I’m sure it didn’t hurt, did it? When you so casually kicked me out of your life, I bet you didn’t feel the slightest amount of pain, remorse or sadness.
I stuck with you for 22 years, and never once complained about anything. In spite of your neglect, even your indifference, I was happy to do your dirty work for you, and trust me, it was indeed dirty work. If you think it wasn’t, try taking my place for a day.
Yet, I was there, always, whenever you needed me, without a thought for myself. Think back and tell me, when was I ever not there for you?
How was I to know that you would one day discard me like an old shoe, my only fault being imperfection? You, with all your faults and fallacies, have the damn gall to separate me from yourself because I’m not flawless?
And whose fault is it, pray tell me, that I’m not perfect today? Mine? Certainly not. It was you who always took me for granted. If you had been a little more considerate back when all the trouble between us began, I wouldn’t be lying here today, broken and lonely.
Believe me, it was never my intention to be a bother. But what happened all those years ago was beyond my control. It was your responsibility to set it right, and you know that as well as I do. But you chose instead to turn a blind eye, and were content to think that our problems would go away if you didn’t look at them.
And look where it has led. A beautiful association of 22 years has culminated in such a brutal separation. And all because you thought you were too good for me.
How could you? That is what really I want to ask. Not whether it hurt, not if it was bothersome, but how on earth could you do this to me?
But you won’t forget me, I’m telling you. Even though I’m gone, we both know that I’ve left behind a chasm, rather a gaping wound which you won’t forget. Oh, maybe it’ll heal, but what I’m talking about is the memories I’ll leave behind.
Even if you do find someone who might eventually take my place, you will never forget me. Because I, Mr. Perfectionist, am the original; and anyone else you get to do my job will be little more than a replacement, a substitute, a cheap imitation.
So go on. May you always be happy and successful in your life. I want you to know that I only wish the best for you, even though I feel a deep resentment towards you for the way you have betrayed me. I’m prepared to part ways sensibly, if not lovingly, even as I lie here in five pieces. Yes, five.
I can still visualize you, sitting back in that comfortable chair, feeling no pain whatsoever, while I was being yanked away from you, disconnected from the man who was my purpose, the very reason for my existence. I was being torn apart, and you were blissfully unaware of it, under the influence of that hated drug.
But always remember, a real tooth is a real tooth. It was me who helped you crunch all those nuts and chew all those bones with great relish, and no fake tooth, however superior in quality, is going to be quite like me. Because, and who better to know this but a perfectionist like you, there is nothing like the real thing.
-- Dedicated to my Dentist, as it was on her Dental Chair, getting my tooth pulled out, that I got the inspiration for this one, while she was tussling with a particularly stubborn root.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Friday, July 4, 2008
You can't battle bad weather and personal demons
Somebody once said that the past never leaves you. Take it from me, guys and gals; somebody wasn’t lying through his teeth. You might bury the shit in your past as deep as you possibly can, and place a tombstone on top to ensure the completion of the burial, but one way or the other, it’s gonna slide its filthy tentacles outta the grave to enclose you in its slimy grip.
When my parents separated, I clung to a vague belief that it was only temporary, and that one day things would be fine again. That belief was shattered when I learnt they were legally divorced. But I was…what, five?...at that time, and grew up promising myself I’d one day unite them, which was a beautiful dream until we, that is my mom and me, learnt that my father had remarried and had a kid from his second marriage.
I had a sister!
Half-sister, my mom never failed to remind me. Step-sister.
The separation was complete when mom married my step-dad in ’96. Game over, case closed, zip up your fly.
Or not.
Dad, who used to visit us occasionally, stopped doing that after mom married step-dad. Understandable. But I couldn’t let go. I kept missing him, wrote and called him at times, without my step-dad’s knowledge, of course.
That stopped gradually, as I tried to subtract from my life the memories, the ever-present influence of the man who had given me life, and then done his best to ruin it. I couldn’t. Maybe I was weak. Maybe I’m still weak.
Life was hell. I was trying to burn the bridges between dad and me on one hand, and trying to bridge the gap between step-dad and me on the other, who I desperately wanted to accept so that my life could be complete again. I was a fool.
