Another milestone

No. It's not something that I achieved. Nothing extra-ordinary. No feat. No walls pulled down, no races won. Somehow a connotation of something special has come to be attached with the humble milestone. Why is it so? Why has to be there something special, something that should be celebrated with sparkling champagne? Why can't a milestone be just another milestone on the road, that comes after a given interval even without the driver having to do something so out of the world? You travel, and you come by a milestone, you notice it, or you ignore it, and you move on. It's good if you know how many miles you need to go before you sleep. It's even better if you don't. Or maybe worse. I don't know. You figure out. I, for one, couldn't care less. I know there's another milestone coming around the next corner.

Or a checkpost. There's a difference. A milestone never stops you. A checkpost does. You need to cross it, sure, like you need to cross the milestone, to proceed to the next one. Or possibly you don't need to cross the milestone. You can sleep before you crossed this one. And the milestone wouldn't even care. But you need to cross the checkpost. And the checkpost knows it. That's why it's there. It's there to check you. You'll pass only if it allows you to pass. You're examined for all sorts of things. And if you're not permitted, that's pretty much the end of the road for you. You'll need to start over again.

So? What are you trying to say? You know, sometime it's hard to relate to what you want to say, and what you actually say. I think you're a patient of sleep-talk. Get up and come to the point, You tell me. Looks like you've had enough.

I say, I am not trying to tell you anything. Just recollecting something that I have done so far. And trying to figure out whether they were milestones or checkposts. Probably there were some of them both. And I'm asking myself, would you call them milestones, or checkposts, had you been in my place?

What's the difference again? Sorry I couldn't get you the first time, You say. I am a bit irritated. I thought you were listening, I said. Well, you can't blame it on me all the time. You have to be clear about what you say to keep me engaged. Else I will drift, since you won't be making much sense to me. Now come back to the stone and post part, will you? You retort.

So I start all over again. And I say, How many times you thought this is a key moment in your life? Like a turning point? Or a major event, something that you'll keep in your memories - maybe your brain or your diary or your laptop, but memory it'll be - and cherish it for times to come? A point in your resume, or a story to tell your kids, and probably their kids as well?

You say, Yes I guess there are a few of them. I shall remember them for long. They are quite special to me, you know. You say.

And I ask, Why are they special? Were they something unique to you, or were they something you'll have only once in your life? Were they something you got because you dreamed about them, or were they something that passed you by, and you remarked, Wow, now that's something I'd never forget?

You say, It's kind of all of them, because they are all remarkable. But sure, I would remember them most which happened because I went that way, and not something that just happened. They are the milestones on the road I chose to travel. I set the mark, and the others congratulated me. There was no one else there. Only me. That makes them special.

You really think so? I ask. What? You say. You really think that they were milestones, and not checkposts? I say again. Huh? Why would they be checkposts? I set the track for myself. I took the path, and I traveled it. There were no checkposts. I chalked out my route and I designed my destiny. That's it.

And I say, Well, probably that's the way you think. I, on the other hand see it this way. I can only choose the path. No, not really. I possibly might only choose the path. Often, there are so many things that make me choose it. It's not much of a choice then. One thing leads to another and before I know, I am running on the track. Think about it, since you were a kid, you've been running. And you're not running alone. You're not the only horse in the race. There are many. Actually, many is an understatement. And you've to overtake them all. To reach the next milestone. And when you reach there, you find it's actually a checkpost. It'll ask you for papers. Papers that'll allow you to go to the next level. Probably the next track. And the spectators will cheer you. Tell you how brilliant you are. And you'll run into the next checkpost.

Sometimes you'll be lucky to choose a path. And to choose a path with no other horse racing besides you. But then you'll have no spectators. No one wants to see a single horse race. You'll have no cheering. And before you know, you'll have someone to compete with. Time. You'll race against time to reach that milestone, to leave a mark. To make the spectators notice that someone's racing here. And just as you do so, you'll have checkposts coming in. And they'll ask for papers. Proofs that you can be termed a winner. So that people even think it's worth watching you.

What nonsense. You seem baffled. It's ridiculous. I set my own goals. I have my own rules and regulations, and I don't bother whether I am in the race with someone or not. I set my own targets and achieve them and better them and people notice me because I set new standards. You are definitely bugged.

I smile, and say, Think twice. It's not against others. It's not against time. You're racing against yourself. You race to reach that milestone. When you are there, you find it's a checkpost that you had erected there. With papers and standards set by you. And you rank yourself on scales from one to ten. And you put ticks against bullets. And you don't let yourself pass before all of them are done. So, you just converted a milestone to a checkpost. It's something you can't avoid. It's something you can't get done away with. And you cross it and you race again.

