..... NOT A FULL-STOP

I am writing after a long time. Lot of reasons for that. I have been compelled to write about the great Wimbledon victory... India's gold at the Olympics.. India's defeat at the Davis Cup tie. But I let myself believe I never had the time.
Soumya Viswananthan has probably made me pause.. and write what's on my mind.
I have always been a very emotional person. The entire incident did not hit me until I came to work that night and saw one of my colleagues just watching the TV screens and almost willing it all to rewind to the minute before it all allegedly happened.. He was to have dinner with Soumya the next day. Soumya herself was about to go on a vacation to spend time with her family.
Life is very strange... In that it keeps telling you how wonderful it is... And just when you feel it is all oh-so-very beautiful.. Something comes along to make it all seem an illusion..
I do not know what happened that night.. And I am beginning to feel I really wouldn't even want to be told anything.

I sat for hours with a friend at work.. Just wondering. I suddenly felt weird being part of a channel that was covering all this. To think that my channel actually took up the news just because another station did (I am led to believing this) is making me feel worse.

But I think what made me tremble a bit was that this was close to home. I knew her.. I knew her well enough to shed tears and feel angry at whoever did this! You always think these things do not happen... unless it happens to someone around you.

I do not know if this was a freak accident.. Or if it was planned... And heaven knows what really happened.. But everytime the bulletins re-rolled and her pictures splashed across the monitor, there would be a dull, painful knot twirling in the pit of my stomach, refusing to go away.

These things do not happen. And should not happen. I (for the first time) felt scared to leave for home the night later (I am on a 6pm to 2am shift). I waited till I could see the sky and took a cab home.. I feel safe when I see a blue sky. And see my folks & friends around me.

I have had innumerable fights with my folks.. More so my dad.. who would stay awake till I came back home.. Got into bed and gave him a call.. And he would ask me mundane questions at 3 in the morning - 'Are you inside your house?' 'Locked your doors?' 'Goodnight dear'.

I do not feel like fighting with him anymore... because some day during one of those fights he had said that he & mum were always restless till I got home..
I know what he means now...
I feel for Soumya's family.. because... no matter what!.. This should not have happened! And no one deserves this..

I pray and hope that her family finds the strength to be able to move on.. To look at her photo on the walls in their homes, say a prayer and walk on.

Soumya will live on.. In the times she spent with her friends.. In the schools and colleges she studied in.. In the friends she spread joy to.. In her home and her workplace..

A NOTE

I saw a girl crying today...

Tangerine Dreams....

Loyalty is a very tricky word... Loyal to a person, to a relationship, to a company, to a brand even...
Sitting on the beach, under the sun, listening to music... but where are the waves? You feel betrayed in a sense...

Coming home and not finding your folks there to welcome you...

Waiting for the much-awaited, oh-so mouth-watering match to go down to the wire.. . and then at the end of hours, it is so one-sided....

Waiting for the underdog to overcome goliath.. and then see history rewritten...

Getting up one winter morning all excited... to find cold water trickling down the taps...

After months of begging and cajoling... mum and dad decide to get my brother and I a pet after all.. I remember getting all excited, waiting outside my house.. Seeing the van pull up near our apartment. My brother and I could not wait for the dog (who cares about the breed) to enter our home... And then.. van doors open and out come men carrying a fish tank.. A FISH TANK!
I feel like smiling now, thinking about that morning years ago.

A thousand sms, many long drives and a lot of conversations later... All that remains is the word later.

How come I was not the first to know...

There is so much of expectation, that I guess one just fails to realise what is there tightly squished between your palms... Maybe there IS some sense in letting go... There should be... when there may be the possiblity of it coming back(?)......

My Board

2:44am


So what really happened?? I decided to tell a senior to 'just relax'.. What was I even thinking?? Did I even stop.. think.. and then react?? NO..

No matter that I was not wrong..
No matter that I was in the office the whole day.. Continuing into the next morning..
No matter that my brother had come to Delhi from Chennai just to spend time with me and he landed only yesterday..
No matter that I did'nt spend even an hour with him..
No matter that I got him to do the plumbing work that happened.. coincidentally(!) that very day...
No matter that I am still waiting for the only bite that I need..
No matter that I got yelled at for no reason....

Actually.....

It really doesn't matter.....

Because someone somewhere says... Great job Rupha.. Well done.. Good work.... A smile.. A look of appreciation.. admiration.. That says... You can bank on her....

And the day is made.....

Point is... I can't weidly enough.. look at myself and say that... After this... I can't.. I somehow seem to have lost that.. In simple asking someone to 'just relax'!!



Job satisfaction is a very weird term....

It makes you almost believe that you are satisfied with your work..... Almost.....

The first times...

