Muted Ramblings

What's social about social media? If it was intended for making global citizens more "social", then perhaps it didn't quite fit the bill. Or maybe the definition of being social is a bit different in these platforms.

I kept introspecting, retrospecting, and all the other forms of reflective thinking involved (well, most of them atleast), and I couldn't think of a single "social connection" through the social network.

Of course, I joined the game quite late, my social media presence is laughable at best, and I find myself unable to "devote" the requisite number of minutes (or hours? is it possible though?) towards the platform. On the other hand, when I think of the new people I have met, it has always been through mostly conventional means. Of course, technology has helped and has done its part.

It certainly is helpful when we consume it, but when it consumes us, that's when the framework falls apart, perhaps.

I wouldn't say social media hasn't helped me at all. Because it has. I converse with friends and acquaintances, with whom I would have conversed anyway, even if social media wasn't there. It's just a bit more convenient sometimes. I have seen my friends meet new people too, though I am unaware about the degree of connectivity. It certainly is helpful when we consume it, but when it consumes us, that's when the framework falls apart, perhaps.

I witness multitudes of isolated islands, or mostly unreachable islands of individuals, in the conventional social gatherings. These islands are individuals engrossed in the grasping networked hands of these platforms (apparently socializing virtually) while the real gatherings see minimum to no socialization at all.

I witness individuals alienating themselves even in their home planets. Wasn't the intention to bring people closer? But as I see it, if anything, it is making us farther and further from every being and everything.

...it is making us farther and further from every being and everything.

Virtual Reality (a hilarious oxymoron) might be another add on. Even though I was late to the social media game, I boarded the VR bandwagon quite early. I bought my first VR headset in early 2016. I explored different games and experiences, though there weren't as many back then. (Being named after eyes, it didn't help them at all.)

However, within 2 weeks it scared me. I still held on, trying to convince myself that I just need to get used to it; new things are tricky anyway. However, within the next two months, my fear converted into concern, and I stopped using it. I just couldn't understand the need of that kind of attachment-detachment combination.

Now, as the twilight days of another year on this planet is upon us, I wondered what aspects were tricky (personal understanding wise) for me and to reflect upon them. There were a multiple number of aspects, and this was one of them. That's why, I thought of putting words into those thoughts.

...the twilight days of another year on this planet is upon us...

It's all just based on personal experience, which is limited to say the least, and hence shouldn't be read too much into. If you have been patient and kind enough to read these muted ramblings (muted? really? *my brain scoffs on that word usage*), please let me know of your thoughts and experiences. It might be helpful for social-media-challenged people like me.

P. S. Please don't try to guess which generation I belong to based on my thoughts and words. That seems to be a trend these days, especially upheld by millenials. Thoughts and experiences are not generation dependent.

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

Innate Expressions

"What are you going to gain out of it? Are you going there? Then, is it not a waste of time and money?" These questions are not new for anyone who starts learning a new language without the commonly accepted agenda.

When I started learning other languages, among other questions, I was also often asked if I don't like my mother tongue anymore or if English feels too generic? The questions were so baffling that I would be too stunned to even grasp that such questions too can exist.

I have also often come across questions when I write in my mother tongue. Some questions have been put forth with just a good willed inquisitive intent (thankfully), while some others felt as a sizing up tool. That primarily came associated with a statement regarding my school's medium of instruction and conveniently assumed biased perceptions.

Even if my mother tongue was not the medium of instruction for me, it still is my mother tongue. It doesn't exactly feel nice/comforting to hear things like, "even though your medium of instruction was different, you still write (stories and poems) and read (novels and other literature) in your mother tongue!" What has medium of instruction got to do with that?

I never gave up on my right and duty towards my mother tongue. It still is very much mine. I started with it, probably will end with it too, and will very much keep doing so. Why should my writing in it come along with an addendum?

It still is very much mine. I started with it, probably will end with it too, and will very much keep doing so.

Writing and reading in my mother tongue, irrespective of any other languages I learn or use, is only natural. A T&C star mark alongside it sometimes feel like a stigma, it is not the high praise as few try to (subtly) imply it to be.  

That, however, is not the entire story. There have been kind souls too who have acceptance as their nature. They understand equity and equality, where to apply it, and most importantly where not to. They do not see anything else but just the love a person bears in their heart. 

Love knows no bounds. Though this statement may seem platitudinous, its value cannot be discounted. Learning a different language or writing and reading in it doesn't mean your love for your root language can be treated differently or perceived differently. You are just loving a bit more... if that makes sense.

So, irrespective of what your background was, irrespective of what other languages you have liked and learnt, irrespective of anything, nothing can (and should) inhibit you from expressing yourself in your mother tongue. It's yours. It's your right and your duty too. Literary freedom is just like Love. Express the Love in your heart. 

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

How Are They Related?

"How much did you get in ABC (name of a subject, name changed for obvious reasons)?" That was the question I was asked the most that day.

