Category: 2020

I remember reading Chetan Bhagat’s book “2 States” at my aunt’s house, and then finishing the novel while in the washroom. I had a nasty habit of reading books in the washroom really frequently at the time. The book was a page-turner, filled with stereotypes and flashy romance scenes, and a fast plot that kept you glued. If I was to critically review it, I would give it a low-rating, but it was one of those books that once you finished, and realized was based on his own story, was pretty awesome. I found it cool that he could take something so personal: a marriage and the tale of how it came to be, and convert it into such a filmy story. At the time, I remember thinking it would be perfect on the big screen (it came, but was ok-ok/sad), and also wondering if these kind of stories were true. I was, and am, a romantic who believes in love, so it blew my brains out that this was an origin story.

I witnessed a two States thing happen last night. A confluence and conglomeration of two cultures that could not be farther from each other if they tried. A celebration of two individuals from different parts of the same country, and a merger of families. Oh, it was incredible. Naturally, our energy levels for activities were distinct, but my word was it an enjoyable event. To think of the cultural variations would be an essay in itself, but to reflect on the fact that all everyone was committed to was ensuring that everyone had an enjoyable time? That’s a sentence. It was joyful and wonderful and everything an engagement function should be.

I was horrified to be in an attire different to everyone else at the engagement: everyone wore Indian formals/casuals and I ended up in Western formals with shoes to boot. My confusion was set aside when I realized my get-up matched perfectly with the aesthetic of the interiors and that my formal shoes kept me agile enough to run around where a need arose.

Every city has neighbourhoods that possess characteristics which end up defining the individuals that live there. Neighbourhoods essentially provide the environment, the perfect cocktail of nature and nurture in the nature v. nurture scenario, and the background to which any finished article is made. My neighbourhood made a distinct impression on me when I was younger – not only because of the people I got to interact and mingle with, but also because of the community I was surrounded by. The area I live in had nothing when we first came in, but grew out of nowhere to become what it is today: a beast that’s unidentifiable to individuals who visited in the past, with the unpredictability of not knowing what will become of it in the future. Looking at the neighbourhood on Google Earth or Google Maps perhaps best represents what the neighbourhood was 2 months prior to the date of the search, and I reckon that this is the way its always been.

As a result of where I’ve lived, there are some newer neighbourhoods I’ve never explored. This city is steeped in history, and as I moved away from the city, I became more aware of and closer to its past. What the city was, and how those parts grew, became essential to my understanding of the place – so much so that I failed to recognize or offer recognition to newer neighbourhoods that were under construction. Something I always felt was that the place I stayed was “young” and “new”.

My neighbourhood is old now. 15 years old and growing, if we count time from when the first actual community popped up in this area. That’s a long time.

Today I went and explored an area close to the airport. A new neighbourhood. An identity so distinct from the place I live that it is unrecognizable to me. For so many children though, this will be their home. They will not know traffic, or the horrid tales of getting to the old airport. Their deliveries for food are likely to come from eateries based at the airport itself. They will not wake up early for flights, nor leave in anticipation of missing flights. When helitaxis eventually arrive, they will not have to use one.

They will forge tales and identities of their own, and I’m curious to see how the neighbourhood and its residents evolve to keep cognizance of that growth.

The title of this post is a clear allusion to Billy Joel’s favourite Billy Joel song: Scenes from an Italian Restaurant.

I took an auto-rickshaw to go visit a friend’s house late last evening, and the auto driver was in a jovial, conversational mood. Naturally, therefore, he began voicing his grievances. I wasn’t too interested in spending time on my phone (something I usually do in auto rides), so I lent him my ears – to listen, to respond, to chime into the conversation when our grievances matched.

He started off by telling me how he missed speaking Kannada with his customers, an issue that I’ve heard several auto drivers talk about. He brought in a unique perspective though, and wondered why native Kannada speakers weren’t encouraging individuals to learn the language. When I suggested that this was perhaps conversation that took place privately that he was unaware about, his grouse was that it ought to be a conversation that took place publicly – that recognized that the language was in decline and was being used in a limited way in the biggest urban city in the State. Encouragement, he claimed, was more effective when it was publicly called for – when there was a public account of how the Government and prominent private personalities speaking up about the issue, and clamouring for their voice to be heard in their own language. Something he told me was that there was this old video of Robin Utthappa and KL Rahul (both cricket players who play(ed) for Karnataka, and grew up in Bangalore) speaking in Kannada that did the rounds frequently on WhatsApp groups he was a part of – just to recognize that they knew the language. He wondered whether there were similar videos of Dravid speaking in Kannada in interviews, or at school functions, or even with other national personalities speaking the language.

We then moved to discussing my profession: the Law. One thing he wondered was why I needed to go to Law school to practice the Law, and what knowledge I gained by spending 5 years in another State other than my own. I have a very eloquent answer for this I couldn’t quite translate to Kannada, but I didn’t have an answer for the first part: which pointed to a more systematic question about why University education mattered, and why we ought to pay money for it. He answered it for me himself: the exposure it provided.