I saw dad next when, after a disagreement, I ran away from the place I still continue to call my home. After spending one of the loneliest nights of my life on the streets, I went to dad. I knew he would understand. And he did. Sometimes, I think he was the only one who really understood me. I spent a week with him before coming back.
The past reared its ugly head once again last week, when after my exams, my mom and I went on a long overdue vacation. A mother-and-son thing. She told me some more things about him. Things I hadn’t known before, and which I could have done without knowing.
She also told me he was dead.
My father died four years ago after a short illness, which was the last time i saw him, sick and feeble on the hospital bed. How and when exactly, I don’t know. But he’s been gone the last four years, and nobody thought I deserved to know. And now he’s no more, leaving so many questions unanswered, so many things unsaid.
And I don’t really know how to react.
The past week offered little opportunity to sit and think. But now that I have the time on my hands to think about it, it’s slowly sinking in. He’s gone. He’s no more. He’s dead.
I feel an irrational sense of betrayal. I feel immense grief. I feel so lonely. And so angry at the way I was kept in the dark about this for four years.
And I realize that I’d never really succeeded in forgetting him.
Now that he’s gone, I wonder if I’ll finally be able to free myself. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be free of his memories, his influence.
When my parents separated, I clung to a vague belief that it was only temporary, and that one day things would be fine again. That belief was shattered when I learnt they were legally divorced. But I was…what, five?...at that time, and grew up promising myself I’d one day unite them, which was a beautiful dream until we, that is my mom and me, learnt that my father had remarried and had a kid from his second marriage.
I had a sister!
Half-sister, my mom never failed to remind me. Step-sister.
The separation was complete when mom married my step-dad in ’96. Game over, case closed, zip up your fly.
Or not.
Dad, who used to visit us occasionally, stopped doing that after mom married step-dad. Understandable. But I couldn’t let go. I kept missing him, wrote and called him at times, without my step-dad’s knowledge, of course.
That stopped gradually, as I tried to subtract from my life the memories, the ever-present influence of the man who had given me life, and then done his best to ruin it. I couldn’t. Maybe I was weak. Maybe I’m still weak.
Life was hell. I was trying to burn the bridges between dad and me on one hand, and trying to bridge the gap between step-dad and me on the other, who I desperately wanted to accept so that my life could be complete again. I was a fool.
I saw dad next when, after a disagreement, I ran away from the place I still continue to call my home. After spending one of the loneliest nights of my life on the streets, I went to dad. I knew he would understand. And he did. Sometimes, I think he was the only one who really understood me. I spent a week with him before coming back.
The past reared its ugly head once again last week, when after my exams, my mom and I went on a long overdue vacation. A mother-and-son thing. She told me some more things about him. Things I hadn’t known before, and which I could have done without knowing.
She also told me he was dead.
My father died four years ago after a short illness, which was the last time i saw him, sick and feeble on the hospital bed. How and when exactly, I don’t know. But he’s been gone the last four years, and nobody thought I deserved to know. And now he’s no more, leaving so many questions unanswered, so many things unsaid.
And I don’t really know how to react.
The past week offered little opportunity to sit and think. But now that I have the time on my hands to think about it, it’s slowly sinking in. He’s gone. He’s no more. He’s dead.
I feel an irrational sense of betrayal. I feel immense grief. I feel so lonely. And so angry at the way I was kept in the dark about this for four years.
And I realize that I’d never really succeeded in forgetting him.
Now that he’s gone, I wonder if I’ll finally be able to free myself. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever be free of his memories, his influence.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
More like me and less like you
i'm tired of being what you want me to be;
feeling so faithless, lost under the surface......
let me first tell you how i stumbled upon this song. i was watching Miami vice trailer on youtube, (You might have noticed my latest look is suspiciously similar to Colin Farell's in Miami Vice) and Numb, (Linkin Park ft JayZ) was the soundtrack. i kind of liked it and looked around for the original. and i've been hooked to it ever since.
dont know what you're expectin' of me;
but under the pressure of walking in your shoes.........
parents, in their quest for the perfect child, often forget that their child is a human being as well. he might have his own dreams, desires, beliefs and opinions. these opinions are shaped by the way of life of that particular generation. consequently, a child grows up with beliefs different from those of his parents, because he belongs to a different generation.
the trouble begins when the beliefs start clashing.
every step that i take is another mistake to you...............
