Shankar paused and sucked in a breath. The staircase was pitch-dark, with no one in sight. He reached out his hand to feel the wall. With the other hand, he held his cell phone to provide some light. He steadied himself and climbed. The wooden stairs creaked.
“This better be worth it.” Shankar muttered. Kabir, the master artist who he was to meet, was a legend. Everyone in Delhi’s upper class swore by his name. The millionaire industrialist, Aamir, called him India’s Da Vinci.
When Shankar saw the master’s work, he was awestruck. He vowed to acquire a Kabir painting someday. Come hell or high water. Or a darkened staircase from a previous century, living on its last legs.
No one knew much about Kabir. Where he came from, who his family was, even his last name. His paintings were traded in the underground market accessible only to the wealthy and the powerful. Those who acquired his work firsthand wouldn’t talk. At least not publicly.
Shankar’s garment business had sky-rocketed in the past year, putting him squarely in the rich man’s club. He made the right connections, started a few discrete inquiries. One person led him to another. He threw money around like it was paper. Funny how a few extra zeros in a number can make even the most tight-lipped folks sing like a canary.
Eventually, he found the master’s liaison, Pankaj, who arranged a meeting. So, he found himself climbing the staircase of that dilapidated building at an ungodly hour in the morning. The instructions were strict. He had to arrive at sharp six fifteen. He had to be alone and dressed in a yellow shirt. Eccentric frickin’ painter.
Shankar reached the end of the stairs. A rustic wooden door loomed before him, chipped all over. He checked his watch. Six fourteen. On an instinct, he decided to wait. A person this crazy could well be offended if he showed up a minute early.
At precisely six fifteen, Shankar rapped his knuckles on the door. The door swung inwards by few inches. Two dark eyes stared at him.
Shankar cleared his throat. “Yes, I’m Shankar. I’m here to meet Kabir.”
The eyes flickered. No words were spoken in response.
The door swung shut. Shankar blinked. He gritted his teeth. “Wait. Let me in. I’ve followed every instruction. Its six fifteen. I’m alone. I’m wearing yellow. I haven’t told anyone.”
The door opened again. Little by little, until it was fully open. The man standing there had an oval face, a frail body and curly, unkempt hair. He wore a yellow kurta and yellow pajamas. His eyes never left Shankar, who felt naked under his gaze.
The master stepped inside and gestured for Shankar to follow. The living room was dimly lit. Newspapers and magazines were scattered around. On a wooden drawing table lay white sketch papers and brushes. Next to it were two low brown stools. There was no other furniture.
The master sat cross-legged on a stool and pointed to the other one.
Shankar lowered himself on the stool. “You are Kabir?”
The master made no attempt to reply.
“Okay, so I really love your work.” Shankar said. “I loved it when I first saw it and I just have to have your painting.”
The master just stared.
Shankar paused, and went on. “I have a special fondness for cats. Any felines, actually, but especially cats. I keep several of them as pets. I would be delighted if I could get a painting of a cat. A painting so magnificent that it should be more alive than a real cat.”
The master’s eyes flicked from side to side. “A cat you say?”
Shankar smiled, relieved to get any response. “Yes. I’m willing to pay any amount…”
The master waved his hand in dismissal. “What kind of cat?”
“A Persian cat, with black fur…and a long tail.”
The master nodded his leonine head. He stood up abruptly. “Come back in two months. Same time, same clothes.”
Shankar stood up. “Alright, thank you so much. I can pay in advance. How much…”
The master frowned, “Later.”
Two months later, Shankar rushed up and knocked on the door, bristling with anticipation. He was about to see his Persian cat come to life. He could scarcely contain himself.
The door swung open. The master was dressed in the same yellow kurta and yellow pajama. He glared back at Shankar. “It’s not ready. Come back in four months.”
Shankar’s face fell. “Four more months? But…”
The door had already swung shut.
“Crazy freak.” Shankar muttered. He left the building, grumbling to himself. He had no choice but to wait.
The more he waited, the stronger his anticipation grew. He identified a spot in the living room where his Kabir painting would be displayed in full view.
After four restless months, Shankar raced up the dark staircase and knocked on the door.
The door opened. The master’s clothes were disheveled and his face unshaven. A musty stench emanated from him. He grunted. “Not yet. Six more months.”
The door slammed close. Shankar still hadn’t caught his breath. “What the hell’s going on here?” He shouted. He clenched his fist and punched the wall.
He rubbed his knuckles. This was insane. How long would he flounder at the whim of this psychopath? Was he really India’s Da Vinci as they claimed?
Shankar went home and consulted the affluent circle. Their advice was unanimous and unambiguous. Wait. If you have a chance of getting a Kabir painting, then just wait for it.
Shankar resigned himself to waiting. Every night he dreamt of his forthcoming painting. He marked the exact spot on the wall and wandered around it, imagining his Persian cat there. He could think of nothing else.
A year after he first met Kabir, Shankar knocked on the door for a fourth time. He said a silent prayer.
The master opened the door wide, with a hint of a smile on his lips. “Come in.”
Shankar’s eyes lit up. His face flushed red. The moment had arrived. He followed the master and sat on the stool.
The master took an empty white sketch paper and positioned it on the drawing table. He carefully arranged his brushes and paints. He began work.
