“Dude, have you looked out of the window?” Sujeet’s voice asked me over the phone.
From my snug position in bed, it took a substantial effort to raise my head and glance at the digital clock on the music system. It was seven thirty in the morning. I always disliked waking up to the sound of a phone ringing.
“I’m still sleeping,” I mumbled. The window in my room seemed much too far away to bother looking out of. I would have to get out of bed completely for that.
“It’s seven inches of snow out there,” Sujeet exclaimed.
I blinked and stuttered. “What?”
“Dude, it snowed like crazy in the night. The snowstorm forecasted for yesterday that never happened, has come one day late.”
Now, I sat up bolt upright. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“So, what time is your flight to India?” Sujeet asked.
“Ha? Flight?” I replied, as I slowly came to my senses. “It’s Korean Air and it leaves at twelve five.”
“Dude, the whole of Redmond is snowed in…” Sujeet began.
At that point, I tuned out from the conversation, hauled myself out of bed and staggered across to the window. I pulled up the blinds and stared outside. The sight that greeted me was remarkable. It was an ocean of white that had blanketed the road, the lamppost, the trees and every uncovered car. The soft, white snowflakes kept pouring down relentlessly from the skies above, as if determined to whiten out the whole planet. The gusty wind made them came down at oblique angles. Even though I was indoors, I shivered involuntarily just watching the storm unleash. It was beautiful and frightening at the same time.
“Dude, are you there..?” the voice on the phone queried.
“Yeaahh…I guess,” I was in a daze.
“I probably won’t be able to take my car out today. It can’t drive through snow at all.” Sujeet told me. He paused, and went on. “We’ll have to figure out some alternate way for you to get to the airport.”
Sujeet had agreed to drop me to the airport, but I had seen how poorly the BMW handled icy roads. It would be foolhardy to drive that car in the current scenario.
“Do you want to call for a cab?” Sujeet prodded.
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
“Ok, sorry I can’t drop you. Let me know if you need any other help.”
“No problem, man. Thanks.”
A quick Google search gave me a list of taxi services that operated in the area. I called them one after the other, only to receive the following responses.
“Sorry, we are not operational today.”
“We have no taxis available now.”
“The weather conditions prevent us from coming there.”
“All our cabs are stuck on the freeway and will take hours to reach.”
“Please leave your message after the beep.”
And so on and so forth.
Ten phone calls later, I put the phone aside and paced up and down like a caged animal. I gulped down a large glass of water and gobbled a banana. By force of habit, I switched on the living room TV.
“There is a record amount of snowfall in all of the King County area in Washington. The snow has been falling continuously since four o’clock in the morning….”
The news presenter attempted to put on a grave face, but he looked rather excited. The shrill ringtone of my cell phone cut him off. I answered it after the first ring.
“Dude, did you get a cab?” It was Sujeet.
“No man, none of them are willing to go.”
“Really? Hmm...probably because of the snow,” Sujeet said. “You should keep trying. Let me also try a few cab services. I’ll call you back.”
I disconnected and called up Korean Air to ask if the flight was delayed. But, they informed me that it had only begun to snow in the area of the airport, and all flights were on schedule. Next, I spoke to a desi taxi driver and tried my best to cajole him into going to the airport. I even offered to pay double the fare. But, he claimed that he was stuck on the freeway and had no idea how long it would take him to get to my place.
I flung my phone onto the bed in frustration. It started ringing again, and I grabbed it.
“Dude, you are right, all the taxis are not operational,” Sujeet confirmed.
“Yeah.”
“You could try to go by bus…”
“But I have two huge check-in bags, one carry-one bag and a laptop bag,” I protested.
“Also, the bus is slow and has bad frequency, that it’ll get you late,” Sujeet added.
“You have your car with you, right?” Sujeet asked.
“Yeah, but are you suggesting that…”
“Dude, that’s the best alternative you have right now.”
After some more debate, I acknowledged that driving myself to the airport was the only available course of action. Sujeet wished me luck and said that he would keep calling to check on my progress. I looked at the clock. It was quarter to nine. I had originally planned to leave at nine fifteen as it took half an hour to reach the airport. But from what I had been hearing about the freeways, it would take a lot more than half an hour that day. So, I skipped a bath, hurriedly threw on some clothes and raced down to my Honda Civic. The same Honda Civic that had skidded uncontrollably and collided in the snow last year. I shook myself and tried to forget that incident, as I loaded the bags into the car.
