When I questioned myself...

Things in life are divided in two categories. While some are desired, others are loathed. But, fortunately for some and unfortunately for the others, some things in life are complementary. And at that time, we either see the half-empty or the half-filled part , based on our perception or need at that point of time.

Journalism is that one thing in life, at present. When the decision to pursue journalism was taken, it was very well known to me that it would not be a cakewalk. The shift from the desk to reporting as an intern was indeed amazing. But little did I know that an untoward incident would force me to question the career choices I made in my life and the bubble in which I was living would burst, juxtaposing me to the ruthless realities of the society.

A few days earlier…

After working on the assignments during the daytime, I came back to the office to file the stories. By the time the stories were filed, the clock had already breached my curfew timings. In an attempt to not bother my guardians, I decided to avail the service of an auto. I was still some 100 feet away from home when the auto driver dropped me 'safely'.   

Relishing a chocolate-Marie cookie and analyzing events of the day, I  started walking towards home in a carefree manner. Just around 25 feet away from the house, a man stealthily came from behind on a bike, took advantage of the dark place (defunct street lights in a community park!) and snatched my bag. With the bag, he took away everything. From my wallet which had debit cards, identification cards to my prized possession-my gadgets.

The incident shook me from inside. Never before, had I experienced such a terrible thing when the probability of 'anything could have happened to me' was at its peak. The authorities are surely to be blamed for their irresponsible behavior. But the incident posed some questions in front of me.

Its when I questioned myself...

 

Why did this happen?

What if there was a serious assault?

Have I taken the right decision to follow this career?

Can I accept the complementary things that come along with something I cherish?

After days of self introspection and analytical dissection, I am trying to accept the complementary things. The incident has sadly left a deep mark on my mind but then the fact that journey would never be a cakewalk was always known. Maybe this was the way the bubble had to burst. Only time will tell if this was for better or worse!

The enveloped memoirs

   That day was just any other normal day. But, only for me. That day, I was too young to comprehend the real connotation of the cream coloured envelope that had been delivered in person by an elderly man. On a black and gray Hero cycle, the man in khaki carried a cross body bag. The bag was stashed with infinite white, cream and blue coloured envelopes.  Mom told me that the man was called a postman. He had come to deliver my first ever telegram. In an Instant, all the descriptions of the ‘daakiya’ that dwelled in those kindergarten books breathed life.

      This first-ever telegram was special. It carried news about my admission in a prestigious school of the city. Of course, for my parents who had left behind everything in their ancestral village to start afresh in the new city, the telegram was the source of extreme happiness. Time and again, they opened the telegram gently so as to avert any damage to it. They read it and smiled as if it meant the world to them.  After that, many telegrams made their way to my address. While at times it was a circular issued by the school authorities, other times it carried information regarding the insurance policies. Once, in a telegram even a personal informal letter written by an aunt arrived. And there were times when one hoped  that the dreaded telegram announcing the semester result never reaches home. 

   Telegrams had (sadly, past tense) an innate charming effect. Maybe, because of their definite physical form. Or maybe this was due to their connecting factor where the receiver felt much closer to the sender. Some of the times the telegrams were written decorated in ones own handwriting. Such telegrams were even more special. These enumerated stories behind all those letters smudged when the tears would have taken the better of the writer. They were a witness of the happy and the sad expressions.

     I remember once writing such a telegram addressed to my bua (paternal aunt). With the help of newly learnt English words in school, I constructed complex sentences in which I thanked her for loving me more than her own kids. And then, with the help of ‘her own kids’, I telegrammed the letter to the adjacent room. Her reaction is still etched in my memory. With the lips giving a proud smile, the teary-eyes exhibited a paradox. Such was the beauty of a simple yet powerful emotion- evoking thing called a telegram!

Cut to the present.

   The fact that the telegrams are a thing of past saddens me. The government of our country after acknowledging the dominance of the internet plus its easy accessibility and utility decided to call it a day for the telegrams. With easy features available at our ‘computer-step’ like email and instant messaging, telegrams were pigeonholed. The timing of the decision was bad. While my first ever admission letter came through the telegram, I was looking forward to the admission letter from my postgraduate institution through the same cream coloured telegram. Sadly, it never happened. Only a general list on the internet gave me the news. The online list didn’t mean anything, both then and now. The online version deprived me of the pleasure to see the personalised account of the admission letter in my dream institution. It took away a possible piece of cherished memory from my down-the-memory-lane box.

    How much ever personalisation and user friendly interface of online messenger is made, according to me the simple joys attached with a telegram can never be replaced and the memories attached with it can never be replicated. Like many things, with an end of the telegrams another snap with the childhood of 90’s has been broken forever.

The journey has just begun..

   I can’t help but pull out the cliché card from my pocket to describe the beginning of a new chapter in my Book of Life. “And how time flies!” Even though it is used metaphorically but in the ten ‘short yet long’ months at my journalism school, I think I actually saw how time flew. No, not joking. The clock in its different forms, shapes and sizes haunted me forever reminding me of those rigid contours of the deadlines. Did you think who really cares about deadlines? Oh! A journalist, irrespective of the fact if it’s a student or a professional can surely enlighten you with the real value of time (timeliness).

Nine months back it was all different.

