The idle musings of an almost adult

Think, everyone told me. Think and it will come to you. Think and it will dawn upon you. Just think and the world’s answers will appear in a heartbeat and clarity will come giftwrapped in a nice little box miraculously left behind by the Tooth Fairy one Tuesday morning. All you need to do is think.

I’ve thought on planes and trains, buses and bikes. I’ve thought while I was meant to be thinking and much more when I wasn’t. I’ve stared just to the right of my professor’s face during class and doodled pointlessly in the corner of my notebook. I’ve made more To Do lists than anything I’ve ever done and then stooped from putting ‘Figure it out’ to ‘Shower’, in an effort to check something off. You can’t say I didn’t try.

When it all fell apart all around me and all the same advice kept pouring in, I turned to clichés. I took a long, hot shower. And I thought some more. Or atleast I tried.

What do I write my paper on? And once that is done, what do I do my thesis on? And once that is done, what do I do next? Where do I work? Do I let go of a great job just to leave home? Do I accept another great job even if the cash isn’t great? What qualifies as good enough and how do you identify a challenge? When you can’t differentiate the road less travelled from the well trodden path, how do you choose to be conformist or rebellious? And how is it that the more I think, the more questions seem to need thinking about?

This thinking thing is a lie, a web designed to keep you in a never-ending loop. You think you get more questions, you kid yourself into thinking you can answer them all. For now, I’m going to take a break. The paper may happen, or not. Reading all day is fun in itself. The thesis will definitely happen. On what, well, epiphany shall strike before graduation some time. As for a job, I’m only almost adult for now. Please don’t burst my bubble?

Opportunity, the scribe

My last piece was titled 'Fourth year blues' and true to expectations, the semester has flown by in a haze of coursework and academics. Here I am at the fag end of the term, putting together another piece. With holidays approaching, I still dare to dream of regularity and inspiration.

This piece was driven by the time I spent volunteering this weekend at TiECON Chennai 2014, the state's largest entrepreneurship conference. Wonderful experience, beautiful people inspiring some halfway-decent writing :)

Any incoherence and/or typos to be excused under the large ambit of midnight syndrome :)

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The massive stone steps of the hall greeted her as she walked in, hassled from a week of classes and hours of running errands. Bag in hand, eyes popping, she struggled to maintain a facade of nonchalance. I must act like I belong, she thought, striding with what she believed as confidence towards the escalators. Things didn’t get easier from there. Chandeliers spreading dim light, a wave of black suits and ties, the quiet murmur of professional conversation. Suddenly, her phone was her alibi, the blank screen a perfect excuse to regain composure. As the rest of them discussed ways to change the world, she sat down, alone amongst the crowd, getting her bearings.
Yet, in every desert, there is hope of an oasis. Within this phenomenon, she found her niche, using the mike and the camera as her armour, protecting her against imagined eyes. She had a reason to stay. She belonged.

Bright lights, brighter eyes

What do I say and who to?
What do I do and why am I here?
Neither branded student nor volunteer, no less.
Alien. Child.
Alien child?
Yet, connections run deep.
Blood is thick.
Aren’t you her daughter, they asked.
Turned out she belonged.
After-all.
Gratitude.

Yes, Uncle

Sorry, Uncle?
How are you, Aunty?
It has been so long!
The stairs were forgotten
Amongst the flurry of
Assumed relations.
Turned out she belonged.
To it all.
Gratitude.

There had been many people asking why she did what she did. Why walk three kilometres every day? Why volunteer with something she isn’t a “part of”? Many days later, in the many lines of midnight conversation with one who many consider ‘celebrity’, between the giggles and chuckles and gentle banter, the answer seemed clear enough.

Yet another line had been scripted on her “Tabula Rasa”, a stroke contributed by each of the Uncles and Auntys, by each of the interviewees, by each letter of the tweets and each word of the phone calls, peppered by the humility and modesty that surrounded her every conversation.

I do what I do to have a say in what gets etched on my blank slate. I script my own story.