Rupin Pass: Of Beauty, Difficulty and Satisfaction!

                      Rupin Pass: Of Beauty, Difficulty and Satisfaction!

       "Heights worth climbing
         For sights worth seeing
        Of Valleys and Streams
        Of Mountains and Clouds
       Where the Journey becomes the Reward
       Stunned and Silent in a Snowy Abode

       All I could do, was watch it unfold"                                                  

Day 0: Delhi - Simla - 7467 ft

There was a sense of familiarity as I entered the ISBT at Kashmere Gate in Delhi. This was where it had all begun in 2016, with my first Himlayan trek - to "Har Ki Doon". Here I was, eight years later, on my sixth adventure in the Himalayas.

That first trek was also the harbinger of multiple travel escapades in India and a few of them abroad. Travel, I've always believed, touches you in multiple ways. Be it inspiration from nature or appreciation for man-made creations that have pushed the limits of human potential; Travels that reek of luxury or travels that revel in our necessity for adaptation; Travels where you're journeying outward and inward at the same time. 

Moving into an air-conditioned bus after braving fifteen minutes of heat on a Delhi summer day was enough to help me pen those lines above, in my journal. A nine and half hour journey lay ahead of me. And I had plenty of things to do - try to read, try to "not think", stay away from the phone for a length of time and get a glimpse of Delhi, Haryana, Punjab and Himachal!

Day 1: Simla - Bawta - 7700 ft

We started from Simla at around 7 AM in the morning. This would be a nine hour drive,at least. We were 21 of us split into three groups in three vehicles. The first day of the trek is when you try to find your coterie - a bunch of people with whom you'll possibly spend a major chunk of your trek. I seemed to have found mine that morning - with a bunch of people from Bengaluru, a man of wisdom from Kolkata and a civil engineer from Hyderabad.

We stopped for breakfast a couple of hours later and I found the appetite and the courage to try the "Siddu", a local dish of the Himachal that had been recommended strongly by friends back home. The vehicle then ambled across the serpentine roads of the hills, as we tried to get to know each other in between power naps. The hills were covered with apple and cherry orchards. One interesting aspect was the tree-tops that were covered by tarpaulin-like material, possibly to protect the fruits from birds (inputs on this aspect welcome).

The "Siddu"

The journey was rather longish and most of us dreaded the second half - which was supposed to be a Kachcha road. And indeed, our patience was tested post lunch. Our driver had been throwing tantrums since morning, that worsened in the afternoon and continued into the evening. A roadblock thanks to a landslide also brought in Murphy's law to the equation, even as we tried to find excitement in a bull-dozer drilling rocks and pushing them downhill to make a path for us.

                                           A Landslide and Murphy's Law!

 After thirteen hours that seemed an eternity, we reached our homestay in Bawta by eight in the evening. To exacerbate our frustration, the walk to the homestay was another fifteen minutes. At the end of Day 1, we were already muttering about poor management -using corporate jargon that we had carried along with our backpacks. Up there, the mountains waited patiently for us, with jargon of their own. 

Day 2: Bawta - Jhaka - 9000ft

We woke up the view of green hills that surround Bawta. It was a great morning for the first day of a trek, helping us stay boisterous. I could overhear plenty of suggestions and instructions being passed along by the leads and some of the more experienced trekkers in the group. Phew! 21 was a large group - considering my last two treks had under 10 people in the group. That was one reason why the leads insisted on a lot of discipline during the trek in terms of stoppages, distance between trekkers and the group behaving as one unit. And some of these rules would come in handy during the business end of the trek.

Good morning from Bawta!

The initial part of the trek was on a muddy road, upto Jiskun - which is about 2km from Bawta. The clear skies and sunny morning meant that the day's hike was warm and sweaty. From Jiskun we followed a trail - where we finally felt we were entering the wilderness of the hills. 

In the distance we could see bulldozers trying to drill through the hills and the rocks to pave way for a road that might be operational in a few years. There was the constant sound of drilling and rock-felling. It's always a conundrum for societies. Do you let these hills and mountains remain untouched, preserving their ecosystem? Or do you bring roads, vehicles and infrastructure from the urban world over time, partially losing the pristine ecosystem of thousands of years? The selfish side of me felt that these places should remain untouched. But then, should the people remain deprived of amenities - I kept wondering. 

The first look at the "hanging village" of Jhaka provided some answers. It's called the hanging village because of its location at the edge of a hill. The village was not "remote" in a lot of ways. Wooden houses, mobile networks, electricity, constant water supply - it was simple and comfortable. I was surprised to see symbols of national parties and signs of some active campaigning from the recently concluded general elections. 

The "Hanging Village" of Jhaka

We reached Jhaka around midday and were treated to sumptuous lunch. Time seemed to slow down in the mountains. An elderly resident of the house sat on his cushioned wooden sofa and watched the hills. Something told me he'd been doing it for years and still wasn't bored of it. While some of the trekkers had mobile network and were busy checking social media or getting touch with people back home, Vodafone had helped me start my digital detox a day early. I was at total peace, without the urge or the ability for any kind of communication on my phone. 

Later that evening, most of us bonded over "Mafia" - a game that's extremely popular during group treks. A few rounds of the game evoked laughter, camaraderie, controversy and in yours truly, some stupidity as well. I earned the moniker "The Destroyer" that evening - and the name would last through the trek!

Day 3: Jhaka to Dandrayesh Thatch: 11700 ft

The day was the second toughest on the entire trek. We were to gain about 2700 ft in height and walk for 11 km in the effort. The day's trek started at 8. This was also the day of election results and a lot of us in the group were curious for snatches of information about the way the winds were blowing. Jhaka was the last village and source of information along the route. We realised we'd have to wait for a few days before we got our dope on the results. 

