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.

Julie

2345 words | 13 min

Note: This is a long, dark, graphic post. User discretion is recommended.

Julie was my pet dog through my late adolescence and early adulthood. One of the plausible reasons why I haven’t written about her is that I haven’t gotten over the trauma of the evening that I had to part with her.

I’d, in fact, realized that I had not written much about Julie, after my search for the same returned just two superficial references (Monday Blues [2004] and Animal Instinct [2011]). I did the search for a special reason, which I’ll write about in my next post. In fact, it was at the end of writing that post that I decided that I needed to write about her before writing about anything else.

I had adopted Julie from an animal shelter ran by a lady, who was featured in the Young World supplement that came along with The Hindu on Saturdays. Along with Julie, I had adopted her name, which was originally assigned by the lady. I chose Julie over the other available options for adoption because she was unlike any other puppy/dog I had had a chance to interact with.

While I wrote the previous paragraph, I cringed at my choice of words that imply my omnipotency in the matter, almost ignoring Julie’s role in it. These choices do paint me in a cruel, insensitive, materialistic light, which is fairly close to how I’d expect myself to come across by the time you reached the end of this post. I reckon I must have been like that when I was younger, at least more than I’d like to admit that I’m now.

I remember being told that Julie was about ten weeks old after I had properly looked at her for the first time. I was seventeen at that time, having just finished my first year at Medical College. I was also let known that she did not have a known direct lineage that she was aware of, which plainly meant that Julie had been rescued from the streets.

She was a short-haired, mixed breed dog (a “mongrel” or a “mutt” for the ease of comprehension). She had a predominantly brown coat whose shade I can only describe as somewhere in between syrup and cinnamon brown. Fair warning:the overexposed, poorly framed photograph I share below—the only one of hers that I was able to find—would suggest otherwise.

Her paws and the tail tips were white, complemented by an almost perfectly symmetrical white jacket with collars seemingly sown into her pelt, with the white hairs trailing off while making their way to her underbelly. Even as a puppy, she had an unusual skeletal structure, which over the years would fill up to make her appear shorter than stouter, and heavier than unhealthy. I guess my lack of awareness of what constituted a healthy diet for dogs could have also played a role in these morphological transformations. 

Her eyes were a blend of caramel and chocolate brown, conveying a wonderful blend of naughtiness and maturity. She had a dirty pink nose that was so soft that I often had the urge to bite it off. Thankfully, I did not need to resort to such extremes, and had instead ended up kissing the nose and booping her at every chance I got.

Her breath was fresh enough for making a strong case to burn dictionaries for the fallacious definition of dog breath, and the scent of her paws and toe beans could be mistaken for the fragrances of fermented rice cakes. She is the reason I bury my nose in the paws of all my pets!

But the real reason why I went for—or after—her was because she got along well with cats, which was an important criterion because my household had around half a dozen cats of varying ages at any point in time. In fact, I’d gone to that particular shelter because of it being a safe house for both cats and dogs.

Before adopting Julie, I had little experience in being with dogs, especially at the collegial level that I find myself with them these days. She taught me things that no man or woman could ever teach, and I think she groomed and mentored me as much I did her.

This is not to imply that ours was a perfect relationship, with me having a longer, shallower learning curve after having being with felines as companions for much longer. I must have felt frustrated and alienated with her like how most people that you would come upon would feel about cats.

I remember the sense of liberation when she would take the lead, without quite dragging me along, in our walks around the neighborhood, which would extend beyond our little housing colony as she grew into an adult. I guess a more appropriate term for describing my neighborhood would be a tiny township and not a housing colony.

I would eventually take her to grocery shopping and on walks to my cousins’ place a kilometer and half away, which is a significant distance between two locations in Thiruvananthapuram. As a couple, we would attract strange looks and conversations on the way as well as at our destinations.

At that time in Kerala, dogs were mostly relegated to an ancillary security role, spending most of their daytimes chained or locked in dog cages, hardly getting any human playtime. They would be let free at night, during when they would run around the houses within the confines of the compound walls and gates barking at street dogs, cats, and passersby.

I was surprised at how fast my feline pack warming up to Julie—the lack of significant size differential must have helped. At the time of her arrival, Julie was definitely smaller than the adult mom cat and was only slightly bigger than the youngest kittens/cats at the time of her arrival.

Yet, it seemed too soon for my cats to assume that a strange puppy/dog would be safe enough to let their guards down, considering how the dogs in my neighborhood never stopped chased them around. I guess Julie was more intuitive than I gave her credit for at first, which also manifested in her knowing what (literal) lines to cross and not, at home.

