Thought Raker

He looked so cute once upon a time!

I came across this book as I was visiting blogs that I used to follow a long time ago.

As I read through the stuff, I couldn’t help noticing that I didn’t feel a thing. I didn’t feel inspired or wowed or even impressed. I was only glad that they achieved whatever they wanted. Good for them!

I’ve observed that with every passing day, the stream of my emotions runs shallower and thinner. Perhaps it will dry up completely one day. Is age the culprit? Or is it just cynicism on my part about life in general? Perhaps I’m contented with where I am today (I have never been ambitious anyway)? Perhaps I’ve grown wiser and more used to all the curveballs life throws at me?

I don’t know the answer. Most of the time, I’m blissfully OK. But once in a way, I read about all this passion and stuff, and I wonder — do I know what I’m missing, or do I even care? Each person’s life takes a different path, and I have no complaints about the one I’m traversing. Is it giving up on life, or yielding gracefully?

Well, obviously there are no right answers. To be very honest, I’d rather be right here right now, where most of my questions about my life have been answered.

I guess I’d rather be full and foolish than hungry and foolish!

When C Ashwath passed away, I felt bad. His distinctive voice and shock of white hair is unforgettable. Also, the fact that I am related to him (in a convoluted way — he wouldn’t have known me from Adam, or is it Eve), and have seen him up close at a family gathering, somehow made the loss rather personal.

When Vishnuvardhan passed away, I could not believe it. There was something so solid, so reliable about him that I found it hard to believe that he was actually gone. I loved his eyes, and liked the way he was able to carry off so many different types of roles with style.

This morning, when I opened the papers and found that K S Ashwath was gone, tears actually filled my eyes. There was something so inherently good about this man that it shone through on the screen. I remember every nuance of his expressive face — the mischievous twinkle, the shocked look, the sad drooping face, the controlled anger. He was practically in every movie I saw during my childhood, and he felt like a beloved uncle to me.

All of you will be much missed. RIP.

Love these eBay ads just for the fact that they bring back the lovely Komal G B Singh and a much mellowed Narottam Purie! What a contrast to the screeching anchors of today!

Love this ad! The music is haunting, the guy is cute, the girl reminds me so much of Meg Ryan, and the ad is so creative.

The end of every year was always marked by three rituals in our family.

The first ritual commenced around November. My father would have one of us (usually me, I think) write up a list of all the people we needed to send cards to. There were two lists: one for Christmas greetings, and one for New Year. Christmas greetings were usually for our friends, and for our overseas relatives. Strangely enough, it included a card for the guy at the stationery shop from where we bought our school books. We continued sending him the annual Christmas card long past our school days. He too sent us a card regularly, and it ceased just a few years ago due to reasons unknown.

Card-hunting was fun. We longed to buy the costlier, glossy cards, but my father would ensure we stuck to the budget. We would grumble and choose from among the less expensive ones. Once we reached home, further discussion would revolve around which card to send to whom. We had to ensure that we didn’t send the same card to the same person two years in a row, which was quite likely, since we almost always visited the same card shop, and purchased the same kind of cards. Once that was decided, then would come the laborious writing in each card, ensuring all the To and From names were included, the addresses were all written out and matched the card inside, and finally, the stamps were stuck and the envelopes sealed. This was quite a chore sometimes because of the number of cards involved. A big sigh of relief would go up at home once the cards were posted!

The second ritual involved selection of diaries. Both my father and mother are meticulous account keepers and required new diaries every year. The challenge was always to find a diary which had a full page for Sunday as well (most diaries have half-pages for Sat and Sun), and which was priced right. The colours had to be different so that they wouldn’t get mixed up. My mom always started her diary with “Happy New Year!” written on the page for Jan 1st. She would then proceed to fill up all birthdays and anniversaries. My dad collected all his diaries, and they took up shelves after shelves. Everyday they would not only work out their accounts and balance out their monies, but they would add little notes about what happened on that day. These notes were the source of much interest and amusement when read a few years later.

The last ritual was the purchase of the Bangalore Press calendar — a mandatory accessory of our household.

Sad to say, these rituals have faded away. My parents don’t buy cards any more, and neither do we. My mom has got a notebook now where she writes down the date, and anything else she deems worth noting. My dad doesn’t write much now. They don’t want diaries any more, they feel it’s a waste.

I do buy the Bangalore Press calendar every year (I just discovered they have an e-version as well!). There’s something comforting about it. I use it to mark all sorts of reminders. Buying it at the traffic signal has become my new year ritual now!

Seasons’ Greetings, and here’s wishing you a VERY HAPPY NEW YEAR!!

I’m so excited and thrilled!

Finally, finally, finally….

…Kamat Yatrinivas is opening near my place!

I will get to eat yummy, yummy South Indian food! YAY!

I am frustrated. Very frustrated, to be honest.

I am just not able to write these days.

There, I’ve said it.

It’s not that I can’t write — I can, and I do. But the stuff that I’m churning out is so flat, so uninspiring, so utterly banal, that it makes me want to cry. I’ve tried everything possible. I’ve written exercises by the dozen, sent out submissions to make me feel I’m doing something worthwhile, taken long breaks from writing, read some good books… you name it.

Perhaps I should just accept that I will never write inspired stuff again, the way I used to (even if I say so myself! ). Perhaps I should just lay down my pen (or my laptop) and walk away without looking back.

But here’s the thing — it’s so goddamn hard to give up! It’s something that’s brought me so much joy, I can’t just quit turkey. At the same time, it’s driving me nuts, and the frustration of not writing satisfying stuff runs non-stop like a hamster on wheels somewhere deep within.

Till then, if you are still reading me(!), you will have to put up with mediocre writing. And I am so sorry about that.