Today when so many people we barely know are “friends” on our social networking sites, I am reminded of an episode long time ago. I think I was in class 4 or 5. I knew a girl in my class who I rarely interacted with. She had her own set of friends, belonged to a different state, spoke a different language, and had nothing in common with me. We sat in opposite corners of the classroom. She was short and I was tall, and thus never even stood close to each other in those queues we made during the assembly. The only time I heard her name and her voice was when the teacher took the class attendance every morning and I heard her “present ma’am”.
It so happened that my father happened to know her father, which we discovered accidentally. My father had to go meet her father for some work and asked me if I would like to tag along and visit my friend. I was not very excited at the thought of it and hence decided to stay home.
The rest of the story, we heard from my father. He was at their place when my friend entered to say hi. My father smiled and asked her if she knew he was her school friend’s father. To which she smiled and said yes, and corrected my father saying “Although she is not a friend, she is a classmate”.
My father was very intrigued with the wisdom of a 11 year old. When I heard this, I was angry at first, but later realized that what she said was not to demean or insult me, she just spoke the truth. We must have barely spoken 3 times in school, sat at different corners, never shared or food, never hung out with the same set of friends, and had nothing in common.
Years later, I still appreciate the wisdom of what she said. We use the word “friend” in very general terms, referring to anyone we meet in the train, work with, go to school with, are neighbors with, or even study in the same class with. You go to a class with classmates, go to work with colleagues, and so on. Friend cannot be a generalized word used to describe classmates, colleagues, or contacts. Someone who is not a friend doesn’t necessarily have to be an enemy. But not everyone you are civil to and in good terms with is a friend.
On the same note, it would be interesting to have categories like classmates, colleagues, contacts, neighbors, relatives, etc. on these social networking sites. True, not everyone is a friend.
sunshine
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The conversation I needed
It’s been more than 2 months and I am still looking for a job. It’s been frustrating, scary, and disappointing. The fact that I live alone in a huge house only added to my depression. Unexplainable, but I have had mood swings. I have cried myself to sleep. I have refused to answer phone calls from friends. I have snapped at friends when I need not have. I have tried to explain to myself that it is just a phase that shall pass. I have tried taking care of myself, almost as if I was another person taking care of me. My innards have experienced every raw emotion- pain, fear, agony, numbness, rejection, and more. I have tried to hold on and keep moving.
At some point, I decided not to give up, but apply to school again. One of the things I needed to do was to call my ex-colleague and school principal to request for recommendation letters. The first call never went through, and the second had so much background noise that nothing could be heard. It was the familiar noise of children in the school screaming. How I missed my other life back in Kolkata.
When the call finally went through, we talked for a long time. I told her how lost I felt here, how disoriented and depressed I was, unwanted in my job. I was amazed at how I had vocalized my fears for the first time, and that too to a person living half way across the globe with who I had shared a very formal and professional relationship.
“You were a very good teacher, and I know you will do well. You will find a job. And even if you don’t, come back. You will always have your job ready for you back here”.
These must have been the magic words I needed to hear, some kind of positive reinforcement, someone telling me I was good enough and more, that I am capable and worthy. Those were the magic words I had least expected from her. After that, I got a strength I did not have before but so very needed it.
I decided not to look back. I decided to apply to schools. If I had done it once, I can do it again. I still live on my own and feel depressed at times. Who wouldn’t? But with that, I feel a strength, a confidence from the knowledge that not all doors are closed for me. It’s amazing how a little bit of acceptance does wonders, and how strength and encouragement comes from the least expected places.
sunshine
At some point, I decided not to give up, but apply to school again. One of the things I needed to do was to call my ex-colleague and school principal to request for recommendation letters. The first call never went through, and the second had so much background noise that nothing could be heard. It was the familiar noise of children in the school screaming. How I missed my other life back in Kolkata.
When the call finally went through, we talked for a long time. I told her how lost I felt here, how disoriented and depressed I was, unwanted in my job. I was amazed at how I had vocalized my fears for the first time, and that too to a person living half way across the globe with who I had shared a very formal and professional relationship.
“You were a very good teacher, and I know you will do well. You will find a job. And even if you don’t, come back. You will always have your job ready for you back here”.
These must have been the magic words I needed to hear, some kind of positive reinforcement, someone telling me I was good enough and more, that I am capable and worthy. Those were the magic words I had least expected from her. After that, I got a strength I did not have before but so very needed it.
