A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

When I saw the poster for A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood on BookMyShow, I thought that it looked funny. Throwback color schemes, Tom Hanks looking overly a in a light red sweater, and the words neighbor, icon, friend in an oversized font.


Source: https://cdn.flickeringmyth.com/wp-content/uploads/2019/10/a-beautiful-day-in-the-neighborhood-600x889.png

The movie was one of the three running last week that seemed worth watching. Judging by the relatively sparse listings, it was also the most "indie" among the three. Unlike most passionate movie-goers, I don't do much research on movies before I go watch them. Because it is the Oscar season, I generally end up having even better experiences by immersing myself in something that seemed to have happened more by chance than by meticulous planning, which is what my life seems to be more than I'd like to admit it is. And this is why I decided to try and gobble the movie up as the first chance I could, despite the scheduling gymnastics that I needed to do.

The movie began with an '80s looking shot of Mr. Rogers--the character Tom Hanks plays--sounding and looking funny. It was fairly obvious that his intended audience was not people like me. I guess the director wanted people like me to feel just that because I fell for it hook, line, and sinker. I guess I ought to clarify that I had no idea what I was getting into. Mr. Rogers was not a thing in my childhood, which technically started in late '79 and must have ended in the early '90s. My household was without a television until 1987 and without cable television until '94. The first thing that I remember looking forward to watching on TV was Giant Robot and Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, that too on the national broadcaster Doordarshan. Since then, almost all of my non-sporting leisure time was usurped by the once-great MTV once I had cable.

In other words, I was an absolute virgin for Mr. Rogers and his famous TV show for kids. In fact, the movie is about a character--the jaded journalist Lloyd Vogel--who was pretty much in the same headspace as I was at the beginning of the movie. Lloyd is a cynic/critic who writes harsh articles about celebrities in Esquire, who, when given the assignment of writing a 400-word flattering piece on Mr. Rogers, reacts with a mixture of shock and disappointment. He thinks Mr. Rogers is just a TV show host putting on a fake character to get fame. I might have felt like Lloyd at the beginning of the movie, but by its end, I was like Lloyd's wife Andrea, who cherished the show and had uplifting moments in her childhood because of the show.

Lloyd is an interesting character--from my perspective--himself. His cynical self is probably a result of a troubled childhood/early adulthood thanks to a traumatic relationship with his father. Lloyd is still recovering from the trauma of watching his mother succumb to cancer after a painful terminal phase. He feels betrayed because his father Jerry wasn't there to support the family during this phase. Jerry, on the other hand, seeks help from other avenues of support while grappling with the loss of his wife, ends up in a relationship with a woman (too soon for the likes of his son), and eventually marries her. Lloyd also has an elder sister with whom he shares a complex relationship. Lloyd is married to Andrea, a grounded woman with a different upbringing, and is now coming to grips with the responsibilities of a father.

It is at this phase when Lloyd's employer assigns this task. Over several interviews with Mr. Rogers, Lloyd begins to unravel the mystery of the charm behind Mr. Rogers. At the same time, Lloyd also gets perspectives on his life, his relationships, and his responsibilities, thanks to the sagely insights that Mr. Rogers offers. Lloyd loses the cagey skepticism about Mr. Rogers and also about such people in general--the people who find a way to be empathic to others no matter what the situation is.

Mr. Rogers was/is everything that I wanted/want in my life to set things in perspective. He seems to have a bottomless well of kindness and is a master at making people he meets and interacts at ease. He is someone who can talk about something and would make sense to both children and adults without making either group uncomfortable in the way they are being talked to. The body language, the expressions, the choice of words, the tone of voice--everything seems to be perfect for an empathic connection. On top of all of this, Mr. Rogers is an actor, performer, musician, composer, songwriter, and much more. The topics that he addresses are dark concepts like anger, jealousy, death, hospitals, friendship. And yet, the words and the phrases that he chooses to use in his songs are available for everyone.

