Engayging Life

Yes, I am alive and I'm still blogging. Regularly. But on WordPress because offers an easier workflow for me. Here is a selection of what I have been writing.

• Reading of a Reader, where I write about what I'm reading
• Nine Months, a note about I getting clear to restart motorcycle riding
• Revelations In Review, where I have disappointing revelations about the lack of progress I've made in my goals
• Gunny (a standalone short story), which is self-explanatory (but fiction)
  
• Rene (1/x), the first installment of a story that I'm pantsing on.
  

Over the past two weeks, I have tried exporting my blog content from WordPress to Blogger, but I have failed. All the converters seem to have been deprectated, and the straightforward XML export < > import doesn't seem to work.

You can find me https://engayginglife.wordpress.com/

So this is it. It is likely my last post on Blogger. This is where I had my five seconds of fame, but things have to end. 

But I'll be posting regularly (dare I say daily) on WordPress. See you there!

Thank you for all the years of patronage!

Today was good despite it being terrible. Good because I was able to accomplish things despite some situations being totally stacked against me.

I had my regular therapy this morning. It was interesting because of the parallels that I’m drawing to the twins Rahel and Estha in the book ”The God of Small Things” by Arundhati Roy. In a nutshell, that book has somehow captured a bunch of experiences (including traumatic ones) in my childhood, and by reading it, I have kinda relived them and also gained perspective on how things are like for kids in Kerala.

I also realized that the twins are kinda my friends now. Imaginary or not, they are likely to understand and feel the stuff that I went through. Roy’s writing has also inspired me to get back to trying to write my own stories. You know, that thing I keep on trying to make happen, but it hasn’t yet. More on that later.

Sometime later in the morning, I decided that I’m going to take it easy with my physical therapy exercise schedule. Like taking the leg day off, and in my case it is literally taking both the leg days off.

Must have been the beers last night. Oh yeah, I did walk (cough, cough) over to a watering hole last night. Met up with friends from a team that I’m no longer working in, but sure I’m working with.

Why the italics and coughing, you ask? Because I limp/hobble instead of walk.

Okay. But why? Rather, how? And what physical therapy? What’s going on?

Well, well, well. I guess it is time to lay it all out here.

Nine weeks ago

Did I tell you that I’m very much into motorcycling? If I hadn’t, I really should write about it. It’s been going on for a couple of years. Serious stuff. Bought a Honda CB350 two years ago. Bought all the safety gear. Started riding long and regular. More like a mental feat than a physical one. Meditative and awe-inspiring. More on that later.

One bike is not enough for two riders with distinctly different everything, including riding style, temperament, and preferences. The second rider is J, of course. Yeah, he’s also into motorcycling. Pretty much has always been, but has finally turned a corner in terms of doing motorcycling seriously.

This meant borrowing someone else’s bike. Thankfully, my friend and band mate is a sweetheart, and he has been lending his bike for the last two years. But this was tiring, primarily because I had to pick up the bike from his place, which is about 1.5 hours from my place (in Mumbai traffic) and that added about 4 hours of extra ride time on an otherwise 10- to 12-hour riding days.

The solution was simple. Get another bike. So we did. But it was a bit of a rush, and the monetary transactions didn’t go through on the night of the first long ride with J riding with all the newly-bought safety gear.

So the night before, I did my 3-h schlepp to get my friend’s bike. And so we did what we have been doing for a few months.

But this time it was J’s ride. And my friend’s bike isn’t as fast (or safe) as mine. And I ride slower and safer than J. And J rides my bike. I can’t fuck up J’s first big ride. So I ended up making a risky decision with my friend’s bike jamming its brakes on me.

But wait, I was wearing protective gear, right? So no scratches on me. The bike’s got a few, but minor. But then what happened?

So I buckled my knee in an effort to quickly get back on the bike. The incident did happen on a very poor part of the road to Mahabaleshwar (it’s a gorgeous hill station on the Western Graters, approximately 200 km southeast of Mumbai), and there were trucks around, with one kinda heading toward me. So I must have panicked.

Long story short (not really, right) I had multiple-ligament tear of my left knee. This was about two months ago, and I underwent arthroscopic repair two weeks after the incident. Done by my junior from my alma mater, but not at the alma mater, but at a private hospital. Because it would be easier for J to take care of me.

