The Wannabes

I wrote this for a creative writing assignment. We were asked to write a satirical piece on 'the wannabes'. This is what I came up with . *shrugs*

Disclaimer - Any offence taken by any person living or dead is not the author's fault or responsibility. :P :D

The meaning of life. The meaning of being. The purpose of life.

These are questions that all of us ask. Why us? Why this planet? To what purpose?

And then the answer comes. Like an epiphany, out of the blue. We are here to be somebody; to do great things. We have people to meet, worlds to save after all.

And to this end we strive to BE somebody. We wear our cool loose khadi kurtas, the torn baggy jeans and how could I forget to mention the ever-present jhola? We sit around the chai tapris, sipping cups of tea expounding on the problems of the world. We put on the accents, and sagely nod our heads. We shake our heads at the right intervals and lament the disintegration of the society. We stand on our imaginary soap boxes and dish out gyaan which seemingly came to us as we were walking along the footpath thinking about life. We stand in front of paintings and talk about the anguish of the artist as he made those brush strokes. We listen to the Beatles and Led Zeppelin and Bob Marley, humming tunelessly, bobbing our heads with the music.

But we forget that we don’t really know about the problems of the world. We know no great truths. We do not understand the point of that painting. It was made when the artist was drunk for all we know, a mere accident. We do not actually like the music, and we don’t know the words.

This my friends, is the truth. And this my friends, is how we live. Pretence and lies. For that is how we must save the world.

Practice what you preach.

When, oh when will I learn?

One double O

It's my 100th post.

That's a big achievement. It's the big century.

My first post was on the 12th of August 2008. This month 'Things and Thoughts' turned two.

This blog has seen so many different moods, so many different sides. I've changed so very much in the last two years. My writing has grown. My style has changed. My thinking has changed.

I was wondering what would go into this post. Considering it's two years and number 100. But honestly, I don't know. I could write about people. I could write more about how things should be or how things are. I could ask more questions, look for more answers. I could rant. I could ponder. I could complain.

But I'm not doing any of those things.

This post is a reminder. Of a journey that started two years back. And it is a marker. Of an achievement. It is a celebration of me. And it also a thank you to those who have bothered to keep up with all that I have written.

This post is a toast. To the future. And to more writing and thinking and not to forget, coffee :D

Here's to me.

Here's to many more.

Regret

Regret is a big word. The dictionary calls it a pain of the mind on account of something done or experienced in the past, with a wish that it had been different; a looking back with dissatisfaction or with longing; grief; sorrow; especially, a mourning on account of the loss of some joy, advantage, or satisfaction.

But we attach more meaning to words. They mean more than just a dictionary definition.

Regret is an all-pervading feeling. It swamps you. You regret things that never were. Things that never should've been. Things that can never be. You regret opportunities lost; people hurt; things said.

But the worst kind of regret is for something that made you happy. A moment that was yours. You wonder how that is possible. Well, it is. you regret a moment that you lived for you, because in the process you opened up a can of worms that should've been left closed. In that moment you let loose emotions that never should've existed. And you broke down walls that should never have weakened. Your moment.

The dictionary defines regret as pain and grief.

Regretting a moment of happiness is the most painful type of regret there is.

Travelling Alone

Written for a creative writing assignment. We were given a 350 word limit which is why this seems incomplete.

Travelling alone is an experience by itself. It’s an exercise in independence, of being in control of yourself and your thoughts. It is an exercise in observation. And there is a certain sense of security in being a spectator. An onlooker. Sitting there near the window, with my iPod plugged in, looking out at the people milling about on the platform, gave me a chance to create stories. To make up lives for people I don’t know.

One of the first people I noticed in the crowd was a woman in a red sari. She stood there with a big bag near her feet, wringing her hands. Her eyes kept darting around from person to person. She seemed nervous somehow. I have always felt that nervousness and fear are two of the most easily recognisable emotions. I wondered what she was nervous about.

Then I couldn’t help but notice the two people on the opposite berths who were making a big show of settling down. The girl was pretty. It wasn’t an immediately recognisable beauty but it was there. The man on the other hand, I wouldn’t give a second look to. She seemed uncomfortable with him constantly hugging and kissing her. I have never liked PDA myself. Newlyweds, I thought in my head. I made a mental prediction that they would end in one year. It’s what always happens to incompatible people.

I went back to looking at the people on the platform. The man selling newspapers, the tea vendor. And then the man who had the berth above mine came in. He placed his guitar on the berth, put his bag under the seat I was sitting on and made himself comfortable opposite me. He fascinated me. With hazel eyes, nice hair, a grey tee and blue jeans, he seemed quite the catch. He took a book out of his bag – Mein Kampf. Intellectual or pseudo intellectual, I couldn’t decide which. Musician, the guitar said.

The cogs in my head were spinning and from my safe perch I could happily create all the stories I wanted.

This was going to be quite a trip I realised...

Change

When you lose the person you used to be, do you look forward or backward? Do you strive to hold on to that person? Do you fight to save those thoughts, those feelings, all those things you held to be so important? Or do you embrace who you have become? You feel the old you slip away like a dream, like sand through your fingers. You feel her disappear. And the next time you look in the mirror, you see a face you can't recognise. Do you let her go? Do you let accept the change that crept in so slowly, without you realising it?

Change is the only permanent thing in the world they say. Everyone says. But when the change is unwanted, how do you bring yourself to let go? When you can't trust the new person, how do you find acceptance? Because that is the most important thing, right?

Choices dictate our lives. And questions seem to rule mine.

Maybe it's time to move on. Or is it?

Anonymity

Anonymity is such a convenient mask to wear. There is a certain sense of security in being an unknown face. There is a sense of calm in knowing that no one knows you. Anonymity lends you the freedom to be; the freedom to do things that you might never do. There is a sense of release. It is a funny feeling, this anonymity.