I decided not to look back. I decided to apply to schools. If I had done it once, I can do it again. I still live on my own and feel depressed at times. Who wouldn’t? But with that, I feel a strength, a confidence from the knowledge that not all doors are closed for me. It’s amazing how a little bit of acceptance does wonders, and how strength and encouragement comes from the least expected places.
sunshine
To the random desi man
Dear random-person in the Indian store,
I go to the store for a reason. I go there to buy the essentials I need, food items, good movies, sweets and candies, spices and vegetables. However, things have changed the last few visits.
You see, I barely remember the first day I saw you. I try to stick to my shopping regime that consists of buying things, paying for it, smiling to the cashier and thanking her while she packs my stuff, lugging it to my car, and driving away. Sometimes I meet a friend of two I know, exchange a few pleasantries, and continue with my shopping. However I don’t think a store is a place to make random friendships.
I know you are that random guy who organizes events in the city. I understand that for publicity, you will want to be in contact with as many people you can. The first day you shoved a flyer of some upcoming dance party in my hand. That was fine. You also asked me if I was on facebook and you would like to add me so that I was updated on any event. You see, if I am interested, I will find out about these events. I mumbled something non-sensical to you. You should have understood that I am not interested to add you, and was politely trying to avoid you.
The next time I went to the store, you were there again. You asked me if I had looked you up on FB, and that you could not find me. You see, I didn’t even remember your name from the last time. Why did you think I would look you up? And you were unable to find me for a reason. I do not add strangers. You shoved a paper with your name in my hands again, asking me to add you this time. I mumbled again. I wonder why you don’t get the cue. If I was interested, I would have asked you for your contact details.
I came back and looked you up, you had some 800 friends on FB. I am sure not all of these are “friends” you grew up with, went to school with, or shared your personal life with. Most of them are innocent unsuspecting individuals you randomly pick at the store, shove some flyer into their hand, and urge them to add you.
I wonder if this is a “desi meets desi in foreign country and instantly feels the connection” trait, because I feel no such connection with desis. I felt no connection with you. As a part of our upbringing, we are taught not to say a rude “NO” to anyone. In fact rude or not, we are taught to be nice to everyone. My mumbling and not encouraging you was a euphemistic “NO” from my side. The other day I was about to go to the shop again, I saw you inside and just slipped into some other store. You are now losing business, because of your meddling nature. You see, I cannot imagine any non-desi at the Safeway or Fred Meyr grocery store shoving a paper with his name in my hand, expecting me to add him on FB. It is considered unprofessional behavior.
In any case, if I can bank on some extra-human waves reaching you, I would hope you get the message and not probe me further. Thank you.
sunshine
I go to the store for a reason. I go there to buy the essentials I need, food items, good movies, sweets and candies, spices and vegetables. However, things have changed the last few visits.
You see, I barely remember the first day I saw you. I try to stick to my shopping regime that consists of buying things, paying for it, smiling to the cashier and thanking her while she packs my stuff, lugging it to my car, and driving away. Sometimes I meet a friend of two I know, exchange a few pleasantries, and continue with my shopping. However I don’t think a store is a place to make random friendships.
I know you are that random guy who organizes events in the city. I understand that for publicity, you will want to be in contact with as many people you can. The first day you shoved a flyer of some upcoming dance party in my hand. That was fine. You also asked me if I was on facebook and you would like to add me so that I was updated on any event. You see, if I am interested, I will find out about these events. I mumbled something non-sensical to you. You should have understood that I am not interested to add you, and was politely trying to avoid you.
The next time I went to the store, you were there again. You asked me if I had looked you up on FB, and that you could not find me. You see, I didn’t even remember your name from the last time. Why did you think I would look you up? And you were unable to find me for a reason. I do not add strangers. You shoved a paper with your name in my hands again, asking me to add you this time. I mumbled again. I wonder why you don’t get the cue. If I was interested, I would have asked you for your contact details.
I came back and looked you up, you had some 800 friends on FB. I am sure not all of these are “friends” you grew up with, went to school with, or shared your personal life with. Most of them are innocent unsuspecting individuals you randomly pick at the store, shove some flyer into their hand, and urge them to add you.