The first couple of times the question was asked, it didn't quite register with me. However, anybody would notice a pattern if it is being hovered right in front of their eyes, let alone me. Especially when it came assisted along with a follow up statement, and a quizzical reaction/response.

The jist is I loved the subject ABC. I would keep waiting eagerly for its lab classes and I would feel happy solving the assessment questions. I was also fond of other subjects that we had that semester, however, my interest towards ABC might have been a bit more evident to others. 

So, that day when the aggregate internal marks for all our subjects were published, their curiosity might have led them to ask the question. Some just asked about the mark, while with a couple of friends the conversation went on a bit more.

It went somewhat like this: (Fr: Friend)

Fr:    How much did you get in ABC? 

Me:  I got "y" marks. 

Fr:    It must have been the highest among all you other subjects' marks.  

Me:  It isn't. It is the lowest as compared to my marks in the rest of the subjects this semester. 

Fr:     So, now you must not like ABC anymore. 

Me:   I still do. Why wouldn't I? 

Fr:   Still? Why? But your marks in other subjects are higher than your marks in ABC. Why do you still like it? 

Me:    How are those two aspects related? 

The conversation would mostly stop after that or take a different turn. I wondered, if I had scored average (or less) marks in that, would I have been expected to stop loving it? Or even worse, would I have been expected to hold a grudge, dislike it, or say mean things about it? Even the thought of such a transactional aspect is concerning.

Often times, your affinity towards something is associated with the level of your success in that aspect. If you are fond of something, if you feel happy (or have ever felt happy), shouldn't that be enough? Why do we have to ask for something else in return? Why should liking/feeling towards something change based on its accessibility (like marks or ease of understanding and the likes)? Should we show our affinity only when we excel in it the most or certain conditions and expectations are fulfilled?

If you ask me the reason, I wouldn't know. I have not come across every individual on this planet, hence my understanding is based primarily on my personal experience. Since that number is meagre when compared with the world population, nothing can be generalized, and hence I do not have an answer. I didn't understand it then, and I still do not. 

When you love something, you just love something. There can be no calculation involved. There could be no objective. If we love doing something, if we love learning something, wouldn't it be great if we could focus only on that? I wish and I hope that it would be wonderful if we start considering Happiness and Love as the greatest factors. Wouldn't it be? 

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

A Pinch of Salt

It must have been a midsummer night's dream. That was how inexplicable it was. Everything about that moment felt unreal — the cab to the airport, the boarding pass, even the bag that was packed haphazardly at the last minute. But the only thing that made it seem real was what transpired on that penultimate bridge as I felt the misty air against my skin, just before reaching the airport.

*********

T-12: It was Saturday, the last working day of the week. Unlike most days, I decided to walk back home. I put on my "On my way to Pluto" playlist (it had been quite a while listening to that playlist), took the last sip of water, and headed out.

I might not have realized it then, but that fact registered itself, sneakily enough if I may add.

Like most days, ideas and thoughts started flooding in... as they do whenever I am on the move. But this time, most of the thoughts were were linear, extremely linear to even be defined. I noticed that, but I let it go for the moment and just enjoyed the mildly dusty foliage. Though it usually takes a little over 20 minutes, that day it took me 27 minutes to reach home. I might not have realized it then, but that fact registered itself, sneakily enough if I may add.

T-10: I kept pondering what to have for dinner. I had already been doing that food selection thing for over 30 minutes. The problem was not the vast majority of available choices, rather the absence of it. Whatever I wanted to prepare, I was at least a few ingredients short. A tinge of frustration was already seeping in. That's when I decided I need to go somewhere. Anywhere. 

The next day being Sunday worked in the favor of the plan. I looked up the places I wanted to (and could) go. Thankfully, with only a 15-minute search, the place (we will call the place as P) and the travel times got finalized. The flight was at 6 AM, and the return flight from P was at 7 PM, which meant I would be home by 10:30 pm or so. 

T-8: Everything was in place. All necessary phone calls were made. I had also informed the cab to pick me up at 3 AM. Since it was a day-trip, there was nothing much to pack. A change of clothes, chargers, and a couple basic necessities (as a backup) were stuffed into a backpack. With all preparations done, I slept off, or at least tried to do so. 

...only a few people know how randomly things are decided and they get done sometimes. 

T-3: The cab arrived on time, thankfully. And in no time, I was on my way. Though people around me might know me to be a person who always has a set schedule and itinerary, only a few people know how randomly things are decided and they get done sometimes. 

Even if this wasn't the first ever random and abrupt travel plan, it surely had added uncertainties. If I happen to miss my flight from the P airport, or for some reason it gets delayed or cancelled, I wouldn't get another flight until the next morning. Considering I had to be at work by 8 AM the next day, that could be considered a risk factor. Even though I was aware of that, I wasn't thinking about it (actively) then. 

The airport was a little over an hour away (considering the time). It was still dark. And a bit misty. The roads stood still with an air of mystery. And that eerie setup led me to wonder a lot of What ifs.

...and all that happened afterwards was just a dream of a hunger-fed mind!?

