Questions you cannot ask, but you will

I don’t believe that you don’t understand how babies are made. If you don’t, this concept I present about doubt and fear reaches closer to your hearts than a gynecologist. I was about thirteen, or maybe nine when I learnt the concept of sex. Before that, I thought all it took was two humans to sleep over one another. Like a sandwich without the jam or the sauce. Steady and still.

Then, boom! You just made a baby.

Two breads | Pikrepo

You see, I’m lucky from the beginning to not have believed that it was a fairy with the disguise of a milkman who delivered me to my mom. No! It definitely had something to do with these two giants who seem to like it when I widen my lips as they peek-a-boo with seemingly larger dots of white beneath their lips. It must be them. Turns out, it definitely was.

But, it took me nearly six years of science at school and four HIV banners painted by the Government on it’s walls, for me to understand the concept of conception.

“One condom, three benefits” was a regular sight before gas cylinders became the saviours. Sigh.

My parents still haven’t confessed about lying that it was God and only God who had anything to do with my existence. I still don’t know, or even try to know, about why we find answers from the weirdest sources for such basic questions. I mean, we all are here, right? And, someone had to put their penis in some vagina for humans to be. What more could be obvious? And, what more could be frightening that a concept so basic is often left to haunt the unknowing?

Much like most of the hip culture being taboo in the Brahmin household I live in, the concept of uncertainty remains widely untouched or even frowned upon in the world I’m kicked into. Given the fact that sex-talk remains unassumingly scary at my house, but even at yours, I am only bound to believe that even without the norms of a religion, the human race doesn’t understand itself as much as it pretends to know this planet.

We don’t know much. Yet, we like to boast the idea of information so much as to the fact that much of this world would stand still without it.

If you don’t know what to do with your life, you lack passion. If you don’t know what to work with, you are incapable. If you don’t know what to eat for lunch, you have no taste. When you don’t understand what to choose, the egg or the chicken during when they ask that question. Black or white? In or out? Up or down? Tic or toe?

Grey. Middle. Door. Draw.

You cannot choose these answers because you will be yet another normalcy in this chaotic piece of land, so tiny. You, somehow, have to come up with an equation to match someone else’s. You just have to know what to do when asked to do whatever it is that you are supposed to do.

Most of times, it is you yourself pushing further to know something out of human control. Often, out of human control.

Like, why does black look nothing like yellow? Why do we wake up? Why would anyone vote for Donald Trump? And, most importantly, why would Shreyas not say anything about his country’s Prime Minister but speak so boldly about some citrus fruit in America? Sorry, says the world, but you just have to know.

What if we fail in trying to know? Well, you can go fuck yourself and write a blog about it.

But, my friend, when someone tells you about your failure – they just don’t understand what failure means. They only know that someone did the same to that other person in a situation similar to yours. They believe in the notions of failure set by someone who never failed. Either that, or it is the lab instructor who could barely understand why would anyone write poems when the person could easily learn about databases and give up failing at life.

And yes, you will call yourself a failure, when seven others near you do. These seven do not understand that their voices sound like every other billion. And that their statements are burying the dreams, it’s hopeless optimism and even the seen/unseen passion. Be it any kind, people bury all of this back into the deeper cells of life – only to die. Only to suffer yet another single human, yourself, to pour the last shovel.

And, why? Only because you didn’t know. Didn’t know how to cope up with the never ending pressure during the age of information. Why would you not know? Maybe you are as blank as the bird I met in my dream, when it does not understand – why?

Why are these red-dead sheets of thin life swimming without effort? I touch and they react, unlike life they seem dead. It smells like the thing that choked my neighborhood last week. Why doesn’t it move? Maybe it is weak. Let me eat. This sucks. And, why did I die?

Questions you cannot ask, but you will definitely do, are my favourites. You cannot just ask me, why would anyone kill a dream? Why would anyone divide homes into colonies? Why should one wake up? Why won’t the sun turn blue? Why don’t you know anything?

One way to end my words here, is to pretend like I know how to do it. There are endings where I thought I knew. Most of the times, I did. You see, wewjfenmjfekfjrgrkjngjgktgmtjg.

What is this?

This blog was started solely to feed one reason. And, that is to tell me how capable in life I was to live. It’s been a journey through and out the cruise in a fiery ocean. Thus, we sail.