Fred Rogers seems to have been every bit what the poster said: a neighbor, an icon, and a friend. Mr. Rogers, through his show, its characters, its songs, and its conversations would end up educating children about the mysterious, difficult world that they were being ushered into without much preparation. This is the sort of thing that everyone needs, regardless of the time they are in or the age they find themselves in. Like Lloyd, I felt like watching clips of the show and learning more.

There is nothing more in the world that I seem to want than someone like Mr. Rogers in my life. Someone to help me find my empathy and lose my eternal cynicism.

The constancy of disappointment

Pretty much everything ends in a disappointment. Happiness is a mirage for those who have figured out a way to set their expectations for everything at manageable levels. For themselves. For those who they surround themselves with. For things you do. For things you are supposed to do well.

No matter what you would like to tell yourself, the things that you end up doing and the things that you are supposed to do well is a mixed bag of things that you did not have much control over. You might be a lawyer or a painter. If you are lucky (read privileged), you might have been able to make this decision yourself without worrying about personal, monetary, and social security. I am sure you would like to think that you had a say in deciding that for yourself.

Sure, a lot of people (including me) had opportunities to make these decisions. But who is to say that these decisions are indeed independent.

What if I tell you that while making the seemingly independent decision to pursue a career, you were influenced by all the things that you have experienced until that decision-making point. And all of that is influenced by the place you grew up in, the people you shared your childhood with you, the stuff you read, the placed where you had your education, and shows you watched on TV, the songs you grew up dancing to, and so on.

For example, maybe if the six-year-old me had not accepted the invitation to play cricket with two grown men who lived in the house behind where I lived, I wouldn't have been a medical doctor or a musician. "How" is an interesting question. The house that I went to play in had kittens and cats and one of two grown men had a great music cassette/CD collection.

• Getting exposed to kittens and cats, handling them, getting used to animals, having pets, liking zoology and botany, studying these, giving the entrance test for medicine, enjoy handling/taking care of human beings.
• Getting exposed to music [being born in a family with musicians, getting lessons in Carnatic music], borrowing CDs of '70s/'80s/'90s music, listening to these on my hi-fi, meeting friends/neighbors who enjoyed similar music, wanting to emulate some of the music by playing drums on tabletops, picking up guitar after my sister forced me to, enjoying learning songs, feeling great about writing songs, recording/producing songs, moving to Mumbai and exploring a career as a musician, playing live music in Mumbai.

So many things had an influence. Now I am several decades past the decision-making stage. I am left with is a pervasive feeling of disappointment. At least, my life is something that I can see through the filter of disappointment.

I'm not disappointed with my decisions themselves. On the contrary, I'm proud of making these decisions. I'm even okay with the difficult decision of having to give up practice for pursuing music and editing. What I'm not okay with is the inability to help the people who seek guidance from me regarding their health problems. I can help them to a certain extent, but I don't have knowledge/skills and tools/resources to help them the way that I want.

For example, J wants a cure for the dozen or so ailments that he seems to have. I can't give him that. My sister wants a cure for the speech/learning disability that my niece has. I can't help her much other than reading up about some details that she shares. Even if I could have an opportunity to spend more time with my niece and may physically be around her to help my sister with whatever she needs to do for my niece, I can't because of my tendencies to need alone time.

On the other hand, with music, despite my feeling happy/proud of the stuff that I have achieved, I'm constantly disappointed with the improvements that I have not been able to make as a musician and the inability to release the tracks after professionally recording/producing them. When I try to write new stuff, I disappoint myself by not being able to come up with even better stuff that I can come up with.

A year or so back, I was absolutely excited about writing/publishing more music. I was also thrilled at the possibility of exploring higher studies abroad and settling somewhere nice. Around that time, I went out for drinks with a couple of friends. It was a farewell thing for one of the two moving abroad. Somewhere in the conversation, I had said that I thought I would be happier and contended if I were to move abroad and find a place where there are not so many things that annoy me like how Bombay does.

