Inner Metamorphosis

It’s hardly a secret. We know the day will come. Yet, when it announces its arrival, we’re in denial. At some point, we begrudgingly accept it: the middle age. It’s difficult to pin the middle age. It’s probably when we experience what it means to be parents of rambunctious children and to be children of overbearing parents. When stray sprains and headaches show no signs of budging for days. When your memory fails you at the most inopportune time. During one of my long morning walks, it stuck me: what if I had misinterpreted the script of my life so far? Did I allow myself to be sentenced to silence too long? Did I willingly forfeit my right to defend myself and let others' judgment to prevail upon me? Could it be possible that guilt blinkered me from seeing how debilitating circumstances forced my hand as much as my own incapacity. The middle age, for all its attendant decays, provides one extraordinary compensation in bargain: perspective. All these years there was no data to und...

As a child, the onset of monsoon was a sad reminder that the summer vacation was coming to an end. Our entire year revolved around it – yearning for it before its arrival, praying for its eternity while there and overcoming the deep denial mode when it’s gone.   Even as I recollect them now, it overwhelms me with nostalgic pleasure. Rudely awakened in the present, I am alarmed to see young parents determined to deprive their kid of the wanton joys of summer vacations by putting them through “productive” endeavors. Not to be left behind the school’s grind, parents take up its role zealously, lest they – oh, the shame – underperform in comparison. “ Competition ka zamana hai ”, they hurl towards anyone suggesting that their child is best left alone at this (st)age. In a way, it’s not their fault. Many (if not most) in this demographic have vivid recollections of their humble backgrounds and how their parents’ struggled to meet ends. Their deep-seated insecurities are still lodg...

There are times when I read an interesting perspective, only to discover that I, too, had been tantalizingly close in my unpublished draft (there are many). Why didn’t I publish them then? Whatever little I had written was written overcoming time-scarcity, laziness, lethargy and sense of futility in one magical moment when ego momentarily triumphed humility.  What else explains a writer’s foolish endeavor to add more to the tomes of printed material accumulated since writing was invented! There were times when I had voluntarily silenced myself to escape the scathing disapproval I had come to expect from others.  When I later chanced upon a work that reinforced what I had always felt (but didn’t articulate), I couldn’t help feeling stupid to have not pursued that line of thought to the end. During one of my maths class back in school, I effortlessly waded through the complexities of the problem only to reach a dead-end and gave it up thinking I got it wrong somewhere....

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you .” – Maya Angelou. In the age of social-media fueled narcissistic fetishism, the very suggestion of writing about one’s problems invariably invites scorn if not disinterest. However, research indicates that there’s more to this than meets the eye. The Grieving Angel The crucial role of writing in helping alleviate trauma wasn’t so apparent to me until I read “ Eaten by the Japanese ” (review here ; briefly a story about a British Indian soldier captured by Japanese as PoW during World War II). Richard Crasta’s essay makes a very insightful observation about his father’s book which, according to him, was probably an effort to “ exorcize his ghosts by consigning them to paper ” (what a vibrant phrase!). Likewise, the after-taste of Richard Crasta’s “ The Killing of an Author ” (review here ; the story of the struggle of an uncompromising, independent writer) lingered in my mind long after I had finished...

Seven years ago I wrote my   first blogpost   this day more to seize the joy of seeing my writing in digital print than any literary ambition. The irony of launching it on Valentine’s Day won't be lost on my friends – couldn’t a boring philosopher-aspirant find a better day? Nonetheless, the occasion offers an opportune time to survey my work. Looking back at   my   earliest   works   with cold blood, I can still perceive the   raw   enthusiasm   of a   young thinker   impelled by the desire to   express   his   deeply considered opinions   which deserved wider circulation. Writing is primarily an act of   ego , for it presumes that someone out there might actually want to read you. I started mostly with philosophical pieces, apart from lengthy posts on the then trending   Telangana movement conversations . Some of them appear reasonably well-argued to me even today, though wanting in many as...