We gained height in patches. Ascents followed by walks along a flat trail. The trees got taller - as we trekked, with pines and other conifers dominating the vegetation. We'd finally left the bulldozers behind. It was time for the typical silence in mountains, only punctuated by the chirping of birds that at most times remain invisible to the untrained eyes. Since this was a longish walk, I was able to put some distance between those ahead and those behind, hiking to a rhythm that was dictated by the silence. 

The first sign of what the Rupin Pass trek offers differently, was visible about two hours into the trek, when we encountered our first snow patch. These are isolated patches of snow that remain after the surrounding snow has melted. For the next couple of days, crossing these snow patches would remain the most looked forward to and the most dreaded part of the trek at the same time. 

                                           The first of many Snow Patches

Crossing the first one was rather easy and the location of the patch made it look extremely unique. Immediately after crossing the patch we were walking almost next to the Rupin river with its turquoise waters. We took our first break of the day at a Tapri along the river, one of the last such shops on the trek. Clouds gathered in the sky, indicating that the weather would soon be at the mercy of the mountains lording over us. 

We stopped for lunch around one-thirty and our trek leads mentioned we were half-done after about five hours of trekking. The trail was slowly getting tougher and there were first signs of rain. I'd forgotten my poncho and didn't think of a rain cover for my day-pack during packing. It led to an unsavory exchange with the guides. Luckily, the doctor from Bengaluru helped me with a rain cover for the backpack. It solved half the problem. I'd brave the rains without a poncho if it got heavier.

The landscape opened up in all its glory for the next couple of hours till we reached the Dandrayesh Thatch. We entered a valley, with mountains on both sides and walking next to the Rupin river. The sun kept playing hide and seek from behind the clouds, with warmth enough to dry our clothes that had soaked up some rain. Our moods got better and crossing the snow patches seemed tricky yet fun. I kept looking back every few minutes and the same landscape appeared in multiple perspectives. What stood out for me, was a shepherd with his flock of more than 500 goats crossing the valley. I'd never seen such a herd! The goats dotted the valley, the black and white blending beautifully with the snow patches and the surrounding mountains. The guides kept hurrying us, warning us about the dangers of weather - but some of these sights were too surreal to ignore and just keep walking.

                                                           The Rupin Valley

The skies opened up with purpose just before we reached the camp at the Thatch. There was thunder and lightning and instead of rain, it was hail. It was exciting - but with the precipitation getting intense and the wind stronger, we rushed to our first camp site on the trek. There would be plenty of time to appreciate the campsite on the acclimatization day that would follow - but for now, we hastily got into the tents and warmed ourselves up. 

The kitchen staff was ready for us,with tea, soup and snacks - the Pani Puri was sheer surprise! The hail and wind did abate and as night took over, the sky was a canvas of stars. A lot of us took time post dinner to admire the night-sky. I snuggled into the sleeping bag for well-deserved rest. The day had blessed me with enough sights and adventure already!

Day 4: Acclimatization Day: Dandrayesh Thatch - 11700 ft 

The morning was bright and sunny. The mountain toilets more welcoming than they were previous night. As I brushed and washed my face at the riverfront, I took time to take in the sights of the campsite. The lower, middle and upper waterfalls stood right in front of us, the mountain from where they cascaded forming a wall that we had to walk around, the following day. Numerous smaller water falls formed on mountains on either side and there were a few frozen ones as well. 

The tents added to the beauty of the entire landscape, bringing a riot of red and yellow to the green, blue and white of nature. I could see every face in the camp light up as we reveled in the serenity of the campsite. Each of us spent the morning in different ways. Some spent it by the river, some of us went on a short hike around the site, photographing the site and ourselves along with the site seemed to be the favorite choice! We watched in awe as groups in front climbed over the middle waterfall en-route the next campsite, crossing the snow patches in a disciplined straight line, wearing their spikes and helmets. That would be our path as well!

Campsite - Dandrayesh Thatch

As expected, the weather turned murky and it rained again in the afternoon. We were almost expecting this now. And even thankful. It would only mean that the next morning would be bright and sunny all over again and there would be one less factor to negotiate. The free afternoon meant some more games and an overload of snacks. When we started the trek, we never really wanted this rest day. But that day, we realised that it was a crucial break.The rest and acclimatization would hold us in good stead once we reached for 13000ft and above, over the next two days.

Day 5: Dandrayesh Thatch - Upper Waterfall Camp - 13300 ft:

Being wary of the weather, our guides had decided that the trek would start at 8 AM in the morning. The trek would be short. However, the altitude gain substantial. There was a slight element of technicality as most of us used micro-spikes for the first time. We had two huge snow patches to cross - both with substantial inclination. We were also provided helmets for protection against rockfall. 

After a brief demonstration on how to use the spikes, we started off. Using equipment makes me clumsy and nervous. It was no different that day. I looked around to see how others were fitting the spikes on their shoes, sometimes helplessly looking at the guides with a plea for support. It was almost comic at times. 

Twenty minutes into the hike, the first patch was in front of us. The guides forbid us from taking our phones out to click pictures. We hurriedly clicked a couple of them at the base of the patch and stowed our phones away. And then began our first major challenge on the trek. Even with the spikes, the patch was slippery. We planted our foot in the same spot as the hiker in front of us, as though it was assurance that we won't slip. The incline wasn't much of an issue up close, but if one of us slipped we were sure to take the ones behind us down the slope along with us. 