i cant say i know how a parent feels, coz i've never been a parent. but i can guess.
i'd suppose they feel betrayed, let down by their own flesh and blood, who dared turn out to be different than them. some are furious at the knowledge that they havent been able to control their child's thoughts as well as they controlled his actions. some are broken at what they take to be their child's way of taking a step away from them, of becoming distant. and like the proverbial silver lining, there are some who understand. unfortunately, i have yet to come across such a parent.
to all the parents who cant learn to live with the fact that their child thinks and believes differently than them, i'd like to say, it isnt any easier for the child either. get over yourselves for two seconds and try to think about that.
the child goes through a constant tug-of-war, day after day after day. on one hand, his mind is shaping up based on what he sees around him. on the other hand, his parents want to shape his mind based on what THEY saw around them 50 years ago. itz ok if the world works differently today; being old timers, they can just sit back and say "whatz the world coming to?"
but it aint so simple for the child, who's afraid his parents might be furious or hurt with him. bcoz, and this is what makes it so hard, the child loves his parents too.
parents sometimes dont even realise when they become control freaks, in an attempt to mold their child's life they way they want it. they want to know everything he does, and thinks about. they want him to have the same beliefs in every matter, religious, political or social. a hindu fundamentalist hates his son for having muslim friends. a pious mother is scandalised when her daughter tells her she doesnt think it's necessary to abstain from meat on saturdays in order to please God. Parents hug each other and weep when they learn their son isnt interested in getting married. (okay, maybe that last one was a hyperbole).
cant you see that you're smothering me
holding too tightly, afraid to lose control.
'coz everything that you thought i would be
is falling apart right in front of you............
this, i think, is a major reason for the gap between parents and children. there are so many things children dont tell their parents, simply bcoz we know our parents wouldn't understand. and parents think their children dont trust them enough!
every step that i take is another mistake to you;
and every second i waste is more than i can take........
what we need is freedom. the freedom to think the way we want to, act the way we want to. let us make our own decisions, and our own mistakes too. let us learn from our mistakes, rather than trying to program your beliefs into our heads. we're human beings too, you know. not computers.
and i know,
i may end up failing too
but i know,
you were just like me with someone disappointed in you.....
i love you, but i just cannot be a personification of your beliefs. i can no longer be a robot, take in your input and give you the desired output. i'm sorry.
i've become so numb, i can't feel you there
become so tired, so much more aware
i'm becoming this, all i want to do
is be more like me and be less like you
More like me, and less like you..................
feeling so faithless, lost under the surface......
let me first tell you how i stumbled upon this song. i was watching Miami vice trailer on youtube, (You might have noticed my latest look is suspiciously similar to Colin Farell's in Miami Vice) and Numb, (Linkin Park ft JayZ) was the soundtrack. i kind of liked it and looked around for the original. and i've been hooked to it ever since.
dont know what you're expectin' of me;
but under the pressure of walking in your shoes.........
parents, in their quest for the perfect child, often forget that their child is a human being as well. he might have his own dreams, desires, beliefs and opinions. these opinions are shaped by the way of life of that particular generation. consequently, a child grows up with beliefs different from those of his parents, because he belongs to a different generation.
the trouble begins when the beliefs start clashing.
every step that i take is another mistake to you...............
i cant say i know how a parent feels, coz i've never been a parent. but i can guess.
i'd suppose they feel betrayed, let down by their own flesh and blood, who dared turn out to be different than them. some are furious at the knowledge that they havent been able to control their child's thoughts as well as they controlled his actions. some are broken at what they take to be their child's way of taking a step away from them, of becoming distant. and like the proverbial silver lining, there are some who understand. unfortunately, i have yet to come across such a parent.
to all the parents who cant learn to live with the fact that their child thinks and believes differently than them, i'd like to say, it isnt any easier for the child either. get over yourselves for two seconds and try to think about that.
the child goes through a constant tug-of-war, day after day after day. on one hand, his mind is shaping up based on what he sees around him. on the other hand, his parents want to shape his mind based on what THEY saw around them 50 years ago. itz ok if the world works differently today; being old timers, they can just sit back and say "whatz the world coming to?"
but it aint so simple for the child, who's afraid his parents might be furious or hurt with him. bcoz, and this is what makes it so hard, the child loves his parents too.
parents sometimes dont even realise when they become control freaks, in an attempt to mold their child's life they way they want it. they want to know everything he does, and thinks about. they want him to have the same beliefs in every matter, religious, political or social. a hindu fundamentalist hates his son for having muslim friends. a pious mother is scandalised when her daughter tells her she doesnt think it's necessary to abstain from meat on saturdays in order to please God. Parents hug each other and weep when they learn their son isnt interested in getting married. (okay, maybe that last one was a hyperbole).
cant you see that you're smothering me
holding too tightly, afraid to lose control.