It was painful. Especially the first two days and then in the first two weeks, and so on. J took care of me. Even during the difficult times. I was difficult to be with, and it was difficult for me to be with others, but it worked out.

I was on crutches or hopping in the first 6 postoperative weeks. A week ago, I started using a walking stick. You know, one of those modern ones.

In the 7 days since, I have tried to find excuses to step out of the apartment and walk. The newly unveiled Metro 2A did give me motivation, and so did the walk to the bar to meet my friends and have a couple of beers.

Cut to present

So yeah, I took it easy. My excuse was that I had other problems to solve. Like my relatively expensive MacBook Pro throttling every time I do anything related to video capturing or rendering. I have been in touch with both Apple Support and Logitech Support (cuz the camera’s from Logitech), and despite them both being helpful (or trying to be so), my problem remained.

So I had to figure shit out myself. And I reckoned it was a good enough reason to take it easy.

Also, I had a bunch of walking/hobbling to do. I had an off on Republic Day and my surgeon (my friend) was free to meet, and I wanted to see if he thought I could expedite my recovery.

So instead of doing physical therapy, I watched art lessons on YouTube. Got inspired.

Wait, what? Art? Since when?

Six weeks ago

I was in pain and I couldn’t do the stuff that I used to. So I decided to revisit sketching and painting (watercolors). Revisiting because I used to sketch my lecturers at Medical College, apart from sketching cats.

I (re)started small, but since then, I have gone on to purchase some basic/serious sketching/painting material. I even have a fanny back with art supplies. You know, to pain rocks and stuff on the go.

So far, my primary subject is Blu. In fact, just before I started writing this, I was sketching yet another bust shot of her.

Just like the 1.7 billion people around the world right now, I’m learning almost exclusively by watching YouTube. It’s pretty cool, I’ll say. The video medium does help especially in this case as I watch time lapses of the experts doing art.

Cut to present

So on my way switching between three lines of trains (two Metro lines and a suburban/local), I sketched. On the way back too.

I felt good. Sort of taking pride in listening to art instructors say stuff like, “sketch every day”, “fill up your sketchbook”, “take a sketchbook with you wherever you go” and all that jazz.

But that’s not the only thing. My surgeon/friend concluded that I can indeed start going a bit more aggressive with my transition to full weight-bearing, i.e., without assistance. That’s just great.

In between all of this, I did manage to grab dinner at the Mallu restaurant where I used to grab lunches/dinner when I was at my alma mater, mentoring my surgeon/friend. That felt nice.

And then I come back home and go through a complicate list of steps to try and un-throttle the MacBook Pro. Didn’t/hasn’t worked out. So my only way out seems to be a factory reset. And if that doesn’t work, oh lord, I don’t even want to think that I might need to buy yet another machine!

So in between all of this, I thought I should listen to my instructors’ advice, but on something that I haven’t been spending time on—writing.

And that’s why I’m writing—and presumably you are reading—this.

They say that life’s all about finding a purpose. Something to live for. Something to aspire to. Somewhere to aim at.

I find myself in the mid-dest part of a mid-life lull where I don’t think I know have answers. Not that I claim to always have had answers or that I will have answers moving forward.

But right now, as I type this, I’m in the middle of a week where I just heard yet another reason as to why I won’t be finding some answers.

I find myself at a crossroads without really knowing what I’m doing to earn a living—which is not quite what I was supposed to be doing to earn a living, by the way—is what I’m supposed to be doing.

Sure, everyone has been there or they will be there. No big deal. At least not until they find themselves there.

I know that I want to learn things that I don’t know I want to learn. I know that I want to experience others’ thoughts and feelings and vision in as close a way as possible with the original artistic intent.

With the knowledge that I gain from there, I know I want to write and create art. I know I want to build a legacy with these artistic and creative endeavors.

I suppose I must make it clear that they visions that I have are not restricted to music. As a musician, however, I know that I don’t know if I’m the right performer for the art that I have created thus far.