I wonder if this is a “desi meets desi in foreign country and instantly feels the connection” trait, because I feel no such connection with desis. I felt no connection with you. As a part of our upbringing, we are taught not to say a rude “NO” to anyone. In fact rude or not, we are taught to be nice to everyone. My mumbling and not encouraging you was a euphemistic “NO” from my side. The other day I was about to go to the shop again, I saw you inside and just slipped into some other store. You are now losing business, because of your meddling nature. You see, I cannot imagine any non-desi at the Safeway or Fred Meyr grocery store shoving a paper with his name in my hand, expecting me to add him on FB. It is considered unprofessional behavior.
In any case, if I can bank on some extra-human waves reaching you, I would hope you get the message and not probe me further. Thank you.
sunshine
Friday, November 13, 2009
Driving Dynamics
They pass you with speed, they change lanes in front of you without their indicators on. They honk when you slow down a bit, as if they need to catch the train to Mars in 5 minutes. They strum impatiently on their wheels as they wait at the traffic lights. The moment you flash your indicators for changing lanes, they speed up and drive past you. And then they wait for you to get into the lane while they slow down. They signal a thank you with their hands when you let them into their lane. They let you pass, they let you change lanes, and they slow down till you pick up speed. There are all kinds of people you encounter while driving. Studying the dynamics of human behavior while you drive is amazing. You don’t see any of these drivers, but just the way they drive, speed up, slow down, give you (or don’t give you) space can say so much about people. When I didn’t know how to drive, I never noticed these things. We were on our way to Philadelphia when my cousin remarked, “See this guy over there is about to change lanes and come in front of us”. Within seconds, he had done the same. The way the car in front of us wavered slightly told my cousin that the driver is indecisive as to which lane he should drive in. And then there are those stereotypes as to the person driving extremely slowly and blocking the other cars right during rush hours is either an old person, a woman, or a person from our neighboring country in the north (I did not make these stereotypes). The person making last moment, rash turns is definitely a woman, an old woman, or an old woman from that same neighboring country. Though I do not like to stereotype, it turns out to be true most of the time.
Once you are a little comfortable driving, you start to notice these dynamics of human interaction with each other. You can be categorized mean, close minded, or rash depending on whether you let others pass, slow down for others, or drive at your own whims and fancies. And what am I, if you are wondering, I would say I am kind to people most of the time, letting them pass, change lanes, or slow down without bullying them. The only time I get my kicks not letting people merge into my lane is when single drivers have been driving in a carpool lane unlawfully and desperately try to merge in after spotting a cop car ahead.
sunshine
Once you are a little comfortable driving, you start to notice these dynamics of human interaction with each other. You can be categorized mean, close minded, or rash depending on whether you let others pass, slow down for others, or drive at your own whims and fancies. And what am I, if you are wondering, I would say I am kind to people most of the time, letting them pass, change lanes, or slow down without bullying them. The only time I get my kicks not letting people merge into my lane is when single drivers have been driving in a carpool lane unlawfully and desperately try to merge in after spotting a cop car ahead.
sunshine
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Desi Dilemma
A trajectory of my blog and its association with Desipundit (DP) this year.
NB: This is solely related to my bloggership and any reference made to DP is solely to portray my experience as a community member. I still happen to be a DP fan, no matter what !!
When I started to blog, I did it without expectations. I did not expect to be someone famous, someone whose writings people would read. However, we are incentive driven people. Soon I started looking forward to my posts being featured on DP. Sometimes someone known or unknown would tip off and I would be thrilled to see my post on DP. Sometimes I’d write something I’d wish to share and look forward to it being posted. In a way, this motivated me to better my writing and come up with newer content instead of the same old bitching sessions about the room mate, the advisor, or the neighbor.
Then sometime last year, my blog was chosen amongst the few that were most featured on DP. As a result, I got to be a community member. I was thrilled. I saw many blog writers in the list of community members who were amongst my favorite writers. I felt pride and a sense of community to be associated with them.
But how does being a community member work? I wondered.
It seemed that part of the privileges of being a community member was that I had the freedom to link my own post instead of tipping it off. This would mean greater visibility as well as the freedom to choose my own content that I wished to publish on DP.
In theory, it sounded great.
But somewhere down the line, I shied from posting my own stuff. In parallel, traveling, driving, office drama and other stuff took precedence and somehow I stopped blogging with the frequency or the enthusiasm I used to. My posts turned out to be rants mostly, scribbled in haste just because there were so many more things I was doing anyway.