What if I was dreaming? What if I had fallen asleep while thinking about what to eat, and all that happened afterwards was just a dream of a hunger-fed mind!? What if I am not actually taking this journey, but my dream-being making me feel so?

I tried to remember what I had for dinner, or if I had dinner at all, but I couldn't recall anything. The absence of human activities outside wasn't helping. The cab crossed a few rivers on the way, which were always there, but their appearance in the dark seemed different. That was slowly cementing the confusion of everything being a dream. 

I knew I needed a way to confirm, a way which will jerk me off of this dream, if that's what this was. I requested the driver of the cab to halt at the next bridge for a few minutes. He agreed but asked me the reason. I told him that I had a task and it will only take a few minutes. He didn't ask anything further, and halted the car a few steps before the bridge. That was the penultimate bridge before the airport and if I had to wake up, it must be now. 

That leaf was from one of the trees I met everyday on my way to work. 

I walked the few steps to reach the middle of the bridge. I looked at the water, calm and flowy. I could feel the misty breeze on my face. I opened my bag and found the leaf that I had been carrying with me for over a month. That leaf was from one of the trees I met everyday on my way to work. This leaf had landed on my shoulders and I had decided to keep it with me. Until that moment. 

I took a close look at the leaf. It had dried up but still carried its signature and identity. I bade the leaf goodbye and offered it to the river. I kept looking as the leaf wavered and danced while it went on to meet the river. I felt another gush of cold air on my face. Somehow, I was now sure of all this not being a dream, though it still felt dream-like. I am not too sure what it was.

I came back to the cab. And we moved on. The flights were not on time but there wasn't anything drastic that would/could have worried me. Nothing happened as I had planned, for there were none. Things just happened... from an amazing breakfast to a scrumptious lunch, from wandering the paths less traveled to shop for the food ingredients that I missed the night before; everything that could have happened... happened, without an elaborate schedule or plan. 

And what is better, plans working out or plans not working out?

There are things that were never supposed to be the way they are now. And there too are things that happened as was always intended. That is how life progresses, possibly. How do we know which plans will work out and which ones won't? And what is better, plans working out or plans not working out? Everything will make sense eventually if we take it with a pinch of salt. And if it still doesn't, a mystery here and there can be a sweet deal too. What say? 

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

An Anecdote Away 3: The Tale of the Sunflowers

The bus would pass by those fields everyday. Except for Sundays and important holidays. The streets and stories that led and passed by those fields were all so similar, with just bits and pieces of everyday differences sprinkled in to make the world believable.

The bus was a world by itself; it had stories, music, lives that were lived (and some that existed), redundant routines, and a collection of exotic exceptions every now and then. It was my first day in that bus, or what was going to be a part of my world for the next 4 years. It was the first day of my school, new school at that time.

*********

Our school was outside the main town, or should I say amidst a small clearing of sorts surrounded by rows and rows of eucalyptus trees. There were no machined-looking buildings (often termed as modern and simple), like the ones one would imagine as a school building, straight-lined with no character-defining details.

We had octagonal cottage-like structures, there were clusters of three to four cottages, and such clusters were spread all across the campus. The cottages in these clusters housed classrooms, offices, and other necessary facilities. To go from your classroom to science lab, or art class, or the library, one would take a stroll among those beautiful trees that filtered the sunrays that wafted a mild scent of eucalyptus bark and leaves. The nearest small town was 20 minutes away. So, I used to call that place middle of nowhere and everywhere (MONE – suggested pronunciation: like how Monet is pronounced).

I loved the new place for it was straight out of a story book.

It was my first year in that school; I had transferred from my previous/childhood school which was right in the busy heart of town. I loved the new place for it was straight out of a story book. However, I did have my apprehensions because I would be so far and so almost-immediately-unreachable distance away from my parents, my home. I had only been once before to the school on the day when I had my entrance test scheduled. This was my second time, but first one alone. Thoughts, rather concerns of kinds, laced with hints of excitement were all over my mind. I missed my old school, my parents, and even the town.

While the nestled thoughts played like a movie with too many plots played on my mind, I looked at the roads, fields, and houses through the bus window. The bus was packed, rather over-packed, with students (who had already found their friends) and their animated and whispered talks. I heard the voices but not the conversations.

After about 15 milestones, I witnessed something that would make me await for them every spring and summer, probably for life.

The bus kept moving on routinely, and with each passing milestone, I knew school wasn’t very far away. I didn’t want the milestones to stop; I wanted to go on and on with the bus, even though the journey wasn’t exactly comfortable. After about 15 milestones, I witnessed something that would make me await for them every spring and summer, probably for life.

In an unassuming and calm neighbourhood, there was a vast sprawling field of majestic sunflowers, golden and dreamlike. The view was absolutely sublime. I have always loved sunflowers but had never seen a vast field with so many sunflowers shining in all their glory. Thankfully, I was seated towards the western side which allowed me to view the face of the flowers as they looked at the sun. That also meant, while returning I would be on the eastern side and could see the sunflowers facing the sun again. Destiny sure was having its way--- or atleast so it felt at that moment. 