Until you are exhausted. And you decide it's time to sleep. And you think, Was the race really worth it? Were they really milestones, or just checkposts? Probably you could have done better at that checkpost, where you really didn't get all the ticks right. You managed the man at the post. You managed them all. You reached here. Would you like to remember all of them now?

I can't tell you anything. Even if you ask me. It was your call which you took. And now it's mine. I am standing in front of a checkpost. I have to clear the papers to pass it. And it's on a road I chose. Or maybe I think I did. I don't know for sure. And I don't know how many checkposts are there ahead. All I know is that there are no milestones. None. Wait. I may be wrong.

I would like to find out.

C'est La Nuit

Okay, so you're learning French. Good. At least you can make some desperate attempts at being romantic. So, come on, say something mesmerizing, enchanting, with all the fragrance of love and romance, beauty and art, colors and elegance. Pour some sparkling wine and maybe we can talk poetry.

You sneer.

I say, Well, I won't do any of the things you just said. Pray why you shouldn't? You ask me. I reply, Because I don't think I can put romance in words; I can't make words smell like rose; I can't make you feel the Taj if I tell you about it. No. I can't make you feel love if I say what's love. Possibly, I won't get it myself if I say what's love. Words are so inadequate when it comes to make people feel something. I won't even try.

Haa! Just because you can't do it doesn't mean no one can. Who do you think you are, Wordsworth? You jibe again. And I say, No I don't. I know exactly who I am. And what I can do. And what I can understand. And what I can feel. And I don't think you do most things differently either. If you feel something, or have felt it, only then can relate to it. And only then words make you feel. The feeling comes first, not the words.

If you haven't felt the night, all I can tell you is that night is when the Sun goes down. Anything and everything I say beyond that won't make any sense to you. It will be fiction. No. I am wrong. Even fiction can be felt. Often we can relate to it. So it won't be fiction. It will be something which I can't tell you. See, words. It's too hard to express everything. So I won't try. Not in any language. Not English, not French. I will only tell you what I see and what I feel, and if you really want to understand, I'll ask you to feel it yourself. Feel the night. Alone.

So what's new? You've come back to romance. Come on, don't you know you are pathetic at it? Get back to what you do best. Keep silent. I know what night is. I know what a moonlit night is. I know what it is after dusk and before dawn. I have seen it all, I have read about it all. Close the chapter, You tell me.

And I pause. Then I start again. I ask you, have you gone on a cycle, 2 am in the morning, on a highway that has no lights, and the only light which you can use to focus on the road is that of the truck and the car behind you? Have you felt the gust of wind when a ten-wheeler wheezes past you? You didn't, right? You're silent. And I say, Have you ever felt so helpless without the light of the truck behind you, without which you can't move a step forward, and when it passes you by, a thought sends a chill down your spine; the thought of that same truck that could have passed over you, and not by you.

You haven't. You have seen the night in all its beauty and grace. The night with all its glitter and glare. The night with the money and the rags. But have you seen the night with all the freedom and all the fear? The same city, with its wide roads and smooth pavements, trees and benches, parks and fountains, can be so different. I can feel the lack of noise and the lack of vibrancy. I love it and hate it at the same time.

I take my cycle and I explore the city. Yes, I explore it. It's a different city. There are no people. I feel so great. I feel so free. I feel so uninterrupted. There are no people. I feel so alone. I feel so unprotected. I feel so scared. I can do whatever I like and no one will stop me. I can be hit by a car and no one will notice me.

But then, that's what I like about the night. It has its charm. I am ready to pay for it. Pay for the loneliness. Pay for the feeling of being alone, no one watching me, no one protecting me, no one caring about me. Because I can have it all for myself. I am so greedy. I don't want to share it with anyone else. It's all mine.

When there's light, there's everyone else. I am just one in the crowd. In the night, I am still the one, but there's no crowd. And you say, are you nuts? In the city you have pubs and bars and hotels and markets and malls and cinemas and all the places. They are packed with people at night. And I say, It's not night for me then. For me, night is being alone. For me, night is exclusive. It's just me and her.

She can get me killed. But I don't mind.

God and stupid people

A friend once casually remarked, God loves stupid people, He made so many.

I would have stepped up and questioned, How do you know God's a Man and not a Woman? But that would have led to philosophical wars. And that's something at which I'm not even worth a penny, though the same thing can be said about many other things too. I guess enough said.

So I made the change from He to She, just like I do in my posts, and told her, No, God doesn't. Otherwise, She shouldn't have made stupid people and let them die in sorrow in this cruel world.

