Come into me

No, I’m not being lewd. It’s just want Dave Matthews is singing to me. In Crash Into Me, that song from the ‘90s that typified him and his band.

I was watching a Dave Matthews Tiny Desk Concerts literally a minute ago. I stopped because I was sufficiently inspired to go back and work on that song that I’m working on.

Despite the headache that I’m having. The one that has been there for over a day. Not sure what’s going on. Is this how the rest of the life is going to be for me? Hopefully not.

The song that I’m working on is something that I would imagine a artists with shades of of George Michael and Bruno Mars would write/sing. It’s called Seesaw. The problem with it—well, the problem is me—is that it is just right in the middle of my comfortable chest and head voice ranges.

My vocal instructor did ask me to roll some songs down by three to five half-steps so I could render them at my best. This song might need a six or seven.

So why am I typing this when I got inspired by Dave Matthews? Because I can’t renege on the promise that I made myself. For writing every day. Every night actually. Maybe on weekends, I should try writing on the day as well.

Anyway, I think I have done enough writing. The headache’s still there. My friend at work, who I knew before I joined work, is going through some trouble. I spent over two and a half hours listening to his side of the story and trying to understand.

Oh, also I met someone from Philadelphia who I think I’m going to be working closely with for a cause that I think I’ll be proud of in the long run. Sneak peek? Well, it’s related to LGBTIQ+.

Pariahs at Parties

It’s almost two years since the first lockdown. Two years losing the joys that we all took for granted, with many losing multiple battles on the way. Life-changing for everyone, generation-changing for many. I wonder how many remain comfortable in their lives, having gotten through so much, which I happen to be one.

I am relatively less affected—and may be even somewhat positively affected—one would argue that this is a privilege. I have changed my lifestyle and have become far healthier than I have ever been. I have mastered the art of eating only when one has to eat, and have incorporated daily exercise in my routine. Hell, I even enjoy running these days, something that had been as unpleasurable as toast (rather than non-toasted bread) was once. For me, that is. I do admit occasionally to such crudeness, and today I’m feeling magnanimously humble.

The malapropism “social distancing”—which will likely remain the most appropriate among the indelible descriptors for this biennial period—has been a splendrous graduation party for the socially handicapped folk like me. Our world had become accepted. Our world had become the right one. Our world had become the safer one.

My current 30-month “phase” of depression—which can’t quite be labeled as such because of how individually/personally productive I have been during it—is currently manifesting only an as almost complete lack of social-ness. To be more precise, the lack of and the lack of desire for social interactions that can be avoided.

Social interactions for work—and not necessarily at work—within the confines of one’s roles and expectations, are acceptable. Those one must have when one is out on the road are too. Those that one needs to have, with a handpicked set of people who have somehow been demarcated from the vast swathes of humanity that were once friends, are acceptable too. But nothing beyond. Nothing else.

I ask myself why. And I have the most politically incorrect, crude, robotic answers. Podcasts bring in more condensed conversations with better production values—with a play-pause-rewind functionality and 0.5-4x speed controls. Books bring the wonders of thought, knowledge, imagination, and language, with the precision that human beings almost always lack in real life. YouTube videos go through more editing than a human could ever hope to do in conversations in their lifetime.

None of them involve the need to be face-to-face with people, breathing the same infectious air while adhering the conventions of interpersonal interactions. Let’s just admit it: real-life conversations at dinners and parties are mediocre at best—for quality, for focus, for entertainment, for knowledge, for comfort, for comprehension, for retention, for education, for refinement.

The pandemic is not yet over. Really, it isn’t. Especially for us. People like me should aim to systematically break down every attempt at breaking the current norm—by logic, reason, and science. And when we fail, when we decide that you ought to be more serious at fulfilling our social role—as siblings, as partners, as a friends—we will fail again.

Because we then suddenly find ourselves in these agglomerations of people, who revel in themselves and in their stupid anecdotes and experiences, sharing the compulsively often at the slightest of provocations, making themselves look life fools in the process, helped on the way by the excess food and wine than they help themselves to.