I must remind everyone that I lived in a Tamil Brahmin household in Kerala. In houses like mine, different mammals and genders were assigned different lines that weren’t to be crossed. They were also allowed different privileges, whose mere allowances needed to be viewed upon as offerings of kindness and modernity that had somehow infiltrated the dungeons of regressive thinking. This was one of the many reasons why I would eventually alienate myself from my family—the immediate one and the extended one alike.

Julie would end up donning the de facto maternal role among the band comprising my cats, myself, and her. Julie was a better ratter (I should really say “mice-r”) than my cats would ever be. I remember many a time when I could sense the disappointment in her eyes on the days when we would all be on a loft or on the terrace, playing the role of exterminators. She would watch her feline peers be sloppy in executing the members of a mischief fleeing for their lives, and would have to cover for them, almost too casually.

She would extend this to protecting the kittens from all sort of threats while I was away or when the mom cats (I would end up having two of them eventually) would be away fighting or fornicating. Most days, she would end up being the lone warrior fending off all the tomcats would arrive for the genetic cleansing of their rivals’ progeny. I could only be a facilitator for the true guardianship that Julie offered, by opening doors and gates when the need arose.

Julie, along with the cats, would give me company at early mornings and late nights, while I was studying, reading, or rehearsing, regardless of whether I was happy, sad, anxious, or hurting. She was not much of a sleeper in bed, probably because she felt like she should instead protect her dependents—which included me of course—who chose to (or needed to) sleep in the bed in various physical combinations and arrangements.

She eventually became the lone liaison between an estranged son and apathetic parents. Yet, her strength proved to be too little to prevent the widening of the chasm, resulting in my moving to Mumbai. This, in turn, resulted in the decision of her needing to be returned to the shelter. After a year of me being away, my parents had finally admitted to a combination of being frustrated with the need to, and their inability to, take care of Julie, demanding that I take care of the situation.

On the day of my separation with Julie, I vaguely remember what I had felt before I arranged for a rickshaw for the trip. I must have felt like a murderer with a motivation that could be presented as relatable in the hands of a masterful storyteller. Someone about to commit a heinous act that could be painted over with the kindness and morality they would show in their future toward others, allowing for at least a partial redemption.

In retrospect, I realize that this experience is one of several in my life that have consolidated the fact that losing someone alive is far more damaging than losing someone at their death.

Yet, on the day, I remember the rickshaw ride being unremarkable except of a mild feeling of betrayal toward Julie. The anger, frustration, and resentment toward my parents must have been overpowering the dread and pain of impending loss and separation.

I wonder if the expectation of the impending phrenic amputation had lent itself as an anesthetic. Maybe the evening traffic on the road to the airport helped a little. But I guess most of the credit ought to go to the scars from the past of the wounds in similar scenes of stowaway violence and trauma.

As an even younger child—and by that I mean the pre-Julie phase—I had many experiences of needing to either discard litters of kittens or be complicit/responsible for their death. The former because no one would want to assume the responsibility of taking care of them. The latter because I was solely responsible for taking care of the kittens and cats that I would dare to take care of, which meant that if they fell ill or were hurt, I would have to figure out ways to transport them to the veterinary hospital regardless of the urgency warranted.

As a child, I did not have the means or the knowledge to transport kittens safely. This meant that I’d have to endure multiple instance of kittens dying—in my arms or in ill-ventilated boxes/bags/baskets, in rickshaws or on my bicycle, in transit or after reaching the hospital.

I’d eventually find myself cocooned in a state of surreal shock in a pool of cold-blooded reality overlaid by the sights and sounds of loved ones grappling with death. These experiences left me with no one but myself to blame, for having allowed them to happen and having allowed myself to be in such situations.

Julie must have had at least a vague feeling of being discarded, but she did not act it out until I started walking away from her after handing her, in leash, over to someone at the shelter. I don’t even remember if I’d met the same lady who had handed over Julie over to me seven years ago. She must have thought highly of me then—a young medical student wanting to adopt a stray puppy who will get along with his cats. What a magnanimous, charitable gesture.

I must not have even looked up at whosever’s face that I was talking to, while casually and indifferently delivering my rehearsed reason to justify what I selfishly needed to do. To take care of myself, at the pretense of taking care of my parents, who I needed to get far away from, both physically and emotionally. As I walked I away, I did not have the courage to acknowledge Julie’s yelps and cries, which reeked of betrayal and hurt and sadness.

These audibles haunt me to this very day. I wish I had carried a pair of headphones that evening, so I could shield myself from the world. Or that I would have had the thrum of a waiting rickshaw engine to do the same. Or that I had asked the caretakers to take Julie inside the house and keep her distracted while I snuck out. Or that I would have had the courage to not commit this cowardly act.