They say one needs to meditate to achieve thoughtlessness or a single line of thought. If that is true, I was possibly in a state of mediation then. 

They say one needs to meditate to achieve thoughtlessness or a single line of thought. If that is true, I was possibly in a state of mediation then. I was completely enamored by the sunflowers and had let go of all the thoughts that were there until few seconds ago. I had completely submitted my thoughts to that magnificence.

The thoughts of the field stayed with me even when we crossed that and reached the school. While returning, I eagerly waited for the flowers again. Days passed by and vacation arrived sooner than expected. During vacations, I found myself missing them. Though I knew that they won’t be there when we return to school after vacations, I still awaited that field. During winters the field was filled with mustard flowers and they too looked splendid basking in the warmth of the winter rays. And they would tell me that spring is just around the corner and soon I would meet the sunflowers again. I would smile along with the mustard flowers while waiting for the sunflowers to arrive.

And they would tell me that spring is just around the corner and soon I would meet the sunflowers again.

Four years in that school passed by and I would wait the entire year’s bus journey for those couple of minutes (to and fro) of sunflowers during the few days of summer. I remember the roads that we took everyday, the mini farms, the hillocks, temples, and the conversations that I had with friends. But the way I remember the sunflowers is different than everything else.

With the changing times and vanishing landscapes in the name of development, I don’t know whether that field where the sunflowers smiled and loved would still be there. But I can’t imagine of anything else there. Every summer of my life and sometimes during days of other seasons too, I keep remembering my sunflowers. And will always do.

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A Little Something:

Composed on September 22, 2024, Sunday, during a lunch that brought back memories of the sunflowers. 

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Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

Unselfishly Selfish

(This piece is not meant to be read. It is just an archive of fuzzy thoughts. Please skip this post.)

Artists are supposed to be selfish. They should be. Must be, if I may go to that extent to say this. You see artists either feel too much or think too much or worse... they feel and think too much. Simultaneously.  And the only outlet (something like catharsis) is by creation that caters to their own emotion. Only their emotion and/or thoughts. Because as such artists are wired a bit different, apparently. Of course the degree might vary. Reflecting their own state of being is therefore the obvious way, which most artists do beautifully. 

But what if you can't. No, actually you can but you just won't. It feels to you as if you shouldn't... almost like you are physically incapable of that. Every cell of your existence tells you that there are other emotions or thoughts that deserve that outlet more.

If there is just one way, however teeny tiny and insignificant it may be, do you not owe it to the world of other emotions!? To everything else. Isn't their happiness and beings worth more, much much more. And if one soul, just one soul can benefit from it, for making a better day or even a better moment, shouldn't representing that be the priority. 

Your own reflections are nothing. You can hide that, like an Obscurus in an Obscurial, even if that ends up destroying your very existence. However, if you do that, are you even an artist? Can you even be called that? Because there's no you in whatever you make. It might be just you-flavored but not you in the true sense. 

The greater good may still seem viable and you may decide to let go off the you in you. But not completely. You still levitate towards finding yourself on unknown paths...where you have wandered off to... find the you that was let off, long ago, consciously for whatever reason. And you hark yourself back, realising that every attempt of getting back on that conscious decision is taking back the you into unknown depths of nothingness. 

It makes sense somehow even if it does not sometime. You never were an artist to begin with. You never were anything. The creations were never yours, they were just dreams. Literal dreams. How can you claim the dreams? How can you claim something whose existence is questionable and at very best ethereal? 

You wonder is it the you that was lost screaming words of escape from a dimension that is still incomprehensible? It seems far fetched and you drop that idea yet again. How can you, even if for a moment, let that idea lurk in? Despite what few of your near ones might say, you were never an artist. You know that through every inch of your being. They had an obligation. Much like you do towards your own feelings. But they have always felt so insignificant when seen in contrast to the greater dimensions.  

Sometimes, they randomly peek into the creation of your dreams. And that's when the need comes to mask it, and guard it with a Fort Knox like simulation. And you do that, with a hope that nobody gets it. But like a betraying glow worm, it still flies into the darkness hoping that somebody would. But why should anyone? Irrespective of the obvious Love that you have, it still stands without any merit. Nothing could deny that. And every praise gives an impression of scurrying rain drops piercing against the windshield, determined to shatter them to pieces. 

Yet you embarrassingly enough move against the rain drops. You never realized that going against the raindrops was as wrong (or unacceptable) as anything ever could be. No, you knew. But you still decided not to know. 

The artists moved with the raindrops...to reach the earth. And you stupidly drove in the opposite direction in search of a reclusive soul who might need the healing from your wounds. And thus you carved words of healing rather than that of the wounds that you battle with, still unknown.

You kept on searching without even knowing if there was ever such a soul. And if there ever will be. If there will be a heart that found the words that were there and those too that weren't. And maybe, just maybe, found the brief moment of a relaxing haunt that you have always wished for. And for that dream, for that wish, you kept going on. Still.