And then, I completely shied away from publishing my own post. It is a different feeling to have someone else decide the content of your blog and publish it. Self-publication was like writing an exam and then correcting it on my own. Even though I had the freedom, I wished someone else liked my writings and recommended a post. As a result, I did not publish a single post of mine this year.
Next year, I know I will not be chosen as a community member a second time. And I am happy. This is because I am looking forward to the old concept again where I write something that gets recommended by someone else. It is more fun that way. It will help me better my content and be more thorough with blogging. Self-nomination of posts is something I don’t really think I am comfortable doing.
I am thankful to DP for choosing me as a community member last year, not only because of the privilege and the community it provided, but also because it made me realize the practical downsides one faces in motivating oneself to write consistently. It’s definitely more fun writing for an incentive, preferably set by someone else. Beating my own drum is not fun. The fun comes when someone else does it for you; someone else appreciates your work. Just my 2 cents.
sunshine
NB: This is solely related to my bloggership and any reference made to DP is solely to portray my experience as a community member. I still happen to be a DP fan, no matter what !!
When I started to blog, I did it without expectations. I did not expect to be someone famous, someone whose writings people would read. However, we are incentive driven people. Soon I started looking forward to my posts being featured on DP. Sometimes someone known or unknown would tip off and I would be thrilled to see my post on DP. Sometimes I’d write something I’d wish to share and look forward to it being posted. In a way, this motivated me to better my writing and come up with newer content instead of the same old bitching sessions about the room mate, the advisor, or the neighbor.
Then sometime last year, my blog was chosen amongst the few that were most featured on DP. As a result, I got to be a community member. I was thrilled. I saw many blog writers in the list of community members who were amongst my favorite writers. I felt pride and a sense of community to be associated with them.
But how does being a community member work? I wondered.
It seemed that part of the privileges of being a community member was that I had the freedom to link my own post instead of tipping it off. This would mean greater visibility as well as the freedom to choose my own content that I wished to publish on DP.
In theory, it sounded great.
But somewhere down the line, I shied from posting my own stuff. In parallel, traveling, driving, office drama and other stuff took precedence and somehow I stopped blogging with the frequency or the enthusiasm I used to. My posts turned out to be rants mostly, scribbled in haste just because there were so many more things I was doing anyway.
And then, I completely shied away from publishing my own post. It is a different feeling to have someone else decide the content of your blog and publish it. Self-publication was like writing an exam and then correcting it on my own. Even though I had the freedom, I wished someone else liked my writings and recommended a post. As a result, I did not publish a single post of mine this year.
Next year, I know I will not be chosen as a community member a second time. And I am happy. This is because I am looking forward to the old concept again where I write something that gets recommended by someone else. It is more fun that way. It will help me better my content and be more thorough with blogging. Self-nomination of posts is something I don’t really think I am comfortable doing.
I am thankful to DP for choosing me as a community member last year, not only because of the privilege and the community it provided, but also because it made me realize the practical downsides one faces in motivating oneself to write consistently. It’s definitely more fun writing for an incentive, preferably set by someone else. Beating my own drum is not fun. The fun comes when someone else does it for you; someone else appreciates your work. Just my 2 cents.
sunshine
Monday, November 02, 2009
Who moved my chicken again??
Part 1: Here
-
Part 2: It so happened that the office had organized a fall potluck. In case your wondering eyebrows are arched as to what I am still doing in office, let me explain. My boss agreed that I get to stay as long as this project I was working on is active, and then basically they show me the bye bye flag. So as of today, I am still going to office and praying that the project takes forever to complete.
As a part of the office team, I was expected to contribute to the potluck. On a side not, I couldn’t hate anything more than an American potluck in our office. First, most people bring the kind of meat that I wouldn’t even touch- beef, pork, ham, turkey. It’s not religious, it’s just a psychological thing that I have not been able to bring myself to eat any kind of meat I did not eat as a kid. And then, I am still not used to eat salad, cheese, tortilla chips and dip for a main meal like lunch. Needless to say, in most office potlucks, I end up eating what I have cooked myself.
So this time they asked me to make something Indian. Something spicy and flavorful, just like the restaurants here, they told me. I didn’t have much time, hence decided to make the simple “murgir jhol” that’s such an integral part of a Bengali lunch on a lazy Sunday. It’s basically the yellow curried chicken that takes minimum effort to make, marinating chicken in yoghurt, frying onions, tomato, ginger and garlic, and then throwing everything in and cooking it together.