He he, hard words. Real hard. Sorrow and cruel and what not. I expected a thrashing. But probably she was taken aback a bit. Or maybe, she just wanted to see where this gobbledygook might lead to. Or maybe she wasn't interested in this at all. Anyway, I do a lot of speculations, and at this point of time I should make a mental note. Make better use of that idle peanut sized brain of mine. So, let's just return to what happened. So, she turned to me, and asked, Why do you think She'd let them die in sorrow?

Okay, she doesn't mind that change of gender, I thought. Now, for the explanation part. I needed to defend what I had said about God. How can God create so many stupid people and not love them? How can someone not love her own creation? How can God be partial? Absurd.

And this is what I said. Or rather, asked.

Because stupid people always lose out on all the good things, that's why they are called stupid, aren't they?
So if they lose out on all the good things, they live as losers, don't they?
And if they live as losers, they would die in sorrow, wouldn't they?
That's what I wanted to say. A farmer who runs a poultry hatches so many chickens. Does that mean she loves all of them?

She exclaimed, What an illustration!

I said, Stupid, ain't it?

Stepping in your shoes

Enough of me and you, I thought. Not going anywhere like this. Why don't I, for a moment, try to think like you. Will sure get to know about what you want, what you dream about, what you aspire for. And maybe more. Your pains, your sorrows. Your feelings, your thoughts.

Isn't that what I am often asked to do? Step into the other person's shoes, and you'll know ..... Well, know what? Probably everything. Why this won't work, or that will. Why this is good, and that is not. Think like the other person. Put yourself into her place. And you'll know that life ain't a bed of roses. Or maybe something like that. Or maybe something entirely different.

I tried to. And I failed. Some tough business, I thought, this stepping into the other person's shoes. But I must do it. This is the only way to figure out things. So I tried again and again. And the results didn't change.

Then I came across a wise old man. A teacher he was, at a school of a different kind. And he asked me, What's the size of your feet? I said, What? He asked me again, What's the size of your feet? I told him, Eleven. He asked me, And how do you think you're going to fit in that shoe that you're trying to step in? I said, Huh? What's this Sir? This is not that kind of stepping in I'm talking about. And he said, I know, and still I'll say the same thing. Just as you can't step into a shoe of any other person, physically, you can't do it metaphorically either.

Sit back and think for a while, he said. And you'll get it that the way you think and the way she thinks are never the same. So, all the while you try to step into the other person's shoes, you're doing nothing but pretending to do so. Because the shoes never fit in your feet. It's not possible for you to think like her.

Don't go around trying this, my dear fellow, he said. I asked, So, how do I figure all those things I thought I needed to know? About the other person? Just ask her, he said. That's the best thing to do. Never assume things for yourself, and if you think you're going to put yourself in other's shoes, that's what you're going to end up with.

That's just another way to fool yourself.

Only You

What? You said it's all about yourself, didn't you? You don't give a damn to what I think or do or feel, as long as it doesn't involve you, do you? So what's this? You ask me.

And I say, Yes, I still say that. It's still about me. But that me exists around you. No philosophy here. Simple life. Existence. Business and money and all those materialistic things you've got there. Nothing surreal or great that I have to say. It's all about me, and still, it's all about you, because somehow, it's you who define me, and since it's me I care about, I need to care about you. I have to. Whether I want to, or not, it really doesn't matter.

You know what? It doesn't make any sense. One moment you say it's all about you, and the next moment you say it's about me; can you think for a moment and then say what you actually want to say? You ask me. And I reply, Well, I guess I have been quite clear. I exist because you do. Without you, I don't have a purpose to exist, and so you matter. To me. In order to me being myself. Like an artist exists only if there is someone to appreciate art. Like a business exists if there are customers for that business. A product comes out if there is a need. A solution evolves if there is a problem.

I live in a world full of transactions. Things that I need, in return for things that you want. I know what I need. But I need to know what you want. If I don't know what you want, I won't have what you need, and you won't give me what I need because you get nothing from me. I create something, for which there are no takers. And I need something, for which there are no givers. This cycle runs and runs, till I become a non-entity.

I live in a world full of conversations. And relations. And negotiations. And deals. And communications. And all that needs two. It's no longer just me. No, it's still me, but it's me to you and back to me. I have to depend on you. If I want me to survive, I need you to accept what I have to offer. For you to accept what I have to offer, you need to have a need for what I have to offer. And to offer something for which you have a need, I need to know what you need. In all, I need to understand you.

