Shahid Kapoor. The architecture is a mix of Indian and European influences combining stone and wood for the king of Kullu, who had some really good taste in artifacts. Now owned by the Himachal Tourism Board, one can check out the heritage site for a mere 20 rupees for the entry ticket.
We took a local bus to Kullu and stayed for the night. The city is a bustling tourist spot and everywhere I looked, there were lights twinkling from the many hotels and guesthouses amidst the darkness of the night.
We did no sight-seeing at Kullu but left our hotel early morning to travel to Bhuntar and from there to Kasol. All around this journey, one has the blissful company of the majestic Parvati River. Here is a watercolor painting of the valley by Yours Truly, it isn’t a match to the real thing but it is my sincere ode to nature’s beauty:
It was the 31st of December and Kasol was already teeming with lunatics – the New Year celebrations had to be grand. The hotels were expensive and the roads were jammed, causing state traffic cops to take matters into their hands. Also, we had to eat at a dhaba as other desired restaurants weren’t ready to accept card payment.
By afternoon, we decided to leave Kasol and instead head off to Manikaran, the pilgrimage site of both Hindus and Sikhs. Yes, the Mister and me are slightly pilgrim material too! But, the truth of the matter was our collective curiosity in the natural hot water springs at the Manikaran Sahib Gurudwara.
Fortunately, we found a helpful fellow traveller who was already staying at the gurudwara on our bus trip from Kasol to Manikaran. With his help, we found a decent guesthouse right adjacent to the gurudwara, and the best part was its private hot water pool. One could lay there bare naked undisturbed for a maximum of 20 minutes, I must confess Yours Truly made the most of this facility:)
There are many stories to the origin of these hot water springs, one is about Goddess Parvati losing her jewels (mani) while taking a walk with Shiva, and Shesh nag, a serpent taking it away with him. Lord Shiva then does the tandav dance, compelling Sheshnag to retrieve the earrings from the belly of the earth, thus causing heat from the earth’s core to spring out in fury!
But, I liked another story – the story of Guru Nanak and his disciples who only eat food that is donated. Once they had visited Manikaran and were given loads of rice and flour, but alas, they could not cook it as there was no heat. One of them prayed to the almighty who then created these hot water springs. The temperature in the springs is said to be anywhere from 86 to 94 degrees, it helps cook the rice at the langar. One just places rice in a cloth bag and leaves it in the hot bubbling spring, and voila, its cooked!
We stayed for a few days at the gurudwara, sometimes eating at the langar, sometimes finding local eating joints outside serving Maggi. aloo & cauliflower parathas, veg pulao, etc. And, we did shopping for knickknacks, the place has a vibrant line of shops selling everything from Tibetan wooden plates and sandals to local woolen wear and toys.
January 1, 2017, we headed to Tosh, a remote hill town that isn’t so touristy (as yet) leaving our luggage behind at the gurudwara, thanks to a facility where you can leave your luggage for a 100 rs a day. Travel is easy, we took a local bus to Barsheni from Manikaran and then trekked up the simple trail for an hour.
The most magical experience of my life happened on the way up to Tosh. As little droplets of rain fell from the sky, we were busy walking up, greedily relishing in the divine weather. Little did we know that these water drops will then convert to snowflakes by the time we were half way up!
It was amazing. The first day of the year. Soft flakes of snow falling gently all over us.
By the time we entered Tosh, it began snowing heavily and the whole place got a ghostly makeover. Guesthouses and cafes were made of wood and one of them happily let us in. After a hot, soul-warming cup of coffee around a fireplace, the Mister headed out in search of a decent guesthouse for the night. I stayed behind, delighting in the snowfall outside the door, and the fire inside.
The Mister returned with bad news. The loud crowds we’d avoided at Kasol had also made their way to Tosh to ring in the New Year as loudly as they possibly could. Most guesthouses had increased their prices and there was hashish in the air everywhere. We didn’t feel it safe to stay overnight with stoned gangs, and decided to return to Manikaran.