It was an instant hit. Everyone hogged in it, shedding tears, thanks to the great spice tolerance. It so happened that I got 2 boxes full of the curry, not knowing how many people I was cooking for. At the end of it, they had emptied one box, and the other one, or rather, 50% of the chicken was still there.
My colleague remarked again and again how wonderful the curry tasted and how her husband and the entire family loved Indian food. Though I was planning to hog on my chicken for the next week, my Indian values intervened and I offered that she take some chicken from Box 2 for her family. Readers, “some chicken” was the operative word here.
I worked till late and on my way back, entered the office kitchen to pick up my dabba. No prizes for guessing why I am writing about it. My dabba was gone. My 7 days of chicken ration was gone.
I was bewildered. My emotions ranged from confusion to anger to hurt. I could not imagine looting the whole dabba when offered “some chicken”. It seemed my fault that I had asked her to take some, instead of me sizing out her portion. I mean I could not make heads and tails out of it, as to why someone would leave no trace of almost 1.5 kg chicken. It’s not that she was known as the glutton officemate. If anything, she was quite middle aged, had a family of kids, and one would consider mother-like people did mother-like things. I remember those numerous occasions from childhood when I was taught not to pick up more than one toffee, 2 biscuits, or one gulab jamun when offered a plateful. I guess it’s the way we are brought up, taught how not to behave like a greedy glutton, live in misery, and not eye those rasgullas that look back at you all tempting and juicy. You would be left salivating like Pavlov’s dog all evening eyeing the goodies, but will not dare to touch those just because mom taught you self-restraint even if you were dying to sprint on the food. And now, all I felt was confusion.
She returned to me my dabba all cleaned up ad washed, with a thank you note. She later told me that her family had loved the chicken. I just wondered what did she do with chicken for at least 15 people.
It’s amazing how we grow up with certain values as a part of our culture. It doesn’t mean the other person who doesn’t share our values is bad. It just means the other person is different from us, and doesn’t identify with our culture. I wonder why we are brought up to live in misery and hunger and not succumb to the demands of the senses, apologize and compromise and learn to be satisfied with whatever comes in our share. My colleague I am sure would have been totally oblivious to my thoughts and confusion, and I know she did not mean harm. But it’s just that what she did was so different from what she would be expected to do.
If only the boss had vanished the chicken and had reconsidered his decision about my bye bye letter after he had it.
sunshine
As a part of the office team, I was expected to contribute to the potluck. On a side not, I couldn’t hate anything more than an American potluck in our office. First, most people bring the kind of meat that I wouldn’t even touch- beef, pork, ham, turkey. It’s not religious, it’s just a psychological thing that I have not been able to bring myself to eat any kind of meat I did not eat as a kid. And then, I am still not used to eat salad, cheese, tortilla chips and dip for a main meal like lunch. Needless to say, in most office potlucks, I end up eating what I have cooked myself.
So this time they asked me to make something Indian. Something spicy and flavorful, just like the restaurants here, they told me. I didn’t have much time, hence decided to make the simple “murgir jhol” that’s such an integral part of a Bengali lunch on a lazy Sunday. It’s basically the yellow curried chicken that takes minimum effort to make, marinating chicken in yoghurt, frying onions, tomato, ginger and garlic, and then throwing everything in and cooking it together.
It was an instant hit. Everyone hogged in it, shedding tears, thanks to the great spice tolerance. It so happened that I got 2 boxes full of the curry, not knowing how many people I was cooking for. At the end of it, they had emptied one box, and the other one, or rather, 50% of the chicken was still there.
My colleague remarked again and again how wonderful the curry tasted and how her husband and the entire family loved Indian food. Though I was planning to hog on my chicken for the next week, my Indian values intervened and I offered that she take some chicken from Box 2 for her family. Readers, “some chicken” was the operative word here.
I worked till late and on my way back, entered the office kitchen to pick up my dabba. No prizes for guessing why I am writing about it. My dabba was gone. My 7 days of chicken ration was gone.