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

A Love for You

There has been a morning 

A morning for You

A morning for me

And an other morning too

For the souls 

That see the beauty of night

And dwell in dreamy paths

Elusively in the cosmic sight

Time that hardly matters

Separates the morning of yours and mine

But the universe spares its glances

For momentous destiny penned by divine

There might be a few stretches of land

Or even the moody seas

The distances etched in sand

Blurring the creases with ease

Or the fickle clouds veiling the skies

And capricious whiffs of wafting air, 

Sometimes tempestuous

But often with a pensive flair

There still will always be the moment

Where rhythms sync and smiles glide by

Where our mornings converse

And evenings upon wishes reply

There will always be moments

Bestowed from heavens above

Where this Love will always be

A beaming journey of our Love

A Love for You

A Love for me

18+19+23+44+23+29=156

/4+/4+/4+/8+/4+/6=/30

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

ଓତପ୍ରୋତ

ବର୍ଣ୍ଣ ବିହୀନେ ବର୍ଣ୍ଣନା ଯେ କି କରିବି ମୁଁ ତା'କୁ କୁହ ମୋତେ।

ଅବର୍ଣ୍ଣନୀୟ ସେ ବର୍ଣ୍ଣ ବା କି ତା'କୁ ବର୍ଣ୍ଣନା କରିବ କେତେ ।। 

ଜଳଜଳ ହୋଇ ଜଳେ ସେ ଜଳରେ ଅଗାଧ ଜଳେ ସେ ଭାସେ ।

ଭାଷେ ସେ ବ୍ରହ୍ମାଣ୍ଡ ଭାଷା ଅନୁପମ ମୌନତା କିନ୍ତୁ ଚଷେ ।।

ଦ୍ରଷ୍ଟା ଦୃଷ୍ଟିରେ ଦେଖେ ସେ ଦୁନିଆ ବୁଝେ ସେ ଦର୍ଶନ ଜ୍ଞାନ ।

ଦୂର ସେ ତାରାର ଦୀର୍ଘ ବୁକୁରେ ନିତି ସିଞ୍ଚଇ ସ୍ବପ୍ନର ଦ୍ରୁମ ।।

ଡାକେ ପାଖରେ ତଥାପି ଦୂରରେ କିନ୍ତୁ ଡଗର ଲୋଡ଼େ ସେ ନାହିଁ ।

ନହକା ଡଙ୍ଗାରେ ଡଅଁରେ ପଡିଲେ ଡାକକେ ଉଦ୍ଧାରେ ତହିଁ ।।

ଗଦ୍-ଗଦ୍ ହୋଇ ଗାଏ ସେ ଗୀତିକା ଗଗନେ ପବନେ ଭାସି ।

ଗମ୍ଯ ଗାଥାର ଗହନ ଗାମ୍ଭୀର୍ଯ୍ୟ ପୁଣି ଭାବଇ କ୍ଷଣେ ସେ ବସି ।।

ରଚଇ ରଚନା ରିକ୍ତ ଆକାଶେ ମୁକ୍ତ ମନର ଭବ୍ଯ ସ୍ମୃତି ।

ରମ୍ୟ ରବିଙ୍କ ଅଙ୍କିତ ପଥେ ବୁଣଇ ଅପୂର୍ବ କିରଣ ନିତି ।।

ଅନନ୍ତ ଅଦ୍ଭୁତ କାହାଣୀ ସମ୍ଭାର ଅଛି ତନ୍ମଧ୍ଯରେ ଲୁଚି ।

ଅନେକ ଅନନ୍ଯ ସାରମର୍ମ ତହିଁ, ପଢ଼ିବେ ପାଠକେ ବୁଝି ।।

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A Little Something:

The Odia consonants are generally arranged in a matrix format of 5 columns.

For this piece, the consonants in the third column of the first 5 rows and the consonant in the second column of the sixth row is taken (There are rarely any words beginning with the third consonant in the sixth row). In each “couplet”, multiple words are used that start with these consonants.

Here, the relative positioning of the consonants are considered. When the relative positions of the consonants in each stanza is added, the sum results to 31, except in the third stanza.

In the third stanza, the sum resulted in 30 because of the adjustment in the sixth row. Hence, to make up for it, the first vowel is used as the beginning of multiple words in the last two lines. The vowel is given a conditional position of 1 (marked with an asterisk), and hence the result of sum adjusts up to 31.

31 + 31 + 31 = 93

P. S. There are a couple more number related usages in this piece. Let’s leave it at that.

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Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

Witnessing a Death

 

I wondered that day - if I was ever in a situation to take that carriage, would I be able to see the Thestrals that drew them? Or would that part of my innocence will still be preserved and I would believe in the magic of self-drawn carriages?

It was a day like any other. The weather was pleasant, as many would probably call it. On such an uneventful yet pleasant evening, I went out with my mother.

