Something Real or Nothing - Rant of a Cynical Introvert

An introvert is not someone who had the quality inherent by birth; that is - they are not born; they are made by the very eccentricities of this society. It is not a short term avatar; it's a lifestyle choice.

The introvert is usually and more often than not, a cynic. By choice and sometimes by heredity. And not necessarily in that order. Cynical Introverts like yours truly are not negative absolutes; they are not spoilsports and downright pessimists. They are merely not overtly optimistic and a bit blatantly practical despite having a lot of niceness in them.

An introvert simply does not believe in being an innocent daydreamer, walking around puking sunshine. Not the “Woods are lovely dark and deep types”. There is a substantial amount of subtlety involved.

A cynical introvert can be really passionate about his gig like - say poetry. The said cynic might be decent at it too, or believes himself to be so. And so he poes frequently, if only at 2:30AM locked in his room. Or breaks into a poetic diarrhea when he's in an unnaturally good mood (unnatural for people who ain’t nocturnals) not for him.

But no, he does not spontaneously 'poe' at bars, because he does not believe that saturday - saturday/honey singh fans, vomiting vermins who say “waah waah” for everything that sounds like a rhyme as audience. And no, he does not toast at parties, where everyone save him are piss-drunk or behave like hypocritical fakesters who claim not to drink but do it secretly only with their teddy bears.

Cynical introverts are not crazy, delusional, depressed or antisocial. Well, antisocial, sometimes. Introverts are commonly misunderstood, but the cynical ones delight themselves in those misunderstandings, the mental middle fingers that they virtually show everyday keeps them entertained in their own rebellious way.

Cynical Introverts do not need you to get them into the "happening" circles. They are not just friend/brother substitutes. They aren't bodyguards, agony aunts, pond walk partners or just someone with whom you can just chew some fat and break ice.

They are not just Case Study partners

They are not just free American university SOP/HR answers reviewers or writers.

Cynical Introverts are not just please-like-my-page-I-need-your-support friends.

They either want to be something real or nothing. They work in binary terms.

Introverts are not someone to go all muaah, soo chweet and aah over your kid's pic. Some of the cynical ones don't even like kids. A few like me in particular, don't care and don't want to. A few introvets don't like the dogs and cats that roam around fucking everything that is got some crevice to be filled; they would rather prefer some "genuine" care on humans instead. They believe more in working for a cause than building families.

Cynical Introverts are something more than a phone number, an email address and a facebook page. They are trustworthy. Conversations with intorverts deserve a special mention. They do prefer keeping to themselves, but they are not, I repeat, not, I repeat yet again, not averse to conversations. If shown truthfulness they can become the most genuine and caring bunch in the whole world. They can be part of something that is concrete and real, things that have a lot of depth. However, the following "parts of speech" do not qualify as conversation:

"whatever"

"k"

"What else?"

"hmmmm..I don't understand you"

"LOL" (spelt G-A-S)

"ROFL" (spelt N-O F-*-*-K-I-N-G I-D-E-A)

When you have nothing to say and prefer not to, it is okay to not converse. Simply greeting someone just because you bumped into them and saying "What's up macha" (read as what's happening in your uneventful life - you uncivilized south indian philistine?) just makes the silence more awkward than it needs to be. That applies to phone calls, whatsapp pings, all ubiquitous forms of multilogue, including comments on social networks.

When a just married couple puts up a couple pic, or recent parents put up a pic of their newborn, it is okay to just hit "like", instead of going overboard with "Aww, nazar lag na jaaye" "You both look so good together - Best couple in the world” "Rab ne bana di jodi", "So cuuuuute" (with a zillion 'u's) while honesty's and subtlety's mummy and grandaddy roll over and cringe uncomfortably in their grave.

It's ok when you fight with some one, but instead of genuinely showing that remorse, faking that hypocritical smile just to get your job done or to prove your mother teresa credientials is plain vomit inducing. It's ok to enjoy an evening with friends instead of that mandatory fb check in. Try it sometimes it feels relaxing.

Cynical introverts are not conventionally warm; at the very least, they do not want to be. They aren't shrewd or calculative either, since that requires too much work and a single-minded focus. Cynical introverts are just plain indifferent and can be a tad likable if you value them for who they are and not just for things that you can milk them for.

Someday, I'm going to be killed, stifled by my pillow or poisoned (I wish the later to be true). Or my mind will eventually turn on itself, and on me, with an anger it wasn't aware that it possessed, and leave an impression of its prints on my skull.