The ground inside the building complex was covered with milky white snow. I started up the engine and put my car into the reverse. The snow there was soft and the tires ploughed through it easily. Feeling a little better, I changed the gear to Drive and stepped on the accelerator.
Without warning, my car slid sideways towards a lamppost. I felt the muscles in my stomach tighten. Before I could react at all, the car screeched and came to a halt inches away from the post. I exhaled heavily. So, this was a preview of how things were going to be. Cautiously, with my full attention to driving, I eased the car of the complex and onto the main road.
Less than a minute later, I glanced at the fuel gauge. It was on empty. While the Civic probably had enough reserve fuel to make it to the airport, I felt this wasn’t the best time to test the reserve capacity. I pulled into a nearby gas station and filled up about quarter of the tank.
The road leading out of the gas station had an upward slope and like everything else was under a white blanket. After moving a foot or so up the slope, the Honda Civic refused to budge. I pressed the accelerator harder, and the rear wheel spun in the snow. But the car remained where it was. My breathing became unsteady and there was a pounding in my chest. I got out of the car and stared at the wheel. It was mired in the snow. I scratched my head and looked around, but found no one else within sight. My phone started ringing.
“Dude, where are you?” Sujeet inquired.
“I’m at the gas station on 8th street. My car is stuck in the snow.”
“Oh shit. Now what? Is there anyone around to help?”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“Maybe you should…” Sujete began, and then stopped abruptly.
“Hello? Maybe I should what?” I demanded. But, there was silence. I looked at my phone and read the message ‘Main Batter Very low. Switching off’
“That’s perfect, that’s just perfect,” I yelled at the phone. It was a useless piece of junk that had the appearance of a phone but more often functioned like a glorified paper-weight. I considered tossing the device into the snow.
“Why did I have to fill gas at all?” I admonished myself.
I looked at the Honda again and was struck by a thought. There was substantial snow ahead of the rear wheel on the upslope, but there was not much behind it. In fact, the car was just a foot from the fuel pump, which was flatter ground, with scanty snow.
I sat in the driver’s seat, and sucked in a deep breath. I put the car into reverse gear and gradually slid it backwards. The Honda cooperated and inched backwards towards the fuel pump. With a sigh of relief, I guided it back the way I came, and out of the gas station in reverse.
After ten minutes of watchful driving, I made it onto the ramp leading to the freeway. The Honda Civic didn’t seem enamored by the thin, semi-black ice on the ramp, and decided to skid and slip every few inches. I gripped steering wheel as tightly as I could and tried to keep the car stable.
On the freeway, I crawled along at a snail’s pace of seven miles per hour. There weren’t too many cars that had braved the storm, and most of them that did were pickup trucks and sturdy SUVs. Compact sedans like mine were a rarity. Except on the shoulder of the freeway, where I saw quite a few sedans, stranded in the snow and abandoned by their owners. I saw one Honda Civic on the side of the freeway, the same color as mine, standing perpendicular to the road, with its tires entrenched deep in the snow. There was no sign of any passengers. A chill ran down my spine.
I gripped the steering wheel even tighter and slowed down even further. I glanced at my phone, the paperweight, wishing that I could call Sujeet or anyone else. In the rear-view mirror, I noticed a rust-brown Chevrolet that had been right behind me since I got onto the freeway. There was one man in the driver’s seat and no passengers. I decided to name him John Doe.
“Hey John, how are you getting along back there?” I said aloud into the mirror.
The rust-brown Chevy stayed on my tail as the cars inched forward.
“It’ll be alright, John. Just don’t look at all those abandoned cars on the side.”
I did realize how crazy I sounded, but I really needed to converse with someone. If Tom Hanks could talk to a volleyball in Cast Away, then why not me?
I continued my conversation with John as we plodded ahead at an agonizing pace. A look at my watch revealed that it was already ten forty.
“One hour twenty five minutes for my flight, John. But there is no need to panic.”
Looking ahead, I saw the stretch of road was covered with patches of slimy, unwelcoming ice. I looked at the mirror to warn my buddy.
“The road ahead is slippery. We need to be careful. Just dri…”
Suddenly, my Honda Civic veered left, out of control. It was headed straight for the divider.
“Oh Fuck,” I shouted. My heart skipped a beat. I twisted the steering wheel to the right. I yanked up the hand brake. From my past experience, I knew that slamming hard on the foot brakes, will only cause the car to skid further.
