Pride

It may have had something to do with the fact that at every Republic Day parade, every single year in school, I'd be the first to be thrown out in the screening process with my woefully un-coordinated marching while my sister would be chosen to lead the contingent for the parade resulting in intense sibling jealousy. That I assume would be the primary reason why I had very little regard (at least superficially) for formal ceremonies like hoisting the national flag and marching.

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I think this incident was before I turned a teen, a point in life upto which you take everything that your Parents (Notice the capitalization) teach you as the equivalent of the word of God without questioning it or arguing over it. So one day my dad read out to me a newspaper article about a guy who ran up to the roof of his burning office building and brought out the national flag hoisted up there before escaping the building. "Ha! What a donkey!" I guffawed out cheerfully. 

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Wrong answer, it seemed, a very wrong answer. I knew instantly because my Mom and Dad rarely agree on anything, back then or even today, yet in sync with a surprised stare at me from my old man, I heard Mom's voice address me from the adjoining kitchen "What? What did you say?" I went "Uh! I mean... you know... like I thought..." and trailed off. Dad isn't the lecturing type so he came up with a short "It's OUR national flag, after all. He's a great guy for doing what he did." and promptly went back to scanning his newspaper. That's all the conversation we had over this topic and I was left pondering.

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I know that our flag is grossly misused, by those criminal politicians who mock salute it at every parade; by fundamentalist pseudo-patriotic, religious and regional forces to spread hatred amongst brothers and by those thieving businessmen who build the world's most expensive home out of stolen taxpayer's money, then sell products which harp on the patriotic strings of their customers. But I refuse to link it with them despite their desperate urge to somehow project themselves as extensions of that inspiring image of a tri-coloured cloth fluttering in the wind. 

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Would I run into a burning building to 'rescue' our national flag? I probably would not find the courage to. Would I stand still at the side of the road if I were running a very important errand and the national anthem starts playing? I would not. That would feel ridiculous as I am an incurable cynic. Yet what I would also not do is laugh at people who do those things. For the flag and the anthem are potent symbols, of glorious ideals that may be never be fully met yet must always be aspired to.

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We owe the respect to the hundreds of millions of peaceful, self-respecting, hard working, honest men and women out there who end the day with a happy conscience and of whose ranks we are hopefully part of. We owe the respect to a land which has shared its beauty, its craziness, its people, its memories, its knowledge, its resources, its history, its cultures and its influences to bring us to where we stand in life today no matter how much we choose to refute it. We owe it to ourselves if we have the slightest bit of pride in who we are and what defines us as the flag is the common representative of all of us and each individual at the same time. 

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There was this ill-fated field hockey league which ran for about two years before shutting shop, India being the unhealthily cricket-obsessed nation that it is, called the PHL [http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premier_Hockey_League]. The League may be gone but their TV promotional slogan stuck like glue in my head and I tend it to overuse it on every appropriate and inappropriate occasion because I feel that it is always so relevant in life. "Garv nahin toh kuchh nahin..." (roughly translates to "What's worth living for but pride...")

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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/pride.html]

It's complicated

I have a good friend but she just won't talk to me. That's almost sad. Because we understand each other perfectly, communicate with a fairly high level of accuracy, agree on certain matters of importance yet her steadfast refusal to speak in English, Hindi, Bengali or Gujarati disappoints. As for me, I don't speak Dog.

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Yes, Chloe is my landlord's pet she-dog (See how I smoothly avoided stepping on those ultra sensitive feminist toes by avoiding the B-word) and we frequently spend quality time together. Mainly because she spends a lot of time flouncing around in the garden of the house I am a renter in and I happen to cross her path many times a day. A Basset hound can bark real loud and she does a great job of waking up the entire neighbourhood if by freak chance, I forget to stop by and say "Hello", ignoring her initial whines for attention.

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Not that I mind. Dogs are very simplistic and straightforward creatures. If they like you, they'll respond by an enthusiastic wagging of the tail & happiness writ on their faces and if they don't, beware the ultra slow tail wag & deep seated growl. They are pretty clear about their 'Likes' and 'Dislikes', which makes them the kind of folk I prefer hanging around with. And they are quite simply the best companions for quiet introspection.