Cynicism and being an introvert may not be the healthiest of lifestyle choices. It might be going against the very foundations of the idea that homo-sapiens are social animals. But then, it all comes down to what helps you sleep peacefully. Whether it's a strong feeling of denial, or the fact that you like someone enough to not want to inflict your whole bout of anger on them.

Conversation with a Younger 'Me'

Over years, we as humans evolve, learn and grow into hopefully better humans. All that "I am what I am", "I won't change for anyone" is all glorified BS. Here is a small imaginary fun exercise that I performed after reading some stuff. Here a 26 year old me is in conversation with various younger versions of myself 

Dear 10-year old me– Listen patiently to mom and dad, though you find their monologues excruciating sometimes. You will thank mom later for imbibing into you - her value system; for teaching you to say "Excuse me" and "Please" before you start a convo or interrupt someone.

Dear 11-year old me – Stealing Payasam (Kheer) from the nearby kids plate and standing your ground by claiming you never did so isn't exactly a great idea. That neighbouring kid will grow up into a hot chick with a very good memory which still remembers you as an obnoxious little prick. Control it, Glutton!

Dear 12-year old me –Don't worry if you can't perform complex multiplications or calculations in your head. Not everyone is Shakuntala devi's favourite nephew. Your relatives might not know it, but there are devices called calculators and mental math will become as obsolete as short hand. When they quiz you in Math during get togethers, ask them about the etymology of the english word that you just learned in the oxford dictionary. Look at their faces cringing in shame, tell them to go to hell and add some gory details if possible. You have a vivid and dirty imagination. Use it.

Dear 13-year old me - Learning the capital cities of all the countries in the world, spending hours trying to improve your handwriting; acing the dictation tests will never really be of any use. A monster called Google will make all these stuff obsolte.  

Dear 14-year old me - Don't cringe at being one of the shortest guys in the class. Don't flare up because the height of yours never gave you a chance to become class prefect or a sporty guy. Even without investing in a single pull-up you will turn out to be a Six footer, it is all in the gene kiddo!

Dear 15-year old me - it's ok if your friends consider you a nerd, but the curse that you used on one of the scoundrel senior who was swearing at you for no reason, will be one of the most innocent thing you ever did. It will bring a smile to your face everytime you think about it. Remember that the memories of reading Sherlock Holmes and Harry Potter will remain extremely salient all through life. Cherish it.

Dear 16-year old me - Adolescence will hit you and of course take its toll on your grades but it won't matter much in the longer run. What you lost in grades will be compensated with those sweet tales of teenage dalliance.

Dear 17-year old me - Reading every book of Ayn Rand and trying to literally emulate Howard Roark will eventually put you in a poverty of friends. In 2 to 3 years you will totally grow over her objectivism and will learn to truly see all the B.S in her impractical philosophy. So chuck the copy of the Fountainhead and learn Java instead, the world will move towards everything Android some day. 

Dear 18-year old me - Though you still continue to be mesmerized by memories of Azharuddin's leg glances and Sachin's straight drives, learn that Rahul Dravid is the one who should be your role model. The sooner you learn it, the better it is for you.   

Dear 19-year old me - Don't regret the classes that you bunked while you pursued your interests like biking, watching sitcoms and penning poems. The classes wouldn't be of much use anyway. People will be more impressed with the ease with which you utter 'Friends' quotes than your proficiency of Djikstra's algorithm 

Dear 20-year old me -  Your first heart-break and the first job offer will happen almost at the same time. Not celebrating one due to the other was the lamest thing to do. More lamer than the cuss words you used to deride everyone around. Learn to respect people even if their actions don't deem fit.

Dear 21-year old me - Infy Mysore will be the place where you would do a lot of things for the first time. A place you had your first taste of something that made you delightfully  high. Keep that trusted friend, the liquid elixir closer always.  

Dear 22-year old me - Do not play board games, which have the propensity to spark off duels, with your best friends. And if you make that mistake just make sure that you are not surrounded by folks who would blow up the fight to epic proportions. In retrospect you will regret the grudges you held and the fun you missed out because of that stupid ego.

Dear 23-year old me - Butter Pop Corn with the extra amount of masala at Satyam cinemas and Sambar Vada at Sangeetha's should not be taken for granted and should be gorged upon. Because someday you will be mortified to gooey looking sugary joke of a syrup that will be served daily as sambar which has such an awful taste that it could easily peg the ear wax flavour as the worst among all 'Every Flavoured Beans' 

Dear 24-year old me - Your love affair with skyscrapers is not fleeting and something that will persist. Do roam around, even if you don't have a (Check-in friendly, easy on the eyes) partner in crime, because understanding the soul of the magic that is Mumbai though as a lonely traveller- Totally worth it. 