The idyl of clarity—maybe that’s a bit too far—of a lack of fuzziness. Maybe I’ll have that in a month’s time. Maybe I’ll grow a big enough pair and decide to step away from comforting mediocrity to challenging uncertainty.

Crossroads everywhere. Career, music, life.

It’s been yet another break. Months have passed and I have been stuck in my shell. Been working on things, as usual, but nothing to showcase.

I am a content creator. I was. Maybe I’m trying to be once again. Content creators are expected to be consistent in content generation and publishing.

At the top of every week, I make a list of things to focus on. I write “Write” and “Blog” like clockwork.

It’s been tough to admit defeat at the end of every week. Like many, I don’t like admitting defeat.

I learned some coding but it has already become just another thing for which I can beat myself up.

Also I finally had COVID. Mild to moderate symptoms. It has been a different experience, and I probably contracted it at a packed gig.

I had one of the most incredible experiences playing at that gig. I have been taking vocal lessons and I have been singing better than ever. Yet I have never felt closer to giving up on music.

Remember my decision to not be active on social media? The thing that musicians and content creators need to be good at to be successful. I continue to not be sensible.

Read a bunch of books. Watched a bunch of shows. I guess that’s what is occupying more of my time.

One TV show reference worth mentioning. Best Quality Vacuum. And I guess I want to pick up and say

“I need a dust filter for a Hoover Max extract pressure pro model 60. Can you help me with that?”

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.

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?

Forty-seven minutes past eight in the morning. I’m late but I’m there, and that’s a relief. I have a few moments—precisely thirteen—until the grey-clad security personnel start wanting me out. I must hurry, but I must also slow down.

I must practice what I preach I will practice.

The heart’s heavy or loud. On second thoughts, maybe it is fast and loud. The cut-out shirt, one size too small, clings on to my skin through an interface of a mixture of salts and water. It’s black and has the outline of three pairs of bipeds etched in grey.

I had picked it up from a table littered with same-sex merchandise. In exchange, I had parted with two currency notes, maybe three. The other stuff was too loud, like my heart is now. The people were loud too, relatively at least. Some would say they were just expressive, they were just free, they were just liberated. But all of this is only within the  walls that surround the table and the people. Once they walk out, they become quiet; they become subdued and suppressed. I too will walk out, but I will not be remarkably quieter.

Once you are at the bottom, you don’t have the drive to dig any further.

Not to forget the cycling shorts that confine my modesty. They are black too but no grey figures adorn them. There is a neatly cut out cushion sown in, to not let the hard seat dig in too far. Funny how when not on a bicycle, someone like me is supposed to look forward to hard things being dug in. Not too far because then won’t fun anymore. Until it gets to be fun again at least for one of the two.

My mind’s racing. The parts of it that have gotten lost somewhere must have made it light and nimble. But my mind is always heavy. Okay, a bit of hyperbole. Not always, but most of the time. That’s why I’m here trying to slow it down. The brisk jog must not have helped, but then the mind is not the heart even though hundreds of poets might have tried to convince us otherwise.

Focus. Look ahead.

I’m surprised to realize that my eyes were open all this while, but I hadn’t been seeing things. Not to imply that I’m blind, which I am not. I can see longer and clearer than I ought to, something I lean on to distance myself from my lineage, many of whom indirectly brought food to the tables of the families of optometrists. The first signs of the eventual submission to the ravages of old age have made their appearance as evidenced by blurring of gigantic signs planted far away. The psychological barricade that seems to install itself between the optic nerves and the temporal cortices seemed to be fueled partially by this optical loss. The cycle might be vicious, but my frontal cortex is up to scratch.

Observe and record.

Five types of palms, the names of which I’m not sure of, are probosces of varying length sticking out of the freshly watered lawn. One is a Chinese fan palm and another is a date palm, thanks to lessons lent by the lover during past lolls. The names of the other trees are even scarcer, but not those of the avians resting atop their branches. A family of flying rats dispersed across five trees, with a solitarian grooming itself, its grey outline sufficiently contrasting with the light blue sky. The nebulous army seem to have declared a ceasefire unlike its counterparts in Myanmar and Russia. Three black crows and a mynah are also in the party that did not require RSVPs.