Shankar watched him wide-eyed. It was like watching trapeze artist. Every stroke was graceful and precise. His hands waved the brush on the paper like a magician’s wand.
Ten minutes later, the master paused and studied his work. He beckoned Shankar to look.
Shankar looked at the painting and went weak in the knees. The Persian cat had fluffy black fur. The tail extended back and curled upwards. The nose was small but distinct. But what really left him speechless were the eyes. Two jet-black pupils danced amidst a white backdrop. The eyes called out to him. They connected with a part of his sub-conscious that he couldn’t understand. He wanted to cuddle the little thing like there was no tomorrow.
Five minutes passed, Shankar still stood like a statue. The master had a contented grin.
Shankar stammered. “Yes, yes…this is the best thing I’ve ever seen..yes…this is it…this is perfection…” He took a deep breath. “Thank you so much. How much do I owe you?”
The master wrote the amount on a piece of paper. Shankar looked it and nodded. “I will bring the money first thing tomorrow.”
As Shankar started to leave, a thought occurred to him. He turned to the master. “This painting is amazing…it’s beyond amazing…but, I saw you paint it in ten minutes. Then, how come you sent me away before? Why did you make me wait so long?
The master just smiled.
Shankar shook his head. “You were amusing yourself or something, ha? Is it your fetish to toy with the emotions of people like me? What the hell were you doing for one year if you have such a god-given talent that you can paint a masterpiece in ten minutes?”
The master walked inside his bedroom and indicated for Shankar to follow. He went up to a tall cupboard in a corner and opened it.
Several bundles of paintings tumbled to the floor. Shankar examined them. They were paintings of black Persian cats much like the one he had. He went to the cupboard and found it packed to the brim with sketches of Persian cats. There must have been at least a thousand.
“This is what I was doing for the past year.” The master said softly. “I haven’t rested for a single day. You say I have a god-given talent. But the truth is that I don’t. No one does. Talent is acquired after endless hours of patient work. I had to perfect every shade, every shape, every brush stroke. It took one year of practice before I was able to produce, in ten minutes, the thing you have in your hand.”
Shankar’s mouth hung open, his eyes glazed. No wonder the guy was so eccentric. He nodded, took his painting and left. For the first time in his life, he understood what it took to be a true master.
The Serial Phone-Killer
Do you believe your cell phone is sturdy, or even indestructible? Cell phone companies work hard to build phones that can endure rough use. However, certain customers, like Naveen, find ingenious ways to demonstrate the mortality of these pocket-sized devices that we cannot do without. Naveen, as a cell phone user, is a like a devastating hurricane. No manufacturer would want to design phones to cater to Naveen’s requirements.
Below are few incidents that illustrate Naveen’s destructive abilities.
When Nature Calls
Naveen needed to urinate. When nature calls, one has no choice but to respond. He paused his dvd of ‘Titanic’ at a critical juncture when the ice-berg was about to strike. He strode to the bathroom. He unzipped his jeans, his mind preoccupied with the looming disaster on the ship of dreams. A jarring ring interrupted his thoughts. He felt his pocket vibrate.
He brought out his new Nokia camera phone. The caller was Anjali. Cute and sexy, Anjali. She was one girl whose call he couldn’t refuse. His bladder was full. The ice-berg was about to hit. The Nokia rang insistently, flashing the name Anjali in bold letters across its screen.
Naveen pressed the green button. “He..Hello..” He stammered.
“Naveen,” Her voice sounded so melodious to him. “Where are you?”
“Ha? Umm…umm...I am…” Naveen struggled to find words.
He had a splash sound.
He looked down. The Nokia had transported itself from the palm of his hand into the commode where he was about to deposit his urine. His eyes widened, his mouth hung open.
He stood there frozen stiff. That’s when his bladder ran out of patience and decided to release. A wetness spread inside his jeans. His mind went blank. By force of habit, he pressed the toilet flush.
He stared in horror as the water in the commode got sucked into the orifice at the bottom, taking his Nokia with it. A sound of crunching metal was audible as the Nokia didn’t go down without a fight. The Nokia banged against the sides of the commode as it got sucked down.
Naveen snapped to his senses. He extended his right arm and pulled up the Nokia just before it went inside.
The Nokia gazed back at him like a man on his death bed. The screen was smashed. Several number keys had come off. The edges were chipped. The device was soaked in water.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s Nokia, whose last potential picture would not have been a pretty one.
Laundry Day
Naveen woke up to find himself lying spread-eagled on his bed. His clothes and shoes from last night were still on him. A throbbing pain pounded his head. It felt like his brain was being squeezed and pushed against his skull. His clothes smelled of alcohol. His legs hurt from the dancing.
He made a herculean effort to push himself out of bed. Sunday was laundry day. He slipped off his shirt, jeans and underwear and threw them along with his other dirty clothes into the washer. He staggered across to the bathroom, and stood underneath a hot shower.
After a long bath, he felt like a human again. He decided to check Facebook to see if any pictures from last night’s party had been posted.
He had left his laptop at work on Friday. He smiled. That’s why God made smart phones. The Facebook app on his new Blackberry was a joy to use. He went to his bedside table. No sign of the Blackberry there. He rummaged through his drawers, but to no avail.