Dear 25-year old me - Realize that, in a b school, "they" don't want your opinions, "they" don't want your ideas, "they" bitch about your creativity, all "they" want and you are worth (according to "them" )is just one social networking 'like' or one referral code usage, which "they" would stoop down to ridiculous levels and eventually fish out from you . Blow dry "them" out of your life and do some spring cleaning in your choice of folks to surround yourself with. Those fake fraternities you are part of, they can't be more fake

The Liking and Sharing can wait – The problem with goodness

Recently one of my friends who understands Islam and has gained the credentials of a sensible Indian voice from the community, wrote an article eloquently describing his experience as an Indian Muslim. He repeatedly pointed out through cute real life vignettes that he has never (almost) faced any discrimination in his career and social life due to his religion. And guess what, its timing August 15th was impeccable.

I was really happy to read the post, because knowing the author personally I can vouch for its veracity. The post also spread a lot of positive energy and instantaneously brought a smile to my face. Something that a Shiv Khera and a Rhonda Byrne managed to do to me while reading their work. Like a superhero of the mind it promised niceness, suggested all’s fine if you look at the world with rose tinted positivity. Good things will happen if you believe and everyone wishes you well in their weird own way. 

But a strange feeling occurred when I was about to share and up vote it - a feeling of guilt and a premonition of things that were about to happen worried me.

I repeatedly quizzed myself on some basic hard hitting questions. And by ‘I’, here I believe I represent the educated members of the majority faith who have comfortably upvoted and shared it across. 

Do I deserve to share it? Was it my neutral view on religion, my great asset of tolerance and fraternal love beyond barriers, beyond culinary differences, beyond geopolitical and ideological differences that made sure he lead a life of almost zero discrimination till now?

Is my country that good?

Or was it just plain luck, classic case of serendipity, being at the right place at the right time, making the right noises -the one that people like, having the right size of the beard that helped him achieve the idyllic experiences he describes?

The more I think about it, the more I believe the latter to be relevant.

I have always believed in this mantra that the first step in solving any problem is recognizing there is one, and to make this phrase India friendly I think I should add one more clause - a step zero to this parable – we should strip the delusion surrounding us and allow our critical faculties to actually hone the ability to recognize problems.

It mostly so happens that our desire to look good in front of a global audience blinds our critical faculties, let alone the ability to hone our skills to unearth scathing realities. To be part of a national narrative that would sound great to the world by slowly sweeping all the nation’s dust below the red carpet that welcomes international dignitaries has been touted to be a symbol of real patriot. Any one hinting otherwise, comfortably gets classified as a pseudo secularist or anarchist.

We all know that eloquent words, charming analogies and sprightly examples have this allure which captivates the audience and transports them to a state governed by a suspension of disbelief.

Painting rosy pictures through broad strokes of legendary urdu rhetorical devices and ‘phrases’ describing real events though true for an individual, hides the sorry state of affairs for the greater public. The self-congratulatory claims that we make about ourselves - world’s largest democracy, plurality and tolerance — are not particularly reflected outside of the Constitution. 

Once again I am not talking about big political issues like the Dadri incident, Godhra and stuff. Those are horrific incidents and every sane person condemns it. I don’t have a problem with the reaction to these big ticket incidents because everyone understands the magnitude of their damage. 

What I described as dust previously is this,

For every friend who manages your work during Ramzan, there is a friend asking someone like you ‘Would you have wanted to be in Pakistan if it was not as troubled as it is now?’

For every friend who gorges on the delicacies prepared at your home, there are a few who can’t convince their parents to bring you home to show their mom’s culinary skills.

For every friend who cheers with you for the Indian cricket team, there are a few that believe you still support its tainted match fixers just because they belong to your religion.

And lastly there are many educated people who think “why aren’t they grateful, aren’t they not happy with what we gave them — these Muslims” 

The reason most Indians like you is not the fact that you bring in the much needed diversity to the country, not because of the rich cultural heritage and other beautiful aspects of your religion and the holy book, they like you because you are slowly losing your identity and becoming one among the majority. It is the lack of your identity that has attracted us to you.