'coz everything that you thought i would be
is falling apart right in front of you............
this, i think, is a major reason for the gap between parents and children. there are so many things children dont tell their parents, simply bcoz we know our parents wouldn't understand. and parents think their children dont trust them enough!
every step that i take is another mistake to you;
and every second i waste is more than i can take........
what we need is freedom. the freedom to think the way we want to, act the way we want to. let us make our own decisions, and our own mistakes too. let us learn from our mistakes, rather than trying to program your beliefs into our heads. we're human beings too, you know. not computers.
and i know,
i may end up failing too
but i know,
you were just like me with someone disappointed in you.....
i love you, but i just cannot be a personification of your beliefs. i can no longer be a robot, take in your input and give you the desired output. i'm sorry.
i've become so numb, i can't feel you there
become so tired, so much more aware
i'm becoming this, all i want to do
is be more like me and be less like you
More like me, and less like you..................
Monday, April 14, 2008
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Ghost Writing
Just finished reading Ghost Writing, a compilation of ghost by different authors, including John Updike and T C Boyle.
it's not only a great book, for me it was an eye opener. it told me a lot about writing ghost stories.
it told me writing ghost stories isn't only about scaring the shit out of the reader so that he starts hearing voices every time he wakes up in the middle of the night to take a piss.
it told me about the different ways different people might look at the whole concept of ghosts.
it told me how beautiful stories can be written, with even ghosts that can be delightful and endearing.
above all else, it inspired me to try my hand at writing a ghost story.
i'm toying with an idea, and with luck, should begin as soon as i have a concrete storyline to work on.
wish me luck, people
it's not only a great book, for me it was an eye opener. it told me a lot about writing ghost stories.
it told me writing ghost stories isn't only about scaring the shit out of the reader so that he starts hearing voices every time he wakes up in the middle of the night to take a piss.
it told me about the different ways different people might look at the whole concept of ghosts.
it told me how beautiful stories can be written, with even ghosts that can be delightful and endearing.
above all else, it inspired me to try my hand at writing a ghost story.
i'm toying with an idea, and with luck, should begin as soon as i have a concrete storyline to work on.
wish me luck, people
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Could have done without this
i'm reading a novel called Silent Joe right now. while i'll be posting a review later, coz it's a wonderful book. but right now, we're dealing with something else.
when he's six months old, the central character Joe gets acid thrown in his face by his own father, he's later operated, and placed in a Home, with a permanently scarred face, and mind. the father is arrested.
Joe's adoptive father is murdered, Joe's trying to find out who did it, and bang in the middle of this, Joe's real father writes to him, saying he wants to meet and ask for forgiveness. something about how he cant get into heaven unless his kid forgives him.
i won't narrate the meeting between the father and son, i'll just type out the part. it's a first person narrative. here goes:
he came into the waiting area with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. i stepped away from the tree.
Thor stopped and looked at me. his blue eyes caught the light. he shifted the duffel. he nodded.
"Joe"
"Thor"
"you didnt call the cops on me"
"i am the cops"
"yup. dont bust me. i cant do the lock up again. it'd kill me"
his voice was high and clear. his teeth showed when he talked, but you couldn't say it was a smile.
a family came up behind him and split into two parts as they went past. the dad had a kid on his shoulders and the boy towered over Thor. i'd never realised how short he was, though i remembered hid height from the intake records i'd gotten from Corcoran: 5'6".
"you going to let me stay at your place?"
"no"
"i already know where it is."
"dont show up without an invite"
he sighed like he was disappointed. "you sure?"
"extremely."