Naveen blinked and blinked again. Where was the Blackberry hiding? He scoured every nook and cranny of his apartment but he couldn’t find it. The Blackberry had cost him a buttload of money. It was a fantastic little device. He gulped down a glass of water and sat on the couch.
Yesterday, he made several calls from the club to sync with friends. After that…he couldn’t recollect anything after that.
Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and stood up. The jeans pockets. It had to be there. He took two steps ahead and paused mid-stride. The realization dawned upon him in a flash.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” He shouted. He rushed towards the washer. He swung it open, and grappled through the mass of still-wet t-shirts, shirts, underwear, socks, etc. Amongst them were his jeans from last night.
Then he found the Blackberry, or rather the Device Formerly Known as The Blackberry. It had been reduced to a block of metal that would serve no practical purpose apart from being a paper-weight. The screen was in bits, the battery had come off, the sides were broken. Let’s not even get started on the keyboard.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s Blackberry whose last Facebook update would have been a dramatic one.
Chicken Tikka Masala
It was an event that happened at most once a month. Naveen decided to cook a meal. He had come home early from work and was in the mood for a fresh chicken curry.
However, he needed detailed help. So, he brought out his new iPhone, and called his mother in India. She asked him to use the pressure cooker, a cooking utensil unique to Indians, which vaporized water within a confined space to speed up the cooking process.
With the iPhone pressed to his ear, Naveen chopped onions and tomatoes, mixed spices and stirred the curry as per instructions. He held the prepared chicken pieces in one hand.
His mom ordered. “Put everything inside and shut the cooker for at least two whistles.”
“Okay, ma.”
“I have to go now.” She said. “Just put whatever is left inside and don’t forget to wait till all the steam is released before opening the cooker again.”
“I get it, ma.” Naveen shook his head. He wasn’t a five-year old. He knew steam could burn him.
“Bye, I’ll talk to you later.” His mom disconnected the line.
Naveen removed the iPhone from his ear and put everything into the pressure cooker. He set the burner on high and turned on the television, waiting for his Chicken Tikka Masala to cook.
The cooker made a noisy racket as it mashed together all its contents and released steam from the top. Naveen increased the volume on the TV. It occurred to him that instead of calling Mom, he could have installed a cooking app on the iPhone which had step-by-step instructions. There was an app for everything on the iPhone.
The iPhone…Where was it? He had it all the while he was cooking. Where did he put it?
He froze. His hands began to tremble.
“Holy fucking shit.” He leapt out of his seat and raced to the cooker. Twice his mom had told him to put everything inside the cooker. She probably didn’t mean the iPhone.
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The cooker sounded its first whistle. He was about to pry the lid open, when he stopped himself. He used a spoon to lift the air vent and turned his face away as the steam gushed out.
After the last of the steam was out, he opened the lid and looked inside. He put on gloves, reached in and brought out what was a corpse of the iPhone in a curry-soaked grave. The screen was a series of cracks, the back side had broken, the volume and power buttons had come off. The iPhone drowned in gravy. Pieces of chicken smothered it from all sides.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s iPhone, whose last app download could have been a self-preserving one.
So, as you can see, Naveen is every cell phone’s worst nightmare. Time and again, he circumvents the phone manufacturers’ best efforts to make a reliable, long-lasting device. Look out all you latest models. Naveen is shopping for a new phone.
Below are few incidents that illustrate Naveen’s destructive abilities.
When Nature Calls
Naveen needed to urinate. When nature calls, one has no choice but to respond. He paused his dvd of ‘Titanic’ at a critical juncture when the ice-berg was about to strike. He strode to the bathroom. He unzipped his jeans, his mind preoccupied with the looming disaster on the ship of dreams. A jarring ring interrupted his thoughts. He felt his pocket vibrate.
He brought out his new Nokia camera phone. The caller was Anjali. Cute and sexy, Anjali. She was one girl whose call he couldn’t refuse. His bladder was full. The ice-berg was about to hit. The Nokia rang insistently, flashing the name Anjali in bold letters across its screen.
Naveen pressed the green button. “He..Hello..” He stammered.
“Naveen,” Her voice sounded so melodious to him. “Where are you?”
“Ha? Umm…umm...I am…” Naveen struggled to find words.
He had a splash sound.
He looked down. The Nokia had transported itself from the palm of his hand into the commode where he was about to deposit his urine. His eyes widened, his mouth hung open.
He stood there frozen stiff. That’s when his bladder ran out of patience and decided to release. A wetness spread inside his jeans. His mind went blank. By force of habit, he pressed the toilet flush.
He stared in horror as the water in the commode got sucked into the orifice at the bottom, taking his Nokia with it. A sound of crunching metal was audible as the Nokia didn’t go down without a fight. The Nokia banged against the sides of the commode as it got sucked down.
Naveen snapped to his senses. He extended his right arm and pulled up the Nokia just before it went inside.
The Nokia gazed back at him like a man on his death bed. The screen was smashed. Several number keys had come off. The edges were chipped. The device was soaked in water.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s Nokia, whose last potential picture would not have been a pretty one.
Laundry Day
Naveen woke up to find himself lying spread-eagled on his bed. His clothes and shoes from last night were still on him. A throbbing pain pounded his head. It felt like his brain was being squeezed and pushed against his skull. His clothes smelled of alcohol. His legs hurt from the dancing.