Centimeters away from the divider, the Honda Civic changed direction and straightened. It came to a halt with its front bumper almost kissing the concrete divider.
I let out a long breath. The blood was still pumping through my veins at breakneck pace.
The Chevy had stopped a few feet behind me to observe the scene.
“Don’t worry, John. I’m alright. Everything is fine.” I said, as I gradually pulled back into the lane and resumed our perilous journey, with John and the Chevy keeping a safe distance behind me.
“Driving through snow in a sedan is hell, ha?” I asked my travel companion in the mirror. “Don’t you wish you had an SUV with a four-wheel drive at a time like this?”
“Anyways, no point complaining now. We can get through this. We are almost there.”
We trudged along at a sluggish speed. Every mile seemed so long. I checked the time again. Forty minutes to my flight time. Boarding would probably start soon. We just passed Exit 1, less than four miles to the airport now. John was still with me.
“Slow and steady now. No need to think about the flight time.”
Without further incident, I reached the airport parking lot. The ‘Welcome to Sea-Tac Airport’ sign had never looked so good to me. At that point, I bid adieu to John and the Chevy which had gone to the Arrivals terminal.
“We made it, John. In one piece. It was nice talking to you.”
It was twenty three minutes to flight time. The parking fare was fifteen dollars a day plus tax. I was going on vacation for a month and would have to figure out some way to get my car removed from the long-term parking. But, I wasn’t worried by the monetary concerns. I was still thinking about making my flight.
“Just a few more minutes now. The flight won’t leave.” I told myself.
Finding parking on the third level, I stepped out of the car. There were no trolleys around, so I had to maneuver one large suitcase in each hand, with the cabin baggage balanced on top of one and the laptop bag hanging from my shoulder. My movement was unwieldy. But, I had only eighteen minutes to go. So, I accelerated to a brisk walk and then to a jog.
I was fifty feet from the elevators, when my legs gave way on a lump of ice. The next thing I knew I was lying flat with my back on the floor. There was a bolt of pain in my left ankle. One suitcase had crashed down next to me, with the carry-on and laptop bag nearby, and the other one had wheeled away to collide into the bumper of a parked car.
I stood up gingerly and stepped forward, feeling the shooting pain in my foot. My watch reminded me that there was only fifteen minutes to go. There was no time for pain.
Quickly collecting my scattered bags, I scampered to the elevator. I rushed to the Korean Air counter, with arms and baggage flailing around me. Thirteen minutes to flight time. Was there any chance that I would still be given a boarding pass?
“Your flight has been delayed by three hours due to ice on the runway and on the plane.” The man at the counter told me, and handed me the boarding pass.
I looked out of large window at the airport. There was that now familiar sight of layers of soft, white snow that had totally engulfed all the aircrafts the covered the ground below them.
For the first time that day, I smiled. With only the carry-on and laptop bag, I strolled towards a nearby restaurant to grab a quick bite. I put away my passport and the two boarding passes.
I stopped myself suddenly. Two boarding passes? I had forgotten all about the connection at Seoul. On checking, I found that there was a three hour fifteen minute layoff between the two flights. My flight from Seattle was three hours late. Would that mean I was going to miss my connection? How long would I be stuck in Seoul till the next flight to India?
One adventure ends and a new one begins.
The Writer's Journey
Some people have asked me about the process of writing a novel. Is it fun? It is exciting? Is it frustrating? Is it depressing?
I admit that a few of these ‘people’ are not real people. They are figments of my imagination, created by and residing in the nether regions of my increasingly schizophrenic mind. Nevertheless, I will answer the question, to satisfy myself, even if it serves no practical purpose.
My answer is that it is fun, exciting, frustrating and depressing. The thing is that I love to write. I wrote my first short story when I was ten years old. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with a desperate craving to write. Tonight is one such night.
However, writing an article or a blog or a short story is all very well. I can get the whole thing done in an hour or two. Writing a full-length novel is an altogether different ball game. I can say, with conviction, that writing a novel is the hardest thing I have ever attempted to do so far in my life. By the same token, I believe it is also the most ambitious.