But the fact is that I didn’t do any of these things, and did not even think of the possibility of other options I could have chosen. Instead, I stubbornly, selfishly, and meekly chose to discard Julie and walk away—the same Julie who trusted her existence with me and with whom I trusted mine with.

In the following months and years, in my visits to Thiruvananthapuram, I would mull over giving the shelter a visit. I never did do it for fear of the re-aggravation of trauma. Each time, I’d hope that Julie would somehow have forgotten the cats, me, and my parents. I’d hope that she would have gotten over the trauma of separation and would have found joy and happiness in the shelter or with someone else who would give her what she deserved. It was not me; it was never me.

Today, if Julie was alive, she would have been an unlikely twenty-five. It is eighteen years since I did what I thought I needed to, and I still bear with me the hope that, someday, I’ll be able to find forgiveness from her and from myself.

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.

Books to Bind Us All

What is it that brings people together, only to impose themselves, their opinion, and their beliefs on the others? The force is gentle at first, but gathers strength with each exchange, fueled by a mix of pride, hurt, and ego. It waxes and wanes, it swells and ebbs, but it chips away at us and our relationships ever so slowly.

It is a cycle without a purpose, at least something that I haven’t discovered yet. It makes me wonder if this cycle happened the same way since we have known ourselves to be the way we are. And by that, I mean humans as bands, a term that I wouldn’t have had readily available to me if had I not read the Yuval Noah Harari bestsellers.

How did we get to pre-history, I wonder. May be because Band of Brothers—a phrase that I have often heard and read without really knowing what it actually refers to—came up as a book title just yesterday in a conversation. The phrase was used with the assumption that everyone in the conversation would know what it meant, which is one of the most fallacious fallacies one would encounter. My mind must have subconsciously guided my fingers to type the word band.

It was just another occasion when I found myself in the middle of an act of trying to rediscover my purpose/role in a relationship—maybe I should use the word acquaintance—a tenuous one at that. We were indulging in an illegal activity, where I was trying to please someone who I have been trying to please. Not in any lewd sense, but because he could—if he’d be willing to, of course—fill a gap in my life that has existed since the time I remember myself as a child. The activity was just a simple exchange of pirated intellectual property in the written form from me to him.

My intentional concealment of the identity of this person must not be misconstrued as a means to diminish them or their presence in my life, but instead is a show of respect to their privacy. Something that I have learnt the hard way on this very blog. I guess it is also a gesture of affection, an effort to shield them for prying minds.

I had met him in rather unflattering circumstances, trying to sneak behind his newspaper-reading self to find means to make myself presentable. My first act of initiating a conversation involved offering a tumbler of whisky at ten in the morning, mind you, in his very own house. It was an evidently unsuccessful attempt at concealing my anxiety of meeting him. We had then settled down into a jarring conversation about goods and bags of beverages to start one’s day.

A few years since that initial encounter, I had finally found this rather unimaginative method to step into his attention range. I had the tech chops that could help find things to occupy his spare time. It was one of the numerable straws to clutch at to strengthen a fledgling, and dare I say, flailing relationship.

I find myself writing this the morning after an unpleasant experience—I’m certain this is from both sides. It was a bizarre conversation about the frequency of possessive pronouns in conversational speech. Just an observation at first, but it went on to become something that defines a character as good or bad, of course from one’s own perspective.

Happenings like these is why we have not yet been able to break in our relationship so that we can get past the constant reminders that we need to continue building it. I’m not really sure if he feels the same way, but I’d be gutted if he isn’t.

One thing leads to another, and this morning we find ourselves talking about books—a book if I were to be precise. It is an anthology of sorts, somewhere in between a memoir and an autobiography. I’m going to call it Memories for R&Z, which is an oversimplified appellation distilled from its intent and purpose. A book that he is writing with stories that he has written—stories based on life experiences, with a healthy coating of humor. If things work out the way they could and should, I would work as an editor—more like a second pair of eyes—for the stories.

Our hope is to eventually get this book published, with a warm reception from an audience that would not solely consist of family. I’m well aware that the way toward the destination could be treacherous. The prior mentioned triumvirate of ego, hurt, and pride will definitely come to play. Of course, I’m anxious if the equilibrium of building and breaking will alter, and that the relationship with drift toward a less desirable state.

All this we shall see.

Disappointment and Dissatisfaction

It’s been another week. Another week of not being able to do what I set out to do. Another week of falling short of expectations that I set for yourself. Another week that tells me that there are more such weeks to come, and the weeks will clump into months, which will then solidify into years.

Yet, if I were to note the things that I was able to do, the skills that I was able to hone, the art that I was able to craft, the plans that was able to make, I would know that I didn’t do that bad. But I didn’t, I don’t, and I won’t. I have masterfully orchestrated the positive feedback loop (strange that this is one of few things that can be described as positive in my life) in which the feeling of disappointment and dissatisfaction with myself sets me up for the glorious streak of weeks, months, and years that I’m in.