He made a herculean effort to push himself out of bed. Sunday was laundry day. He slipped off his shirt, jeans and underwear and threw them along with his other dirty clothes into the washer. He staggered across to the bathroom, and stood underneath a hot shower.
After a long bath, he felt like a human again. He decided to check Facebook to see if any pictures from last night’s party had been posted.
He had left his laptop at work on Friday. He smiled. That’s why God made smart phones. The Facebook app on his new Blackberry was a joy to use. He went to his bedside table. No sign of the Blackberry there. He rummaged through his drawers, but to no avail.
Naveen blinked and blinked again. Where was the Blackberry hiding? He scoured every nook and cranny of his apartment but he couldn’t find it. The Blackberry had cost him a buttload of money. It was a fantastic little device. He gulped down a glass of water and sat on the couch.
Yesterday, he made several calls from the club to sync with friends. After that…he couldn’t recollect anything after that.
Suddenly, he snapped his fingers and stood up. The jeans pockets. It had to be there. He took two steps ahead and paused mid-stride. The realization dawned upon him in a flash.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” He shouted. He rushed towards the washer. He swung it open, and grappled through the mass of still-wet t-shirts, shirts, underwear, socks, etc. Amongst them were his jeans from last night.
Then he found the Blackberry, or rather the Device Formerly Known as The Blackberry. It had been reduced to a block of metal that would serve no practical purpose apart from being a paper-weight. The screen was in bits, the battery had come off, the sides were broken. Let’s not even get started on the keyboard.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s Blackberry whose last Facebook update would have been a dramatic one.
Chicken Tikka Masala
It was an event that happened at most once a month. Naveen decided to cook a meal. He had come home early from work and was in the mood for a fresh chicken curry.
However, he needed detailed help. So, he brought out his new iPhone, and called his mother in India. She asked him to use the pressure cooker, a cooking utensil unique to Indians, which vaporized water within a confined space to speed up the cooking process.
With the iPhone pressed to his ear, Naveen chopped onions and tomatoes, mixed spices and stirred the curry as per instructions. He held the prepared chicken pieces in one hand.
His mom ordered. “Put everything inside and shut the cooker for at least two whistles.”
“Okay, ma.”
“I have to go now.” She said. “Just put whatever is left inside and don’t forget to wait till all the steam is released before opening the cooker again.”
“I get it, ma.” Naveen shook his head. He wasn’t a five-year old. He knew steam could burn him.
“Bye, I’ll talk to you later.” His mom disconnected the line.
Naveen removed the iPhone from his ear and put everything into the pressure cooker. He set the burner on high and turned on the television, waiting for his Chicken Tikka Masala to cook.
The cooker made a noisy racket as it mashed together all its contents and released steam from the top. Naveen increased the volume on the TV. It occurred to him that instead of calling Mom, he could have installed a cooking app on the iPhone which had step-by-step instructions. There was an app for everything on the iPhone.
The iPhone…Where was it? He had it all the while he was cooking. Where did he put it?
He froze. His hands began to tremble.
“Holy fucking shit.” He leapt out of his seat and raced to the cooker. Twice his mom had told him to put everything inside the cooker. She probably didn’t mean the iPhone.
Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The cooker sounded its first whistle. He was about to pry the lid open, when he stopped himself. He used a spoon to lift the air vent and turned his face away as the steam gushed out.
After the last of the steam was out, he opened the lid and looked inside. He put on gloves, reached in and brought out what was a corpse of the iPhone in a curry-soaked grave. The screen was a series of cracks, the back side had broken, the volume and power buttons had come off. The iPhone drowned in gravy. Pieces of chicken smothered it from all sides.
R.I.P.: Naveen’s iPhone, whose last app download could have been a self-preserving one.
So, as you can see, Naveen is every cell phone’s worst nightmare. Time and again, he circumvents the phone manufacturers’ best efforts to make a reliable, long-lasting device. Look out all you latest models. Naveen is shopping for a new phone.
Change the Story
Below are two stories about Naveen’s six hour long flight from New York to Seattle.
Story 1:
Naveen shifted in his aisle seat. He wondered why airplanes had such cramped seats. His legs were too long for the narrow space. He felt stiff.
He glanced to his left. An enormous bulk of a middle-aged lady slumped in the next seat. Flesh dangled along her wide arms. Her body bulged outward like an inflated balloon. Naveen found himself being pushed towards the edge of his seat.
“Great, just fucking great.” Naveen muttered under his breath. How did these people get so huge? Were they just too lazy to exercise and too dumb to pay attention to their diet?
Naveen rang the bell for the air-hostess. The fat lady snored loudly in her sleep. He shook his head. Five minutes passed and still no sign of the air-hostess. He pushed the bell again. He craned his neck and saw the air-hostess approaching in her blue uniform with the tight skirt. She didn’t have the legs to pull off that skirt.
“Yes, sir?” She smiled at him. It was a fake smile.
“Can I get an orange juice?” Naveen demanded.
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
Five minutes later, she still hadn’t returned. Naveen gritted his teeth.
Finally, she re-appeared. “Here’s your orange juice, sir.”