   While doing the undergraduate course, sense of urgency in life had gone astray. Both the education set up in the college and mesmerizing beauty of the new city were responsible for the obnoxious carefree attitude. But you tell me, how a college student can concentrate when it’s a learnt fact that exams are only an annual responsibility, when attendance criterion exists only on the chequered-patterned pages of a register littered with dark red slanting lines and the assignments are optional. It has to succumb to adventures of the new city calling it to unravel its mysteries from every direction. And so Chandigarh ensured that the ‘deadline’ word lightened in my mind dictionary. The only time it mattered was when the scare of the strict night in-timings of the PG accommodation (Girls PG, I tell you!) sprang back to life and even a couple of seconds made a difference.

Then the J-school happened.

    There wasn’t even the basic transition phase. Life was dragged back to the track. But, this time the wind blew in the opposite direction. From early mornings aided by multiple alarms to coffee overdosed late nights, it was all hectic. Important Assignments and more assignments were the order of the day(s) in the J-school. Sometimes it was the reporting, other times the cumbersome editing. And some days hell broke loose because those days were based on photography assignments (umm..I am photographically challenged). There was never any chance of carefree attitude because there were always DEADLINES looming over our heads. Even for cutting-chai drinking sessions. As mentioned in the beginning, time used to fly. Especially during assignments minute and the second hand of clocks made every possible effort to outrun each other.

    After ten months, life has come to a full circle and laid foundation for the new beginnings. Every moment spent inside the third floor campus was worth the effort. The super fast software lessons, forcing the eyes to hear those lectures, taking turns to read the presentation slides in order to stay alert in the class, surfing and nodding during the discussion to prove that one is actually present in the class, though being virtually absent. With the lessons learnt from the past, its time to experience the STRESS in reality. Its time to learn, unlearn and relearn again.

Just the Straight line

   Last time I updated the blog was literally light years ago. But then wait! to my rescue is a detailed list of excuses. Blame it on the busy academic schedule, assignments and more assignments, either there wasn't any time and when the time waited for me, motivation was absent. Doesn't that happen with most of us? You see, we humans have a strange relationship with Marginal Utility of goods and services available at our disposal. If I were to draw that curve, it would be exactly as drawn below;

THE curve exactly describes my love and hate relationship for 'salty blog'. Initially the motivation was phenomenal. Almost everyday, I tried to update it. But , then came the stagnation phase at the top of the curve and as a result, first my constant surveying the blog faded and later my writing succumbed and I fashionably diagnosed my condition as the deadly 'block'. Sad na! No, the story doesn't end there. Some of my friends and even the audience tried to persuade me to write regularly. It did help. I wrote one or two posts after that but it was not for too long. The downward phase of the curve began.

Relatively, in place of blogs we (have and still do) replace many things/people (Yes, people!) in our own lives. After a point of time, we tend to move on and leave behind our once-close partners of life. Some days later we may/may not realize their significance. Cliche, but till then usually we have lost them. 

I am really glad that I reunited with my blog today. And no, you salty blog we aren't breaking up any soon. I can't afford you see. ELECTIONS are approaching. And that means my venting out frustration and happiness. Also, how can I forget. Its Sub-Continent Cricket Season!! From now on, there won't be replication of crests and troughs. Instead, just a consistent straight line.

Dear Diary, je t'aime encore

My brown coloured personal  diary has always been by my side. There is historic documentation of my life in it. Unlike my OCD for perfection in almost everything, it reflects the imperfect side of me. My diary lacks uniformity. There is no perfect order. Its my 'Life' in more ways than one.

   It dates back to .. *scratches her head* Ahem! Lets not pretend, I can never memorize the historic years! All I can recall is taking my English teacher's advice, I rented an annual chocolate brown diary from papa (father). Certainly, I was offered other colours and distinct shapes, but my obsession with chocolates and coffee overpowered my feeling and prevented me from picking up the glossy hot pink one. I henceforth, became the proud owner of my mini-life brown diary.

Initially, it was literally in blue and black. All those years of cursive writing in the Convent school showed its consequences. Off white pages that were always adorned with an 'OM' on top were decorated with flawless calligraphy. I tried to record all that I did or felt back then. I have to admit that I literally wrote everything. The aggression of the initial teenage years gave way to comparatively settled but highly confused pre-adult days. Trust me, now when I go through all those date entries, its all captured and evident.  

    'In-order' writing slowly vanished. A new form was born. From blue and black, it became any-colour-on-the-planet-that-lied-next-to-the-table. Chronological sequence ceased to exist. I wrote wherever,whenever and whatever I wanted. Sometimes, I didn't even complete my poems. When I initially compared my life with my diary, this is what I meant. The trade cycle curves of inflation, recession, boom are all there in that diary. There is a vivid description of my highest high and the deepest low. Writing a daily diary is fun, but re reading them once you grow up is hell of an experience. 

   Our recent love hate relationship bothers me a lot. The sight of the deserted diary that lies in seclusion on the table haunts me. Layers of dust are slowly settling permanently. The culprit, Thou my laptop! How I wish I get back to my love and start afresh. That would bring back the lovely days of writing on a page with a pen. ( This rare phenomena is witnessed only during examinations)

Note: This post writing attempt has been really difficult. I have written after a very long time. Thank you Brandy for helping. I was ignoring the problem but when you brought it up, it kind of motivated me.  

For the French:  Google what would I do without you?