As I write this, my search for a performance coach, which is in its third week, feels like yet another weak, uncommitted attempt at fixing things that may never be fixed. It is tantamount to transferring responsibilities of taking care of things that you ought to have taken care of yourself in the first place.

“You used to be good at mastering things and bringing them to the finishing line; that’s a skill that you have that we can work with”,

tells the second of four coaches in the obligatory free session. The conversation was quite pleasant and smooth. I felt comfortable sharing what I was seeking. There were no uncomfortable silences. There was a mutual convergence, probably because the coach was a musician and had goals that were similar to mind.

The meeting itself was rather unplanned. The coach had gotten in touch with me over email and text messages, requesting me to suggest a good time to meet. I was out riding all weekend. So when I respond around 3 pm IST on Sunday, I wasn’t expecting a call on my phone by 6.30 pm, which would then be followed by at one-hour conversation starting at 8 pm.

In between, I familiarize myself with his website. In the messaging on the site, I see patterns that indicate potential incompatibilities in the approaches and philosophies employed if we were to work together.

Yet, I prepare my story, keeping in mind the need for not wasting the coach’s time. I’m constantly reminded that they are all professionals and that they use the money these coaching sessions bring to make ends meet. The problem is that most of them charge more than I could ever afford. To admit this fact is painful and insulting. Makes me wonder why I started my search in the first place.

The two that I have met so far have assured me that they won’t let the cost barrier be the reason why I can’t work with them. I’m still not sure what that means in terms of their fees, but it does make me feel like I’m spending money to buy band-aids to cover up my wounds, instead of admitting that I require something else. Something that may not even be real.

When I read this article on The Atlantic, I was expecting to be feeling slightly more at peace with myself for being in the state of dissatisfaction/disappointment. Of course, I haven’t tried what the article suggests one try, but being aware of the possibility of a way out must help, no? It hasn’t.

Maybe it is because I ended up doing something that I said I’d do less of. Maybe it is because I haven’t been able to write for the past few days. Maybe it is because I just heard from my partner that my ex has had some unkind things to say about me. Maybe it is because my partner did not let me know about this until after I sent to my ex a note with an article that I read on The Marginalian about long-distance relationships. And then, in an unpleasant conversation with my partner, I was told that I sound like someone that I don’t want to sound like. Someone who, until recently, I thought I could help to not sound like how they sound like.

I haven’t been in touch with most people who I used to care about for the last two years. This includes my ex. My partner, who tries to be a messenger between me and the ones that I have left behind, tried the same with my ex. When he saw a sliver of light in the dark skies that have been looming over me, he tried to nudge me to get in touch with the ex. Of course I said I don’t want to. Of course I said I feel it would be better not to care about others until I have gotten myself back together. Of course I still think this is the truth.

The real question is this: will I ever get myself back together?

Dancing

I never liked dancing. Watching people dance is one thing, but doing it oneself brings a shudder. I guess I should not generalize it. Doing it myself brings a shudder.

I have been asked to dance at weddings, parties, discos, beaches, and shows—hell, even the shows where I’m one of the people responsible for getting everyone to move. Playing music to get others to dance feels a natural extension of my role in this world. Participating in it couldn’t feel more alien.

I grew up feeling that I lack a penchant for physical coordination and three-dimensional orientation. Things that people take seconds to figure out would take me minutes, and stuff that people would master in hours would take me days. I would be left feeling disappointed with myself to even dared to have attempted new things.

I remember having to confront two activities that I was eventually able to conquer—playing music and typing on a keyboard.

Everyone is aware that playing a musical instrument a difficult task, especially in the early stages. It is worse when the act of playing an instrument involves physical movements that have no equivalents in daily activities. Holding a few strings against a piece of wood with the tips of your fingers of one of your hands and trying to trigger vibrations in a few of them with the fingers of the other , while taking care of melody, rhythm, and precision, is quite a leap of grace for someone like me. I’m sure it is not too different for others.

Things get worse if you seem to be in perpetual competition with peers, which I was in this case when I was taking my initial lessons in guitar. My friend, who was younger to me, seemed to have so much more grace and leaning to mastering this complex motor routine.

Unfortunately, this friend—who I’m not friends with anymore—is also involved in the second example. On my teens, I used to frequent a friend’s place. The guitar-peer friend and I used to meet our older friend, a teacher of accounting, who was a couple of decades elder to us. We used to talk about music and technology, primarily computers and hi-fi equipment. Our older friend had poor vision and used to have trouble preparing tests for his students.