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So I hop over to the garden, pat her on the back with the usual "Good girl [It'd be 'boy' if it were a he-dog]" compliments that every dog takes to be his/her birthright. Then I watch for a few minutes as she chomps on the occasional blade of grass, sniffs around the area as if it is her first day out [it is not, she knows this garden for more than 8 years now], barks after strangers in the neighbourhood, tries to chase a hare or pick a fight with another dog till the limits of her extra long leash allow her to and then look at me with me with those deep, brown soulful eyes. Generally speaking, be a dog and do dog things.

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Then when it's time for me to leave, the downcast eyes clearly say "It was nice to have your company. Hope to see you again." without speaking the words. That's how it is between friends. That you don't have to jabber all the time to enjoy each other's company, becomes even more apparent in a friendship where talking isn't even a possibility. I know what some of you are thinking. "Come on! It's just a dog. Quit the over-analysis."

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But the most human of human qualities is to seek a satisfactory answer. And there is none. What keeps a friend a friend or a makes a non-friend a friend or chucks a friend into a non-friend category are irresoluble questions. No one can define for sure what that intangible connection is which defines a friendship or the where, when and how of it. Revel in it like soaking in a cool breeze on a summer day or the luxury a warm blanket affords on a winter morning and appreciate it for its presence. As for the reasons, rest easy in this one theory. It's complicated.

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P.S: Happy Friendship day to all readers/non-readers, dog-lovers/dog-haters alike.
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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/its-complicated.html]

Anniversary

A very long running association came to a somewhat less than glamorous end in August 2006. I was 22 then and after 18 odd years finally done with the circus of formal studies. A graduate engineer to boot I thought to myself, "Never again!" No more dreadfully drowsy afternoon classes, no more "Oh, I should've started this one month ago... Now I am doomed!" pre-examination night terror and most importantly no more calling up home (or my elder brother in the case of 'secret' expenses) for financial resources. I was ready for a bigger commitment now, something that would keep me engaged from age 22 to 64, or possibly longer. 

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It was the beginning of my first (and till date only) full time job and I was loving it. It's been 5 eventful years since then and it's time for a re-evaluation. Am I still loving it? The fact that any kind of compulsory work chafes at the most pain sensitive regions of my lazy soul and that I was never going to be much of a career man given that my interests always pursue the opposite direction of what might even be remotely important leaves me rather surprised at my resilience. Not that everything is picture perfect but hey, I am still here; standing on the edge, admiring the view; not hanging on for dear life as I would have imagined myself to be 5 years ago.

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My arrangement with work was plain and simple for all to see. I told work "Look. I pay attention to you for about 55 hours a week (adding hours taken up by stress and to-and-fro travel). Then you quietly pay the bills and stay out of the way." This was something that work took some while to understand, through about the first 2 years of my relationship I'd say and now it has settled down to its assigned role in the arrangement. True, it once laughed cruelly in my face when I was checking out the price of Porsches on a website but apart from that it has behaved pretty nicely.

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The world of media all around me is flooded with the "Do what you love. Love what you do." philosophy. If you are not totally in passionate love with what brings the bacon home, you need to get a life, they say. I am happy, freakin' elated for those who make their living from working on what they love most. Good for them, because I couldn't. 

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At the very moment, a price-tag and a deadline is plugged onto a project I am doing out of interest, it loses its sheen. The inherent criminal thrill of "I should not be doing this. I should be doing my taxes instead." disappears. In the wise words of a 6 year old who lives somewhere in Ohio with his parents and pet tiger "It's only work when someone makes you do it." For me, my regular bring-in-the-dough work is like the sober shade of blue paint on the walls of this room I am writing from. I don't love it, I don't hate it but I sure as hell can't contest the importance of it being there and for it not being a bright shade of pink.
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[http://virtual-inksanity.blogspot.com/2011/08/anniversary.html]