Good going, but check back on your heart. Nothing in there or so it seems. Not even the loudness in the ears. Did I lose my earphones? Phew! I hadn’t, because I would be even more blind thanks to the noise.

Now let’s look at some mammals.

Unfortunately, not even a single quadruped one available for observation. Among the ones that are, one is learning to not use his two longer limbs for locomotion. He is on a skateboard, wobbly at best, sticking close to the median, propped on either side by his friends. A couple walk slowly past them on the far side of the road skirts the garden, lost in conversation. None of them have masks on, by the way, maybe as a sign of protest to the authorities.

Wait a minute, do I have mine on? No! Mine is on my neck, but then again I was alone and I had just finished a run. My excuse is better, at least until I get the dreaded virus one of these days.

Back to the road.

The most elegant posture. On a pink bicycle about thirty seconds behind the trio with the skateboard. The woman on the saddle seems to be the only one at peace with the world. She is wearing pink too, what a coincidence. A gentle brisk pace, maybe nine kilometers per hour. I know because I ride at thirteen when I’m not trying to race.

Now that she has gone, I need to find something else to look at.

I’m sitting on a wooden garden bench, and across me is another. Too close to each other, placed awkwardly toward the center of the ramada without much thought. Or maybe too much thought for the pair of security guards to nap during the day when no one’s looking. There is even a cast iron bolt that sticks out from the front where it shouldn’t have been left. If someone were to draw blood around where I am sitting today, they would be somethings and have four legs.

I think I have looked enough. Time to close my eyes. Making myself physically blind again, but now without the chorus of the heart in my ears. It’s time to try mindfulness and grounding.

I’m not sure if what I'm about to write is _read-worthy_. I can think of people who might argue that that anything that someone thinks up and records in text is worth reading but I haven’t come across one yet.

I am writing now because I haven't in a while and I have been meaning to. I write for the sake of writing more than to make a point. What I write tends to end up on my blog because that is how it had always been.

I used to do this with intent a few years ago. I believe that what I think up and record in text should be recorded somewhere where someone might find it at some point and think, ‘Wow, people did take themselves too seriously.’

My therapist thinks that I should write more often, probably because I tell her that it's therapeutic. Many think that the world is at its selfish worst, and that people do things to make themselves better. Going by that logic, my therapist shouldn't be advising me about how to get better without her getting paid.

Yet she does. So does my shrink. Both seem measured, level-headed, well-intending people trying to do their jobs. They earn money in return of taking care of others with psychological troubles. I was supposed to do the same in a more physical manner, but I instead decided to pursue my artistic/creative side twelve years ago.

I write because I feel good when I do. To be more precise, I feel better _after_ I finish writing. I feel like I have accomplished something. Everyone is trying to accomplish something or the other, which involves keeping themselves busy and labelling themselves productive.

I like to think that I’m being busy and productive. When I started typing this, I had two content streams assaulting me. A live cricket match on the TV and a on-demand mixed martial arts event on a screen above the one that I’m typing into.

I was hardly paying any attention to the cricket match, mostly because I could rewind it if I realised that I missed seeing something exciting. Mixed martial arts is the perfect blend of athletic artistry and primeval violence, and the event I was streaming was something that I had wanted to watch.

It was difficult to focus on what I wanted to write or whether I wanted to write at all. It would have been either writing or reading, but writing is what I felt like I haven’t done enough.

So I continued writing. It's a pretty easy way to feel as if you have done something worthwhile without caring about the actual worth of the thing you did or the time you spent doing it.

I have anxiety probably because I do many things at at time. Yet I am forced to because I feel like I haven't done enough. The cause is the effect is the cause.

I feel the need for people to tell me that I did well. My life feels like a constant battle to prove to everyone that I’m worth existing. I guess I’m chasing my own legacy.

Legacy is something that gets built over the course of someone’s life without them having a say in whether they want one. The foundation is laid before you know what it is. Then you spend the rest of your life building on it in an effort to save yourself the embarrassment of leaving it unfinished.

Foundations left unattended eventually become pretty when the elements take over, but the people who tried but failed to build on them won’t live long enough to see the cosmetic makeover of the thing that symbolizes their failures.

The other day, someone contacted me on a dating app.