“What took you so long?” Naveen grabbed the glass. “The service on this flight is slow.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. We have a full flight. I had lots of passenger requests.” She smiled.
Naveen waved her off. He checked his watch. Still four hours to go. How was he going to get through this agonizing flight?
An hour before landing, Naveen twisted about, cranky as ever. The captain warned them of turbulence ahead. Naveen gripped the side of his seat. The plane swayed as it passed through the air pocket. He felt his body bumped off the seat for a moment.
What a disaster this flight had been. They didn’t even get the aircraft to fly smoothly. Maybe this was a sign of things to come. Maybe his new job would be full of turbulence and turmoil. Maybe his new colleagues would be dumb or non-responsive like the air-hostess. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake.
Story 2:
Naveen shifted in his aisle seat. His stretched his legs out as far as he could and made himself comfortable. He felt lucky to have gotten the aisle seat.
He glanced to his left. The lady next to him suffered from obesity. It had become an epidemic in America. He knew she was fighting a tough battle. He silently wished her luck.
He rang the bell for the air-hostess. The lady next to him snored loudly in her sleep. Naveen smiled. At least she managed to sleep so peacefully. Good for her.
Five minutes later, the air-hostess appeared in her blue uniform. She managed to look dignified in her skirt.
“Yes, sir?” She smiled at him. Naveen marveled at her ability to always be so cheerful.
“Can I get an orange juice, please?” He asked.
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
She re-appeared, a little over five minutes later. “Here’s your orange juice, sir.”
Naveen gave her a big smile. “Thank you.” She was doing a good job, despite having to rush back and forth to respond to the demands of a full flight of passengers.
He checked his watch. Four hours to go. That would be enough time to catch up on a couple of movies he had missed. He relaxed and leaned back.
An hour before landing, the captain warned them of turbulence ahead. Naveen grinned in anticipation. The plane swayed as it passed through the air pocket. He felt his body bumped off the seat for a moment. This was like a bonus roller-coaster ride, no extra charge.
What a fun flight it had been. Maybe this was a sign of things to come. Maybe his new job would be challenging and exciting. Maybe his new colleagues would be friendly like the air-hostess and fun to work with. Maybe he was about to start an amazing phase of life.
I’m sure you have observed that exactly the same events happen in both the stories. Yet, the two stories sound so different.
It’s not the situation that matters; it’s our reaction to it. Our perception creates our reality. To alter this reality, we must simply change our perception.
In the first story, the annoyance, anger and apprehension that Naveen felt were real. In the second story, the empathy, wonder and excitement that Naveen felt were just as real. Even though the circumstances were the same, they could be experienced in different ways. All Naveen did was change the story he told himself, and he experienced an alternate reality.
In our daily lives, we constantly react to events. Whether we are aware of this or not, we tell ourselves stories about the situation around us.
Consider the following examples of stories we tell ourselves.
We miss the train to work. We tell ourselves “Damn it. Why can’t the train be delayed the one time I want it to be? Otherwise, it’s delayed so often. Now, I’ll be late for the meeting. Waiting at this platform is such a waste of time.”
The boss at work always gives us the difficult projects. We tell ourselves “My boss deliberately gives me all the hard assignments. He doesn’t even come around to see how I’m doing, like he does with the others. He doesn’t give a damn about me. He just uses me for all the dirty work.”
Our good friend doesn’t respond to our phone call. We tell ourselves “He is always too busy to pick up my calls. Just because he earns more money, he thinks that he is better than me. What an arrogant prick.”
Now, let’s change these stories we tell ourselves, keeping the situations the same.
We miss the train to work. We tell ourselves “Now that the crowd has gone in this train, the next one might be half vacant. I’ll probably get a place to sit. I have ten extra minutes to read my email and plan what I’m going to talk about in the meeting.”
The boss at work always gives us the difficult projects. We tell ourselves “The most challenging work normally goes to the most competent person. My boss thinks I’m capable of handling the tough projects. In fact, he trusts me so much that he doesn’t need to check up on me like he does with the others. I’m lucky to have earned his respect and trust.”
Our good friend doesn’t respond to our phone call. We tell ourselves “He has been working very hard. He will surely get promoted next month. I’ll be so happy for him. Then, our group of friends can get together and celebrate. It will be so much fun. I wish him good luck.”
If you find yourself reacting negatively to any situation, remember that the reality you are experiencing is only one of the possible realities. To change your experience, change the story you tell yourself.
Story 1:
Naveen shifted in his aisle seat. He wondered why airplanes had such cramped seats. His legs were too long for the narrow space. He felt stiff.
He glanced to his left. An enormous bulk of a middle-aged lady slumped in the next seat. Flesh dangled along her wide arms. Her body bulged outward like an inflated balloon. Naveen found himself being pushed towards the edge of his seat.
“Great, just fucking great.” Naveen muttered under his breath. How did these people get so huge? Were they just too lazy to exercise and too dumb to pay attention to their diet?
Naveen rang the bell for the air-hostess. The fat lady snored loudly in her sleep. He shook his head. Five minutes passed and still no sign of the air-hostess. He pushed the bell again. He craned his neck and saw the air-hostess approaching in her blue uniform with the tight skirt. She didn’t have the legs to pull off that skirt.
“Yes, sir?” She smiled at him. It was a fake smile.