I was at top of my spirits as I usually am whenever I accompany her. There's a very carefree and vivacious feel whenever she has a set of chores to take care of; I just need to be there with nary a dust to worry about. On occasions when neither of us have a set plan in place, that brings a different kind of sprightly vibe and happiness. This time it was the former case - she had a task list. 

Among the couple of places we were supposed to visit that day, the last one was a jewelry shop. This also happened to be the place where I would later witness that event. 

Except for appreciating the craftsmanship and creativity, a jewelry store doesn't have anything else to offer to me. So, mostly I wander around and see the works of art (jewelry pieces carved by artisans in this case), very much like we do in any art gallery or museum. That evening was no different.

For a few minutes, I did help in deciding among the few designs my mother had shortlisted. While I was doing that, one of the two salespeople (who were assisting us), informed us that she needs to assist another customer who had some jewelry-mending work. I had never seen that and as was probably expected, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked my mother about it - how it is done, if she has ever seen it, and similar questions. The salesperson heard me and she was kind enough to offer me to accompany her. I asked my mother if that was ok, and upon affirmation from her I went along with the salesperson to witness how jewelry pieces are mended. 

The workshop section (/jewelry-mending section for me) was on another floor. I was brimming with excitement as we were stepping towards that section. We went through a couple of doors. The final door that led us into the workshop gave the impression of that stage curtain that demarcates the shiny, bright stage from the backstage area- chaotic yet with a certain silence that may feel eerie sometimes. 

There were a few other customers, probably for mending work, I assumed. There were different sections, and I stood near the section that was closest to the door. An unassuming desk divided the craftsperson from us, the customers/witnesses. There were a few tools, a flame, a bowl of water, and some powdery substances... all of which didn't give a clue as to what brilliance they were creating (or mending). Origins are often not as glamorous as the creations are. And I somehow felt thankful for that.

Origins are often not as glamorous as the creations are.

The craftsperson asked the next customer about their requirement. The customer announced that they want to melt their jewelry pieces. I was a tad confused... may be, but still didn't know what was going to happen exactly. That is when it happened. 

The person sitting across the desk took all the jewelry pieces, cast them in a container that had a handle, and without a blinking second exposed that to the hissing flame. The flame, immolating, impartial, and breathing, melted every inch of those beautiful pieces. Along with them vanished hours, perhaps days, of hard work, immeasurable aspirations, thoughts that birthed the designs, dreams that led the creativity, and affection of the heart and hands that birthed those pieces.

I was witnessing a pyre... of a creation that was deemed to have lived the life it was meant to live. The final moments were deemed upon it. Did it's maker know?... Apparently not. Would they have imagined this moment while they were creating it? I couldn't even imagine it. It was loud in and around, but I could still hear my heartbeats. It felt ironical, the heartbeats enthusiastically showing off the presence of a life infront of a pyre. My mind, however, was dead silent. It was trying to grasp what my eyes were witnessing. But how do you wrap your head around it?

It didn't even take much time, but it felt like ages passed by in a short breath. Once what was a beautiful, glorious piece of jewelry now looked like a lumpy gravel immersed in the water that lay in that bowl on the desk. It had a remnant shine, but the years of life in it was no more. The indiscriminating water helped it hold a random shape, a shape that had no more stories to tell, no more experiences to elaborate.

As I stood still, the salesperson came back and asked me to return with her. By this time, my mother had completed all the purchasing formalities. I realized it was less than 10 minutes. But those few minutes... they changed something; I didn't know if that was something permanent in me.

It made me wonder though. It made me wonder if I will be a different person. I wondered that day - if I was ever in a situation to take that carriage, would I be able to see the Thestrals that drew them? Or would that part of my innocence will still be preserved and I would believe in the magic of self-drawn carriages?

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

An Anecdote Away 2 : Magic in the Mundane

The day that it was slowly becoming was not what anyone, even I, would have expected it to be. Well, I really don't know where and when the day actually began, but for the sake of convenience, let's say it started when I got ready to leave for the airport. 

It was 3.30 am. I was all packed up to leave. Normally, I pack extremely light, a regular back-pack which houses my electronics, a pair of clothes, and two books. However, this time I was going away for 2 months, which meant a backpack was not going to do the trick. I had luggage to check-in.

I kept the bags ready by the door, re-checked the house, and waited for the clock to strike 3.45 AM, which was when the cab was supposed to arrive. But it did not. Many phone calls, efforts, panicking thoughts, and desperate prayers later, somehow the cab arrived at 4.15pm, taking away the buffer time allocated for both cab delay and travel time.The first and the smallest hurdle had been taken care of. 

I reached the airport on time, thankfully. However, the flight, originally scheduled at 6.20 am was delayed by 2 hours. That meant letting go of my breakfast plans. At 7 am, while still waiting for the delayed flight, I called the restaurant and cancelled my reservation. Now, this would seem insignificant to many, but cancelling reservations or any appointments are tough. The severity is like going back on a promise. And if it involves food, it feels like a double blow to your heart - ask someone who loves food. 