That evening, a few days after I got my first personal computer, I was trying to help my friend finish a test. I was at the keyboard and I was asked to press a key. I did not know touch typing then and I looked down a the maze of letters, symbols, and numbers under my hands. Every key looked like it could be the key I was looking for, but only one was the right one and couldn’t find it.

My friends were over my shoulders calling out where it was. They were laughing at my inability to see things that they could so easily do from farther away. I felt bad and felt my heart racing. My body was telling me that if in the setting of a jungle, this sort of inability would be tantamount to risking my life.

A couple of more letters later, I stood up from the desk and told them that I’ll learn the layout of the keys before I try doing this. Within a week of practicing for an hour daily, with the help of a free typing tutor, I could type without looking at the keyboard.

As I type this, I know that I will feel confused if I look at a keyboard that I can easily touch type on.

In both situations, I had to dissect the process of mastering a skill, work at it for durations longer than someone else would, and slowly bring me up to a level where I can stand shoulders levels with everyone else.

So what about dancing? Why haven’t I attempted to start the process of breaking it down into bite-sized chunks? I don’t quite know myself.

I started writing after I heard the song “Dancing In The Moonlight” by Toploader earlier this morning.

“Dancing in the moonlight

Everybody's feeling warm and bright

It's such a fine and natural sight

Everybody's dancing in the moonlight”

The song sounds great but the lyrics are as unavailable to me as are blue skies that are hidden behind the thick smog this morning.

I guess I feel a certain sense of physical revulsion toward seeing myself dancing. I’m not talking about looking at myself in the mirror. Instead, more like splitting my consciousness from body and observing myself from a metaphorical tree branch.

Something doesn’t fit right. I have not quite ascertained if my discomfort stems from seeing myself emulate the physical movements that constitute dancing. Or is it the difficulty in seeing the discordant feelings of joy and contentment told through my face and my eyes, which if was able to do, would fees like a betrayal of my true self.

Unlike the processes of smoothing over of the two cavities, which seem to have left indelible memories, I don’t feel the need to mend the situation I have not yet felt inadequate because of my inability to dance, nor have I felt the need to aspire to emulate someone or something inspirational.

However, I must confess that I have at least one person in my life who likes dancing who, thanks to their generally uninspiring, condescending, and irritating nature, continues to push me away from dancing.

Slide-show

When I’m going through these phases, it feels like my mind is clicking through a slide-show featuring several catchy images of why I can’t possibly do well in life.

The oldest ones are from my childhood days (between 5 and 13 years of age), originating mostly from my mother and her extended family.

“How could you I possibly have a son like you?” 

“Why can’t you be more like your cousins?”

“You are a disgrace to our family!”

“Remember that you will suffer through this for the rest of your life if you don’t…”

Then, there was a phase when I was in medical school (between 17 and 20 years of age), featuring an unending stream of implicit commentary from the people I had to surround myself with:

“What a dork!”

“He’s so awkward!” 

“He couldn’t possibly be empathic!” 

“How could such a person take care of other people?”

Then, there was a phase after my post-graduation (between 28 to 30 years of age), where I received a few deeply wounding comments around a fleeting relationship.

“You aren’t good enough at most things you do, which is why you are scared to practice medicine and why you aren’t good at music.” 

“People are saying so many bad things about you. I just overheard them at a party. I am telling you this because I am protective of you.”

Then, in the last seven of years or so (between 33 to 40+ years), despite a relatively successful time in my life, I heard some more.

“The things that you call ‘relationships’ weren’t really ones. Those were just flings. A real ‘relationship’ involves conflict. Conflicts are natural. The fact that you can’t cope with a ‘real’ relationship means that there is something wrong with you.” 

“You have changed. You used to be nice. You used to care. You used to be kind. You aren’t any of that. You are a monster.” 

“I don’t know if you can think of a career change because most careers will need you to be socially active. You are unable to do that. It will be hard for you to build and maintain circles of people, professionally or socially.”

My slide-show moves along just like any other. But just like how advertisements are meant to attract the attention of people, slides like these hoard my consciousness.

Maybe I’m all of this. Or maybe I’m not. Maybe I’m all of this because I have been told I’m all of this. And maybe I’m not all of this because I have changed after people have told me that I’m some or all of this.

Initiating conversations about depression

For some reason, I know and/or am close to a lot of people who have known psychological issues, especially depression. For example, Vinokur, my first ex-boyfriend has a plethora of neuroses, including Type II Bipolar Disorder. My second ex-boyfriend Joe has depression, but is still in the closet. My present boyfriend J has been diagnosed with depression and is supposed to be on therapy for it, but is not the most compliant patient.