Before we get any further -- Yes, I am partnered and I'm still active on these dating apps. To hell with idealized, restrictive, socially reinforced "monogamy". I'm still monogamous sexually/emotionally, but that is a choice because the relationship that I'm in would benefit from it. I still enjoy chatting and flirting with people from around the world. And yes, some of the material on these dating sites is very good fodder for masturbation.

So among the several who contact me on these dating apps, one stood out. This younger man seemed to find my profile interested and found me "sane and sorted". He then went on to check my blog(s) (I guess both Engayging Life and Neverlast). In the chat conversation that followed, where we discussed how this blog was way more mainstream than it is now, he suggested that I took some time out from my otherwise busy life, contribute to the community.

In other words, he proposed that my writings could still be relevant in the current day and age to help LGBTQI folk. Interviews and op-eds, maybe.

I discuss such things with my partner and a close friend. My partner, admittedly jealous (yes, I am ashamed that jealousy is still a thing in our relationship) suggested that the nice words was pure flattery. The friend thought that this was not such a bad idea.

Hmmmm.

Blogging seems so late 2000s these days, at least for me.

Until about 6 years ago, around the time I met J, this blog used to be where I opened my heart out, and let loose all the shit that my brain came up with. I'm not suggesting that the outlet that I had on this blog has somehow been replaced by a man. No, not at all. Yet, I admit that we do have strange conversations. But that's not why I stopped writing here.

Life became packed. Dating someone within the same geographical boundaries means that your social life kinda doubles. Plus music. Gigs, rehearsals, gigs, and more. Plus, ever heard of social media and podcasts?

Yet, a few years ago, when I was visiting my parents in Thiruvananthapuram, I scratched that itch to write again. Write blogs, that is. I had just started exploring Tumblr and I thought, Why not? Tumblr had a nice app which you could easily draft posts in. It was more intuitive for sharing images/gifs. Why not, indeed? That's how Neverlast was born.

Strangely enough [with three heaped scoops of irony], Tumblr became my desirable source of erotica. Anyway, Tumblr, for some fucking reason, does not let you have multiple user accounts on the app. That was a huge dampner to my blogging efforts. Since then, I have linked  my Instagram to Tumblr, and Neverlast gets all my instas, yo.

Coming to the point -- I'm back with my parents. Some slight changes, though. They are in Chennai. My father is in his deathbed. My mother has become even more complaining and talkative than she was before. I'm here helping my sister out to manage my parents. I'm somehow able to meaningfully communicate and spend time with a child (my niece)! But I have become even more averse to talking on the phone to other people (like J) and share what craziness I'm going through.

This means that all day I go through an exquisitely frustrating ordeal of managing chaos, noise, interruptions, while attempting to work from home. This is indeed no fun. I get my shit together once my Mom goes to bed around 10 pm. And today, I have work to finish. So I took a shower to rinse myself off all the frustration. And in the shower, I thought - Why not, indeed?

So I am going to try and microblog on Neverlast once more. You are welcome to check it out.

Life shouldn't be a series of things that need fixing.

— Krishna Kumar V. (@krishna_kumar_v) June 5, 2015

I can't believe my own life, which seems like a series of unfortunate events I'm being dragged through. Despite me planning and coordinating than most people I know, I am annoyed with the chaotic sequence of events.

After I returned after my vacation, I spent about a week staying over at the boyfriend's place. The first day after I returned, I spent almost half the day trying to put things away and sort things out at his apartment. I was overwhelmed by the things that seemed to be staring at me to get done, and I voiced my concerns to the boyfriend.

At work, things are generally smooth, but I am generally disappointed by people not pulling their weight in activities where I eventually need to do extra just to cover up for them.

When I came back to my apartment a few days back, I found that my TV tuner card was not working and my AC was not cooling well enough. I immediately started fixing things.

Two nights back, I went to the electronics store where I was told that they don't have a cheap replacement adapter for my card, and they asked me to come later. After a series of calls, I got my AC guy to visit and service my AC late the same night. After apparently servicing it, he said that it would work well for 6 to 8 months.

Yesterday night, I came back at 2 am after a rehearsal and found that the AC was not working. I spent the night in my very warm and uncomfortable apartment. Today morning, I called my AC guy who said that he would need to take a look at the unit when there is still daylight.