From the top of the first patch

We planted our trekking poles firmly for support, made sure our feet were sufficiently spaced to make room for the spikes, ensured atleast a couple of feet of distance from those ahead and in front. All of it while our guides egged us on saying the top of the patch was within reach. This was where, we realised, that sticking together as a group mattered. We could watch what the others were doing, the guides could control the group and there were little conversations of motivation that would help us with the next few metres. 

While every step seemed to take a long time, we'd reached the top of the first patch in about an hour. The campsite was now a colored speck in the valley below. After some rest and hydration, we trekked to the second patch next to the upper waterfall. This seemed rather easy, after our experience in the first. We were reaching the 13k feet mark and the mountains seemed closer and more glorious from our vantage point. 

                                               En-route Upper Waterfall Camp

The Upper Waterfall camp is nestled on a piece of flat ground at the edge of the waterfall. We could see multiple other camps at a lower height, next to the river at about 15 minutes distance. We were thankful that this camp was closest to the trail next morning. Come afternoon, hail pounded our tents for a good one hour. It looked ominous for a while, specially with the high wind speeds. Needless to say, we were all layered up. The tea and soup that evening lent so much warmth. And when the guides announced an early dinner at six thirty in the evening, the Summit Day beckoned all of us.

 Day 6: Summit Day: Upper Waterfall Camp - Rupin Pass (15350ft)  - Rontigad - (12300 ft)

 We were up and about at 2 AM in the night. Most of us hit bed at seven, the previous evening, hoping to catch some sleep. I'm not sure I slept well - but was well rested. The sky wasn't exactly starry. There was no sign of rain thankfully, but a wind kept blowing making it a chilly morning. I brushed and washed my face, but couldn't make use of the toilet tents so early. 

Mountain Maggi as breakfast at 3 AM was eminently palatable but I wasn't really hungry. Call it cold or nervousness or just the fact that it was too early in the morning. I was pre-occupied with my gaiters and the lack of a headlamp, that I planned to mitigate with my hand torch. The path that the guides had indicated last night was full of boulders and that we would be navigating them in the darkness wasn't something that enthused me. But, Rupin Pass lay five hours ahead of us. We were down to 19,from the original 21, attempting the Summit (a father-son duo had backed out in Jhaka, because of the father's ill health). All of us conscious about our shoes, trekking poles, electrolytes, dry fruits, headlamps and numerous little things that we felt might make a big difference. All of looked healthy without a hint of mountain sickness(unfortunately, a senior citizen from Bengaluru had to turn back midway on Summit day..so near yet so far).

At 3:45 AM in the morning, we set out. The next five hours were the most difficult in my limited experience as a trekker. We started climbing almost immediately through a patch of boulders, gaining height with every step. The darkness made it difficult and we had to rely constantly on the person trekking in front. The cold and the altitude added to the difficulty and we took a break every few minutes. The guides constantly egged us on, calling out our names individually and making sure we were okay.

About 45 minutes into the trek there was a particularly difficult stream crossing, of which no photograph exists. The stream was about 4 feet wide, but was flowing from a height into the gorge below. The guides immediately swung into action, placing boulders across the stream. Some of the boulders were stable; some were slippery; Just like us - some of us were confident, some of us slippery. One of the guides stood like a wall against the flow of the stream, guarding us from slipping into the gorge. A second one stood on our side and the third moved to the far end. We literally held each of their hands to make our way across. I fumbled on a couple of boulders and was nervous prompting one of the guides to yell "You need to be more confident and lose your fear" - wasn't that true in many areas of life, I wondered!

It took all of us a while - and by that I mean about 10 minutes - to recover from this crossing. It was by far the most dangerous moment on the trek thus far, considering the darkness, the slope and the slipping boulders. We were soon up on our feet, negotiating the trail all over again buoyed by the thinning darkness. About half an hour later, the first rays of the sun illuminated the peaks of the mountains opposite with an orange hue. Just the peaks - nothing more or less. It was again a moment that's etched in memory. We watch these in movies, on our screens. But to be there to watch it unfold in front of your eyes, is in a lot of ways, what you live for. It takes some pain, some grit, some perseverance and some blessings to get there - but to be there is a profound feeling of gratitude.

Peaks illuminated by the first rays of the sun

The morning ushered us into an abode of snow. Just white all around and beneath our feet as well. Peaks that were orangish-golden in the sunlight; a path that was white with a tinge of brown. It was still cold but we were all doing ok, as we walked in a single file on the snow covered path for another ninety minutes or so. Every now and then I took my gloves off to click pictures, knowing that my fingers would be numb by the time I put my hand in the gloves again. 

It was seven thirty in the morning by the time we were face to face with the Rupin Gully. And just beyond it was the Rupin Pass. We watched the first trekkers of the day make their way across the gully and disappear behind the mountains. It gave us confidence. It made us curious. We were there to cross the Pass anyway. And there was no going back now. Spikes on, trekking poles in tow and most importantly with a sense of "this is what we are here for", we starting climbing the slope that led to the gully. 

                                            "This is what we are here for"

With the altitude and inclination, this was the toughest climb on the entire trek. The forty minutes, as we climbed the slope, navigated the gully and reached the top of the pass, were the most challenging forty minutes of the entire trek. We staggered, we slipped; We gathered, we gripped; If I was ever mindful - it was in those forty minutes. I was aware of every breath, the racing heart, the thoughts about slipping, and then egging myself on. Worried about legs giving way, anxious about the trekking pole, conscious about my shoes. Making sure I don't lean on the trekker behind; making sure I'm alert in case the trekker in front leans on me; It was almost comical that I was even alert to the smell of fart that emanated from time to time, thanks to full bowels that were trekking along with most of us. 