"yeah, well, i really dont blame you. i'd be pressed out of shape too."
some of the people were watching us now. Thor looked at them and seemed to be smiling. a girl in a pink dress and shiny shoes stopped and looked up at me, then made a face and backed away. her mother gathered her up and i heard the muffled words, but i hardly pad attention to them.
i watched Thor. i had no memory of seeing him. i was ready to feel like i was in the presence of something evil and eternal. but with all his stage time in my nightmares, in the flesh he seemed mortal and matter-of-fact.
"you've been on the TV and the papers a lot, Joe. all the way up in seattle, even. they find that girl and her brother yet?"
"no"
"crazy world"
"you'd know"
"yeah" he took two steps toward me and lowered his duffel to the ground. "shake my hand."
i shook it. my scar flared hot and my bones felt frozen. i could barely grip his hard, rough hand. it seemed like every bad emotion was roaring inside of me, every single bad feeling a person could have, all at once. no order or logic to them at all.
i saw his blue eyes studying me from the light of the station. "it dont really look that bad, Joe. Hurt?"
"sometimes"
"you look good in the hat and suit. expensive, i can tell"
"i shop sales."
he eyed me. "well, look now, i'm sorry for what i did and i need you to forgive me. i've checked out a bunch of religions. and any one that's got any kindof hell, a guy like me goes right to it."
"you should have picked a religion without one."
"no. i wanted a God with some teeth in him. these touchy-feely ones dont get through to me. the bible says i ought to square things with you. eye for an eye, and all that. i got some acid in a peanut butter jar, right here in my duffel. you can pour it on me if that will get you to forgive. it's more than got poured on you. then you could tell me it's okay, what happened. you could see there's more to your old man than the worst thing that happened in his life."
"i forgive you," i said. it surprised me. "but if i ever see you again, i'm going to empty my gun in your heart. from this second on, you dont exist"
with shaking hands i got out my wallet and found three hundreds. i handed them to him.
"good luck, old man. that ought to be enough to get you home."
"thank you, son. great to see you. good luck to you, too"
when he's six months old, the central character Joe gets acid thrown in his face by his own father, he's later operated, and placed in a Home, with a permanently scarred face, and mind. the father is arrested.
Joe's adoptive father is murdered, Joe's trying to find out who did it, and bang in the middle of this, Joe's real father writes to him, saying he wants to meet and ask for forgiveness. something about how he cant get into heaven unless his kid forgives him.
i won't narrate the meeting between the father and son, i'll just type out the part. it's a first person narrative. here goes:
______________________________
i saw him once, through the window, when he got off the train. then again as he walked into the station. same as the pictures, same as the dreams: downy, white hair and beard, potbelly; big head low on his shoulders like he'd been assembled without a neck.he came into the waiting area with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. i stepped away from the tree.
Thor stopped and looked at me. his blue eyes caught the light. he shifted the duffel. he nodded.
"Joe"
"Thor"
"you didnt call the cops on me"
"i am the cops"
"yup. dont bust me. i cant do the lock up again. it'd kill me"
his voice was high and clear. his teeth showed when he talked, but you couldn't say it was a smile.
a family came up behind him and split into two parts as they went past. the dad had a kid on his shoulders and the boy towered over Thor. i'd never realised how short he was, though i remembered hid height from the intake records i'd gotten from Corcoran: 5'6".
"you going to let me stay at your place?"
"no"
"i already know where it is."
"dont show up without an invite"
he sighed like he was disappointed. "you sure?"
"extremely."
"yeah, well, i really dont blame you. i'd be pressed out of shape too."
some of the people were watching us now. Thor looked at them and seemed to be smiling. a girl in a pink dress and shiny shoes stopped and looked up at me, then made a face and backed away. her mother gathered her up and i heard the muffled words, but i hardly pad attention to them.
i watched Thor. i had no memory of seeing him. i was ready to feel like i was in the presence of something evil and eternal. but with all his stage time in my nightmares, in the flesh he seemed mortal and matter-of-fact.
"you've been on the TV and the papers a lot, Joe. all the way up in seattle, even. they find that girl and her brother yet?"
"no"
"crazy world"
"you'd know"
"yeah" he took two steps toward me and lowered his duffel to the ground. "shake my hand."
i shook it. my scar flared hot and my bones felt frozen. i could barely grip his hard, rough hand. it seemed like every bad emotion was roaring inside of me, every single bad feeling a person could have, all at once. no order or logic to them at all.
i saw his blue eyes studying me from the light of the station. "it dont really look that bad, Joe. Hurt?"