We like the folks who do not wear their religion on their sleeve, we like those who never challenged the system nor highlighted injustice; we like those who write beautiful posts about harmony in Quora but talk about their liking towards Asaduddin Owaisi in private. We like SRK but the insha allah he seems to be using in recent times, makes us think a bit, but we reassure ourselves that he is our very own ‘Rahul’ and ‘Raaj’ 

Yes my friend, I enjoyed reading your piece. The article was nice though it gave a simplistic perspective. But do we deserve to share it and make self-congratulatory claims about it. I am not sure. If everyone holds a hand to their chest and genuinely think about it, even they shouldn’t be sure. Because there is a huge group that is ready to add a lot of spice to your write up and sell off India and its immaculately clean image.

And till there is surety that we as individuals and as a society are totally prejudice free and respect you because of who you are and not because of the fact that you have become like us

The likes, shares and upvotes can wait.

Sledging – Modern Day Warfare

An article that I wrote for a cricket writing contest on a topic about which I have had very strong opinions 

Ice Hockey players are known to often trade punches during the course of the game, football has one provision for intentional physical aggression and several for verbal abuse, the all-blacks in rugby literally take aggression to a superlative degree of hostility by performing a war-dance on the field.

And where did good old cricket stand midst the myriad displays of legitimized aggression by other sports?

Cricket just like other occasions came up with a purportedly classy and original reply - Sledging. Sledging till now has served the inadequacies that arise due to cricket not being a contact sport. But the big question is where should one draw the line between not so friendly banter and trauma inducing verbal assaults?  

The proponents of sledging claim it to be a subtle act to gain strategic advantage over one’s opponent, an expression of a need to demonstrate authority, but far from being all that, this menace time and again seems to show its ugly colours and lends further strength to the argument that it (sledging) is indeed an absolutely irritating from of bullying.

Everyone knows that success in sport is obtained through the subtle marriage of ability, work-ethic, resilience and strategy. Behaviour, a personal choice or privilege worryingly misused by many, is definitely not a catalyst to the success equation. Many of the greatest players in cricket have let their performance do the talking. Rahul Dravid did not sledge the bowlers he pulverized; Shaun Pollock never stooped down to sweet-chin music, theirs was a form of aggression worthy of gentlemen. By resorting to sledging few teams consider themselves well equipped to handle the opponents even if the opponent team is the better one in conventional terms. They believe a loud mouth to be more powerful than the Brahmastra in war. The truth which says otherwise has still not dawned upon them.

A perspective of the bigger picture would suggest that the victim, apart from one of incidents like that of Jonathan Trott in the 2013 ashes, is so often the sledger. The act questions his fundamental morals. And unlike war he has to meet the opponent the next day in an altogether different setting like a friendly get-together in a bar, a charity match or an award function with families around. Our sporting community which is actually a small family can’t afford its members not looking into each others’ eyes. 

As the sledger and the ‘one sledged at’ do not obtain any substantial benefit or long term gratification out of the act and animosity is what results out of this conundrum, why is bullying often hyped as one of the causal reasons for on-field victory?

The answer lies in the question itself. It is the ‘hype’ and fabricated stories created by media and the so called pundits about certain aggressive teams of the past that has strongly ingrained this behaviour in the new generation gentlemen2.0 Kohlis and the Johnsons. We should not forget that the Australian culture which is so often used as an excuse to explain their national teams’ antics, had also produced the Bradmans and Gilchrists who were gentleman embodiments.   

By ignoring and sometimes even celebrating sledging, our cricketing community, like a test veteran trying to slog awkwardly in the IPL, believes it is just embracing the zeitgeist. This transformation has provided initial success thanks to a headline hungry media thirsty for drama and most importantly the low attention span of the new breed of cricket watching public.  

Cricket has to choose either to serve the ephemeral pleasures of certain section of viewers and media moguls or to build a long standing edifice cleansed of all the mercurial behavior that it is comfortably ignoring currently. The future of the game that we love rests on this tough question that the administrators have in front of them. 

Euthanasia

From where I am, and what I see

Parting feels far wiser than a phony life

Farewells much merrier than a smooch of strife

Yet you can refute as much as you want

Deceive as long as you wish

With lies told amid a plastic smile

With promises to be my pillion till the eternal mile

But I hate to admit

Your honest lies, kept me going

Those fairy tales we were meant to bring alive

Those sandcastles meant to be our hive

Like magic, they felt real sometimes,

For I really was nothing but absolutely naive

Though I know

It’s not safe to tread alone

And your mirage can still be my own

But alone is how I wish to be

Cos when the arc lights dim,

And the curtains roll

I wish that stage be empty

Cleansed of your ghosts and all your stain

From all the feelings that you faithfully feign

Coz not just in death but in our parting too,

All I plead is a little less pain

All I plead is a little less pain

She’s not Fiction anymore!