We started climbing left to the Rupin Gully and the Summit was visible for the first time. Trekkers who'd already made it were egging us on asking us to push ourselves in those final minutes. I would forever be grateful for a video made by one of those trekkers! Minutes away from the peak, one of the younger trekkers in our group panicked and started yelling for the guide. She was doing alright till then - but the moment overwhelmed her. With her feet firmly planted in snow, she called out for the guide, seeking desperate help. All she needed, it turned out, was that reassurance from the guide over the next few steps and she was at the Summit all by herself.

One hour of climbing the slope and the Gully, we were at the Summit!! The Rupin Pass opened to mesmerizing views of the Kinnar Kailash in the distance. We were feeling grateful for the safe climb, the sights and at the same time feeling validated, now that we were at the Summit. I sat down by myself for a while, just taking the moment in- something I didn't do last time and regret it till date. The views that lay ahead, the path we had just traversed, the sense of accomplishment. I hadn't expected the Rupin Pass trek to be "difficult" so to speak - but up there, it was a different feeling altogether. 

Ofcourse, an elaborate photo-op ensued at the Summit. Solo pictures, group pictures, some with the Summit banner, some even with the national flag - it was the culmination of a lot of effort. And it is in these moments that the famous question I keep asking myself comes to mind: Is it the destination or the journey or the company?

                                                            Summit!!!

Thirty minutes of jubilation later, we were promptly asked to start descending and make our way to Rontigad. I was amongst the first to start and promptly slipped and started sliding down the slope, quite by accident. And midway during the slide, I discovered the fun side of the whole thing and started shouting in excitement. It seemed to trigger the excitement of the group and the entire group started sliding the slope and enjoying the event. 

We did that a second time a little later, faster and more deliberate. I'd always dreamed of walking in the snow for a length of time. And that day, I had the opportunity to do so for close to six hours. A snow covered path, mountains surrounding and nothing but a white canvas all around. While I continued to slip and stagger,I enjoyed every moment along with the nervousness that came with it!

The rest of the journey to Ronti Gad was largely event less. Thanks to the early morning start, most of us felt we were walking for an eternity. We finally reached our final camp on the trek at around four in the evening - meaning we'd walked for almost 12 hours, stoppages included. Ronti Gad is located at 12300 ft, but it still felt warm and comfortable. We spent the evening reflecting on the entire trek,taking turns to talk about our experience and our moments on the trek. Thanks to some quick thinking by the kitchen staff and guides, we even celebrated a birthday with a mountain-made cake. 

There was some chatter during descent about how once the Summit is done, any trek loses its allure and the descent is more a formality. I disagree. I believe that a trek complete only once you descend safely and reach home in one piece. Rupin Pass had been kind enough to let us through without incident. We needed to make sure we do the remainder of the descent with due respect to the mountains.  

Descent Swag

Day 7: Rontigad - Sangla - Simla  - 7467 ft - Epilogue

We woke up to a convocation of sorts. The guides presented all of us certificates for successful completion of the trek. There were some emotions, some nice words and a lot of mutual appreciation. We hiked for another two hours to reach a road head where vehicles awaited to take us back to Sangla. 

Mobile networks that eluded us for the last four-five days made their way back into our lives with full force. Talking to loved ones, making sure everyone back home is doing ok, gathering news from the election results and the sheer dopamine rush of social media notifications took center-stage again. 

 Along with all other news, there was also news about trekkers from Karnataka who'd perished in Uttarakhand, caught in a blizzard while heading back from a trek. The news had caused panic amongst our families back home. 

While we returned successfully post Summit, this news was and remains a bitter pill to swallow. Mountains can be meditative; Mountains can be humbling; Mountains can be inspiring; And yet.....

I reached home in Bengaluru a couple of days later. Added one more prayer flag to the collection. Rupin Pass is now done. What next?!! 

                                                                                                      - 30th June 2024

A Writer's Woes: On the Brink of Death...

A Writer's Woes:  On the Brink of Death...

I opened the door of my home, switched the lights on and immediately shut the door. Amma always says keep the door open for a while after switching the lights on - it allows Goddess Lakshmi to come in and bless you every evening. That evening though, I had more important things on my mind. 

There he was, lying on the couch, his breath shallow. Over a period of months his pulse had slowed down. His resolve had weakened. His eyes were blank and so was his mind. I sat next to him. With concern. I wished I'd shown the concern some months earlier. Before he reached the stage he was in. He looked at me and held a hand out, weakly. I grasped it tight. I didn't want to lose him either. Yet, something seemed imminent. 

His eyes looked into mine. The gaze was sharp and almost accusatory. I couldn't hold it for a long time and bent my head down in disappointment. In shame. Surely, I wasn't solely to blame for all that had transpired in the last six months? Life's monotony, the body's fatigue, the mind's weariness and the rigmarole of every day life could shatter the creativity of anyone into pieces. Why was I the only one to bear this burden? 

I mustered the courage to look into his eyes and share all these thoughts in a single gaze. "Then set me free!" his eyes pleaded. "I'll find someone who's more deserving!". But I was at my possessive best that evening. Even as his hand tried to wriggle free from my grip, I held on. More with determination than with force. This seemed to calm him down and he took a deep breath. A breath that seemed to infuse a little morsel of strength into a life fast approaching death. I held onto him with more poise. 

He smiled a weak smile. Laced with sarcasm. Even on his deathbed, he was keen to take a jibe at me. "Would you be able to help me recover - and get out of this couch? I don't see that happening anytime soon...."he spoke his first sentence in a long while. "You are way too distracted for me" his eyes added.