And there is nothing we can do but stare away from them, walk past them, ignore them. Hoping that they would think of something better to do than talk to us, and that they wouldn’t think “what a dork—what a loser”. We look at walls, leaves, and the sky, but all of these are finite. We look for the lone hammock in a corner somewhere and settle ourselves with a book, until a few ectopics from the agglomerations arrive at the conclusion that right by the hammock is a great place to smoke up.

And then we slip away and find ourselves a chair and hide behind the bushes by the pool, feeling the strongest wave of sleep that we will have for the next year or so. We read a bit, think a bit more, worry a lot, and doze off for a few seconds. Until it is time to have food—something that we really don’t want to have, but after having which we squirm our way out past more humanity, avoiding more stares and mindless conversations.

The social role that we once had has now become extinct, and with that, we have become even more so. Yet, we continue having the best times of our lives, alone and being brilliant. It remains to be at the cost of everyone who we choose to continue to interact with—or is it choose to continue to be a burden for? And that’s the price we will pay.

Our thoughts, especially the way they were decided to be shared, are most unflattering—easily categorizable as obnoxious, self-centered, egotistic. But we do have, to blame, the provocative situation of the agglomerations. Anyone’s guess as to how this situation is similar to or different from the aforementioned unprovoked sharings, the same that we try to run away from.

Self-Driven Wedges

After waiting a whole week to receive the first assignment in the memoir-editing project, during which I admit to not being successful in containing my guarded optimism on it, I received two chapters for review, accompanied by a brief note.

It was late evening and I had just reached home after a long ride home, following a wonderful weekend at J’s country home. I felt a bit delirious. Maybe the memories of playing frisbee at the beach on consecutive evenings and the three-hour hike up and down a nearby hill, being accompanied by two canine acquaintances we had met on the way up, were contributors.

Maybe it was the first explicit allusion to affection in the note, which seemed to have peeled off the outer coverings of my predefined role in the relationship, which I had little contribution in defining apart from its meek acceptance.

I’d nevertheless felt ambitious enough to promise the return of at lease one story reviewed by bedtime, something I wasn’t able to keep. I had found myself engrossed in a blend of watching a game on the telly and jamming on my newly-sweetly-setup P-bass.

By the time I remembered, I had already committed myself to bed with the ritual of taking my medications for the night. So I sent a brief apology, asking for an extension of the original deadline by a day.

Monday was relatively busier, but by evening I had carved out enough time to have finished reviewing, editing, annotating a few paragraphs of a story that described the naughty misdeeds of a youthful man in boarding school, confined to an adolescent’s body. I did find myself enjoying the process, maybe even more than what I had expected to.

One of the unexpected joys was what I ended up discovering on the previous editor/reviewer, who had left a wonderful note at the top of the document. The existence of a previous reviewer was brought up briefly in the original conversation where the informal agreement for collaboration for the memoir project was agreed upon.

Looking things up is as natural a part of the review process for an an editor as is the lavishing of saliva on the cleanliness of hilt is for a cat. Google showed me wonderful things about the person I was looking up. A well-known literary figure whose first book—a memoir, would you imagine—was met with praise and adulation because it gave a voice to the voiceless for a marginalized people, which I proudly belonged to.

So in my response that went attached with the partially reviewed story, I’d ended up writing, in post- and post-post-scripts, notes of joy and happiness at this discovery.

Tuesday morning was rung in by a fierce note questioning my sanity and audacity—for having cooked up a fantastic story, spotlit by the assignment of the incorrect sexual orientation to the original editor/reviewer! The only logical conclusion to come to is that this person must still be living rent-free in the heart of the unamused storyteller.

By late afternoon, the fire remained un-doused despite a couple of explanation/apologies. The actual purpose of the review seemed to have been discarded, thanks to the ubiquitious inaccessibility of Microsoft Word’s doomed Track Changes feature, in the eyes of the less experienced.

I felt like I had willed into existence a barrier that I had feared will get in the way of the next phase of a fledgling friendship/relationship. I felt like I had proven myself right in wronging in the things I set out to do. I felt weak and vulnerable.