I still remember my first experience with a book. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her, head over heels, weak in my knees.

It was a peculiar relationship wherein the more I got to know her, the more she changed - mercurial in every sense of the word.

She was blushing in the beginning, slowly revealing herself, page by page checking if I can endure her full recital. I just listened, mouth wide agape with wonder as she slowly disrobed for me to take a peek at her joyful contours.

Sometimes she was all witty and sarcastic in her wodehousian avatar, but when she talked about the horrors of 'partition' or the pain that the Danish prince had to endure, I was shell shocked and couldn't control my tears. I hated her for doing that to me.

But she always did, and opened me up to subtler nuances, where it wasn't all black or white. It took her a lot of time to teach me the true nature of grey. And now I realize why, for she wanted me to grow up to understand all its shades.

There were times when her voice had a poetic undertone as she spoke about the tender dew drops on the winter wheat, or about the west running brook and the solitary daffodil; of less traveled roads in snowy evenings or of high flying albatross in the sky’s canopy. And every time she did, I felt as if there was a new sky; A new earth; unblemished by the scars of the past - something worthwhile to live for.

She teased me with rhetoric, quizzed me as to be or not to be?

I was confused and told her I hope to 'be' someday. 'Hope' she said, might be a good thing, but is still a placebo; just like God.  I had a little too much philosophy that day.

People say she’s is just someone’s imagination. She makes it up. You are just a hopeless romantic. Time to call it a spade

But they haven’t held her in their arms; they haven’t let her caress their soul or allowed her to chisel them bit by bit into a fine sculpture; they haven’t had a conversation with her in the middle of the night, argued with her and then understood the futility of the argument. Neither have they been tele-ported to the universe having a restaurant at the end of it, of oddly numbered platforms and of odder nose sizes.

I wish they surrender themselves like Eliza Doolittle to Professor Higgins and experience the magical transformation in themselves. Magical yet you’ll believe it to be the truth, and for a moment it indeed is.

Because now when I speak, I realize she speaks through me, the wisdom of a billion bards.  

And when she holds my hand gently and says look Sushil, that’s how love was made, that’s why you should take a leap of faith, that’s where you will find the pillar for platform 9^3/4 , that’s the heel which was left unprotected, that’s the pond where a kid like you used to sit alone and pen his poems,

I realize she’s not fiction any more!

Monsoon musings

Serenity is the last thing that one would expect when he lands at a place where chaos rules the roost. With curious eyes scanning the millions who were juggling their lives between local train platforms and figuring out the right proportion of work-life balance as well as bhaji-pav balance in their breakfast, I prepared myself to be one with Mumbai –‘the city of contradictions’ and boarded a local train to have a glimpse of what awaited me.

There, suddenly like a bolt from the blue, the magic happened. The pregnant clouds looming around the skyscrapers united together to erupt, and the WATER BROKE!! What it ‘delivered’ was sheer bliss.

A lone ripple having an orangy tint of a blooming chrysanthemum swiftly germinated from the thud of the rain drop and slowly dissolved into the placid pond. Colorful umbrellas sprouted suddenly and formed a halo around the city like confetti on a bride.

It was that sort of a moment, when the pristine rain drops became questions, and I answered them back in kisses, when the metropolis wore the chic bridal look and was unscarred of all the dust and deceit, when everything was pristine like cobblestones and oceans –a painter’s delight.

And in this moment of epiphany I realized the monsoon carried a story – A story of a city getting atoned for its sins, or that of a city getting goodies from Santa for being the well behaved child, either case the monsoons were the sole harbinger of hope for a desperate city.

The story struck a chord within me, and therein I found my inspiration. There might be days filled with frustration and unexpected accidents, where the local I’ve between waiting for an hour would be of the western line and not of the harbor line that I intend to board, but there are always a few blessings that make those frustrating moments worthwhile. Like the monsoons, they might be a bit late, but deep down I knew I can definitely count on them to provide a fresh gush of blood through my veins.

And I, the virgin mumbaikar, wish this monsoon just stays.

Because when I go back home to dry Chennai, I wish to carry vivid images of these mirthful memories, to store them in a tiny little private abode of mine, the same place where old Wodehouse books and Bourbon bottles go, the place where these monsoon rains would make puddles that leave an indelible mark in my soul. The place I found serenity midst chaos.