"I'm sitting with you here today, because I don't want to let you go. It's going to take effort - but I want to nurse you back to health" I noticed I was pleading. And then I asked "Is it just me who was responsible for your state? There were so many times you could've sat me down. Prodded me, guided me with something that would've made me take notice of your health. You could've told me that you were deteriorating. Yet you chose to remain silent. We owe each other a hard conversation at times"

For the first time that evening, he looked defensive. He realised that my intent was to see him hale and healthy all over again. That seemed to make him stronger. He gestured me to prop him against a pillow. "Can I get a glass of water?" he asked, in a tone that was more conciliatory. 

I went to the kitchen. I couldn't hold my tears. Here he was. After all these years, still craving for my attention. He'd always been in my corner for the last two decades, giving me plenty to cherish. The world had seemed different when we was with me. I knew that and recognised that for most part. And I'd always tried to nurture him to the best of my abilities. We were, in many ways, symbiotic. Yet in the last year or so, we stopped paying each other the attention we deserved. He started struggling. What I failed to realise in time, was that I had to nourish him consciously - give him the right amount of attention at the right times for him to thrive. I'd failed to do that and here he was. Fighting for survival. And while he fought his battles, I'd been oblivious. That evening though, I'd resolved to be on his side. 

I got him the glass of water. He gulped it in one go - not something I'd seen in a while. It was obviously a good sign. "Was there nothing you could get me in all these months?" he asked. "You know....from airports or travel or office? No happiness, anger, romance - or even misery? Any of these would've helped...."

We sat in silence for a while. I'd gone back to holding his hand. It seemed stronger now. The glass of water had even brought back a decent glow to his skin. My other hand involuntarily reached out to my phone. He made a violent gesture asking me to not check it. 

"This is the problem with you. The distraction. When was the last time you paused to take notice of me? Or notice others? When was it the last time you experienced silence? Observed yourself or others?" He started coughing. It was painful to watch him convulse as he coughed. For a fleeting moment I was ok to let him die. It was going to be a struggle for both of us to get him back on feet and start exploring the world with me all over again. I mean...there are so many people we let go. And time changes everything. Time heals. May be our journey together was supposed to end here and now...

"It was the water that choked me for a bit.....let's not be so eager to bid each other goodbye" he said, reading my thoughts as usual. "Can we spend some time together in silence, every day? It could be a minute or an hour - but it would be just us. I need that to get better." he commanded. I found myself nodding. I'd started that exercise already that afternoon - consciously counting the two minutes as a traffic signal changed from red to green. I took notice of the road, the people, the vehicles, the trees even. I narrated my experience to him. 

"That's a brave start. What about the consistency?" he asked. He was now getting greedy. For once I was feeling a sense of elation that he was getting back to his old self.

"We can hang out. I'll try to talk to you everyday. And let's sit together to brainstorm every week?" I brooded aloud, seeking his opinion. 

"Let's sit together in silence. You and I don't need a storm. That's for your boss in office. You and I need silence. And a quality conversation like this. Help me get up, will you?" I was thrilled at his last statement. We'd spent a couple of hours together and it had worked wonders on his health. I didn't realise if it was our hands held together or the glass of water or my promise or the conversation itself. He was feeling strong and that's all that mattered. I helped him get up and supported him as we walked around in our home. He looked at the couch he'd slept on with gratitude but also with an expression that said "It'll be a while before we meet again." A huge part of the responsibility was on me to ensure he didn't go back to the couch anytime soon. 

The Writer and I had lived through thick and thin for more than twenty years now. There were periods when either of us was unwell. We'd identified that and nursed each other back to health rather quickly. This episode, though, had been the worst. He was on the brink and a little more neglect would've meant losing him forever. As he took a tour around the home just looking at the paintings, the prayer flags and little things that made him smile - I resolved to be in his corner a lot more often. 

 The Writer in Me. I needed him more than he needed me. I needed him for me to appreciate the people around. To appreciate Nature. To appreciate the White, Black and Grey. To appreciate the silence outside when there's noise within. And to appreciate the silence within when there's noise outside. 

We looked at each other with meaning. Held onto each other tight. We looked out of the window. The moon had risen fully. The silence was complete. 

                                                                                          - 7th April 2024

Corporate Musings: The "Mid-Sales" Crisis

                  Corporate Musings: The "Mid-Sales" Crisis 

I paused. Deliberately. It hadn't been a long time since my last break. But I realised it had been a long time since a pause. That Friday evening, I shut my work laptop with meaning. It was a "long weekend" to follow and the best part, ironically, was I didn't have an agenda.

It was around this time last year that I said yes to a dream job. Well, one might argue that each job is a dream one, when you're taking it. For me, this was closing the loop with my sales journey. Joining what the world calls a "hard-core sales" organisation. "Can you hustle? Can you persevere? Can you work with (hungry) lions?" were questions that had stumped me during the multiple interviews and I just had one answer "I'll stick to the process. Results will follow"........

Eight months on, I reflected on the questions and the answers all over again, as I took a well deserved walk that Friday evening. In all my professional life, work was never on my mind once I shut shop for a weekend. In the last few months though, I was having imaginary conversations with customers and colleagues all over the place. From elevator pitches, to case studies to strategy to even my imaginary defense when my manager and his managers questioned my commission statement that was yet to get off the mark. "Afghanistan and Netherlands are doing better" I could hear my manager point out, though I still don't know if he tracks cricket!

A game of chess with my eight years young nephew was what helped me take my mind off work for the first time that evening. A couple of hours of innocent conversations later, I realised I was in the middle of a major disconnect, most of all, with myself. 