My sister has symptoms similar to me, but is not willing to take treatment. My dad and mom too have a variety of symptoms. Several of my close friends have depression and they are friends with me because they can freely and openly have conversations with me. Conversations both about depression and otherwise. I tend to empathize with them and don't force them to do things that they are not comfortable with.

So why am I ranting about it? To spread awareness about it, actually, and to share my learning experiences. About my point...

Although being perpetually distracted is a known symptom of depression, it is something that people don't notice too often. Maybe they do, but they don't attribute it to depression. I think it goes hand in hand with the fact that you don't want to seek help to treat it and that you don't want things to change. Plus, of course, if you are like me, you are likely thinking you deserve to be punished for being such a bad person.

I noticed recently that most of the time that I have known J, when I initiate conversations about some chores/tasks that we need to collaborate on to finish, he seems distracted and preoccupied with something else. He behaves like a little school kid being forced to listen to a lecture that he/she is not interested in. I used to think of this a rude, unkind, inconsiderate behavior.

Two nights back, I was at my apartment, feeling nice and refreshed after a relaxing session of EMDR. I am usually hesitant to initiate conversations. But I felt great about myself and I decided to call J on Skype. The conversation started smoothly. J was happy that I called and was playful and clowning around as usual. However, I had to initiate some serious conversation about his health and the things that we need to get done for his birthday party this weekend.

As soon as I did, however, he seemed to zone out. He started picking up things from his desk and shelves and examining them and rearranging them. He was listening to my monologue all throughout. When his turn to respond came up, he did not have much to say. This slowly built up to a point when I waited for a full minute for a response. Of course, I didn't get any.

I decided that it was time to let him know what I thought. And I did. He didn't receive it well. The conversation was awkward and he hung up unceremoniously. This was not uncharacteristic of J and the conversations that we have.

I closed Skype and started working on one of the tracks I was working on, and got lost in it. In about half hour's time, I got a call from J on Skype. This time he acknowledged that he realizes that he has been distracted and he wants to snap out of it. As usual, I suggested that he get an appointment with his shrink about it.

As a concluding note, I feel that I did something good. At the very least, I think I was successful in reinitiating the process of recuperation.

A conversation with Vinokur

It's been almost four years since I broke up with Vinokur. The phrase "broke up" seems harsh to describe what had really happened. Maybe I should paraphrase it as transitioning from a phase in our relationship to another phrase, where the balance between friendship and affection is different. Although it was initially difficult for both of us (I think) to remain in touch with each other and be each other's best friends, like we were during our romantic relationship, we maintained contact, albeit sparse, in the initial few months.

The conversations that we tended to have usually started with a background of him needing some advice from me regarding his health problems or me needing him as a friend who I trust to confide in during the darkest phases of my depression. Yes, even now, Vinokur is one of the few people that I trust well enough to expose my precarious mental states during crises. However, despite us hanging up almost every time saying something like, "That was very enjoyable. Maybe we should do this more often," we hardly seemed to be able to keep our word and only Skyped once every couple of months or so. This has been severe since early April, when my present phase of depression kicked in. As the usual trend during such phases, I have been avoiding conversations. However, this time around, I've been avoiding Skype conversations as well with almost everyone, including my faithful confidants. In fact, I think I have had only three or four brief conversations, one each with Blummer, Mickles3, and Billiards, but none with Vinokur.

So two night's back, Vinokur wrote me after posting a photo of me on Facebook, which got a lot of reactions. I have also been off of Facebook since early April and all I get are notifications in my email. So I didn't know which photo it was and what the reactions were like. Vinokur had simply written, "Will you have time to talk?" When I receive such messages from him, I usually end up worrying whether there is some big problem in his life that he needs my help with. That's how my mind makes me think. That is, it makes me think that the only reason why someone ever would want to have a conversation with me is because they cannot help avoid it.

My apprehension was slightly alleviated after I told Jay (my boyfriend) that Vinokur had written me. As always, Jay calmed me down and said that may be Vinokur simply wants to talk with me. May be he simply misses you and wants to get back in touch with you. Along with that, Jay forwarded the aforementioned photograph on Whatsapp. Vinokur had taken that photo at a market near our apartment when he visited India in 2008. I felt relieved to see the photo--my fear of something wrong happening in Vinokur's life forcing him to have a conversation with me seemed less likely.

We finally had our conversation last night, and it lasted almost four hours! Just like the good ol' times, with the only pleasant change being that I was sipping a nice blended scotch the whole time. It's amazing how we can sustain a conversation over such a seemingly long duration. We talked about everything--such as, his health, my health, my depression, the books we were reading, the things we were watching, the podcasts that I wanted him to check out, why I'm not being on Facebook (because of it being intimidating, something that I posted on Reddit and got a few interesting and supportive responses for)--in between spells of laughter and linguistic lessons (from him to me). It felt really good.