Yet, somehow, on Wednesday, I found myself having the strength to gently guide the email conversation toward its rightful direction. By afternoon, I found myself in a Zoom call, covering the rear of Microsoft—for the ineptitude of its software engineers who stubbornly refuse to bother about the user experience and accessibility of the dreaded feature.

It’s Friday morning as I type this, and I still don’t have a substantive review of my review yet. I’m sitting with my appendages crossed, feeling like I have some strength to remain in the chase.

Correspondences - a new series

Over the past few weeks, I have been writing to my friends on non-social media platforms. I would like to consider this venture a humble attempt to practice the craft of writing. I consider these exchanges little fragments of the manifestations of my cognitve/spiritual existence in the material world.

To find them an independent space to live and breathe, and yet to have be loosely linked to the the online universe of my primary blog, I have decided to document the best excerpts from these on Neverlast, the micro-blog to Engayging Life. I’m calling this series Correspondences,

The links to the first four are below:

1. Correspondences #1: Doug (Part 1)
2. Correspondences #2: Doug (Part 2)
3. Correspondences #3: Steve
4. Correspondences #4: Mike

I hope you, the reader, enjoys them.

Artist Vs. Artist

 

One of the hardest things that I have had to do is to give an honest critique about a piece of art to someone who I like/love but with whom I do not have kind of relationship that befits such and exchange. As an artist myself, I’d like to hear from others how my art can be made better, sandwiched between thick slabs of comments about what is it that I got right in the first place. This seems be the most important lesson that they the staff at Berklee School of Music teach their students!

The recipients of such an exchange can be classified (in a gross oversimplification) into two.

There are those who give you the freedom to express yourself—not necessarily only harsh, but more open. Those people make it clear at the outset that they don’t think highly of themselves but do care a lot about the piece of art they created. The others are cagey and probably just want to hear from you that they are doing absolutely great. Sometimes, these people might actually benefit from not hearing something harsh, especially if they are already doing quite well.

For the latter, some of the struggle lies in the lack of vocabulary and tact in expressing and receiving opinions. I find it easier to have these conversations happen over emails and long messages than face-to-face conversations. This gives both the parties enough time to process the responses, avoiding the awkwardness of one’s facial musculature giving almost everything away. Even when you have go easy on people, one could always pass on the good to them. That should still help and technically help build the relationship that you need to switch to the healthy one where you don’t need to parse the praise from the critique.

As a recipient, I still will fall into the latter bucket. Does that mean that I need to work on my relationships more.? Maybe. Or maybe that the people who give me feedback need to use the right lexicon and tact.

As a critic, I am currently in a self-revelatory exchange with a close friend of mine. I call him Blummer and he’s someone that I have done a lot of travel with. He’s currently in the middle of writing a book about the most important characters that influenced him and made him what he is right now. He has shared a few chapters and had requested my thoughts.

I thought he fell in the latter bucket when I started these exchanges. However, I feel that we’re slowly moving into the former. His way of expressing the fact that he felt that I was holding back helped me overcoming my inhibitions to share with him what I felt.

The relationship that I have with him are one of the few that could qualify, based on the duration and quality our friendship, to justify the open-critique. I have only a very few where I can be open like that, and I regret to say that I don’t yet have such a healthy relationship with my band mates. Maybe we’ll get there some day.

Quality of Life and Friendships

They say travel experiences define you, change you, and give you a new perspective about your life. And I think they are right.

Thanks to my employers, I got the opportunity to be in America for two weeks. I represented my company at a scholarly conference in Philadelphia, which was sandwiched by visits to Washington DC area and New York City.

It was an incredible experience. Friends who were exposed to my constant updates on social media told me that I satisfied about 88% of the criteria of a stereotypical Indian touring the States. And that's not a good thing. :)

Photo: One gets really happy when one sees the best-tasting food on the planet! #patscheesesteaks... http://t.co/0jHjytdKTg

— Krishna Kumar V. (@krishna_kumar_v) May 16, 2015

What they did not infer, however, is the dramatic shift in perspective that I have of life. Living in metropolitan India, especially Mumbai, tends to numb you. Especially if you are--I hate to use this word--"cultured." You are suffocated for time, space, and noise, among other things.