It was an hour-long flight. I just had a few hours of work in the city, after which I would take my next flight, scheduled at 6 am the next morning. So, I opted to avail the airport cloakroom services (the 9-hour package by when I would definitely be back) to drop off my bag. I grabbed the tallest cup of coffee to keep off any possible drowsiness (courtesy of not getting a wink of sleep for the last 27 plus hours), took a cab, and off I went to the first meeting of the day. 

This is just for context of how the day was supposed to be, but I think this paragraph may be skipped if context is something that can be done away with. It was almost 10 am by the time I got the cab. My first meeting was at 11 am and all the work was supposed to get over by 2 pm. I had a lunch reservation at 2.15 pm at a restaurant just a stone's throw away from the place of work. I had planned to go to a gallery after that, be there for an hour, and then be back at the airport well before 6.30 pm. I would then collect the bag, check some stores at the airport, have a relaxing long dinner at that fun Japanese restaurant at 7.30 pm (the restaurant was just 5 minutes walk from the drop-off/departure points), and then wait in the lounge until my next flight. 

As the very first line suggested, nothing went as per the plan. I had to cancel my lunch reservation too. The work extended much beyond the expected hours, but the output was disheartening. It took much more than double the time I had allocated it, but didn't yield even a fraction of the result that was expected. The reserves of sunshine a person can hold runs low sometimes, especially when it is fuelled by lack of sleep, uninspiring work results, and an entire day with just a cup of coffee (for a person who is not used to caffeine).

I reached the airport after 7.30 pm, an hour late than when I was supposed to collect my bag from the cloakroom. I decided to not cancel my dinner reservation; I didn't have an ounce of strength left to do that. The restaurant anyway was just 5 minutes away. I went ahead with dinner, my first meal in 30 hours. However, again against expectations, I couldn't enjoy the dinner whole-heartedly... for worrying thoughts kept looming over me. Please don't misunderstand, the food was absolutely amazing but I was extremely tired... so tired that I feared if I rest in the lounge, I might not wake up to board the flight. 

After a quick dinner, I reached the cloakroom, two and a half hours later than I was supposed to collect my luggage. I was ready to pay the fine but arriving after the time slot that I had ticked on that form weighed down on me more, perhaps more than when dark clouds weigh down on an already gloomy sun-less day. After the allotted time slot expires, uncertainty creeps in, like unresolved shadows. The person in-charge might have experienced that uncertainty. And it's definitely not a good feeling. I was ashamed and knew apology is not enough. Nevertheless, apology was a must. Upon reaching the cloakroom, I did exactly that... I apologized, as much as I could. 

The person in-charge, let's call him N, smiled throughout and kept saying, "it's okay. I can understand." N was extremely polite and the owner of a pleasant and comforting smile. When I tried to hand over my card to pay the fine, he said, "you must have paid for the service when you dropped off your bag." I said that I had paid, but this is for the fine that I am supposed to pay for the delay. And I apologized again. He replied that he would waive it off. When I insisted, he said, "It's completely okay. It wasn't that long anyway. I understand you might have had a tough day. You don't have to pay anything extra." He smiled, again.

I was extremely grateful. I had nothing with me that I could give as a token of appreciation and gratitude... except for my custom made bookmarks. I opened my luggage for the bookmarks, wrote a gratitude note, and then went back and gave N a set of bookmarks along with the note. I thanked him and he thanked me back. His earlier smile of understanding now reflected a smile of being appreciated, perhaps with a hint of graceful happiness.

Afterwards, I debated whether to go to the lounge or just dwindle around for the entire night. I strolled around for 30 odd minutes which made me realize I couldn't go on like that. I grabbed another tall cup of coffee and checked into the lounge. I requested them to call me up by 3 am, lest I fall asleep. They suggested that I have enough time if I want to take a nap, and I should because I looked exhausted.

Until they told me so, I had not realized that I too might look exhausted. When I think back, the server at the restaurant looked concerned and N's initial reaction when I first apologized too had a hint of concern. I misread/ignored those expressions back then. Did I look that pathetically exhausted for them to get concerned, I wonder. With these and some other unassociated thoughts, I took a rest in the lounge but I couldn't sleep, the caffeine was doing its job, even working overtime. 

I checked out of the lounge a little before 3 am, checked in for my flight, which thankfully was on time, and checked the few shops inside the airport that were still open. Even though I had not slept in 48 hours by then (which would later on extend to 60 hours), I still didn't sleep during the flight. I was perhaps physically drained off my strength, but the kindness that I received surely did boost my spirits. N's smile and his kindness did help refill the reserve of my sunshine too. A nice breakfast, sleep, and later some familiar faces helped in further refilling the reserve. Often things that are otherwise considered mundane... are actually magical. 

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

An Anecdote Away 1: Expressive Errors

An exceptionally expressive soul with a stoic stanced exterior is a puzzlingly perplexing problem. I call it the esp... for reasons that seem and feel obvious... to me. But as has been proved earlier, on many occasions, I cannot say with a certainty that it is obvious to others. 