Temperature outside: 32C Temperature in my apartment: 35C Temperature at my desk in my kitchen: 40C #Mumbai

— Krishna Kumar V. (@krishna_kumar_v) June 5, 2015

After talking to my mangers at work and adjusting my work, I came home early to let the AC guy in. The usual guy sent two junior guys, who told me that there was something wrong with the unit and they needed to take it to their service center and fix it. They said it will at least take 24 hours. So no AC for tonight.

After they went with the unit, I called the electronics store to confirm that the replacement adapters had arrived. I started to the store -- of course, I couldn't find a rickshaw, thanks to chaotic mess Andheri West is. At the shop, I tried the adapters that they had ordered. None worked.

Of course, they didn't seem interested in helping me out in any other way. I decided that it was pointless to try and find an adapter. So I decided on buying a new TV tuner card! When I did, their card machine wouldn't work and it took them about 15 minutes to fix it.

When I was waiting for the card machine to start working, I was told by my friends in the book club that they won't be able to make it because of commitments at work. Mind you, we had planned it five weeks in advance, and they canceled it about 1 hour before the meeting was about to happen. I can't believe this.

I came back home with the TV tuner card and found out that my LED rope was not working. I took it down to the shop from where I had bought it -- those guys, so unprofessional, tried to fix it and damaged a component right in front of my eyes. Then, they said that it had been damaged and needed replacement. Of course, I bought the replacement, but when I told them that they had damaged it, they just shook their head in typical Indian style.

By the time I eventually got home, I was very frustrated. I found solace in a Skype chat with Billy with some Budweiser Magnum to cool me down. After I finished the chat, I decided to go to bed and texted the boyfriend.

He restarted what seems to be an endless series of text messaging-based attention-seeking behavior that seems to happen each time I spend time at my own apartment. He asked me questions like "Why are you avoiding me?" Of course, I was not avoiding him -- I am just trying to fix things. If only he would understand that it would help if our communication wasn't a thing that needed fixing.

To make tonight perfect, all I need is my power to go, internet to be down, PC to crash, wallet to be lost, and phone to get stolen. #Mumbai

— Krishna Kumar V. (@krishna_kumar_v) June 5, 2015

What if I tell you that even chick-lit can inspire you? Please don't unfollow me. #books

— Krishna Kumar V. (@krishna_kumar_v) June 5, 2015

The phrase "home, sweet home"* does not make a lot of sense, at least in my own life.  All these seemingly glorified images of coming home, kicking back your shoes, and enjoying the treasures of life, do not seem to resonate with my life living in Mumbai. Although I am partnered, I don't live in with my partner. In fact, I need to divide by "home time" between three locations. All of these locations have issues that need fixing. 

What is this bullshit that I hear about people going home to relax? Why don't we also start believing in fairies and magic beans?

— Krishna Kumar V. (@krishna_kumar_v) June 2, 2015

First of all, I need to make it to the place I am staying over on any particular night through the chaotic mess referred to as public transportation. This is probably the most stressful part of my day. People on the roads seem to be so low in self-esteem that they seem to channel their anger/rage through horns and bizarre driving. Of course, the remarkably unintuitive traffic rules/regulations don't help.

Once I reach my destination, there are dozens of things that need to be done, including chores and errands, and my time is usually spent in fixing things. Apart from these are the things that you need to tackle in other supposedly pleasurable aspects of your life--news to catch up with, e-mails to respond, people to communicate with, socializations to be planned, shows to watch/listen, photos to work on, songs to work on, things to rehearse, and books to finish.

By the time you are done with a couple of these things, you are so exhausted and want to go to bed. In bed, you drift away worrying about how to tackle the pending issues and about not getting enough sleep that night. When you wake up, you feel tired and you have to start to work.

The trend of finding home as a stressful aspect of life is not something that I have picked up after moving to Mumbai. For most of my life with my family, I dreaded going home and confront my parents and/or relatives. I used to like going over to my friends' places because I found them more open, inviting, and stress-free.

So tell me again--where's the "sweet" part of our own homes?

(PS: If you are wondering about the punctuation of the phrase, please check this link.)