Probably even more. I need to understand you to know what you need, and maybe I need to convince you that I understood you and I know what you need, and I need to convince you that what I offer is what you need. Only if you understood that, would you offer me what you have for me, and again, you need to know that what you have to offer is what I need.

I don't like it. It's too much of you. It's just too much for me. But I guess I need to live with it. Because I can't live without it.

I can't be without you. Because I am, whatever You say I am.

Me, Myself ....... and no Irene

No, this ain't another story about Love's labor lost. This ain't any story about love either. That way, you can accuse me of spoiling a good title of a reasonably good movie. You might come up to me and say, I was expecting something different from you, and you brought up this crap. What's the point that you're trying to prove? And I say, trust me, that's the point. It's all about me, myself. You were never in the picture. No body else was, ever. It's a small world. Consisting of me. Only me. And probably alter egos. But still me.

Call me a narcissist, if you will. A coxcomb. And I don't care. Not because the tarot card I read today told me that He who falls in love with himself shall have no rivals, but because I know that each one of us is a narcissist, deep within.

Big statement. You are mad, you'll say. Prove what you said just now, before I make it a point to beat you up! I say, Wait a moment. Why are you so heated up now? And you say, Guess what, you're going to make one sweeping comment after another, and I'm supposed to stay calm? I ask, Well, tell me, what's it that made you so mad? You retort, It's your comment that everyone is a narcissist. Look at me. I'm not one. And I say, That's what I was trying to say. You became mad only because it's something about you. You wouldn't have cared if it had nothing to do with you.

You've definitely gone bonkers, you say. Do you mean that all we do or say, all through our life, is just for ourselves? Nothing else? You are crazy man. And I say, That's right. Everything that I do is for myself. Everything that you do is for yourself. There is nothing, nobody else in the equation.

I eat for myself. I sleep for myself. I create, recreate, and procreate for myself. Rational behavior. Shouldn't delve into all that lest some philosopher comes and bites me! But come to think about it, where do you find yourself in this? No one else, but only me. Even if I tell you, well, this is just for you that I am doing this, don't believe me. Because, on the surface it's a selfless thing, but deep inside I do it only because I feel good. In the end, I don't give a damn if I am not involved. I laugh for myself, I cry for myself. I can do anything to make you laugh if it makes me laugh. But I can do anything to make you cry if it makes me laugh. And if laughing is all that I want. If I need to cry, I'll probably make you smile and see myself cry.

I can give up everything to see you happy. Because then I feel that I have everything. You think it's you that I care about. I know it's me. I can give up happiness and decide to live in pain. Because the pain is what gives me happiness. I can sacrifice everything because of an ideology. But then, that's my ideology. Something that I believe in.

Philosophers tell me, You have to give up that sense of Me, Myself. And then you'll have complete satisfaction. Attain self-realization. And all that stuff, you know, that makes Mahatmas different from ordinary people. I ask, satisfaction for whom? Realization about whose self? And they say, Well, it's for you. And I ask, If I don't have a sense of Me, Myself, what the hell am I going to do with all that realization and satisfaction?

I haven't been answered yet.

Honesty

Or should I say, being frank? Is being honest different from being frank? Do you always need to be frank if you have to be honest? Or, let me put the question the other way round. Can you not be frank without being dishonest? I have pondered over this question often. It's not that I am always honest. I am not the Mahatma, nor am I Swami Vivekananda or any of the people who have got near-saint status today. I am just another person on the street who sometimes feels it's good to be honest and sometimes, the other way.

Come back to the point. Come back to the point. I need to tell this to myself. I have a habit of talking rubbish all the time. And cyberspace seems to come for free so its better all the time! But actually coming to the point, I was asking, what do I do when I tell myself, I think you should be honest now; or when I tell the other me, it's time to show honesty the back door for sometime. Let's take the second case now. Because guess what, every day it seems to me that we are evolving as human beings, and we are becoming better and better to hide stuff from others, but it's possibly putting things across the table is what is getting tough for us.

I have often come across situations, when I thought, being honest about everything is not the best option. I guess most others would also have; and I would not list them here anyway. Even for argument's sake we can assume such situations. Now, I would ask myself - obviously, if you are not being honest, it's better to have lesser number of confidantes - whether I should go ahead and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; or do I take some other way? And that's the time, something new, called stakes, crop up in my mind. What are the stakes involved? What happens when I act in a certain way? What do I gain out of it? What do I lose? An economics student might barge in and exclaim, hey, are you talking about pay-offs? Are you talking strategy? I would like to think for a moment, and say, what is all that? She would say, you know, you design a strategy so that you maximize your gain. So you would rather not be honest in some situations. You better tell the opposite. I ask her, you mean, lies? She says, in a way, yes! I ask her, then, what about conscience? She asks me back, what is that? I nod my head. She walks away, disappointed. Logic and utility theory. It doesn't always work that way.