The notions on which I stand true to this blog have changed as the times will with the breeze brought upon us by the Northern winds. What does that mean? I don’t know exactly. But, the calming winds and the Northern lights had to be in the paragraph. And, now here’s to Jon Snow!

So, what exactly did I want to achieve to tell that I am capable?

For starters, I wanted to do just about anything other than fight with myself, my girlfriend during then, and the anxiety that comes with the nature of humans. We are the species who believe in doubt. At times, way too much in doubt itself rather than the conclusion after any quest we become a part of. That’s anxiety.

I was way too anxious when I started the blog. Whether I am happy, or sad. Whether I am from Mars, or earth. Whether I really wanted a degree, or just the skills would do. I did not have any answer to replace the alternative option to engineering. But, it turns out to be more than just the uncertainty in choices for a career. I cannot depend on any single field to keep me going. The doubts in choices of my career, at that age could have been just too much for myself. This doubt somehow led to me doubting myself, the relationships and my worth. All I knew was the fact that I liked photography. And, that’s when I started. My first post literally has the title Start.

Fun, not so fun, fact; I did not post a single article for one whole year after the first one. Times were really different during then compared to now. I don’t even remember the semantics of it all even if it happens to be only three years ago. That’s probably the only way I’ll be able to refer to the darkest periods in my life until now. I don’t remember how I put my foot in the wheels of a moving bike. But, I did put it literally on our way back from school when Sudaivee’s dad made sure I was safely back at home. And, that’s how I know that we can’t call every hard period in life as the period of darkness. We only forget to look.

Those times may have been hard enough to make me do the things I’d never imagine a sanely happy person being a part of. But, even during then I had passionately become a friend of creativity.

Even when I couldn’t stop thinking loudly, sleep calmly – I did manage, however, to keep writing. It’s magical what writing can do, or has already done for me. I believe the fruits of any struggling act are not to be found later, but when we struggle. Right there lies the courage to put out the miseries of life onto a piece of paper.

I have more than a hundred documents written and lying in the closet. Stories. Journals. Screenplays. And, just the good old scribbling patterns in a few.

Quick break. Here’s something that gives me goosebumps. I did not know until this part of the article that today is May 21. Exactly three years from the start. Damn. I am such a luck to the lucky life. And, we’ll be having Richard from the show teaching us about coincidence later on the blog. It’s funny, mostly because it’ll be me dreaming The Feynman Show.

So, these documents remain on my cloud, the weak document holder (it’s just plastic, according to me) and even a few are printed.

The goals I had for this blog, as I remember vividly, never really existed. Even today, I don’t have any. I mean, I did feel like having 10,000 hits on the blog would give me the confidence to register myself a domain and start monetizing the site. It did feel like a task so hard that I’d take one whole year to do it. Honestly, it’s never really hard to achieve numbers like that. Because, these numbers hardly tell the audience anything. They may only be a form of feedback in the disguise of reach.

River Bhima

Here we are with only 5,000 hits and I have registered a domain for a dream-community. It’s not even the domain I had in mind for the blog. So, it’s not for the blog. That simple. This blog’s domain will be registered at a time when it feels like a necessity for it to keep going.

Until then, if you have suggestions for a community where artists and people conventionally called as “scientists” can get along. Create and live the dream of art. Become new artists. Enjoy the adventures together. Then, leave your suggestions on the website. It is projected to be up and running within the next month. A subreddit is on it’s way. We’ll be having more fun than ever talking the wonders of art and this gameful life.

There’s rarely a word like gameful. Oh, really?

Writing about Love

First of all, it is surprising among Indians to see an engineer do anything other than engineering let alone writing. And, Indians see writers either as intellects or the hard hit love song boys. It is extreme, either ways. That spectrum somehow seems so normal even across the world. Maybe it is true.

I find many venting out about their love failure, which they should, than about their work or families. Which also, they should. I too have written about my failed adventures with loving a person and to this date don’t find a reason why it should be public. Also, all kinds of audience regularly come across such articles. It has, interestingly, become a subject of regular talk over the internet.

You might hate it or be a part of it.

One aspect I like is the fact that many can talk about it now. Talking about your problems is a very good way to solve them and even realise the matters you have no control on. Writing is a form of talking.

Some want to do it in the public, and some behind the windows. But, all want to do it and only a few do.