I often joke about being selfish. Although I don't consider myself excessively so, I think I am selfish to the extent that humans should be from the evolutionary point of view. I blame most of it on my body, which probably doesn't yet realize that I am part of a sentient species that has socially leapfrogged. The body forces us to eat when it's hungry, forces us to sleep when it's tired, and forces us to feel edgy when it feels threatened.

From a moral perspective, however, the way we behave toward others is more worrying. What's even more alarming is the way the friends that we care for a lot behave toward us. Most of them, regardless of how much ever they seem to and profess to love us, seem to be only behind furthering their own agenda.

A typical example is correspondence. We initiate communication with them expecting them to respond in kind. We take the time out to list down all the necessary points that you deemed as important to communicate. We hit send and wait. They may not even respond in what could be considered a socially acceptable time frame, considering the urgency indicated in our communication.

Assuming they do respond, we end up feeling that they have done it in a hurry. The manner of writing seems careless and they may not have addressed all the points we raised. More importantly, they may not even have given the accurate emotional weighting to our points.

Who is to blame? No one. At any point in time, they have pressing demands that occupy their attention and priorities. Would these demands result in them surviving the lion that they just encountered in the savannah? Probably not. But their bodies and minds still make them do the things that might make them more evolutionarily fit.

They may be busy interacting with an online acquaintance that, on the basis of the sensory inputs that their brains receive, may help in them being able to further their genetic pool. They may also be busy responding to social media comments on something that they posted. Of course, not only that they don't want to be an outcast in their social media band, they also want to be leaders of their respective bands.

Our ego is what your body/brain makes us believe is the most prioritizable thing. As part of it, we become selfish, at least from the social and moral perspective, because human brains and minds have woven a story so far advanced from the biochemical mileu that their bodies are immersed in. The best that we can do is to accept this phreno--physiologic gap and move on with life.

Yes, we should forgive friends who seem selfish. We are probably doing even worse, relatively. That's right, folks, because right now, I'm finishing this post on my blog because I think this is the best that I can do to climb a rung up in my social ladder.

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.)

Once you are a blogger, you will always remain one. Agree?

Who are bloggers anyway? Individuals who want their words and thoughts rants to be read, appreciated, and commented on. Although this trend has been significantly dampened by the vicious onslaught of social networking platforms, some bloggers like me remain rather resilient.

Ever since I have been more active here and on Neverlast, I have restarted thinking in terms of who I encounter in my daily life will like what I post. This is what I tweeted earlier.

When you have been blogging for awhile, everyone around you becomes a potential reader.
— Kris Bass (@bass_man_1979) July 26, 2014

Although its quite obvious that everyone is promoting their content/themselves in some way or the other, I feel a tad ashamed. Am I being shallow? Does every blogger think this way? I would love to know your answers.

The last time I changed my blog template, I guess I was in a darker place in my life. I'm not saying that I've come out of it but I see slivers of neutrality in the way I perceive the world. So this afternoon, I was out doing strange things—strange considering that it was a Sunday where I had planned to stay in my apartment, be a hermit, and do my things (i.e., watch sport, read books, work on my guitar-playing skills, and watch TV series).

I took a shower and walked out the door for letting my maid get some time to tidy up my apartment. The only must-do thing on my list was get a strip of an antidepressant medication that I was having trouble getting. I placed a call to the pharmacy to find out that they still haven't received supplies from the company.

I didn't know what to do. I could have come back up to my apartment and sort of crawl into the bed with my Kindle or something. But I didn't. I went to the coffee shop across the road instead and read the book that I was reading, sipping two cups of americano. Strange. Americano has been by go-to-coffee for a few weeks now, after a coffee machine was installed at the office.

Being the state that I am in, I was very distracted. I went about reading like an ADD-affected individual*. Checking my phone every few seconds, zoning out to the two streams of conversations going on in the shop, and reading a few sentences of the book. I was very conscious of how distracted I was.

I must have checked my Twitter feed and something triggered the memory of a blog post in here. The post** is titled My "With Him, I'd Like To Have Sex" (WHILTHS) list". The triggers were two: a tweet from my friend about her Book-et list and my sudden remembrance of an actor from Stargate SG1 who I was horny for.

