Finally getting somewhere

Standing up to people for what you believe in,takes quite a bit of courage. It needs more than just immature rebelliousness which may give you the initial impetous but not kindle enough fire to drive you till the goal is reached.

I've always been a "go-along-with-the flow" person,simply because I find arguments, disagreements and protests quite unpleasant.So far, I've let life sweep me along,let things and people happen to me, so much so that I'd become a spectator in my own life.I watched and watched and watched while keeping my hopes locked away in secret places within.

Thankfully its beginning to change.The biggest proof of which have been the events of the last two weeks.I've finally found the guts to say no,when I'm being offered a compromise instead of what I want.Its not worth dreaming if one doesn't have the courage to try and make dreams come true,irrespective of the consequences.

Surprisingly, people or events seem frightening only as long as you choose to remain fearful.When one decides to face the music,suddenly the threats seem mild and less terrifying."Nothing is as bad as it first seems".Indeed.

In chasing my dreams,I'm getting closer to the core of who I am.No disguises, no pretences, no placid consolations.

Nothing is sweeter than true strength of conviction and the feeling that I'm one step closer to my ideals.

"Dream a little dream of me...."

The other day, on my way to work, I heard someone ask his friend the timeless question - how is life?

I quietly asked myself that question and phrases flashed in my head - oppressive heat, uninspiring work, alienation from familiarity, vague feeling all day everyday stemming from being a regular doormat.

Without warning, I was reminded of the dreams I've had of an 'ideal life'. Dreams that I've shared with different individuals at some point in my life of almost 22 years. Dreams that sometimes seem like some bizarre alternate reality.

I've always wanted to be a writer. A full-time writer. As a child I also wanted to be a musician, a singer and a dancer. Music and the written word are still very much the mainstays of my life. Sort of like the much romanticised first love, that one never forgets. Not writing for a considerable time makes me feel like something has congealed within me, as if the blood in my body isn't flowing as effortlessly as it usually does and absence of music just makes life so unbearably empty.

In my idealistic dreams, I'm a writer. A woman who walks around in those checked, knee length kurtas in muted colours and pure white pajamas (cotton-natural fabrics please). Hair piled up high and wearing my black-frame glasses, I sit at my desk in the afternoon, in my 'writing room' tucked away in a quiet corner of the house. I tap away at the keyboard, turning visual images into words on the screen while country music plays softly in the background.

My dog, Chenghiz, comes into the room once in a while and sits snuggled against my feet, his body warmth relaxing my tensed muscles. I take breaks in between, bending to scratch C behind the ears while thinking about how best to present an idea in words.

After a while, I get up to check on the sleeping forms of my twin little girls. One sleeps on her back, her arms and legs stretched out and mouth slightly open. The other looks at me with bleary, sleep-swollen eyes from where she lies on the bed, curled on her side. She reaches out to me and I sit cross-legged on the floor beside her, hold her plump little outstretched hand and hum quietly. Soon enough she drifts back to dreamland and I carefully tip-toe out of the room.

I walk out of the house, onto the simple porch and sit on a wooden bench, looking at the sea. The wind chimes fill the air with soft tinkling sounds. My attention is drawn away when C runs past me and chews on the little ones' latest painting project that was happily abandoned on the floor, for some other source of distraction.

When the kids wake from their siesta, they come to the kitchen, rubbing their eyes and wanting their respective wake-up hugs. All petting done, I busy myself readying their evening snack and milk. Little girl no 2 wants to be hauled up to the marble kitchen counter and gets her request gratified soon enough. Once settled on the table-top, she picks up a ladle and examines her reflection in it, making silly faces. Her hyperactive sibling chases C around the kitchen, attempting to ride on his back.


Later that evening, the family has dinner together. The twins, their father who has returned from work and I, exchange little details of the day while C tries laying his head on every alternate knee to get sympathy and a few extra scraps.

The kids run around,afterwards, with C, knocking things over once in a while. Their extremely proud father watches and shakes his head in mock exasperation. Soon, they're hastened to bed after they brush their teeth, kiss C, Daddy and Mommy goodnight. Daddy cuddles up with them till they fall asleep.

My husband then finds me, reading in our 'hideout', as he jokingly calls it. We talk about each other's day, small everyday gossips, relatives and their bizarre mannerisms. We laugh, share concerns and periodically admonish C to go to his 'basket-bed'. We eventually fall asleep, nestled against each other.

In the middle of the night, Little Girl no 1 loudly calls for 'Daddy-Mommy'. C trots into our room,as if to make sure we're making efforts to attend to the Princess' request. I shuffle my way to her side of the bed, pick up beloved Blanky, her inheritance from her father, off the floor and tuck her in under it with a soft 'Night-night,pumpkin'.

As I make my way back to bed, the father opens one eye to look at me. "Blanky?",he enquires,his voice thick with sleep. I reply in the affirmative. By the time I curl my free arm around him, he is snoring softly. I smile and close my eyes, trying to find my way back to dreamland, hoping Blanky doesn't fall off the bed again.


I've nurtured dreams of this kind of a life for a very long time, protecting it carefully like children carefully cupping little treasures with their delicate hands.
Dreams, I've come to realize, might just be the only things that keep people going in this dreary world.

Dream a little dream by Beautiful South

Stars shining bright above you
Night breezes seem to whisper I love you
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me

Say nighty-night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me
While I'm alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me

Stars fading, but I linger on dear
Still craving your kiss
I'm longing to linger till dawn dear
Just saying this

Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave our worries behind you
But in your dreams whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me
......

"Sunday...My I-don't-have-to-run-day"

At long last Sunday is here. My life these days is spent waiting for weekends to arrive. Primarily for two reasons – Sundays are invariably Rainrider time and I also am gently reminded who I really am on weekends.

On Friday, I completed one month of being in my new job. It’s a job that I was sworn against. A job that every second person in my family pursued. The field which for me “held no appeal”. Now I’m trying very hard to be good at it.

There are parts of it that I love. The concept, for instance, however complicated, is fascinating in its own way. But the people bit remains a challenge, and infact bigger than ever.

I’ve come to realize that reticent or reserved people are quite a target for the rest of the world. To those whom socializing comes easily and effortlessly, we quiet ones come across as unusual, puzzling and anti-social even. I encounter surprise almost on a daily basis from people who wonder why and how I stay “so quiet all day”. And the body language issue just complicates it all. Little details that lead to misunderstandings of gross proportions.

Also happened to receive one of the most unbiased evaluations I’ve ever received. J is one of the best trainers I’ve had and hers was probably the one of the rare courses where I exulted in eagerly answering questions and didn’t give a damn if my batch mates thought I was doing a Hermione. She’s also the first person to call me intelligent after I stopped topping my class continuously till the eighth grade.

In any case, it’s a Sunday and thank god for Sundays. When one focuses and being good at something that’s not their first choice, one starts missing things they love at some point of time. I miss writing. I miss talking to people I like. I miss college and its familiarity. I miss spending time with my mother. I miss the Rainrider and all the times we’ve spent idly lazing around with each other.

But when the opportunities become rare, they also become all the more special. Like the night we spent on the beach. The moon shone right above our heads from a clear, star-lit sky and the strong sea-breeze left saline traces on everybody’s lips. The moonlight gently illuminated the beach but just enough so that it still cloaked everyone in dark anonymity. Rainrider’s ipod provided the music, one earphone plugged in either one of our ears. No words were spoken. It was just the sea, classic rock and us. The combination couldn’t have been better.

The universe has strange ways of putting things in perspective.