“Can I get an orange juice?” Naveen demanded.
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
Five minutes later, she still hadn’t returned. Naveen gritted his teeth.
Finally, she re-appeared. “Here’s your orange juice, sir.”
“What took you so long?” Naveen grabbed the glass. “The service on this flight is slow.”
“I’m very sorry, sir. We have a full flight. I had lots of passenger requests.” She smiled.
Naveen waved her off. He checked his watch. Still four hours to go. How was he going to get through this agonizing flight?
An hour before landing, Naveen twisted about, cranky as ever. The captain warned them of turbulence ahead. Naveen gripped the side of his seat. The plane swayed as it passed through the air pocket. He felt his body bumped off the seat for a moment.
What a disaster this flight had been. They didn’t even get the aircraft to fly smoothly. Maybe this was a sign of things to come. Maybe his new job would be full of turbulence and turmoil. Maybe his new colleagues would be dumb or non-responsive like the air-hostess. Maybe the whole thing was a mistake.
****
Story 2:
Naveen shifted in his aisle seat. His stretched his legs out as far as he could and made himself comfortable. He felt lucky to have gotten the aisle seat.
He glanced to his left. The lady next to him suffered from obesity. It had become an epidemic in America. He knew she was fighting a tough battle. He silently wished her luck.
He rang the bell for the air-hostess. The lady next to him snored loudly in her sleep. Naveen smiled. At least she managed to sleep so peacefully. Good for her.
Five minutes later, the air-hostess appeared in her blue uniform. She managed to look dignified in her skirt.
“Yes, sir?” She smiled at him. Naveen marveled at her ability to always be so cheerful.
“Can I get an orange juice, please?” He asked.
“Sure.” She nodded. “I’ll be back.”
She re-appeared, a little over five minutes later. “Here’s your orange juice, sir.”
Naveen gave her a big smile. “Thank you.” She was doing a good job, despite having to rush back and forth to respond to the demands of a full flight of passengers.
He checked his watch. Four hours to go. That would be enough time to catch up on a couple of movies he had missed. He relaxed and leaned back.
An hour before landing, the captain warned them of turbulence ahead. Naveen grinned in anticipation. The plane swayed as it passed through the air pocket. He felt his body bumped off the seat for a moment. This was like a bonus roller-coaster ride, no extra charge.
What a fun flight it had been. Maybe this was a sign of things to come. Maybe his new job would be challenging and exciting. Maybe his new colleagues would be friendly like the air-hostess and fun to work with. Maybe he was about to start an amazing phase of life.
****
I’m sure you have observed that exactly the same events happen in both the stories. Yet, the two stories sound so different.
It’s not the situation that matters; it’s our reaction to it. Our perception creates our reality. To alter this reality, we must simply change our perception.
In the first story, the annoyance, anger and apprehension that Naveen felt were real. In the second story, the empathy, wonder and excitement that Naveen felt were just as real. Even though the circumstances were the same, they could be experienced in different ways. All Naveen did was change the story he told himself, and he experienced an alternate reality.
In our daily lives, we constantly react to events. Whether we are aware of this or not, we tell ourselves stories about the situation around us.
Consider the following examples of stories we tell ourselves.
We miss the train to work. We tell ourselves “Damn it. Why can’t the train be delayed the one time I want it to be? Otherwise, it’s delayed so often. Now, I’ll be late for the meeting. Waiting at this platform is such a waste of time.”
The boss at work always gives us the difficult projects. We tell ourselves “My boss deliberately gives me all the hard assignments. He doesn’t even come around to see how I’m doing, like he does with the others. He doesn’t give a damn about me. He just uses me for all the dirty work.”
Our good friend doesn’t respond to our phone call. We tell ourselves “He is always too busy to pick up my calls. Just because he earns more money, he thinks that he is better than me. What an arrogant prick.”
Now, let’s change these stories we tell ourselves, keeping the situations the same.
We miss the train to work. We tell ourselves “Now that the crowd has gone in this train, the next one might be half vacant. I’ll probably get a place to sit. I have ten extra minutes to read my email and plan what I’m going to talk about in the meeting.”
The boss at work always gives us the difficult projects. We tell ourselves “The most challenging work normally goes to the most competent person. My boss thinks I’m capable of handling the tough projects. In fact, he trusts me so much that he doesn’t need to check up on me like he does with the others. I’m lucky to have earned his respect and trust.”
Our good friend doesn’t respond to our phone call. We tell ourselves “He has been working very hard. He will surely get promoted next month. I’ll be so happy for him. Then, our group of friends can get together and celebrate. It will be so much fun. I wish him good luck.”
If you find yourself reacting negatively to any situation, remember that the reality you are experiencing is only one of the possible realities. To change your experience, change the story you tell yourself.
Be Practical
My cousin Bharat studies at the same law college his father went to. He hates it. He loves to draw. His desk drawers are full of sketches depicting people, actions, scenery. Whenever he gets time away from his voluminous law textbooks, which frankly seem more suitable to be used as dumbbells to build biceps, he takes his pencils and pad and lets his imagination run wild.
I’ve seen Bharat draw. His eyes light up, his complexion changes, he becomes lost in his work, oblivious of the world around him.