Anyway, during this conversation, I introduced him to the concept of mindfulness meditation* as well as the other measures that my shrink/therapist duo are employing in their efforts to get me back on track. Within a few hours of us hanging up, almost serendipitously, I received a link from him which seemed to tie up several things that we were talking about last night. More on that below**.

It may seem strange to others when I confess that I get a lot of strength and courage out of such conversations/interactions. In fact, this entire series of events--from Vinokur posting a photo of me to Facebook to the conversation that we had about me not being on Facebook--may eventually lead to me thawing myself out from Facebook hibernation! Wish me luck! Also, thank Vinokur and Jay! :)

*If you are unaware of mindfulness, I strongly recommend that you check out this video of a Google talk by Jon Kabat-Zinn, the guy who made meditation mainstream in the world of modern medicine.

**I have written in detail about what this link is about on Neverlast. Here's the tweet that Tumblr sent out after I posted it. If you are interested in psychology, you may want to check it out, especially if you have had problems with depression and anxiety.

People do not like to be alone - a scientific fact - If you are like me, having grown up in a relatively... http://t.co/c5h2Z89pA7
— Krishna Kumar V. (@krishna_kumar_v) July 27, 2014

A fantastic weekend

I have been keeping this from all of you guys. Four weeks back, I met a wonderful guy (guess what, another American!) who lives not too far from Mumbai. Again, it was on SilverDaddies.com chat room #1. Our daily routine since then has been a good conversation on Skype over scotch/beer (for me) and martini/wine (for him) in the evening.

To take it to the next step, Bill and I decided to meet up. Bill came over for the weekend. To celebrate the occasion, and also to learn as much as I can from a liquor aficionado, I replenished my modest liquor cabinet at home – with cognac, gin, vermouth, champagne, and blended scotch. I even bought some martini glasses and champagne flutes.

So, over the two days and nights, we got to know about each other much more intimately than we had been able to. Plus, we were able to enjoy alcohol and Mumbai life just the way they are supposed to be enjoyed. As with Joe, the sleeping arrangement was inadequate, but Bill was able to adjust.

Bill is a compulsory home maker – by that, I mean that he loves interior decoration. It was no surprise when he commented on the fact that my apartment can only be done if we buy everything new from scratch and put some paint on my walls. But again, it’s not MY apartment – I rent it. Plus, I plan to move out next year. Maybe Bill will be able to decorate my new apartment. Who knows?

Battling depression

The past few months, I have been relatively quiet – everywhere, not just on the blog. The depression is at it again. Forcing me to feel bad about myself and incompetent, and making me think of suicide. It makes me want to avoid meeting and talking to people or engage in group activities. The only thing that I have been wanting to do is to go home when I’m at work and to go to work when I’m at home.

Work keeps me engaged and the wonderful family of colleagues that I work with keep me relatively upbeat for most of the working day. Occasionally, one of them would send me an instant message asking me what’s wrong and remind me to start smiling and laughing again. At home, I spent most of the time consuming entertainment – movies, television series, sports, entertainment, social networking, etc. Nothing productive ever happens.

For the few gigs that I had during these months, I managed to work enough to just rehearse enough both by myself and with the bands. The only time I really enjoyed myself is when I was playing live in front of a receptive audience. Some of my friends in my musical circles seem to understand. But I can feel that my band mates are very frustrated with me. I avoid contact with them as much as possible and, on occasions, have postponed/canceled rehearsal sessions at the last minute.

For those who don’t know, I have broken up with Joe. Crazy stuff happened and I was depressed enough to let it happen and not take any measures to prevent the catastrophe. My nadir coincidentally coincided with the breakup.

The last time when I was such a low, Vinokur helped me out. He got in touch with my psychiatry resident friend here and asked her to prescribe something for me. She did. She put me on a cocktail. Escitalopram + Clonazepam + Haloperidol. I have been religiously adhering to the prescription for the best part of the last 3 years.

But now, I think I need a change. Maybe a new shrink. Someone who doesn’t  know me. Someone who can arrive at a diagnosis and start treatment afresh.

A visit

A couple of years back, I was seeing someone. He helped me through my painful breakup with Vinokur. We dated for nearly 6 months, after which he had to leave to pursue his job elsewhere. Well, he was visiting Mumbai as part of a vacation and he was able to find some time to meet up with me.

We met at the airport and the memories started flooding my mind. I brought him home and he took a shower. He dried right in front of me – we were comfortable with each other. After he put on his shorts, I went up to him, we looked into each others eyes, and kissed for a brief second. That was simply beautiful.