I was bewildered. My emotions ranged from confusion to anger to hurt. I could not imagine looting the whole dabba when offered “some chicken”. It seemed my fault that I had asked her to take some, instead of me sizing out her portion. I mean I could not make heads and tails out of it, as to why someone would leave no trace of almost 1.5 kg chicken. It’s not that she was known as the glutton officemate. If anything, she was quite middle aged, had a family of kids, and one would consider mother-like people did mother-like things. I remember those numerous occasions from childhood when I was taught not to pick up more than one toffee, 2 biscuits, or one gulab jamun when offered a plateful. I guess it’s the way we are brought up, taught how not to behave like a greedy glutton, live in misery, and not eye those rasgullas that look back at you all tempting and juicy. You would be left salivating like Pavlov’s dog all evening eyeing the goodies, but will not dare to touch those just because mom taught you self-restraint even if you were dying to sprint on the food. And now, all I felt was confusion.
She returned to me my dabba all cleaned up ad washed, with a thank you note. She later told me that her family had loved the chicken. I just wondered what did she do with chicken for at least 15 people.
It’s amazing how we grow up with certain values as a part of our culture. It doesn’t mean the other person who doesn’t share our values is bad. It just means the other person is different from us, and doesn’t identify with our culture. I wonder why we are brought up to live in misery and hunger and not succumb to the demands of the senses, apologize and compromise and learn to be satisfied with whatever comes in our share. My colleague I am sure would have been totally oblivious to my thoughts and confusion, and I know she did not mean harm. But it’s just that what she did was so different from what she would be expected to do.
If only the boss had vanished the chicken and had reconsidered his decision about my bye bye letter after he had it.
sunshine
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
A Tag
SOURCE: Here
1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn on page 18 and find line 4.
The pity she’s felt for an elderly mother evaporated.
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can & catch air?
Okay.
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Johnny Gaddar.
4. Without looking, guess what time it is?
2 am.
5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
2:07 am.
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Water trickling out of a faucet.
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
8 Pm. Indian grocery shopping.
8. Before you started this Q&As, what did you look at?
A website about travel cruises to Alaska.
9. What are you wearing?
Clothes I sleep in.
10. When did you last laugh?
During the movie.
11. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Framed pictures.
12. Seen anything weird lately?
More women friends I know are going into labor this season. Wondering if it is the spawning and reproducing season going on.
13. What do you think of this quiz?
No idea where it originated from.
14. What is the last film you saw?
Johnny Gaddar.
15. If you became a multimillionaire overnight, what would you buy?
I’d keep the money.
16. Tell me something about you that I dunno!
I drove 2,000 miles in the last 7 days. Not kidding.
17. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
I’d invent a device which would track what anyone in the world thought or said about me.
18. Do you like to Dance?
Absolutely.
19. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Maah lit’l princess.
20. Imagine your first child is a boy , what do you call him?
No idea.
21. Would you ever consider living abroad?
I already do.
22. What do you want GOD to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
Umm …. Promise me you will blog about Heaven.
sunshine
1. Grab the book nearest to you, turn on page 18 and find line 4.
The pity she’s felt for an elderly mother evaporated.
2. Stretch your left arm out as far as you can & catch air?
Okay.
3. What is the last thing you watched on TV?
Johnny Gaddar.
4. Without looking, guess what time it is?
2 am.
5. Now look at the clock, what is the actual time?
2:07 am.
6. With the exception of the computer, what can you hear?
Water trickling out of a faucet.
7. When did you last step outside? What were you doing?
8 Pm. Indian grocery shopping.
8. Before you started this Q&As, what did you look at?
A website about travel cruises to Alaska.
9. What are you wearing?
Clothes I sleep in.
10. When did you last laugh?
During the movie.
11. What is on the walls of the room you are in?
Framed pictures.
12. Seen anything weird lately?
More women friends I know are going into labor this season. Wondering if it is the spawning and reproducing season going on.
13. What do you think of this quiz?
No idea where it originated from.
14. What is the last film you saw?
Johnny Gaddar.
15. If you became a multimillionaire overnight, what would you buy?
I’d keep the money.
16. Tell me something about you that I dunno!
I drove 2,000 miles in the last 7 days. Not kidding.
17. If you could change one thing about the world, regardless of guilt or politics, what would you do?
I’d invent a device which would track what anyone in the world thought or said about me.
18. Do you like to Dance?
Absolutely.
19. Imagine your first child is a girl, what do you call her?
Maah lit’l princess.
20. Imagine your first child is a boy , what do you call him?
No idea.
21. Would you ever consider living abroad?
I already do.