In his second year as a law student, he narrowly passed the exams. His mother saw the results and went berserk.
“What is this, ha Bharat? What are these results?” She shrieked.
Bharat sat down. He made no attempt to reply.
“Is this why we paid so much money for your college, ha? Tell me?” She flung the result sheet at him. No words came out of his mouth.
“What will people think of you? Are your friends nearly failing too? Are you in some bad company? Say something.” She moved closer and raised her voice to a fever pitch.
“I’m not in bad company, mom.” Bharat’s voice was just above a whisper.
“Then, what is it?” She shouted in his face. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t like law, mom.” Bharat whimpered. “I just don’t understand it. I like to draw.”
“Draw? These drawings are all rubbish.”
“But mom...”
“No buts. You have to buck up and study harder. I don’t want to see results like this ever again from you. Do you understand?”
Bharat took a deep breath. “Mom, there are colleges that have drawing classes. If I can...”
“Stop that nonsense. Bharat, why can’t you understand that you need to have a real career and get a proper job after college? You can draw for fun, but you have to concentrate on your studies, okay? You have to be practical.”
Bharat was left desolate, resigned to law books that seemed like Greek to him and a course curriculum that he couldn’t make head or tail of.
When I learned of my cousin’s dilemma, I was appalled. But, Bharat’s case is far from unique. Majority of students in colleges are there because they think they need a proper job, or because it is what their parents did.
I have always disliked the expression ‘Be Practical’.
What if Leonardo Da Vinci and Pablo Picasso had been told to stop their useless painting and be practical? What if Roger Federer and Sachin Tendulkar had been told to stop wasting their time playing sports and get a real job? What if John Lennon and R.D. Burman had been told to stop making music and concentrate on their studies? What a loss it would have been to the world if these legends had not pursued their passions.
But no, we must Be Practical, right? We must get a real career, a real job.
When I hear about cases like Bharat’s, I get the image of a horse being held back by the reins and directed where to ride, when the horse just wants to run wild and free into the meadows with no pre-ordained destination. Just like Bharat is held back by the reins of practicality when all he wants to do is to draw and have fun.
Why can’t we let the reins go? Why can’t we let people like Bharat be free to do what they enjoy? Why can’t we let ourselves be free to follow our own passion?
When people say ‘Be Practical’, what they mean is ‘Earn Money’, isn’t it? Is the sole purpose of our life to create and accumulate wealth?
I think it is an unreasonable requirement that society imposes on us to earn money. What is money anyways? It’s not even a real thing. It’s not a virtue of a human being like courage or compassion. In the history of mankind, money is a recent invention. Only few thousands of years ago did men print some numbers on paper and call it money. Before money existed, people exchanged goods and offered a service of value to others in return for what they needed.
Maybe we can aspire to do the same thing. Maybe we can offer something of value to the world. To produce anything of value, we must do what we enjoy doing.
If we follow the trail of money, we will be slaves forever. We will do whatever money demands, not what we want to. All our decisions will be dictated by financial considerations. We will be trapped in a prison that we cannot see or touch, a prison for our minds.
Investment advisors often use this term ‘financial freedom’. What they mean is that they will manage our money efficiently so that we will be able to buy what we want. By making sound investments, they will provide us with financial freedom. Meaning we won’t have to worry about money anymore. Money will be out of the equation.
The problem with this promise is that when people can buy what they want, like a house or a car, they want more such things. They get sucked into this vortex and never come out. No amount of money is enough money. There is always a hunger for more. This continues in a lifelong, elusive quest that people get stuck on.
There is a more direct path to financial freedom. Just stop worrying about money. Take money out of the equation. Grant yourself the freedom to do what your heart tells you.
I’m under no illusion. I know this is no easy ride. We have to overcome our inner self-doubt and fear of an uncertain future. We have to face a parade of voices of our friends and family that chant ‘Be Practical, Be Practical, Don’t be foolish, Be Practical.’
It will take courage. We have to let go off our own attachments and fears, get past the chants of society. Once we do this, we will experience a sense of freedom and lightness. With the shackles of dogma removed, we will be free at last to find our passions and fulfill our unrealized potential. Renowned mythologist Joseph Campbell said ‘Follow your bliss and doors will open where previously there were only walls’
When King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table went after the Holy Grail, they decided to split up. Each Knight would enter the forest at a point that he himself had chosen, a point where there was no path. If there was a path, then it was somebody else’s path.
This is our life. We must create our own paths, not walk on the well-trodden ones. We must trust that it will all work out. We will produce something of value, and success will follow. Yes, this takes a leap of faith. But once we make that jump, we will not look back.
I dislike the principle of ‘Be Practical’ so much that if I ever do something that everyone thinks is ‘not practical’ then I feel delighted. Then I know that I’m on the right track, doing something of my own free will that disregards the dark forces of practicality.
When I’m seventy years old and I look back on my life, if I find that I never did anything considered not practical, I will be bitterly disappointed. If I only did reasonable and acceptable things, then I didn’t do much.
What about you? Are you resigned to the banal existence of a practical life? Have you done anything in tune with your heart’s desires? Your time in this world is limited. Now is the time to set yourself free and follow your passion. Now or never.
I’ve seen Bharat draw. His eyes light up, his complexion changes, he becomes lost in his work, oblivious of the world around him.