The task requires a tremendous amount of patience and self-discipline. I have to stick with my plot day-after-day even when it is the least interesting thing in the world to me. The work of a novel continues for an extended period of time, sometimes for more than a year. Initially, any story idea seems thrilling. But, after a few chapters, the initial excitement fades and I have to fight to keep my story alive. Almost every writer experiences the same thing. Believe me, I’ve read tons of interviews and biographies of published authors. Sometime midway through the story, all writers get another ‘better’ idea and are tempted to quit the current, lackluster project and move to the new one. But that is the kiss of death for a novelist. It is the duty and responsibility of the author to give the current story a chance to run its course.
As a novel writer, I have to make endless decisions daily. I have to conjure up plots and subplots, character arcs and scene transitions. I have to concern myself with dialogue tags, sentence structure, paragraph length, repeated words. Most importantly, I have to get my bum in the chair every day to write. This is easier said than done.
Many people believe that for a writer, or for any other artist, producing their work is all a matter of inspiration. What a misconception that is. Inspiration comes to those who put in blood, sweat and tears.
There are some days when I do feel truly inspired. The blood rushes through my veins and the words flow onto the page like running water from an open tap. The characters begin to make choices and take actions that surprise and delight me. This is when I take a step back from the keyboard and shake myself with glee. ‘Wow. It’s alive. It’s alive’ I tell myself.
But such days are rare. They arrive as often as sunny days in Seattle during the month of December. On most days, I come to the blank page and have no idea what to write. My mind is swarming with all the different plots and subplots, the various locations for the action, the motivations of the characters, the links between the scenes, and so on. It is a labyrinth of formidable proportions that I have to grapple with. The cursor on my Word document blinks at me incessantly. ‘Write something. Write something’ it seems to taunt me. But I don’t know what happens next in the story. I don’t know how to resolve the subplot. I don’t know how or where this action will take place. I don’t know how to smoothly move to the next scene. I don’t know anything. I tear my hair in frustration. I can never do this. I can’t be a writer. Who was I kidding?
I have a couple of whiskey shots and wait for the feeling to pass. The difference between a real novelist and a wannabe is that a novelist finishes the manuscript. So, the next day, I go at it again. Word-by-word, I inch forward towards the finish line.
Sometimes, I get a vision. I am at Crosswords bookstore, a favorite hang-out of mine while growing up. It is my book signing event. I sit on a large table and there is a big banner behind me. In front of me, there is a line of people waiting to get my autograph on their copy of my latest novel.
The shrill sound of my alarm clock blurs the vision. My dream felt so real. It is a recurring dream that refuses to leave me. I log into my laptop and the cursor on the empty page blinks insistently. I rub my eyes, crack my knuckles and hit the keyboard. This is my reality. That was my dream. I close my eyes and I am at Crosswords again, signing books. I open them and the page before me is blank.
I know my goal, my destination. But, I don’t have the faintest clue how to get there, when I’ll get there, or even if I’ll ever get there. I don’t have a roadmap. I don’t have a compass. Still, I keep walking down that road, one step at a time. I may make a few wrong turns along the way, but I believe in my heart that if I stay the course long enough, I will reach the destination.
I fight a long, lonely battle, but the journey is magical. Every stage is to be savored. The race is long and in the end it is only with myself.
I admit that a few of these ‘people’ are not real people. They are figments of my imagination, created by and residing in the nether regions of my increasingly schizophrenic mind. Nevertheless, I will answer the question, to satisfy myself, even if it serves no practical purpose.
My answer is that it is fun, exciting, frustrating and depressing. The thing is that I love to write. I wrote my first short story when I was ten years old. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night with a desperate craving to write. Tonight is one such night.
However, writing an article or a blog or a short story is all very well. I can get the whole thing done in an hour or two. Writing a full-length novel is an altogether different ball game. I can say, with conviction, that writing a novel is the hardest thing I have ever attempted to do so far in my life. By the same token, I believe it is also the most ambitious.
The task requires a tremendous amount of patience and self-discipline. I have to stick with my plot day-after-day even when it is the least interesting thing in the world to me. The work of a novel continues for an extended period of time, sometimes for more than a year. Initially, any story idea seems thrilling. But, after a few chapters, the initial excitement fades and I have to fight to keep my story alive. Almost every writer experiences the same thing. Believe me, I’ve read tons of interviews and biographies of published authors. Sometime midway through the story, all writers get another ‘better’ idea and are tempted to quit the current, lackluster project and move to the new one. But that is the kiss of death for a novelist. It is the duty and responsibility of the author to give the current story a chance to run its course.