22. What do you want GOD to say to you when you reach the pearly gates?
Umm …. Promise me you will blog about Heaven.
sunshine
An Over Documented Life
I flipped through the seven folders of my weeklong trip to the different places I’d been to during a particular week of travel and holidaying. Beaches, dams, mountains, fountains, parks, falls, trees, leaves, water, sunshine, and nature.
Every day was documented in a separate folder. Day 1. Day 2. Day 3. You get it, don’t you? I’d decided to take advantage of a digital SLR camera I owned, and capture every bit of what I saw. From every angle. Left. Right. Front. The fountain gurgling water in different directions. Four different shots of the same cloud crowning the mountain. The same beach from three different angles.
I randomly selected a particular folder and clicked on it. 327 pictures. 327 pictures to be sorted, selected, grouped, and labeled. A bunch of representative pictures would be facebooked. A bunch would be emailed home. A bunch would be uploaded on Picasa to be emailed to friends. I flipped through random pictures, hoping to remember the name of the mountain. I clicked on consecutive pictures and all of them looked the same. I remembered the “hocus focus” game we played as children where one would have to spot at least 6 differences in the 2 photographs published in the newspapers. One picture had a minor difference not there in the second one. I tried to focus on the 2 consecutive pictures of the mountains. I could not spot a difference. Maybe one was zoomed in a little more. 327 pictures in a day? And 7 days worth of pictures? I involuntarily yawned. Perhaps the picture sorting task could be done tomorrow. Perhaps in the weekend. We will see.
I remembered an era from a different lifetime, not more than 5 years ago. A Kodak KB 10 camera. 32 pictures in a roll. Click. Wait. Take it to the shop. Wait for a few days. Get the prints. Sort them manually. Put them in an album. Store them in the cupboard.
32 pictures. An entire trip. Was it not an era where trips and festivals and occasions were well documented? Of course there was not a second chance if you happened to shut your eyes when the camera flash shone. You could not have pictures of the same object from different angles. But those 32 pictures were valued, prized, cherished. Not dumped into a folder to be sorted later. I remember my parents’ wedding album. My childhood album. No two pictures look the same, yet every picture has been so well documented.
Hawaii trip. 700 pictures. To be sorted later.
San Francisco trip. 200 pictures. Later.
Birthday pictures. 15 of the 90 pictures have the same facial expression with cake smeared on. To be sorted later.
Bits and bytes and kilobytes and gigabytes of pictures. Later.
The irony is, if you don’t sort it now, you never feel like sorting it later. If you don’t upload it now, you never feel like uploading it later.
Message to self: stop clicking in paranoia as if the mountain is going to collapse the next moment. Enjoy the view first. Don’t take more than one picture of the same thing. And remember, the quality is not in numbers.
sunshine
Every day was documented in a separate folder. Day 1. Day 2. Day 3. You get it, don’t you? I’d decided to take advantage of a digital SLR camera I owned, and capture every bit of what I saw. From every angle. Left. Right. Front. The fountain gurgling water in different directions. Four different shots of the same cloud crowning the mountain. The same beach from three different angles.
I randomly selected a particular folder and clicked on it. 327 pictures. 327 pictures to be sorted, selected, grouped, and labeled. A bunch of representative pictures would be facebooked. A bunch would be emailed home. A bunch would be uploaded on Picasa to be emailed to friends. I flipped through random pictures, hoping to remember the name of the mountain. I clicked on consecutive pictures and all of them looked the same. I remembered the “hocus focus” game we played as children where one would have to spot at least 6 differences in the 2 photographs published in the newspapers. One picture had a minor difference not there in the second one. I tried to focus on the 2 consecutive pictures of the mountains. I could not spot a difference. Maybe one was zoomed in a little more. 327 pictures in a day? And 7 days worth of pictures? I involuntarily yawned. Perhaps the picture sorting task could be done tomorrow. Perhaps in the weekend. We will see.
I remembered an era from a different lifetime, not more than 5 years ago. A Kodak KB 10 camera. 32 pictures in a roll. Click. Wait. Take it to the shop. Wait for a few days. Get the prints. Sort them manually. Put them in an album. Store them in the cupboard.