As a sales professional, I've always been polished but I've never been flamboyant. About eight years ago, I first said yes to sales because I always wanted to get out of the cocoon that I'd wrapped myself in and put myself out there. From selling light bulbs (I still pride myself for this), to being in pharma and then moving to more sophisticated forms of sales, the allure changed from "putting myself out there" to being "accountable for my own success and failure". But with the present role, I realised the difference between "success" and "failure" was half my salary. And while I've never measured my success with money, I slowly started realizing that in "hard-core" sales, money was a barometer with which the system would measure you.

"It's not about the money" I told Amma, on Saturday morning. For once, I was relishing the Akki Rotti that she'd prepared for breakfast. We sat down together after breakfast. And the conversation that day took a different turn, after my initial rant about work. Every once in a while, Amma and I sit down together talking our family, our extended family, my childhood and her childhood. Her mother  - my Ajji - is a favorite topic for both us, for the role model she's been. That morning, we revisited all these chapters for a good couple of hours. It was lunch time when she got up and I noticed that her hands had shrunk a little. "You're growing old, Amma" I said, with a mixture of sarcasm and concern. "I'm sixty, if you remember" she brushed if off. But that moment stayed with me for a good while....

What has served my health well since the pandemic has been a certain level of commitment to staying fit. This has helped me both mentally and physically. That evening I did another one of those five kilometre runs in Lalbagh - that beautiful lung space in the heart of Bengaluru - with the usual determination. What was different was that I wasn't doing it to bust stress, but to feel more of that peace I'd been feeling for a day now. I stopped by the lake and clicked a couple of pictures of the clouds and sunset. Connecting with Nature is one of those things that comes easily to me. Of late again, I was guilty of losing the fervour for such simple joys. Lalbagh was nudging me to do better that evening - or was I nudging myself?!

A day and a half on, I realised that time is such a beautiful concept. Thirty six hours could be as long or as short as you'd want them to be. With the people you want around you, doing things you love or simply doing nothing can add so much quality to those hours. The imaginary customer conversations were still rearing their head up in the back of my mind as I rode to my friend's place that Sunday morning. His father had passed a fortnight earlier and some of us were attending the fourteenth day rituals. The depth of feeling that I experienced during the rituals and later was the most poignant I'd been in a while. That someone who'd grown with me was never to going to see a parent again hit me hard. We were all "adulting" for a while now, I realised. And while the whirlpool of work lives and the pressure of our ambitions would keep weighing us down, to be there for people who matter and in ways that matter is probably why we put ourselves through the grind in the first place! 

An afternoon nap later, the depth was replaced by a sense of excitement. I decided to break my silence with the kitchen. It had been months since I'd stepped into my role as a "forever apprentice" under Amma's tutelage. We whipped up our own version of Mexican Rice, complete with colorful bell peppers and sweet corn. The hiss of oil, the vegetables donning their brightest color once sauted and the powerful aroma that emanates to tickle the appetite showed me another side of myself that I'd forgotten in a while. And by the end of that evening I almost started feeling positive all over again - my job was more a challenge that I'd taken up by choice. I had to find ways to make peace with it and with myself; Probably come up with coping strategies that didn't burn me out quickly. 

I slept peacefully with this realization and it was perhaps a moment of mini-catharsis. As I bathed next morning, I noticed I was no longer having imaginary customer conversations with the bathroom wall - but humming a rendition and adding my own dash of creativity with the swaras. "Wow!" I patted myself on the back - wouldn't that be a perfect start to every day?! 

 It had taken about sixty hours for me to work through the sense of anxiety that had built up during the past weeks. As I prepared myself for the weeks ahead that Monday evening, I almost felt the sense of optimism getting back to where it was some months ago. More importantly, I felt I was being too hard on myself and focused on only one aspect of my life. The three days showed me that I'd stopped connecting with people, with nature, with creativity AND with myself! A year ago, any job was just a part of me. Something I'd not even give a second thought between Friday evening and Monday morning! Here, I felt I was (and am) way more committed than I've ever been! I've had sales conversations I've never had before. I've learnt faster than I've learnt before...

Shouldn't the result of that be more satisfaction as an individual? Yet, as I write this piece, I realised that I'd lost connect with the key facets of my life. I'd even lost connect with the writer in me. I always believe that the writer in you doesn't die when you stop writing. He dies when you stop thinking like one. Or rather, when you stop "feeling" like one. 

Well, come Monday morning, I'll still be that hunter looking to get any number of small "yes's" from prospects looking to take those coveted deals forward! But at the same time, I hope that I have the awareness once in a while to take a little pause, opt out of the rat race, connect with myself and let the world take care of itself!

 Statutory Disclaimer: The views expressed are my own and do not have a bearing on my employer 

If you're my colleague reading this - happy to connect and know how're doing!

If you're my friend reading this - happy to connect and know how're doing!

If you're my manager or his manager - you know how I'm doing!

If you're my customer - Dear Sir...when are we closing that deal? ;)

                                                                                                             - 28th October 2023

  

  

 

Back to Office.....and How?!!

Disclaimer: This could well be a piece in the excitement of having attended office consistently in the last three weeks - a "phenomenon" in my life after nearly three long years!

The enthusiasm of a new job, the tipping point where work from home starts sounding like confinement and most importantly, public transport connectivity to office have enthused me to consider "work from office" as a viable option - till I get bored of office or vice versa!

And it has been a wave of nostalgia! Right from getting up in the morning and getting ready with that sense of purpose. Needlessly to say, that feeling of "dressing up" is so integral to a sales role. Shirts and trousers shelved like artifacts in a museum are beginning to see the light of day all over again. The best part is that they still fit! Not sure if being the same size after three years is considered good or bad - but it has definitely saved some cost here! Even the shoes smile with that coat of polish that eluded them for years. It's another matter that my feet and the shoes need to find romance all over again. For now, there is still the occasional tiff on uneven surfaces that is all too obvious.