As a novel writer, I have to make endless decisions daily. I have to conjure up plots and subplots, character arcs and scene transitions. I have to concern myself with dialogue tags, sentence structure, paragraph length, repeated words. Most importantly, I have to get my bum in the chair every day to write. This is easier said than done.
Many people believe that for a writer, or for any other artist, producing their work is all a matter of inspiration. What a misconception that is. Inspiration comes to those who put in blood, sweat and tears.
There are some days when I do feel truly inspired. The blood rushes through my veins and the words flow onto the page like running water from an open tap. The characters begin to make choices and take actions that surprise and delight me. This is when I take a step back from the keyboard and shake myself with glee. ‘Wow. It’s alive. It’s alive’ I tell myself.
But such days are rare. They arrive as often as sunny days in Seattle during the month of December. On most days, I come to the blank page and have no idea what to write. My mind is swarming with all the different plots and subplots, the various locations for the action, the motivations of the characters, the links between the scenes, and so on. It is a labyrinth of formidable proportions that I have to grapple with. The cursor on my Word document blinks at me incessantly. ‘Write something. Write something’ it seems to taunt me. But I don’t know what happens next in the story. I don’t know how to resolve the subplot. I don’t know how or where this action will take place. I don’t know how to smoothly move to the next scene. I don’t know anything. I tear my hair in frustration. I can never do this. I can’t be a writer. Who was I kidding?
I have a couple of whiskey shots and wait for the feeling to pass. The difference between a real novelist and a wannabe is that a novelist finishes the manuscript. So, the next day, I go at it again. Word-by-word, I inch forward towards the finish line.
Sometimes, I get a vision. I am at Crosswords bookstore, a favorite hang-out of mine while growing up. It is my book signing event. I sit on a large table and there is a big banner behind me. In front of me, there is a line of people waiting to get my autograph on their copy of my latest novel.
The shrill sound of my alarm clock blurs the vision. My dream felt so real. It is a recurring dream that refuses to leave me. I log into my laptop and the cursor on the empty page blinks insistently. I rub my eyes, crack my knuckles and hit the keyboard. This is my reality. That was my dream. I close my eyes and I am at Crosswords again, signing books. I open them and the page before me is blank.
I know my goal, my destination. But, I don’t have the faintest clue how to get there, when I’ll get there, or even if I’ll ever get there. I don’t have a roadmap. I don’t have a compass. Still, I keep walking down that road, one step at a time. I may make a few wrong turns along the way, but I believe in my heart that if I stay the course long enough, I will reach the destination.
I fight a long, lonely battle, but the journey is magical. Every stage is to be savored. The race is long and in the end it is only with myself.
What's in a name?
“The circuit has three resistors in series and two in parallel…”
Mrs. Kulkarni, the Electronics teacher, lectured in a dull monotone. The classroom was a large one. The students of the last five or six rows were busy writing the Networks assignment that was due later that day. A group of girls occupying the middle benches were engaged in idle gossip. The students in the first two rows appeared somewhat attentive. Mrs. Kulkarni went on reciting the subject matter, seemingly oblivious of what the students in her class were doing.
As is the norm in most engineering colleges in Mumbai, one misguided student had actually written the Networks assignment himself. The rest of the class would then process to mindlessly copy it word-for-word. Seated in the middle of the third last row, Marvin was eager to get his hands on a copy of the assignment. Having just made the transition from diploma to second year engineering, he was halfway through his first month at Thadomal Shahani Engineering College. Before walking into class that day, he was not even aware that there was a Networks assignment due, let alone what the questions were for that assignment. The student behind him had just about completed writing. Marvin borrowed a ball pen and some blank assignment sheets from another student. Taking a copy of the assignment from behind, he began writing rapidly. The assignment was ten pages long.
“Stop writing assignments in my class,” Mrs. Kulkarni bellowed from the front of the class.
Marvin was nearing the end of the second page. So engrossed was he in writing that he took no notice of the teacher.
“You. Stand up!” The teacher’s voice was even louder now.
Now, Marvin looked up and found her staring directly at him. Putting the pen down, he stood up obediently.
“Get out of my class.”
“Why, Ma’am?” Marvin asked innocently.
“What do you mean why? You are not paying attention. Shamelessly writing some assignments in class. Not even looking up when I am talking to you.”
“But Ma’am, everybody here is writing assignments,” Marvin protested.
“Just get out.”
Marvin argued with her for a couple of minutes. He was not used to being kicked out of class. At least, not yet. It was only his first month there.