My friend had said, "No. You will find things to get annoyed by. You will find things to worry about. You will not be happy." I saw some truth in this at that time. Since then, I have done close to nothing to change my state of affairs.

Now, I am starting to realize that I'll never be happy. Whatever I do, I'll be dissatisfied with myself. Whatever, I get good at, I'll find ways to be more self-critical than I should be.

Situations could change but disappointment is a constant.

The new shrink

I finally managed to come out of my depression closet and write something on my blog a few days back. Now, I took it another step forward. I met a new shrink.

The first sitting was rather remarkable. He must have asked me maybe eight or ten questions. I would just go on and about my past. The most that I talked about was my relationship with Vinokur and how it came to an end.

It felt telling a stranger about everything that affected me negatively from the past – from parental physical abuse, incestual sexual abuse, being looked down by my family almost throughout my childhood and adolescence, the hospital changing my perspective of life, why I came to Mumbai, to how I fell in and out of love and was broken into pieces – everything.

My shrink listened to me carefully. At the end of of our session, he offered me a comprehensive plan. New antidepressant (bupropion), slow tapering off of the cocktail, introduction to cognitive therapy, and regular physical exercise.

Although, I have been feeling much better in the last few days and I was even more content with myself that I finally took a measure toward getting out of the rut. Let’s see where this leads me.

Animal instinct

This is one of the most random rants on my blog.

I have been good with pets (animals) for a very long time now. In my childhood days, back in Kerala, I used to go to my neighbor friend's place to hang out and to play cricket and badminton. My friend, who was much older than me, lived in a big traditional house, and his family, since the time even they remember, have had cats as pets.

My grandmother used to tell me stories of how dozens of cats would line up on a parapet wall that which separated our compounds waiting to get fed. There was at least one litter of kittens at his place always, and I used to play with them for hours every evening. Kittens are always a bundle of joy and soon I started having a desire for petting a cat.

One of my friend's cats, an old she-cat, started to hang around my house around late 1992. She was trying to find a new place to deliver and nurse her new litter. I pleaded with my parents to allow me to have her as a pet. My parents finally agreed. She was my first pet. Since then, her progeny and their progeny have been a constant company to my family - well until my parents moved out of our old house to a new one in the middle of the city. By 1996, I had another she-cat in my apartment. She also produced a couple of litters, and one time, there were 11 cats in my home.

In 1997, my one and only dog came into my life. I had adopted Julie from the People For Animals shelter. Actually, I was not very comfortable with dogs until I became used to Julie. Mannerisms and behavior of dogs are probably harder to judge and accept compared to those of cats - in my case at least.

Since then, my knack for being with animals in general, and especially with dogs, has increased. Street dogs love me like crazy. I usually am greeted by friendly street dogs wherever I spend time in the city - at the bus stops, near a tea shop that I frequent etc. The same street dogs who start going crazy at beggars, people with sacks or turbans, and those riding in two-wheelers forget about the rest of the world when I'm around. They climb on me and chew on all parts of the body and clothing that I offer to them, thus making absolute fools of themselves.

That's very similar to what I am when it comes to being with people who I like - playful, friendly, and an absolute clown. Thus, I think I mirror street dogs. :-s

How I wish I could have a pair of cats and a dog at my apartment! I hope I start living my dream soon enough!

Faithless?

Turn around and you will see me
My loving words will echo in your ears forever
Play around and you will miss me
My loving words may not have a recipient anymore

Walk around and you will see me
My loving words echoing in others ears
Look around and you will see not just me
But everyone in this phase forever

Why do we like playing around?
Because it reminds us of our childhood?
Why do we like flirting around?
Because it reminds us of our childhood?
Why do we like to misbehave?
Because it reminds us of our childhood?
Why can't we seem to accept the truth?
Because it reminds us of our childhood?

You were around to see me play
But will you be around to see my cry?
You were around to see me display my charms
But will you be around to see me lie?