The seven minute walk to the bus-stop reminds me of days from college and my first years as a professional. The city bus - for me - has always represented the world. People and personalities from all walks of life. The determination to make every rupee count. Yet the spirit of optimism as each of us in the bus prepares to face the world. It could be a student, an employee, a street vendor, a housemaid....all crammed in that microcosm. The bus travel of twenty minutes makes me feel part of a grand plan.

Ofcourse, the familiar feeling of being a run of the mill corporate answering to a boss, a super boss, a grand boss and ultimately the whims of an organisation returns with full force as I become aware of the ID card around my neck. But being in office reminds me that there are hundreds of millions in the world who are doing the exact same thing in one capacity or the other. We still have a stomach to feed and bills to pay.

Having people called around called "colleagues" is what I missed since the pandemic years. No, I still don't know more than a handful of my colleagues yet. I never may. On most days, I exchange smiles with a few of them and then there is the occasional lunch in the cafeteria. No proverbial "water cooler" conversations that lead to insightful grapevine or transformational ideas. Yet, the presence of this species called "colleagues" around, atleast for now, lends a sense of calm and purpose. And Mondays have a special ring to them, as my entire team is in office!

"Deep work" is the behavior
 where you work for reasonable periods of time without distractions. The definite upside of being in office has been that the probability of me engaging in deep work has increased. This, I believe, can help me be more productive (hope my Boss is not reading this ;) ). And productivity or not, the sense of being in a "flow" without distractions lends a lot of meaning to my day.

All this aside, going back to office has brought about changes on the home front as well. I wake up atleast an hour early and constantly want to improve on that. I'm motivated to groom myself. There is a tendency to organise priorities - work, workout, writing, reading and the likes. Work from home meant that work stretched endlessly from one day to the other. It's something I want to get rid of - though only time will tell! The afternoon siesta, so much an integral part of my life in the last three years, inevitably stands cancelled. And ofcourse, my parents can hopefully enjoy some peace, respite and space from the innumerable calls, cribbing and cacophony that's part of a typical day at work. Though Amma presently tells me that she misses my running into the kitchen every hour for snacks and short-eats!

On a more practical note, I'm conscious of the premise with which I'm writing this piece. I'm "experiencing" office all over again after three years and there's definitely a spring in my stride. But I'm cognizant that I could be singing a completely different tune in a couple of months down the line!

For now though, I'm enjoying this little dose of pride every time our househelp asks "Anna, how is it that you're going to office everyday?" Three weeks on, I've still not stopped smiling at that question!

                                                                                                   - 08th March 2023

The opinions expressed are completely my own and have no bearing on my employer. 

Musings of a Solo Traveller

    I recently backpacked solo to Vietnam - and I'm still gushing that I pulled it off successfully! I initially tried to document the entire trip as a travelogue - but then I realised that this was as much a journey inward as a journey in a different country. It has taken some time to distill my thoughts and I'm sharing them here more as the "musings of a traveler" and not exactly a travelogue of sights and scenes!

The Noise...The Quiet...The Noise.....

My first day in Hanoi was an abundance of well-meaning noise. I met plenty of fellow solo-travelers on a walking tour. I ended up talking to a lot of people, having "Viet Coffee" and later on met them again in the evening during the "Happy Hour" - a time for some watered down free beer to encourage socializing. Well.. if this was travelling solo, it was merry, to say the least!

But barring exceptions, connections made overnight (and over beer) are tenuous at best. The next morning I was back to discovering Hanoi on my own, with Google Maps and Gojek riders for company. I planned my own schedule and charted my own course through the day. 

Contrary to evenings in Hanoi, evenings on the Cat Ba island were rather quiet with almost no one for company. But then there was always something to engage myself in. The sunset in Catba was the best I'd seen in a long while. Sitting there with my journal, having coffee and watching the sun and the sky turn from yellow to orange to deep red was one of the more deep experiences on this trip. I probably wouldn't have enjoyed this moment as much with company. 

Travelling solo helps you appreciate company when it's there. And where there is none, you learn to accept and enjoy your own company. Someone once told me "If you can't enjoy your own company, who else will?!" 

                                                              Of sunsets, coffees and journals

Stories, Perspectives and Possibilities.

On many evenings, I sat mesmerized as my companions for the evening opened up and gave a glimpse of their world. (I did my part of the sharing as well).

A Spanish carpenter had sold his business to make a trip to Asia. His village has 150 people. He sat awestruck as I told him about the 10 million people in Bengaluru. A German woman had lost her baggage in transit and chose to wait in Hanoi as the airline figured how to find it and ship it to her. She seemed to enjoy her stay despite the uncertainty of her baggage. A Spanish couple had named their son Shiva because they loved India! A young couple from the Netherlands were skeptical about travelling to India because of what they'd heard from fellow travelers. A Bulgarian graduate was excited to come to India because he'd heard "crazy good stories" about India. I met Israeli women who were keen to share their experiences from their mandatory service with the army....and an Indian IITian who marked towns in India as Red/Green/Blue depending on his inclination to visit them at some point in time. People teaching English in non-English speaking countries just so they can travel the world.....the list goes on. 

And as I listened to these people, I realised that the possibilities of the world are immense. With life plans, relationships, careers and with how you want to experience life. Just being open to a conversation gives us a fleeting glimpse of the world at large. May be, we'll never be able to experience all the dimensions of life (may be we'll never want to).  But the fact that these dimensions exist makes us less judgmental and more accepting of the world around us. You'll start reflecting on your values and may be discover that some values you hold may not even matter anymore - or that a value you hold dear may resonate with the rest of the world. For instance, I found that my inclination towards not acquiring too much material wealth and spending money on travel and experiences is a normal outlook amongst budget travelers - but my well-meaning family back here may never be able to connect with this idea.