Finally Mrs. Kulkarni said, “Get out. Write a letter apologizing for your behavior and then request permission to come back in.” and dismissed him.
Picking up his bag, Marvin left the classroom. He found a bench nearby and sat down. He checked the contents of his bag: MP3 player, cell phone charger, motorcycle helmet and gloves. There was no sign of any pen or paper.
“Hey Dude, Can you give me a pen?” Marvin called out to a student passing by.
“Sure.”
“Also, do you have some paper?” Marvin added sheepishly.
“Anything else?” the student asked mockingly as he handed Marvin a pen and some paper.
Marvin smiled and shook his head. He settled on the bench to write the apology letter.
“12th August, 2001.” He wrote on top of the page.
“Dear Mrs.….”
A moment passed. And then another. The realization dawned upon him slowly but surely. He had absolutely no idea who the teacher in there was.
C’mon man, think. You have to know the name of the Electronics teacher, Marvin admonished himself. But, his mind was drawing a blank.
‘Mrs. Shetty? No….Mrs. Sharma? That can’t be….Damn it! What is her name?’
“Dear Mrs. Madhuri,” Marvin wrote decisively after a few minutes of deliberation.
Now, God alone knows why he chose the name Madhuri. Maybe it was a process of elimination. Maybe he was a fan of Madhuri Dixit, the actress. Maybe he simply picked a random name. After all, what’s in a name?
Scribbling a brief apology, he hurried back to the classroom. He entered quietly and handed Mrs. Kulkarni the letter. She read it quickly and looked at him. She looked down at the letter and then looked at Marvin again.
“Who is this Madhuri?”
“Huh?”
Think of something man, Marvin said to himself.
“Who is Madhuri?” the teacher asked again.
“Err….umm…”
Say something. Just say anything now, Marvin thought.
“Ma’am, you are only Madhuri,” He blurted out finally.
“What??” Mrs. Kulkarni was dumbfounded by this response.
The rest of students looked on with puzzled expressions. Then, realizing what he had said, they burst into laughter.
“Shut up, everyone!” Mrs. Kulkarni yelled.
She glared at Marvin.
What does he think of himself, she thought. First, he writes assignments in class without so much as looking up and now this. And who the hell is this Madhuri? Is it some girl from the class?
“Come with me to the Head of Department,” she said, reaching a decision.
Mr. Shinde, the head of the Electronics department, was about to start his lunch, when Mrs. Kulkarni walked into his office with Marvin. After listening to her story, he had a bemused expression on his face.
“Who is Madhuri?” he asked Marvin.
Meanwhile, Marvin had still not come up with a satisfactory answer to this question. He looked towards Mrs. Kulkarni.
“Ma’am is only Madhuri….”
Mr. Shinde looked as if he was not sure whether to laugh or to reprimand Marvin.
“This is Mrs. Smitha Kulkarni, your Electronics teacher for the third semester,” he said, barely able to conceal a grin.
“Now, will you write a proper apology letter addressed to her?”
Marvin nodded, relieved to be let off the hook so lightly. The meeting was over, and Marvin got the hell out of there.
Mrs. Kulkarni, the Electronics teacher, lectured in a dull monotone. The classroom was a large one. The students of the last five or six rows were busy writing the Networks assignment that was due later that day. A group of girls occupying the middle benches were engaged in idle gossip. The students in the first two rows appeared somewhat attentive. Mrs. Kulkarni went on reciting the subject matter, seemingly oblivious of what the students in her class were doing.
As is the norm in most engineering colleges in Mumbai, one misguided student had actually written the Networks assignment himself. The rest of the class would then process to mindlessly copy it word-for-word. Seated in the middle of the third last row, Marvin was eager to get his hands on a copy of the assignment. Having just made the transition from diploma to second year engineering, he was halfway through his first month at Thadomal Shahani Engineering College. Before walking into class that day, he was not even aware that there was a Networks assignment due, let alone what the questions were for that assignment. The student behind him had just about completed writing. Marvin borrowed a ball pen and some blank assignment sheets from another student. Taking a copy of the assignment from behind, he began writing rapidly. The assignment was ten pages long.
“Stop writing assignments in my class,” Mrs. Kulkarni bellowed from the front of the class.
Marvin was nearing the end of the second page. So engrossed was he in writing that he took no notice of the teacher.
“You. Stand up!” The teacher’s voice was even louder now.