There is always a first time. Always. Like when I decided to start this blog. Like when I decided to personalize it. When I decided to do journalism. When I decided to be the best. When I decided to take this road. When I decided to taste beer.. and decided that I hated it. When I decided to wear a skirt.. And actually liked it. When I decided to get into sports. When I decided to be a leader.
There were a lot of firsts that I experienced. Of being a daughter. Of being daddy's little girl. Of being the first child. Of being awarded my first star. Of being a woman. Of being complimented. Of being courted. Of being loved. Of being admired. Of being away from home.. Of being away from family..
There were a lot of firsts that I indulged in. My first walk in the rain. My first crush. My first trip to a beach at 2 in the morning. My first gift to a dear one. My first report. My first essay. My first birthday party.. and I decided I did not like birthday parties for some reason. My first dinner with family outside. My first conversation about the guys in my life. My first letter.
And I have learned. A lot from my firsts.
I do not know how to explain this feeling of experiencing and doing things for the first time. I feel weird in a sense and a little tentative. And then... It goes away... And becomes a part of this whole bunch of memories hidden in some neurons of my big head.. and chooses a place and gets stuck there.. until I feel the same thing or do the same thing.. again.. Then that memory frees iself and come out to hit me again.. And I do not feel the same way I did the first time. This becomes a little familiar..
There are some memories I like.. And some I don't. There have been times, when I wished for that memory never to have been born, because I know I didn't feel right when that first hit me. And I abstain myself from doing or experiencing things that had brought out that emotion..
There is this conscious effort that I take... I do not know if I am stopping some things that are natural.. Or that are meant to be experienced.. But nevertheless, I continue to avoid it.
And I learn... And I have in a sense evolved... But I don't like change. I don't like altering something.. Or maybe I do not like discovering things about me that I never knew probably existed before... Maybe, like my friend said.. That part of me was always there.. And it emerged when that memory was born.. And another facet of mine emerged when I tried to either stash away.. or rekindle it...
I am me... I am what I have been... Or maybe I have been changing...

I know it now. I have lived in this bubble. Always a foot above the ground. Floating along at my own pace. Stopping once in a while to escort another bubble. Maybe. But I will not say that I am entirely oblivious to things and people around me. I would be lying then. But really. I cannot help but look at my reflection in the moving transparency and feel ashamed. I cannot help feeling grossly misunderstood at times. I cannot help looking down at my green slippers and feel... nothing. All these years of living and... nothing.

There is a difference between grabbing a pen and holding one. When you are grabbing a pen, you are not even familiar with the contours of the object, let alone trying to understand it. But when you are holding a pen, you know what is in your hand and you know how to use it. I don't kow how to hold a pen. And I so wish I did.

I so wish for the sun to set when I want to. For the sun to rise when I am awake to see it. I wish for the moon to be red. For spring in December. For wild flowers outside my house. For that hug. That kiss. I so wish for 15 degrees in Chennai. For that smile on that little girl's face. For that frown to vanish. For that applause. For that praise. For that kindness to knock unlock my heart. I so wish to see that generous soul standing beside me, praying for me...

There is a huge difference between writing and essaying. I write. I always did. I don't think I ever learnt to essay. You write out a shopping list, a things-to-do list, notes in the class, telephone numbers...

You essay letters, love letters, cooking instructions, notes in your diary at odd hours, a journey, a dream, a thought an ambition...


There is a wall of a difference between grabbing a pen and holding it... between writing a note an essaying the same........




I take a sip of watermelon juice and sit back in my chair... When will the pen be held. When will the note be essayed. When will the moon turn red. When will the faces smile and the frowns recede..

find your element
at mutedfaith.com.

ALONG THE LINES

Where to draw the line? Is there a line at all? Do you at times feel that the line is so blurred that you do not know which side you are on?

Maybe I should begin by telling you what sparked this off. I am a broadcast student at the Asian College of Journalism. But I really cannot call myself a student because I am standing somewhere in between a trainee and a journalist. Every day passes with my having gone one step closer (in a seemingly endless flight of stairs) to becoming a journalist. And it was one of the many seminars held at college that made me think along these ‘lines’.

A journalist has so much power. But it would be all too well not to get heady with such power because as the old adage goes, 'with power comes responsibility'. More than anything, journalists need to be sensitive and reactive to the things around them. The litmus paper immediately tells you whether you are dealing with acid or alkaline. Journalists, according to me, are like the litmus paper.

Media over the years has begun to enter areas and spaces it never had before. We are in a sense invading a lot of areas, opening up a whole new dimension to journalism.

On one hand there is this compelling urge to relay the truth. And on the other hand, the journalist may most definitely cross the line and encroach upon someone’s private space. How far can you go before there is this feeling that you have stepped into another’s territory, rather forced your way into the subject’s space, in order to get your story?

I have treaded into this field knowing all the challenges that are going to come my way. And it is (in a sense) this thought that fuels me. It is not just about being a journalist, because I am almost sure that quite a few can. It is about being a journalist and following the principles that you have set for yourself. And let’s face it – in journalism (or any other profession for that matter) ethics are extremely important. It is not about doing the job. It’s about doing a thorough job but being sensitive all the while.

I admit it is not at all easy to know where the line is and sometimes it might get blurred. But journalists need to consciously make an effort because it is ultimately your call - where is your line drawn? The acid has to be identified as the acid and not alkaline and vice versa.

HERE... ALMOST

So I finally did it... Created my own blog. My space. Do not completely know why. But there were just some things that inspired me to.
I have always wanted to voice my opinions, always wanted to be heard. I can just sit over a cup of hot chocolate or even munch through wafers (don't know the connection) and go on contemplating various issues.
So blogdom... you finally got me and I'm going to be here for long...