32 pictures. An entire trip. Was it not an era where trips and festivals and occasions were well documented? Of course there was not a second chance if you happened to shut your eyes when the camera flash shone. You could not have pictures of the same object from different angles. But those 32 pictures were valued, prized, cherished. Not dumped into a folder to be sorted later. I remember my parents’ wedding album. My childhood album. No two pictures look the same, yet every picture has been so well documented.
Hawaii trip. 700 pictures. To be sorted later.
San Francisco trip. 200 pictures. Later.
Birthday pictures. 15 of the 90 pictures have the same facial expression with cake smeared on. To be sorted later.
Bits and bytes and kilobytes and gigabytes of pictures. Later.
The irony is, if you don’t sort it now, you never feel like sorting it later. If you don’t upload it now, you never feel like uploading it later.
Message to self: stop clicking in paranoia as if the mountain is going to collapse the next moment. Enjoy the view first. Don’t take more than one picture of the same thing. And remember, the quality is not in numbers.
sunshine
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Publicly Transported
These days, I take pride in claiming that I drive pretty well. I drive long distances, about some 40-50 miles at a stretch without getting a backache. I no longer fret at the thought that this might be my last day of life since I am driving. I no longer have to dress up in layers for the cold because I don’t have to wait outside for a bus. I save a lot of time, do not have to figure out bus routes and timings. All I do is feed my address into a GPS. This is what I call a hassle free life.
However, last week, I decided to take the bus for a conference in downtown. Downtown is pretty bus-sable from my place, and I would not have to go round and round in circles trying to find parking. I needed to start much earlier and have some extra time because I’d have to wait for the bus. It was getting cooler and I was already dressed in layers. I fidgeted through my hand bag, realizing I had forgotten my music player somewhere. I somehow found a book from the innards of my bag and tried to busy myself with it.
I cherished my one hour journey, realising how much I have missed taking the bus. For one, the bus stopped and picked up so many different people, dressed differently, speaking different languages. Some listened to music, some read a book, and some conversed. I had totally forgotten how much I liked sitting in a corner and observing people, what they did, what they said, where they got up from and where they got down. The bus stopped at so many places, giving me a chance to observe all the street signs and the shops and the people, sitting comfortably and without the tension of looking straight and driving safely. It was a joy ride.
Driving a car might be comfortable and time saving, but I’d prefer the bus any day over a car. It is an eventful life, watching and talking to people, or simply sitting quietly and watching the world go by you. The noise, the smell and the sounds, the traffic, the joy of sitting at a height and watching the world is stimulating to the senses. Some are headed for the office, some for schools. Suddenly I felt more social, participating in the things around me, smiling at the lady beside me, watching the person boarding the bus. By the time I got off the bus, I was smiling to myself. The hustle and bustle around me had energized me.
Slowly you get used to the comforts of a car and forget the eventful journeys while taking the public transportation. For me, I still like to take the bus or the train every now and then. Driving alone is boring. Riding with the world is so much fun.
sunshine
However, last week, I decided to take the bus for a conference in downtown. Downtown is pretty bus-sable from my place, and I would not have to go round and round in circles trying to find parking. I needed to start much earlier and have some extra time because I’d have to wait for the bus. It was getting cooler and I was already dressed in layers. I fidgeted through my hand bag, realizing I had forgotten my music player somewhere. I somehow found a book from the innards of my bag and tried to busy myself with it.
I cherished my one hour journey, realising how much I have missed taking the bus. For one, the bus stopped and picked up so many different people, dressed differently, speaking different languages. Some listened to music, some read a book, and some conversed. I had totally forgotten how much I liked sitting in a corner and observing people, what they did, what they said, where they got up from and where they got down. The bus stopped at so many places, giving me a chance to observe all the street signs and the shops and the people, sitting comfortably and without the tension of looking straight and driving safely. It was a joy ride.
Driving a car might be comfortable and time saving, but I’d prefer the bus any day over a car. It is an eventful life, watching and talking to people, or simply sitting quietly and watching the world go by you. The noise, the smell and the sounds, the traffic, the joy of sitting at a height and watching the world is stimulating to the senses. Some are headed for the office, some for schools. Suddenly I felt more social, participating in the things around me, smiling at the lady beside me, watching the person boarding the bus. By the time I got off the bus, I was smiling to myself. The hustle and bustle around me had energized me.
Slowly you get used to the comforts of a car and forget the eventful journeys while taking the public transportation. For me, I still like to take the bus or the train every now and then. Driving alone is boring. Riding with the world is so much fun.
sunshine
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