A wallet that made me realize why my childhood was hell

Two days back, I got robbed. I was on a BEST bus on my way from work to the gym. I had two bags with me – the regular backpack strapped up against my back and the gym bag on my shoulder. Because I have a tendency to misplace my wallet, I had made sure that I put it in my backpack after drawing enough money from it for the ride.

It was a crowded bus and I jostled my way to the already-crowded area just behind the driver's set. I positioned myself comfortably after depositing my gym bag in a corner, and started tending to my e-mail and FaceBook. Retrospectively, I recall that there was a young man standing adjacent to me struggling for the same space that I had been occupying.

I remember that he had shifted his position briefly, for a minute or so, during the journey. That must have been to unzip my backpack and steal my wallet. As soon as I got into the gym and started undressing, I checked my bag and realized that I had been robbed. I, thanks to my psycho-pharmaceutical cocktail, did not panic. Instead, I started worrying, and started thinking of myself as a bad person.

I came back home in a very self-flaggellatory mood, but had the presence of mind to cancel all my cards. Vinokur tried to give me advice and encouragement. But I know him too well, and am comfortable enough, to not take any definitive action against my impending implosion. After a few minutes of chatting, I left him alone to pursue things that he enjoys even more – things that bring him consistent pleasure – things unlike me.

One of the first things that I did, as a punishment to myself, was to inform my date – the special person that I have been blogging about, and I'm going to title him M – that I'm canceling the date for the next day evening. He called me immediately, and tried to comfort me, but wasn't able to do much good. I insisted that we should cancel the
date.

The next day (yesterday) morning, I sent M a message telling him that I wasn't feeling better and that we are not meeting in the evening. Then I reached my office and things started to change. People, with whom I was not totally comfortable with, started talking about how often such robbery occurs and started making me feel more comfortable about the reparative process that needed to ensue. That cheered me up. I immediately sent M a message about the turnaround and suggested that we might still meet in the evening.

During the day, I went to one of the banks that I had an account in and started the process to get a new debit card. I drew some money and bought myself a new wallet – a physical entity in my life that reminded me that things weren't all that bad and that I'm not a bad person.

At 5.30 pm, I got a call from a person who had found my wallet in the drain near my gym. He asked me to meet up at a certain place in half an hour. I went there in a rickshaw and met this guy. I got my wallet back – everything intact but the money, including the change. I was so happy to get my license, PAN card, and my medical registration ID – three things that would have taken months to renew/replenish.

To celebrate, I decided to skip the gym and meet M early. I was relieved and feeling much better. We went to dinner at a restaurant called Sheesha. Over cherry/mint-flavored sheesha/hukka, we had a wonderful conversation about the entire incident and why it had triggered such a heavy negative feeling toward me. And then we stumbled on the truth – my childhood!

Practically every day in the tender-age period, I was subjected to things like 'Kris, you aren't a good person!', 'You deserve to be punished!’, 'All the bad things that happen to you is because of the bad things that you do, because you didn't respect elders and God!', 'Kris, look at your cousins. See how good and obeying they are? See how they pray and go to temples. If you don't do all this, you will be a bad person all through your life'. This and more such stuff. Everyday. Every conversation.

This was the reason why I had started hating my home. This was the reason why I was a wreck, an introvert, an angry, obstinate child. This was the reason why I had no friends until I broke out of the shackles in med school after interacting with patients, who talked to me and respected me, who were proud of me. This was the reason I'm scarred for life.

Vinokur's childhood was scarred by his father. M's childhood was similar to Vinokur's, but probably less severe in intensity. I am scarred similar to Vinokur, but my scars are hypertrophying with every passing day, I think. And the psycho-pharmaceuticals aren't helping that much.

The irrepressible Sun

I've always wanted to write - bestsellers, preferably in the Asimov mold. I, unfortunately, can't. This title is dedicated to that dream. If you are wondering WTF - I'm at Hyderabad for a gig with Shor Bazaar and I have just come back from soundchecking under the blistering sun. I almost had a heat stroke. This gig brings my life down another circle - I'll explain that next time. Now, however, lets get me back to the only thing I'm really good at - lamenting.