"sometimes"
"you look good in the hat and suit. expensive, i can tell"
"i shop sales."
he eyed me. "well, look now, i'm sorry for what i did and i need you to forgive me. i've checked out a bunch of religions. and any one that's got any kindof hell, a guy like me goes right to it."
"you should have picked a religion without one."
"no. i wanted a God with some teeth in him. these touchy-feely ones dont get through to me. the bible says i ought to square things with you. eye for an eye, and all that. i got some acid in a peanut butter jar, right here in my duffel. you can pour it on me if that will get you to forgive. it's more than got poured on you. then you could tell me it's okay, what happened. you could see there's more to your old man than the worst thing that happened in his life."
"i forgive you," i said. it surprised me. "but if i ever see you again, i'm going to empty my gun in your heart. from this second on, you dont exist"
with shaking hands i got out my wallet and found three hundreds. i handed them to him.
"good luck, old man. that ought to be enough to get you home."
"thank you, son. great to see you. good luck to you, too"
______________________________
well, the reason that part keeps rewinding and playing itself in my minds is that my parents were divorced when i was a kid, and i grew up seeing my mother struggling to raise me.
i never managed to hate my father, in the true sense of the word, but i never did manage to forgive him either.
i was kind of surprised at the way Joe manages to forgive his father. i can very well imagine the effort that must have gone into uttering those three words, "i forgive you." even if it's just a story, it struck me hard.
things are fine now. i'm tons more comfortable with my step-dad than i was before, and vice versa. real dad is almost like a memory from another life.
but every now and then, i keep remembering the time when i was torn between love for my mom, who hated, and still hates my dad, and love for my dad, who coolly went ahead and married another woman, and we didnt even know about it till their daughter was about a year old. i have trouble believing that only dad was at fault for the whole thing, but at least mom was there for me all these years. fucking past never leaves you, however hard you try.
the question is, if today my real dad suddenly comes along and asks me to forgive him, will i be able to?
honest answer: i dont know.
damn it, i could have done without this shit. why do i ever let these things come into my head at all?
well, the reason that part keeps rewinding and playing itself in my minds is that my parents were divorced when i was a kid, and i grew up seeing my mother struggling to raise me.
i never managed to hate my father, in the true sense of the word, but i never did manage to forgive him either.
i was kind of surprised at the way Joe manages to forgive his father. i can very well imagine the effort that must have gone into uttering those three words, "i forgive you." even if it's just a story, it struck me hard.
things are fine now. i'm tons more comfortable with my step-dad than i was before, and vice versa. real dad is almost like a memory from another life.
but every now and then, i keep remembering the time when i was torn between love for my mom, who hated, and still hates my dad, and love for my dad, who coolly went ahead and married another woman, and we didnt even know about it till their daughter was about a year old. i have trouble believing that only dad was at fault for the whole thing, but at least mom was there for me all these years. fucking past never leaves you, however hard you try.
the question is, if today my real dad suddenly comes along and asks me to forgive him, will i be able to?
honest answer: i dont know.
damn it, i could have done without this shit. why do i ever let these things come into my head at all?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
i know some of you are jealous
i know some of you are jealous. i can feel your jealousy polluting the air of my world everytime i get a compliment from a lecturer or give a right answer. i felt it back when i topped in three subjects. i know it makes you burn when i show the initiative and drive and get extracts from books and external references to support the theoretical stuff taught in the class, whereas you're happy to just sit on your ass and mug up all the notes you can get.
maybe you were toppers back in school, junior college or graduation, when it was more about ramming pages and pages of books down your gullets, and less of thinking. it's not my fault if i cared two hoots for such knowledge, if that's what it can be called. i was more interested in putting shit to practice. i flunked three subjects, two in my second year and one in my final year. i have suffered the taunts and the looks that came with failure to pass shit exams i didnt care about. i have been through hell because my B.Com mother couldnt stand the idea of her son flunking, and because my father made me feel like shit just by looking at me, or stonewalled me as if i didnt exist. and this, when i didn't even understand why it was such a big deal to flunk an exam.