Outside the fictional landscape of The Fountainhead , how would a real-life Howard Roark fare? What might be the fate of an individualistic professional who stubbornly chooses to struggle for what he believes to be true and right instead of compromising his vision and values? The non-fictional counterpart of The Fountainhead may as well be “ The Killing of an Author ” . In the former, the protagonist is finally rewarded with flourishing career, reputation and the leading lady. How does narrator-protagonist of the latter book do in real life? This is a true story, and the author uses real-life names of many prominent people to retain the authenticity of the narrative. Book Struggling his way through lower-middle class Mangalore family, Richard Crasta clears IAS exam only to find his calling in writing.  Off he flies to the land of opportunities, US, where his creative wings would be at full liberty to sour unrestrained – or so he feels! It begins with what ...

When a flood occurs, we deduce that an overflow elsewhere caused it. But a flood of emotions can suddenly overwhelm us without any link visible to the mental eye. For no apparent reason, I recollect a period from many, many years ago. “So, what were you doing today?” asked my friend who just returned to home. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” said I. Far from being an outlier, this was the feature of my then daily life. We weren’t the typical roomies. I had an unfinished business at the place he was working, and I called him asking if he could accommodate me. He readily agreed, and soon I found myself in a remotely located independent house in non-descript part of a small town from a crowded apartment in a bursting megacity.  People find short, unavoidable moments of seclusion during otherwise hectic schedules unbearable. But there was this time when even if I were to shout at top of my lungs, the only ears to hear it would be mine. My friend would be away at work during day...

Those unacquainted with this city’s ethos may find the typical Hyderabadi obsession with Irani Chai (tea) amusing. Some may even accuse them of being chai-addicts, which (justifiably, I may add) is met by strong denial, nay defensive, “ Others may as well be called air-addicts or water-addicts then .” For the younger generation the ideal venue of a get-together begins with Cafe Coffee Day / McDonalds (when hard-pressed on cash!) and might extend to any upper limit when feasible. But before affluenza took over the Y2K generation, Irani Cafes were the most popular meeting venue for the cash-strapped teens. In a bid to appear more Western than the West we have sadly abandoned efforts to modernize our traditional outlets and instead sought to westernize them. The joyous conversations and noisy ambiance has since been replaced with uneasy silence punctuated with tight-lipped formal conversations. But to my mind nothing beats the cluttered, crowded Irani Cafes that always a...

Julayi  (telugu movie) released last year had an interesting premise and fantastic dialogues (trademark Trivikram style), though its retains all the commercial elements that are a norm in mass-entertainers. As the plot unfolds we find that our intelligent hero doesn’t believe in hard work and in an effort to make a quick buck falls prey to a series of events eventually culminating in his sister’s kidnap and his father getting seriously injured. In the only emotional scene of the movie, the father recovering from his injuries in hospital explains the value of steady growth and hard work to his son. Few routine action sequences later “all ends well” and our hero, now wiser, is on the way to attend an interview for a salary he once considered a pittance. Many of us, thanks to success-stories bombarded on us by media, think that our achieving our goals is simply a matter of charting a strategy and executing it. If only it were that easy – events as they say has its own way of u...

This blog by my friend Balasanjeevi makes a hilarious read. As a fellow co-traveller, I largely agree with his observations and feel compelled to share my own, although I must admit that I cannot replicate his humorous effect. The current marriage market is a textbook case-study on how excessive domination could end up becoming hugely counterproductive and one begins to appreciate moderation as an essential even in domination. Traditional marriage market RK Narayan writes in an essay in " The Next Sunday " which although laced with humor makes grim observations about the then prevailing marriage markets. A father of a prospective bridegroom apparently declares that next to an investment in land whose values never comes below a point, having an unmarried son is the next best investment. Taking a cue from the discount/ combo offers during festive seasons, dowry demands were innovatively designed too – a car/bike/cycle (my son has to maintain his st...