Now, Marvin looked up and found her staring directly at him. Putting the pen down, he stood up obediently.
“Get out of my class.”
“Why, Ma’am?” Marvin asked innocently.
“What do you mean why? You are not paying attention. Shamelessly writing some assignments in class. Not even looking up when I am talking to you.”
“But Ma’am, everybody here is writing assignments,” Marvin protested.
“Just get out.”
Marvin argued with her for a couple of minutes. He was not used to being kicked out of class. At least, not yet. It was only his first month there.
Finally Mrs. Kulkarni said, “Get out. Write a letter apologizing for your behavior and then request permission to come back in.” and dismissed him.
Picking up his bag, Marvin left the classroom. He found a bench nearby and sat down. He checked the contents of his bag: MP3 player, cell phone charger, motorcycle helmet and gloves. There was no sign of any pen or paper.
“Hey Dude, Can you give me a pen?” Marvin called out to a student passing by.
“Sure.”
“Also, do you have some paper?” Marvin added sheepishly.
“Anything else?” the student asked mockingly as he handed Marvin a pen and some paper.
Marvin smiled and shook his head. He settled on the bench to write the apology letter.
“12th August, 2001.” He wrote on top of the page.
“Dear Mrs.….”
A moment passed. And then another. The realization dawned upon him slowly but surely. He had absolutely no idea who the teacher in there was.
C’mon man, think. You have to know the name of the Electronics teacher, Marvin admonished himself. But, his mind was drawing a blank.
‘Mrs. Shetty? No….Mrs. Sharma? That can’t be….Damn it! What is her name?’
“Dear Mrs. Madhuri,” Marvin wrote decisively after a few minutes of deliberation.
Now, God alone knows why he chose the name Madhuri. Maybe it was a process of elimination. Maybe he was a fan of Madhuri Dixit, the actress. Maybe he simply picked a random name. After all, what’s in a name?
Scribbling a brief apology, he hurried back to the classroom. He entered quietly and handed Mrs. Kulkarni the letter. She read it quickly and looked at him. She looked down at the letter and then looked at Marvin again.
“Who is this Madhuri?”
“Huh?”
Think of something man, Marvin said to himself.
“Who is Madhuri?” the teacher asked again.
“Err….umm…”
Say something. Just say anything now, Marvin thought.
“Ma’am, you are only Madhuri,” He blurted out finally.
“What??” Mrs. Kulkarni was dumbfounded by this response.
The rest of students looked on with puzzled expressions. Then, realizing what he had said, they burst into laughter.
“Shut up, everyone!” Mrs. Kulkarni yelled.
She glared at Marvin.
What does he think of himself, she thought. First, he writes assignments in class without so much as looking up and now this. And who the hell is this Madhuri? Is it some girl from the class?
“Come with me to the Head of Department,” she said, reaching a decision.
Mr. Shinde, the head of the Electronics department, was about to start his lunch, when Mrs. Kulkarni walked into his office with Marvin. After listening to her story, he had a bemused expression on his face.
“Who is Madhuri?” he asked Marvin.
Meanwhile, Marvin had still not come up with a satisfactory answer to this question. He looked towards Mrs. Kulkarni.
“Ma’am is only Madhuri….”
Mr. Shinde looked as if he was not sure whether to laugh or to reprimand Marvin.
“This is Mrs. Smitha Kulkarni, your Electronics teacher for the third semester,” he said, barely able to conceal a grin.
“Now, will you write a proper apology letter addressed to her?”
Marvin nodded, relieved to be let off the hook so lightly. The meeting was over, and Marvin got the hell out of there.
The Glorious Uncertainties
Will she say yes to me? Will I get that job offer? Will I get admission into that college? Will I be able close the deal with those clients? Will I perform well on stage tonight?
It is thoughts such as these that trouble our minds and make us unhappy. Why do we torture ourselves in this manner? What makes these thoughts pervade our minds day in and day out? It is the same reason that people turn to Astrology, Numerology, Palmistry, Tarot Cards, etc to tell them their future. It is the Uncertainty. People have never been able to live with the uncertainty of not knowing what will happen to them. Hence we expend all our energy worrying about the future rather than living in the moment. Our inability to come to terms with this uncertainty makes us suffer.