it's not my fault if i believed journalism requires more practical know-how. it's not my fault that i was lucky enough to get an internship which only intensified my contempt for the concept of trying to make journalists in classrooms, and deepened my faith in the belief that you learn journalism best when you are out in the field. i have nothing but disgust for academics.
i was even reluctant to do this PG. i didn't want to waste one more year of my life in a classroom of all places. but to my delight, it turned out to be wonderful. i can proudly say i have no regrets.
pride goes before a fall, you say? maybe. but after being a misfit and an outcast half my life, i deserve to be proud. fuck anyone who says otherwise. i've earned the right.
and now, when this post-grad course is finally giving me the chance to put my practical knowledge to test, you envy me? you want me to do worse, so that i can be called one of you. fuck you. i'm not one of you. i'm different from all those who think learning by-heart is studying. i do well because the course is not entirely based on theoretical shit. i do well because here, the lecturers are genuinely interested in making us journalists, and not mass comm post-graduates. and just a post-grad is all you want to be. you still think you can succeed just by the spoonfeed the lecturers dish out.
and when i manage to top in spite of the fact that there're few notes to mug, your ass burns.
go back home, gaze at your school/college certificates where you did so well, and cry. but spare me your unwarranted envy.
i refuse to join you in your mugging up of notes. yes, i will read grisham and archer and christie till one day before the exams. and if i still find the exams easy to write, it's not my fucking fault. you have no idea how hard it has been to be where i am.
i dont give a shit about model students and teacher's pets who're finding it hard to survive in the real world.
go screw yourself.
maybe you were toppers back in school, junior college or graduation, when it was more about ramming pages and pages of books down your gullets, and less of thinking. it's not my fault if i cared two hoots for such knowledge, if that's what it can be called. i was more interested in putting shit to practice. i flunked three subjects, two in my second year and one in my final year. i have suffered the taunts and the looks that came with failure to pass shit exams i didnt care about. i have been through hell because my B.Com mother couldnt stand the idea of her son flunking, and because my father made me feel like shit just by looking at me, or stonewalled me as if i didnt exist. and this, when i didn't even understand why it was such a big deal to flunk an exam.
it's not my fault if i believed journalism requires more practical know-how. it's not my fault that i was lucky enough to get an internship which only intensified my contempt for the concept of trying to make journalists in classrooms, and deepened my faith in the belief that you learn journalism best when you are out in the field. i have nothing but disgust for academics.
i was even reluctant to do this PG. i didn't want to waste one more year of my life in a classroom of all places. but to my delight, it turned out to be wonderful. i can proudly say i have no regrets.
pride goes before a fall, you say? maybe. but after being a misfit and an outcast half my life, i deserve to be proud. fuck anyone who says otherwise. i've earned the right.
and now, when this post-grad course is finally giving me the chance to put my practical knowledge to test, you envy me? you want me to do worse, so that i can be called one of you. fuck you. i'm not one of you. i'm different from all those who think learning by-heart is studying. i do well because the course is not entirely based on theoretical shit. i do well because here, the lecturers are genuinely interested in making us journalists, and not mass comm post-graduates. and just a post-grad is all you want to be. you still think you can succeed just by the spoonfeed the lecturers dish out.
and when i manage to top in spite of the fact that there're few notes to mug, your ass burns.
go back home, gaze at your school/college certificates where you did so well, and cry. but spare me your unwarranted envy.
i refuse to join you in your mugging up of notes. yes, i will read grisham and archer and christie till one day before the exams. and if i still find the exams easy to write, it's not my fucking fault. you have no idea how hard it has been to be where i am.
i dont give a shit about model students and teacher's pets who're finding it hard to survive in the real world.
go screw yourself.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
murder in mesopotamia
allright, with this one, i'm truly doing justice to the title of this blog, coz this one is truly a confession of the satanic kind.
i just finished reading Murder in Mesopotamia by Agatha Christie. it's a Hercule Poirot novel. roughly, the plot is like this:
Dr. Leidner, an archaeologist hires nurse Amy Leatheran to keep his wife company, who seems to be suffering from an awful bout of nerves. the wife is murdered. Poirot is called in. then, Miss Johnson, Dr. Leidner's secretary of sorts gets murdered as well. as is expected, Poirot investigates and tracks down the murderer. the whole novel is written from nurse Leatheran's perspective, in a first person account, who, in her own words, was "in it all and yet an outsider, so to speak". simply put, that means she was the outsider in the expedition and just a silent spectator.