Destiny had other plans, though!
We made it downhill and were about to take the bus to Manikaran, when the Mister’s prying eyes fell upon a board that read ‘Pulga‘. He had just heard about this remote village that could be reached after an interesting trek. So, we thought it was a good idea to deviate and follow the road to Pulga in the dead of the evening. I say evening as it was equivalent to night with no power.
By this time, both my knees were frozen and had started aching, the left more than the right. Still, we made our way slowly along the only road we could see with our mobile flashlights on. When the path ended, we were lost and looking for someone to guide us. But, sundown is end of day for the villagers who all cosy up together in their warm homes.
We knocked at one of the doors, and were greeted with a helpful set of directions. “Just follow the yellow arrows,” they said. And so, we did. It was just that the way forward was uphill, narrow and paved with wet rocks and at times slippery snow. After a scary two hour journey, we reached the village at the top, where we found a very basic guesthouse. We sat by the fireplace as I tried to thaw my body, more so my left knee. By then, I was wobbling my way ahead.
The night spent at Pulga was supposed to be a quiet one, but alas, the New Year lunatics had managed to infiltrate this remote village too. The gangs of boys and girls screamed till the wee hours of the morning of January 2, egged on by all the chillum they were smoking. The mercury was at negative, it snowed the whole night as we lay awake shivering.
The sun is also lazy in this part of the world. It takes a lot of time (read 11 am) to finally shine through and the ice starts to melt. We make our way back to Manikaran or let’s just say we dragged ourselves, and this time, we returned in under 40 minutes. a trip that had taken us nearly 2 hours to climb in the wet darkness!
We spend a lazy day at the gurudwara, and still have another day to go before it is time to board a bus to Delhi. So, we decide to visit Malana, a remote village along Parvati valley. A shared cab to Jari that takes one to Malana entry point, is just the beginning of the narrow trek to the isolated village. It is a fairly easy climb but at the fag end of our two-week journey, one nearly broken knee and a wobbly walk, I had quickly lost my zeal to trek uphill.
Still, we went ahead, as I did not want to give up after having made it so far. The other leg was compensating for the one with the injured knee. In a few hours, that leg too gave up. We were only 20 minutes away from the village but Yours Truly was supremely in pain, and gasping for dear life, I decided to give up 🙁
We trekked down quietly, again with the painful knee and a sense of dejection. We took the same way back to return to Manikaran where I made full use of the 20 minutes in the hot water pool in our guesthouse. I watched the movie ‘Mask’ on TV, where the antics of Jim Carrey kept me at bay. The Mister brought us some specially cooked chicken dish with steaming hot rice and the day was made.
The next day was a lazy one strolling around the gurudwara, getting our hot water fix (that magically healed my knee pain) and indulging in some last-minute shopping, before we took the noon bus to Delhi. The bus trip is amazing in the day but by night, you are a little fatigued. We finally reached Delhi and then made our way back to Pune, laden with sweet memories, extra shopping bags and one broken knee:)
TIPS / NOTES:
Most images are courtesy the Mister, you can check out his Instagram for more. The rest are by Yours Truly.
The initial itinerary was designed by a dear friend of the Mister, that helped a lot in planning and tweaking our journey for the best. So, do plan carefully as Himachal is full of tempting places.
Take a torch, extra batteries, first aid and don’t forget to wear good boots to protect your feet from the snow.
Plan your itinerary based on what you want from the trip – ‘adventure’, ‘soul-seeking’, ‘just to chill out’ or ‘plain pilgrimage’. Don’t attempt all of it, like we did, and end up with heavy baggage and broken knees.
Look at the season. April to September is the best time to visit Himachal in my opinion, but me and the Mister do not have this luxury. Our holiday is restricted to December, and December it is that our hearts and minds can get away from the hustle and bustle of everyday routine.
Talk to the locals, they are friendly folks and who knows if someone might let you stay with them too!