I sit back in my chair and think, well I possibly can't tell the truth; and I possibly can't lie. The other me yells, you moron, you good for nothing! Can't you do such a simple thing? Go ahead and lie. I get up. I listen to the other me. It yells again, why are you shaking? You dumb. You'll get caught. Sit down. We'll think through this. So I sit down once more. It tells me, see, this is simple. You need to keep quiet. Absolutely quiet. You know, like in those films. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you.... I feel, wow this is great. I didn't have to spill the beans. I didn't need to lie either. I feel wonderful. See, you can be not frank and you need not be dishonest. I manage everything absolutely fine.

And things are on their way again. And then I feel it. Something is not right. Well, it wasn't right in the first place. Others think it is all right. I know it is not. What is wrong with me? I mean, it's not a big deal. I can manage it. Why do I need others to know about it? They are doing fine without knowing anything. They can live without it. Just keep it to yourself, you fool. That's the other me screaming. But this time I get the better of it. I possibly shouldn't have. The other me is far more intelligent than me. But I did, and that's that.

So, now we are at the other square. Or is it square number one? I have stopped counting squares long ago. Tough exercise, this counting squares. Just think that it's a different square every time you move, and you would feel great. Small things to make you happy! Cut the crap now, back to, well, if you must, square number one. I need to be honest. Honesty is the best policy. It is in the book, everybody keeps on saying it nowadays, even every company you might work for tells you so. One line. Don't you believe it. Cynic, you would call me. As if I ever cared! Mistaken, you would say, I am. I need to be honest, or I need not be dishonest, I just need not be frank. I tell you, go back to the beginning of this page, I have tried all that. I have just failed. You tell me, I need more skills. I tell you, right now, I need to get this stuff done. Get it? Done. Later, I can have all the skills and all the tactics and all those courtesy speeches. Rude you are, you tell me. Yes I am, and deal with it, I say. Door opens, enter communication specialist, speaks, you know, there is a communication breakdown here. Let's analyze the problem. I ask her, can you tell me how to be honest and not frank? She tells me, well, you can always keep quiet. I nod my head. I get out of the room.

I'm on my alone now. I need to tell the truth. I need to be honest. I need to not be frank. Well, stop there for a moment. What's all this about not being frank? All the people I speak to love frank people. They say they do. They say they are frank people. They tell me things on my face. They tell me I have to deal with it; they can't help it. Of course, they would love frankness, and come to think about it, I may just be rewarded for being so forthcoming and frank; all that 360 degree feedback and stuff; relationship building; all those rosy things one sees in magazines and reads in business weeklies; all that and more.

Yes. This is what I need to do. I have my stuff perfectly cut out for me. I just go ahead and tell them whatever I need to tell them. First I think how should I do it. I think, small doses should be good you know. Big steps might hurt people. So I tread softly. I try giving hints. But surprise! No one gets them. I tell myself, my o my how stupid have people become these days. All those computers I say. Taken away all the intelligence from people. So I change my plan. I take a deep breath, go up to them, tap on their back, and tell them, know what, I had this thing to tell you. Can you give me a few minutes? They turn around, and say, yes you were telling something? I tell them, yes, know what, I was trying to tell you this since the last few days and I think I couldn't get the message across. So here's the thing. And they smile at me, and say, yeah nice joke, and then turn around and get into whatever they were doing. I think, what the heck? And I tap them again, and I tell them, listen, I think you didn't hear me properly last time. I said....and they turn back to me, and said, yes? I say, you know, I said....

And then I see their faces change. Some are angry. Some are hurt. Some faces I don't know whether I can describe. One thing I know for sure. They are not the same they were before. And all that smile and yeah what a nice joke was a last ditch attempt to tell themselves that nothing had gone wrong. That all I am, would probably vanish into thin air the moment they turn back. And that didn't happen. They are disappointed. I think I need to reconcile. I try to explain them everything that I thought might have gone wrong. They listen to me. Or I think they do. I ask them, is everything all right? They say, yes everything is all right. No need to worry about anything. I think they've settled down. I ask them, so let's plan about that stuff we were talking about last week? They tell me, know what, we have other things to do right now. You go ahead with your plans. Will catch up with you later. I ask them, well, later as in? They tell me, it is not easy to tell that; we'll let you know. I try to read them. I sense something wrong.

They are uncomfortable with me.