To deal with the uncertainty, we must first learn to give up the one thing we never had and never will have i.e. Control. We cannot control what will happen in our lives and in the lives of others around us. She may like me or she may not. I may get the job offer or I may not. We must accept that we cannot know how things will turn out. This is the first true realization i.e. not knowing. Once this simple truth dawns upon us then we will have taken the first step towards becoming comfortable with uncertainty.
Consider this situation. What if you were told by a reliable source (say your God), without any room for doubt, about everything that will happen in your future? Say, that you could know all the complete and accurate details about every single day of the rest of your life. Would you like to know this? The first instinct of most people would be Yes, we would like to know. Then we would never have to worry again and our minds would be at peace. But, think about it again. Would you really want to know? If you knew every single thing that is to happen on every single day, then would there be any joy in living that life? If you already knew everything, then you would be reduced to a spectator in your own life. It would be like watching a movie when you know exactly what will happen in every scene. Do you enjoy watching such a movie? Or would you rather watch a movie where it is full of unpredictable twists and turns and you don't where it is heading next?
Thinking about this, we can see that uncertainty is not only inevitable but is also a good thing. Without uncertainty, our lives would be dull and devoid of joy. It is the uncertainties that bring us happiness. If I always knew that she would say yes to me, then, I wouldn't have bought her flowers, hired musicians and gone to all that trouble to win her affections. But, would I be that happy if I already knew how things would turn out and didn't have to bother to do all those things? Probably not. If I knew for certain that I was going to get the job, then I wouldn't have spent time making my resume, preparing for the interview, getting a new suit, etc. Again, if I didn't do all those things with the knowledge that I was to get the job, would the offer give me much joy? Again, it would not. It is the journey that brings us happiness and not the destination. These journeys would not exist without the uncertainty.
We must accept the uncertainties of our lives as they are. We should learn to start liking the uncertainty. Savor the journey and banish from the mind all thoughts of the outcome. We must live in the here and the now and enjoy the moment. If we can do this, we will find that most of our troubles cease to be troubles anymore.
It is thoughts such as these that trouble our minds and make us unhappy. Why do we torture ourselves in this manner? What makes these thoughts pervade our minds day in and day out? It is the same reason that people turn to Astrology, Numerology, Palmistry, Tarot Cards, etc to tell them their future. It is the Uncertainty. People have never been able to live with the uncertainty of not knowing what will happen to them. Hence we expend all our energy worrying about the future rather than living in the moment. Our inability to come to terms with this uncertainty makes us suffer.
To deal with the uncertainty, we must first learn to give up the one thing we never had and never will have i.e. Control. We cannot control what will happen in our lives and in the lives of others around us. She may like me or she may not. I may get the job offer or I may not. We must accept that we cannot know how things will turn out. This is the first true realization i.e. not knowing. Once this simple truth dawns upon us then we will have taken the first step towards becoming comfortable with uncertainty.
Consider this situation. What if you were told by a reliable source (say your God), without any room for doubt, about everything that will happen in your future? Say, that you could know all the complete and accurate details about every single day of the rest of your life. Would you like to know this? The first instinct of most people would be Yes, we would like to know. Then we would never have to worry again and our minds would be at peace. But, think about it again. Would you really want to know? If you knew every single thing that is to happen on every single day, then would there be any joy in living that life? If you already knew everything, then you would be reduced to a spectator in your own life. It would be like watching a movie when you know exactly what will happen in every scene. Do you enjoy watching such a movie? Or would you rather watch a movie where it is full of unpredictable twists and turns and you don't where it is heading next?
Thinking about this, we can see that uncertainty is not only inevitable but is also a good thing. Without uncertainty, our lives would be dull and devoid of joy. It is the uncertainties that bring us happiness. If I always knew that she would say yes to me, then, I wouldn't have bought her flowers, hired musicians and gone to all that trouble to win her affections. But, would I be that happy if I already knew how things would turn out and didn't have to bother to do all those things? Probably not. If I knew for certain that I was going to get the job, then I wouldn't have spent time making my resume, preparing for the interview, getting a new suit, etc. Again, if I didn't do all those things with the knowledge that I was to get the job, would the offer give me much joy? Again, it would not. It is the journey that brings us happiness and not the destination. These journeys would not exist without the uncertainty.
We must accept the uncertainties of our lives as they are. We should learn to start liking the uncertainty. Savor the journey and banish from the mind all thoughts of the outcome. We must live in the here and the now and enjoy the moment. If we can do this, we will find that most of our troubles cease to be troubles anymore.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)