Once my good friend Dennis had said a decade or so back: 'You've got to be extensively-read to start writing, Kris'. I had nodded, albeit in part-disagreement - I hate being told I'm not good enough - it reminds me of my childhood, when everything about me was judged by performance at academics. 'Son, the only reason why we are proud of you is because of your scores and otherwise, you are just a bag of shit'-type comments plague me still, you see.

I had been forced to fall prey to the sleazy educational system and my conservative lower-middle class upbringing, where the only goal in life was to score well in exams. On top of that, I chose something - I must confess that I love Medicine and Orthopedics, but they are just too restrictive - which wrecked any chance that I had to explore the loopholes in the system.

Now, I'm staring down the hill, with the best part of my life over, with very few memories that I can cherish and carry forward. I have a pathological uneasiness to get into discussions with others about books, music, paintings, movies because I feel ashamed to have not read/heard/enjoyed/watched them. I have self-esteem issues and am pathologically approval/attention-seeking and depressive.

The message is this - please choose to have better childhoods.

Dreams from a weirdo mind/brain - part 2

I'll continue (read part 1) my series on dreams on this fine Independence Day morning. I must thank Vinokur for making me do this. He thinks recording dreams is one of the coolest things to do. This one is about about hydrophobia (or maybe aquaphobia as this Wiki article suggests). Not the kind that is associated with rabid dogs (or men for that matter).

The dark, menacing clouds were looming high over my head. It had been raining all throughout yesterday and today. The whole town was flooding. I knew I had to escape this. As I was pacing through the dirt-path, I remembered that I needed to cross the river; the angry, violent force of water. Across it lay the land of peace, happiness and freedom.

Soon, I’m greeted by the haunting sound of water. I knew that it was near, it was the test of my life. And I saw it! The wide, brooding body of water which had turned into a wild monster after all the torrential downfall. I was scared of reaching near enough to take a closer look at it. I ran for a mile or two along its side. It only got more threatening.

Then I saw it. The rope bridge strung across the couple of miles of madness was swaying in the wind. I walked slowly towards my destiny. I had to be strong. I had to prove myself. Soon I found myself walking on the rope bridge clinging to my life. I tried hard to not look down. The river seemed to have widened to the dimension of a lake but retains its ferocity. I wished if things were not so tough in my life.

Wondering what this is all about? Well, during my childhood, a traumatic one at that, my weekends were more painful. Incredible for a kid who goes to school, right? I'm not talking about you brats who enjoyed a memorable growing-up-time with a warm household to spend it in!

My mother had her share of problems with her in-laws to the extent that she had to go over to her folks place and spend the weekend there in order to 'enjoy' it. She used to take me and my sister along without even passing a thought if our lives were getting affected. I had to miss all of my regular friends who listened to music (yes, I used to listen to music when I was a kid!), played cricket and hung out with.

I was stranded at this godforsaken, conservative part of town with kids who liked chanting hymns to reading comics. No friends and extremely boring. My giant, forgettable grandfather and the dysfunctional conversations that my Mom used to have with her folks used to scare me (they still haunt me). I used to try in every way to get away from all this to find something better to do.

Strangely enough, I chose something that I was scared of. Right next to this place was the biggest river in Thiruvananthapuram (Karamana river - Wiki, Map). I would go sit by the river, throw stones at it etc, despite my phobia. The 'good' part of the town lay across the river and I always wished if I could cross over and be with my friends and be happy.


Apart from this, I remember that I was stranded in a boat in the middle of the Thekkady lake during a vacation trip. The light was dimming and there was the risk of not being rescued. I really thought that I would find myself in the obituary section of the newspaper the headline of which would be 'School kids drown in the lake'.


Coming back to life - I still have problems with large bodies of water. And I can't still swim. I have real problem in bathing on streams/waterfalls etc. And I don't even know how I will feel on a cruise ship.

(Image courtesy 1 - SkyScraperCity.com , 2 - Keralamist)