I think I am at a stage in my life when a quieter, less-stressful life may be a good thing. My psychological state make this wish more or less compulsory if I need to have an acceptable quality of life.

This trip also made me understand that friendships, even those I maintain online, are my most prized possessions. After all, friends seem to care about me like no one else ever has.

Quite simply, we should all spend more time with friends, share experiences, learn from each other, and create moments.

(PS: With this post, I hope I haven't climbed up on the criteria list for the Indian stereotype.)

Don't Stress

People often tell me that I should not stress so much. When most of the stress is caused by the uncertainty associated with miscommunication and lack of punctuality, I don't see a frigging way out

The irony is that some of those who tell me to stop involving with people who don't communicate well and aren't punctual aren't punctual/communicative themselves. What the hell am I supposed to do with them, especially if you are dependent on them for something or the other - love, work, music, friendship, etc.

I often times get caught up with stuff - and it's very easy to get stuck with stuff in a chaotic metropole like Mumbai. But, almost always, I make it a point to communicate early, with clarity and without ambiguity as to the fact that I may be late. Darn, I even give them an approximate time that I'd be able to make and revise that time if something changes.

I wish people would strive to be better communicators.

Another lesson about friendships

If a person that you love constantly tells you the following – “You will never understand me!” “You never listen to me!” “You never remember anything about me!” - and if that same person gets repeatedly offended by things you say or do, it’s probably better to back off and leave that person alone. At least for quite some time.

The problem, if you can use that word, probably lies with both of you. You may not have the time or patience for taking care of the other person. And/or the other person is not in a position or is incapable of understanding your limitations. Don’t take the brunt of the burden to correct things all by yourself. Efforts have to be bilateral.

Goodbye

I don’t think anyone really understands how relationships work. The ups and downs, the arguments and misunderstandings, and communication.

A year or so ago, I met a wonderful man from France online. We got to be great friends and met in real life. We even had periods of infatuation for each other.

Today, I closed the lid on our friendship after a series of exchanges that made me feel that he was taking my love/kindness for granted. I feel empowered to have taken the decision myself.

So, good luck, my friend. I hope this post will be a warning and a reminder for me and my friends to not take anyone for granted.

Evening in with a dear

I lived up to my ad on FaceBook! I finally caught up with a dear friend and ex-colleague of mine (I think I used to refer to her as SN in here) over beer. She was my primary support during my breakup with Vinokur. We had such a splendid time over beer, Chicken lollipops, pistachios, and Pringles BBQ chips! Looking forward to more fun like this.

Those who are reading this and wanting to spend a nice evening at my apartment, remember the stipulations. There are none. :)

Four friends - Two states

Oh, I've been wanting this for so long, for someone to function as a physical link between my Keralaite medical past and the Mumbakar gay/musical-editing present/future. It seems my prayers have come true. May is coming to Mumbai! She's coming to join a two-year course in pediatric hemato-oncology at the Tata Memorial Hospital, which is next door to my alma mater, the King Edward Memorial hospital.

This will be so cool! I can finally speak to someone regularly in Malayalam in Mumbai. And of course, the various possibilities of hanging out at Mumbai with her. Well, her husband (Did I ever update you guys that she married recently? This was right around the time I broke up with Vinokur and I was in disarray, and hence I might have forgotten) will join her soon. So, I don't know if I'll get to enjoy a lot of 'alone' time with her. But I do hope!

I still remember how eagerly I had expected the arrival of Ray to Mumbai. That would have been at an altogether different level, of course. But that didn't happen. And our relationship has withered down to the occasional SMS about a movie or something like that. Relationships -- how they never cease to amaze you with their unpredictable highs and lows.