i wont spoil the suspense by revealing who it was. instead, i'll share an alternative ending that occurred to me as i was reading the book.
i was thinking, why not have the Nurse committing the murders? here's the detailed theory.
the nurse meets Dr. Leidner for the first time and falls in love with him. she rues the fact that he's married, and the wife is far more beautiful than her (which she is, in the novel). now it so happens, that this nurse of ours is mentally unbalanced and has managed to keep this a secret for all these years. her love becomes her obsession. one fine night, she goes and kills the wife.
to help this plot of mine, Dame Christie has shown every member of the expedition to have either the opportunity or the motive for murdering Mrs. Leidner. this would make out nurse the last person to suspect, as she is, after all, a newcomer.
later, the nurse realises that Miss Johnson, who has been with Dr. Leidner for many years secretly harbours undying love for him in her bosom. Nurse gets insecure. after all, miss johnson has been with the doc longer than she has, and who's to say that the grief-stricken doc might not seek solace in this constant companion's arms?
so the nurse kills her as well.
it is later revealed that the nurse is suffering from a split personality disorder. she has committed the murders without even knowing it. her obsessive love for the doc has awakened the killer inside her, and while she thought she was in her room sleeping, she was actually going around eliminating competition.
the beauty of it is that, in the novel, it is the nurse who discovers both bodies. so it could be something like for both murders, she comes back to her room after committing the murder, lies down, and then wakes up. her subconscious nags at her mind. she mistakes it for a sense of foreboding and goes over to the victim's room to check and discovers the dead body.
the split personality angle would also support the line about the nurse being in it all and yet an outsider, so to speak.
what do you think, guys? should i make a film adaptation of the book with this climax? ;-)
i just finished reading Murder in Mesopotamia by Agatha Christie. it's a Hercule Poirot novel. roughly, the plot is like this:
Dr. Leidner, an archaeologist hires nurse Amy Leatheran to keep his wife company, who seems to be suffering from an awful bout of nerves. the wife is murdered. Poirot is called in. then, Miss Johnson, Dr. Leidner's secretary of sorts gets murdered as well. as is expected, Poirot investigates and tracks down the murderer. the whole novel is written from nurse Leatheran's perspective, in a first person account, who, in her own words, was "in it all and yet an outsider, so to speak". simply put, that means she was the outsider in the expedition and just a silent spectator.
i wont spoil the suspense by revealing who it was. instead, i'll share an alternative ending that occurred to me as i was reading the book.
i was thinking, why not have the Nurse committing the murders? here's the detailed theory.
the nurse meets Dr. Leidner for the first time and falls in love with him. she rues the fact that he's married, and the wife is far more beautiful than her (which she is, in the novel). now it so happens, that this nurse of ours is mentally unbalanced and has managed to keep this a secret for all these years. her love becomes her obsession. one fine night, she goes and kills the wife.
to help this plot of mine, Dame Christie has shown every member of the expedition to have either the opportunity or the motive for murdering Mrs. Leidner. this would make out nurse the last person to suspect, as she is, after all, a newcomer.
later, the nurse realises that Miss Johnson, who has been with Dr. Leidner for many years secretly harbours undying love for him in her bosom. Nurse gets insecure. after all, miss johnson has been with the doc longer than she has, and who's to say that the grief-stricken doc might not seek solace in this constant companion's arms?
so the nurse kills her as well.
it is later revealed that the nurse is suffering from a split personality disorder. she has committed the murders without even knowing it. her obsessive love for the doc has awakened the killer inside her, and while she thought she was in her room sleeping, she was actually going around eliminating competition.
the beauty of it is that, in the novel, it is the nurse who discovers both bodies. so it could be something like for both murders, she comes back to her room after committing the murder, lies down, and then wakes up. her subconscious nags at her mind. she mistakes it for a sense of foreboding and goes over to the victim's room to check and discovers the dead body.
the split personality angle would also support the line about the nurse being in it all and yet an outsider, so to speak.
what do you think, guys? should i make a film adaptation of the book with this climax? ;-)
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