That concluded a rather eventful, enjoyable conversation – not because there wasn’t more to talk about, but because I reached my destination.

A drink with jam and bread was definitely the first time I heard the phrase.

I’ve never had a strong affinity or preference for tea or coffee. As I grew older, I’ve found comfort in the chocolate milkshakes and hot cocoa I can make in the hostel when I’m in the mood for warm drinks. This isn’t to say that I don’t enjoy exploring tea or coffee: I adore that activity – finding new things always excites me, but, if I’m asked at an evening gathering what drink I’d prefer, I would struggle to come up with an answer. This puts me in awkward situations at several group gatherings, where I refrain from asking for anything around tea-time, and at awkward circumstances after breakfasts at relatives’ houses, when I choose not to drink things. I overcame this obstacle by feigning a preference that mirrored the preference of my host, something that would bring the most joy to the group without causing any inconvenience for whoever was hosting me on a particular day.

None of that brought me personal relief though. I was as confused as ever, not because I enjoy both drinks equally, but because they are met with equal reactions of indifference. I like them both because when served warm on a cold day they can bring a lot of comfort. Things are made particularly tricky because my roots and the way my identity almost mandates a self-identified preference for coffee, but my upbringing and my formative years were spent in a country that’s known for its tea variant.

Ordinarily, it would be this stage of the essay that led to a resolution of this conflict: some indication that I have some sort of a clear preference.

Unfortunately, I do not. Not as of yet. I think it’s very mood-dependent. I’m very, okay, with both drinks. However, my indifference has definitely been replaced with a, satisfication, if you will. I now enjoy drinking tea, and drinking coffee. I like them both. Equally. At par with each other. I have no preference, not as yet, but I enjoy the taste of both drinks on the tongue. Which I think is a step forward.

I think all of it stems from how I spent the break, and how I ended up learning to make tea for my parents. Good tea. I accompanied my mother when she drank coffee, but I accompanied them both in the evening as they drank their teas, and I learned how the flavour pores into the water and then into the milk. How the beans and leaves ooze out complexity only our tongues can understand and our noses can process.

It’s one of the things I will miss about being at home with both my parents. Especially given that we consumed a copious amount of biscuits while we were at it.

Happy New Year, everyone! I’m pleased to tell you that the daily blog is going to continue this year as well. If last year’s goal was to ensure that I’m writing on a daily basis and posting something or the other on this forum, this year’s goal is a little more specific. I’d really like to be writing topical blog posts on the daily. Its these kind of posts which give me the most joy, and I really don’t like blogging if I’m lazily posting media I find interesting on the blog. I have the newsletter for that.

One of my friends told me a story about music today. I’ve been getting back into the academic study of music off-late, and we were discussing an experience she had at University, as well as an uncanny relationship between mathematics and music. That tale, naturally, took me down a rabbit-hole on the internet – reading about the various ways in which mathematical modeling is useful in music analysis. This is news to me, but also doesn’t surprise me too much. With the existence of digital audio workstations and electronic music programming being available, and digital electronics generally becoming involved in music production – it’s essential that mathematics is used in some way: for certainty and precision in tone, for example, or in pitch. The extent of that integration, though, is something that I didn’t think through entirely. There’s so much material about it out there, and is, by far, the best way I could have hoped to start my 2020. 

However, she caveated the tale by apologizing for oversharing. That got me thinking about several things, the first of which was, Why? The second of which was more along the lines of whether I ought to apologize for oversharing on this blog. However, if you’re reading the blog, I safely presume you are, at the very least, interested in my commentary on mundane things in my life, and thus, are reading the blog – which led me to dismiss the notion of being apologetic. Then I thought about it some more. What is oversharing? Who defines what crosses the limit of sharing information about oneself? Why must there be a limit to what we share? And what role does self-censorship play in all of this?

I don’t have answers to any of these questions, and I shut down all of these thoughts by choosing, quite actively not to think about it as much for the rest of the day – atleast not till I began writing this post. And I do, now, have some thoughts about oversharing. 

For me, I think living in a hostel at a residential University has taken away the confined boundaries within which I imagined sharing of information and conversation ought to take place. The concept of giving away “too much information” disappeared out the window when in the second semester we grew close enough and comfortable enough to discuss unhappy sightings in the boys hostel washroom over lunch or dinner at our meal tables. Oversharing to me is the art of narrating a perfect story, with emotion, detail that isn’t essential to the barebones of the structure of a tale, but make it unique enough that I can relate and feel all the things you felt when you tell me about the story. It’s the art of meandering conversation – as all conversations are, and of endless conversation, as only some conversations can be. So, oversharing, in all its glory, especially with me – is welcome. Especially given how much I enjoy conversation that carries on through without goodbyes or endings.

Some chatboxes will remain permanently open, for messages keep shuffling in and out. It’s those chatboxes in which oversharing takes place in all its glory, and those chatboxes I cherish most. 

Especially when I’m running out of material to blog about but the year has only begun.