Thus arises the need, nay want, to explain. However, just how an explained joke is a joke no more, this too meets the same fate. So, I would not describe too much than is actually needed. 

There's another reason too. I am pretty sure that this piece, or any other piece penned by me, would not be visible to a majority of people- many will actually not see it, and many will choose not to. Of the countable few who will see it, most would not read past the first couple of lines. And by the time we reach the crux, or even the beginning of the crux, there might not be any readers left. In essence, it might just be me or someone like me who reads it; they would understand anyway.

So, here's the beginning. It was one of those subject labs which was considered (probably still is) as one of the most difficult and complex labs. It required application of both software and hardware components embedded into one. And hence (possibly) it seemed daunting, because the presence of both aspects, actively, in humans is also a rare sight these days. Hence, to relate to aspects of this lab might not be an easy task.

In one of the sessions of these labs, we were to hand out problem statements to each of the lab participants. The norm I prefer to follow is to test the waters yourself first before sending anybody in. So, one saturday afternoon, one of my colleagues and I decided to give each statement a try. There were 6 statements, in total, to test. The first 4 were executed without hiccups of any sort. When it came to the 5th statement however, that was not the case. 

For the 5th statement, we wrote the lines of code, made the necessary configurations and turned our eyes towards the screen that would show us the output. But, it wasn’t what it was expected. It showed a "different", "unexpected" value. I was thrilled to say the least. My soul was experiencing exploding streams of happiness. My stance, however, was calm. I was smiling which was a vast vast understatement of how excited I felt at that moment. I was able to utter a meagre "wow" that assisted my smile.

My colleague looked at me and had an expression that was "expected" at that moment. The output was unexpected and hence is considered an "error", something that is not meant to exist, something that should be discarded, removed. My expression might not have made sense. So, she asked me why I was happy/calm about it. The output was so irrelevant and had to be fixed. I knew what she meant but I didn't quite understand the reaction.

Maybe the output was irrelevant in that context, but it still felt like a desirable necessity. If everything goes as they are expected to go, if everything is done to fit the relevance code, everything would be so linear, so redundant, and so against the basic nature of the very universe we live in. Why can’t we celebrate irrelevances, differences, unexpected-ness-es!!

There was no way I was going to ramble these lines there. So, I just said that even though it is an "error", it still is so beautiful and interesting. And that made me happy. She was kind, and hence smiled back with a "you are optimistic" reply. We did not dwell on it further and after a couple of minutes of modifications, the experiment showed the expected outcome. We winded up the 6th one too and called it a day.

I still have a photo of that unexpected result on the social media page of this website. It might be insignificant, but still doesn't feel insignificant. It feels like it had a meaning and a purpose. The day that it was... irrational and beautiful. 

Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved

The Book

I am reminded of the time when I would go to this library to look for this particular book I wanted to read at that time.

But it was always unavailable. I  went in almost everyday for a month... or maybe even more. 

However, the book still wouldn't be there. There was just one copy in that library and one person had borrowed it the same day when I first went looking for it. I was few minutes late and this person was able to borrow it right before me. And now, this person was surely taking their own sweet time returning it. 

I would return every time with some other book, and sometimes, even empty-handed. 

Even though I made sure not to look too eager about it, but asking for the same book for the longest time sure does not help with that attempt. The librarian probably noticed my vain attempt. After a couple of weeks, she would tell me even before I could ask for the book... once more. It was helpful... somewhat... at least I had to use fewer words and now the smile was all it took. The librarian was always kind to me.

After about a month, the librarian, kind as she was, she promised to call me as soon as the book is returned. I need not go looking for it everyday.

A few more days passed and ultimately... I left that city.

After all these years, I still haven't received that call. I wonder how she is doing and if she forgot to give that call.

I wonder too... about how the book is doing.

The book..."Die Leiden des jungen Werthers" by Goethe or popularly known as "The Sorrows of Young Werther".

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Unsaid

She never said

And he never asked

Even if the thoughts were there

He never uttered a single word.

And she, like she was,

Could never have believed

Even if the words she wished 

Were the words she heard.

For his voice was a magical spell

That made her heart quiver,

She dwelled in weaved worlds

Where his voice shined,

And she was the staunch believer.

His voice brightened every corner

And every nook,

With the fragrance of his smile there,

There was nothing that could have her shook

And yet she never spoke...

Her eyes spake of her feelings

But the silence, her lips never broke.

He wished too,

To speak of his soul,

The mystery of her dimple,

And how it made him whole.

If only words were that simple,

He could write sagas about her,

For she was nothing like he ever knew

But everything he desired 

And his heart drew.

She was the comfort of morning rays

And enigma of the satin night,

The embodiment of the gentlest soul,

And the sparkle in her eyes

Made everything right,

His universe with the perfect sight.

And still, she never said

And he never asked 

Even if the thoughts were there

They never uttered a single word

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39+50+18+47+34+21=209

8/   9/3   9/6   /4=   /39

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Copyright © 2024 One Life To Live. All Rights Reserved