Do you have a Book-et List? http://t.co/PWCitGgwJr
— Affy K (@hitchhikeress) July 19, 2014

The result was an instantaneous tweet.

I have to add a lot of men to my "With Him, I'd Like To Have Sex" list on http://t.co/09JXSL5I9k
— Kris Bass (@bass_man_1979) July 20, 2014

After doing a couple of other things—getting a shave and doing my groceries listening to a podcast—I came back home all excited and got on my laptop. I looked at my blog. The template that I have been using for a couple of years looked stale and sort of wannabe. I was impatient and I instinctively went for this design. I hope I would like it a couple of weeks from now.

Plus, I have a few ideas for posts. After this is done, I'll start writing them. :)

*I may be an ADD-affected individual, you know.
**Coincidentally enough, this post was posted almost exactly 10 years ago - July 10th, 2004. :-O

A post from my blog got published in today’s DNA. I’m happy and proud. Here’s the link to the original post.

I love that song. It reminds me a lot about the late 1990s when the world was a much better place vis-a-vis music. The period also ushered in an era of WorldSpace - cheap, quality music to the subcontinent. But that's not the point of this post.

It's been awhile since I posted. I have been busy. But more than that, I've been lazy. Apologies.

But I'm back!

:-)

I was involved in a FaceBook status message thread about the Chinese Government imposing sanctions on journalists, when my friend linked me up to this article on Economic Times.

Bloggers call content regulation a gag on freedom

BANGALORE: A proposed government move to regulate content on blogs has ignited a firestorm of protest from the blogging community which is accusing the government of restricting free speech and acting like the guardians of a police state.

At the heart of the issue is the Indian IT Act which was amended in 2008 to incorporate the much-needed changes to clarify the legal position of intermediaries or those who provide web-hosting services, internet service providers and online auction sites.

However, the term intermediaries, for some reason, was also broadened to include blogs, though they neither provide the same kind of services like the ISPs nor have large-scale commercial interests. The law stated that the government should clarify the rules under which the intermediaries should function and the list of prohibitions applicable to them.

The list was published sometime last month and comments were invited from members of the public, bloggers and other members of the intermediaries group. 'Intermediaries' include web hosting providers which would include companies like Amazon , cyber-cafes, payment sites like Paypal , online auction sites, internet service providers like BSNL , Airtel etc.

Blogs also fall in this category as networked service providers. The due diligence specifies that the intermediaries should not display, upload, modify or publish any information that is 'harmful', 'threatening', 'abusive', 'harassing', 'blasphemous', 'objectionable', 'defamatory', 'vulgar', 'obscene', 'pornographic', 'paedophilic', 'libellous', 'invasive of another's privacy', 'hateful', 'disparaging', 'racially , ethnically or otherwise objectionable, 'relating to money laundering or gambling'.

"It's a fundamentally flawed exercise. One has to keep in mind the nuanced role of bloggers. The government needs to understand the power of the blogging community," said Pavan Duggal , senior advocate, Supreme Court and cyber law expert. "The blogosphere has to align themselves to the changes in the norm," he said. "But since the term 'intermediaries' is vaguely and loosely used, the bloggers are right when they express agitation," he added.

A senior government official defended the government's response. "We are in the process of finalising it. We welcome positive feedback and constructive criticism. We might have made a mistake in understanding the public aspect. The public could have a different view point," said a senior government official.

Bloggers fear that the government will use these omnibus terms to charge the writers with almost anything. On Twitter , online users expressed their anger and frustration in equal measure.

"We cannot let the government to play the judge, jury and the executioner in this. Our entire audience is Indian. If our site is blocked, we are gone. I am a small player, everything we have built goes away in one shot," said Nikhil Pahwa, founder and editor of Medianama, a digital business news site.

The penalty under this law are of two kinds. Under the civil penalty, the intermediary could be sued for damage by compensation up to Rs 5 crore per contravention. The criminal penalty is imprisonment for three years to life imprisonment for the top management of the intermediary if it is a company. There are no exceptions to the due diligence.

I'm furious. Since when has India started aping China? And considering what I posted yesterday, will my blog be banned?