In his second year as a law student, he narrowly passed the exams. His mother saw the results and went berserk.
“What is this, ha Bharat? What are these results?” She shrieked.
Bharat sat down. He made no attempt to reply.
“Is this why we paid so much money for your college, ha? Tell me?” She flung the result sheet at him. No words came out of his mouth.
“What will people think of you? Are your friends nearly failing too? Are you in some bad company? Say something.” She moved closer and raised her voice to a fever pitch.
“I’m not in bad company, mom.” Bharat’s voice was just above a whisper.
“Then, what is it?” She shouted in his face. “What’s your problem?”
“I don’t like law, mom.” Bharat whimpered. “I just don’t understand it. I like to draw.”
“Draw? These drawings are all rubbish.”
“But mom...”
“No buts. You have to buck up and study harder. I don’t want to see results like this ever again from you. Do you understand?”
Bharat took a deep breath. “Mom, there are colleges that have drawing classes. If I can...”
“Stop that nonsense. Bharat, why can’t you understand that you need to have a real career and get a proper job after college? You can draw for fun, but you have to concentrate on your studies, okay? You have to be practical.”
Bharat was left desolate, resigned to law books that seemed like Greek to him and a course curriculum that he couldn’t make head or tail of.
When I learned of my cousin’s dilemma, I was appalled. But, Bharat’s case is far from unique. Majority of students in colleges are there because they think they need a proper job, or because it is what their parents did.
I have always disliked the expression ‘Be Practical’.
What if Leonardo Da Vinci and Pablo Picasso had been told to stop their useless painting and be practical? What if Roger Federer and Sachin Tendulkar had been told to stop wasting their time playing sports and get a real job? What if John Lennon and R.D. Burman had been told to stop making music and concentrate on their studies? What a loss it would have been to the world if these legends had not pursued their passions.
But no, we must Be Practical, right? We must get a real career, a real job.
When I hear about cases like Bharat’s, I get the image of a horse being held back by the reins and directed where to ride, when the horse just wants to run wild and free into the meadows with no pre-ordained destination. Just like Bharat is held back by the reins of practicality when all he wants to do is to draw and have fun.
Why can’t we let the reins go? Why can’t we let people like Bharat be free to do what they enjoy? Why can’t we let ourselves be free to follow our own passion?
When people say ‘Be Practical’, what they mean is ‘Earn Money’, isn’t it? Is the sole purpose of our life to create and accumulate wealth?
I think it is an unreasonable requirement that society imposes on us to earn money. What is money anyways? It’s not even a real thing. It’s not a virtue of a human being like courage or compassion. In the history of mankind, money is a recent invention. Only few thousands of years ago did men print some numbers on paper and call it money. Before money existed, people exchanged goods and offered a service of value to others in return for what they needed.
Maybe we can aspire to do the same thing. Maybe we can offer something of value to the world. To produce anything of value, we must do what we enjoy doing.
If we follow the trail of money, we will be slaves forever. We will do whatever money demands, not what we want to. All our decisions will be dictated by financial considerations. We will be trapped in a prison that we cannot see or touch, a prison for our minds.
Investment advisors often use this term ‘financial freedom’. What they mean is that they will manage our money efficiently so that we will be able to buy what we want. By making sound investments, they will provide us with financial freedom. Meaning we won’t have to worry about money anymore. Money will be out of the equation.
The problem with this promise is that when people can buy what they want, like a house or a car, they want more such things. They get sucked into this vortex and never come out. No amount of money is enough money. There is always a hunger for more. This continues in a lifelong, elusive quest that people get stuck on.
There is a more direct path to financial freedom. Just stop worrying about money. Take money out of the equation. Grant yourself the freedom to do what your heart tells you.
I’m under no illusion. I know this is no easy ride. We have to overcome our inner self-doubt and fear of an uncertain future. We have to face a parade of voices of our friends and family that chant ‘Be Practical, Be Practical, Don’t be foolish, Be Practical.’
It will take courage. We have to let go off our own attachments and fears, get past the chants of society. Once we do this, we will experience a sense of freedom and lightness. With the shackles of dogma removed, we will be free at last to find our passions and fulfill our unrealized potential. Renowned mythologist Joseph Campbell said ‘Follow your bliss and doors will open where previously there were only walls’
When King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table went after the Holy Grail, they decided to split up. Each Knight would enter the forest at a point that he himself had chosen, a point where there was no path. If there was a path, then it was somebody else’s path.
This is our life. We must create our own paths, not walk on the well-trodden ones. We must trust that it will all work out. We will produce something of value, and success will follow. Yes, this takes a leap of faith. But once we make that jump, we will not look back.
I dislike the principle of ‘Be Practical’ so much that if I ever do something that everyone thinks is ‘not practical’ then I feel delighted. Then I know that I’m on the right track, doing something of my own free will that disregards the dark forces of practicality.
When I’m seventy years old and I look back on my life, if I find that I never did anything considered not practical, I will be bitterly disappointed. If I only did reasonable and acceptable things, then I didn’t do much.
What about you? Are you resigned to the banal existence of a practical life? Have you done anything in tune with your heart’s desires? Your time in this world is limited. Now is the time to set yourself free and follow your passion. Now or never.
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