Then, we settled in the living room over scotch and beer. We talked about what about our lives – past, present, and future. I even got out my dormant doctor mode to try and help him with some issues that he was facing with his back.

We went out for dinner and then we came back home, talked for some more time. At the stroke of midnight, he left on a Meru Cab to the airport, from where he was flying back to Europe, where he worked.

What an experience! With a former, umm, perhaps a lover! Beautiful.

Crazy. Cool. Scary.

Six days into his first visit to Mumbai, Joe made plans to go out on his own to explore the city. Not just on a cab or a rickshaw – he had plans to travel by the overcrowded suburban railway network. Mind you, he can’t speak/understand Hindi, and people can barely understand when he says things like ‘Andheri Station’.

When I left him at the apartment for work, I didn’t know how the hours were going to pass by. What if he would get lost? What if something would happen to him? What if someone swindles him?

Of course, he had a mobile phone with him and we kept in touch by SMS. Incredibly enough, the few lessons that I had given him in getting a rickshaw, deciding which train to take, and getting into the first-class compartment were enough for him to get around by himself.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I read the text message ‘Honey, I’m back home and safe. I had a wonderful day out in the city’ at around 5 pm.

I can’t explain how proud I was. My baby had done the almost impossible! I gave him a big fat hug and a long kiss when he greeted me at the door when I came back home from work. He deserved it!

Hallelujah, freedom after all!

This post might be offensive to many. May be most. But I don’t mean it that way. I’m being honest about what I feel. I feel liberated as if the heaviest burden has been lifted off my shoulders. Of course, this is related to my previous post titled ‘If you have lived alone for a long time, stay that way’.

So, my parents left for home this morning. And I’m really happy that they did. No offense to them. My apartment is tiny and we really don’t get along well. They were fabulous during their stay and although I did my best to cope with the situation, I didn’t do much with them. In fact, I tried to avoid them as much as possible. That’s the honest truth.

I believe my Mom enjoyed her stay in Mumbai than my Dad and she’s already making plans to come back and have her knees operated in Mumbai. But before she can, I need to make sure that I have a big enough apartment where I can get my own private space so that I don’t feel claustrophobic again.

Mom and Dad – I love you as much as I possibly can. But really, we need(ed) more room to make this work.

Dysfunctional families

I’m sure everyone thinks that they belong to a dysfunctional family. I believe that more dysfunctional relationships exist in families than elsewhere. The more I think of it, the more I believe that this might be true.

Think about it. In any other relationship, people are brought together because they are interested in something that is common to them. The key word here is ‘interested.’ In families, people are together because of ‘relations’ and most probably, they have nothing in common except for this ‘relation’.

Relationships need this commonality of interest to flourish. That’s why friendships stay - if you work on them - whereas familial relationships bite the dust. This is true in my case. I don’t have any truly ‘healthy’ relationship with any of my family members.

What’s your opinion?

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.

Old crush, a new beginning?

I met someone this weekend, someone who I have “known” for eight years now, someone who has always been interested in me, someone who asked me again if I was interested.

Back in 2004, when we initially met online, I had no idea about relationships and love. Eight years from then, I felt I have grown so much and I know so much more about the intricacies of the heart.

It was such a pleasure to catch up. And the conversation seamlessly went into furthering our friendship. We are very attracted to each other and he’s planning to visit me early next year.

I don’t know what to say, but I’m very excited about it all. I want everyone to keep their appendages crossed. I think a year and almost-half without having anyone in your life is long enough to be “single.”

The most ironic thing is that he looks like Vinokur and has the same nick name! :-O At least that’s what my friends and family told me when I showed them his photo.

Plans for the winter

Last year, I had made elaborate plans to use up my leaves (from work). I had plans to go to Goa, Hyderabad, Lucknow etc. None of the plans worked out.

This year, the scene is different altogether. There are hardly any gigs coming up outside Mumbai. Besides, Jan 26, 2011, the date that the Professor and I jokingly agreed to try and forge a relationship by, was looming.

So, after consultation with him yesterday on Skype, I booked my round trip to Lucknow in mid-December. Now, I’ve all of my body appendages crossed hoping that the trip would be a pleasant experience.

Meanwhile, I wrote to my Mom and Dad about them visiting me in the winter. They said they will think about the dates and get back to me. Oh, well!

Wonderful Vinokur

Today, received this beautiful note from Vinokur, my ex-boyfriend. Needless to say, he made me happy like no other man has ever has, or perhaps can.

I think my ex, Kris, who lives in Mumbai, loved me more than any lover I've ever had. In fact, I think he still does. He's a wonderful person and I suspect you'd agree. Although he's a Hindu by birth and was named for Lord Krishna, he's an atheist now. He's a very fine rock musician.

Thank you, Vinokur!