The one relationship that has not only stood the test of time, but passed it in flying colors recently, is with my third good friend from back in Kerala -- Chuck. The humor between us still remains the same -- the same self-deprecatory sarcastic humor that Kerala is known for -- and we connected to each other just like the good old days, over alcohol, cigarettes, and food, and took care of each other like how each other should. Yes, we had grown into two separate beings -- he being a succesful orthopedician, with a wife and a kid, enjoying life with its responsibilities whereas I had grown old and frail post-Vinokur and was rather stagnant in my career with music.

My three best friends from Kerala are at three different places in my life right now. They might have swapped places between each other and I might have changed as a person, but the love remains strong.

The Erstwhile-rs : College mates, friends and the rest

The absolute last day of my visit was spent in meeting up with the rest of 'em who seemed important enough to me vis-a-vis my parents. Is this selfish, one might ask? I feel it is. But then, you have to be selfish to achieve anything in this burdening life and once you have achieved what/whom you wanted, you can be selfless to that/them. Thereby, you get to be even-steven and probably get through to Jew-Parsee heaven.

Jokes apart, I had a quite weird encounter with my medical college batchmates. I had wanted to meet more but I just managed to meet just 4 out of the 200 who had once set forth to be doctors in August 1996. Everyone else was/is busy with their lives working, marrying, copulating, nursing, parenting etc I guess. I got to meet three of my close buddies, all of them surgeons, over dinner that night.

J, the closest and kindest of them all, was as wonderful as he has ever been. Despite being a devout Christian – he would be at the Christian heaven even if it files in for Chapter 7 bankruptcy – he listens to me and tries to understand about homosexuality. He asked me how it was to be in a relationship, the hardships that I faced, the responsibilities that I would face after my eventual adoption/parenting of a child.

He is the only one left back home who I can trust with to deal with my parents. The others like Dee. and the remarkably homophobic catholic Pauletta, are either busy or simply not made-for such a responsible role. We three, discussed stuff ranging from our careers the sudden outcropping of out gay folk from our own batch. Each of them has a kid and I tried to, without much avail, extract information from them as to how it felt like to be a father.

J and I, soon afterwards, went to visit a the still-stunningly-beautiful looking colleague of ours, at her home where my erstwhile Head of the Department (her Dad) was present. It was such an unfortunate situation when we started discussing how my career was more music than Orthopaedics now; the Professor was not even making eye contact with me.

Later on, J came home and met my parents which I thought was an extremely nice gesture from him. But then, I'm used to stuff like that from him. He was the one, after all, who had taken care of my father (and mother) when he had an acute attack of breathlessness (and panic attack respectively) one night a year back when I was here in Mumbai doing my residency.

Apart from them, I met my close friend and erstwhile neighbor and his family. He too has a child in his life – everyone who's anyone, in Kerala at least, seems to have one these days – and we discussed things about my life as a rock-star in Kerala. He had been the one who had sorta challenged me to try and achieve success in music (link). But the most entertaining part of that rendezvous was the wonderful conversation that I had with his father in law, a poet/linguist/teacher, about things as wide ranging as the anatomy of the nervous system and the paintings by his son!

I also happened to coincidentally run into the most wonderful neighbors that I have ever had in my life. It was at the railway station where I had gone to meet someone else where I met them and then eventually went to visit them at their new home in Thiruvananthapuram. I was so happy! Catching up with fun folks is always fun! The absolute icing on this cake was the wonderful Thanjavur paintings that I got to see made my the Mrs. of the house and the wonderful nibbling that I received from a 2 month old Pug pup which was the latest entrant into their household. Believe me, I have never had any thing chew on my Adam's apple or my nasal cartilage - man or animal, ever - and it felt good!

The last little snippet here about the meeting that I had with the father of my friend. He was one of the people who I kinda respect because of the way he treats me – not just as his son's friend, but as a friend or an intelligent person. I was forced to come out to him during the conversation and it was surprising to see the kind of reaction from him, given the background that he was trained medical postgraduate. But that's his generation, not his education which imposes itself on such contexts unlike religion as with the case of Pauletta. That just made me aware of how fortunate that I was with the set of parents that I have.