                                                       Each person is a story (including yours truly!)

The Perils of Information Overload

Travelling solo and travelling for a short ten day vacation meant that I had to plan a lot. Even as a person, I enjoy the predictability that planning brings with it. I did quite a bit of research.Where to go, what to visit, how to get there, how the place looks  - because I'd be in an unknown country. I wanted to be in total control and make the best use of my time.

While my foresight eliminated major hiccups and I had a smooth trip, there were times when I felt a little underwhelmed. I would visit a certain place and more often that not, the real place would seem slightly less magnificent than in the pictures. Ironically, the places that seemed most interesting were the places that I didn't know much about and hadn't seen a lot of pictures. The Pagoda I felt truly in harmony with and wanted to spend time, was not even on my list to begin with.

May be, if there was little more time, I could've let something serendipitous happen! Or may be if I had little less information!

                    

                                                                  Peace....where I least expected it!

Adventure Comes Calling!!

Not that the trip was sans adventure. Again, adventure need not mean the adrenaline rush of an activity that heightens your senses. It could be - in my opinion - anything that pushes you out of your comfort zone. As simple as trying to know a new person in a room full of strangers.

In that sense, the trip itself was an adventure because I was travelling solo internationally for the first time (for a vacation).

But yes, there were several moments that deserve mention. Standing next to the railway track in the clumsy yet renowned "Train Street" in Hanoi as the train whizzed past was one. Entering a busy hotel in the non-touristy part of Hanoi that was full of locals and ordering vegetarian food as the locals smirked, was another. On top of the list is hitching a ride with a Vietnamese policeman from the deserted national park area in Cat Ba. But where I exceeded my expectations was when I rode about 50 km on an automatic bike in incessant rain in Ninh Binh. I still don't know what gave me the guts and gumption to do it - having never done it here in India. The latter half of this ride was through a forested area in the darkness of night made more challenging by the rain, wind and chill. I'd have done my more accomplished biker friends proud. At the end of it, I thanked God and destiny. I thanked my presence of mind throughout the ride. But I also thanked my sense of adventure that rose to the occasion in unknown territory!

                                                         After my most adventurous ride till date

With the grace of Almighty, I've done two trips in the last three months that opened up a plethora of perspectives. The first one to the Everest Base Camp was a test of physical and mental fortitude. And upon reflection, deeply meditative and self-actualizing. Even after a fortnight of my return, I found the world back home mundane and mechanical. The solo sojourn to Vietnam on the contrary, connected me with the world while also allowing me to spend time with myself, noticing the melange of emotions that each day brought with it between dawn and dusk - from apprehension to joy to accomplishment to anxiety and even disappointment.

The biggest learning though has been that all we need in life is a backpack to carry our world and a space of three feet by six to rest peacefully at night (that was roughly the size of my bed and bunker on these trips). A mind that is open to embrace multiple perspectives and a heart that is simple enough to be amazed by a place and its people!

                                                       The (solo) traveler's world after sundown

                                                                                                        - 05th January 2023

A Writer's Woes: Of Numbers, Milestones...and Blocks

 A Writer's Woes: Of Numbers, Milestones...and Blocks

The writer kept flipping continuously between his ninety-ninth and hundredth pieces. It had been a few days since he'd published the hundredth piece. His note to his readers saying this was number hundred, had been met polite appreciation by a few. But largely went unnoticed. He had felt euphoric when the appreciations arrived - a sense of validation that every writer, novice and veteran, craves for. A catharsis for all the effort and sweat that goes into creating a world with words. 

Then came what he had been dreading. It didn't hit him in the face. It didn't restrain him from behind. It crept slowly and stealthily. It made its way through him in his time of euphoria without giving him a chance to take stock. And when his elation finally subsided, he noticed it coursing through his being. The Block had finally resurfaced.

During his hundred pieces, he had met the Block multiple times in some way or the other. It manifested as creative constipation, lack of discipline, horrible schedules that didn't give enough mind-space for ideas to germinate, fear of failure, lack of motivation and sometimes the dangerous feeling of "this is enough".  He wondered what it was this time..

The number hundred kept bothering him. A hundred attempts at writing. A hundred attempts at creating prose or poetry. A hundred attempts at telling himself that he could write. A hundred attempts at telling the world he could write. He went back to how jittery and nervous he felt ever since the ninety-first piece. What if the world that was within emptied itself just before he reached the number hundred? The anxiety was more and more pronounced as he closed in on the ninety-seventh, ninety eighth and ninety-ninth pieces. What if the hundredth never happened? Or what if it wasn't his best attempt yet? A cricket fan, he likened his trepidation to that of a batsman in his nineties - ever cautious, circumspect and anxious. 

And once he hit publish on the hundredth piece, it was a cocktail of euphoria and relief. And soon, that numbing feeling that he had given it all and had nothing more to offer the world or himself. The nineties seemed to have drained him. The "Block" possessed him.

All he could do now was reflect. That was one skill he had learned over all the Blocks over all the years. Reflect. Just go inwards than outwards. Stare at the blank screen. Stare at the blank ceiling. Stare at the scenery in front of you. While the churn happens within. And then type out something - anything - that makes the remotest sense. Wait...was someone who'd written a hundred times still expected to do all this? Wasn't he beyond all this? 

It was at that time that another sobering, simpler train of thought hit him. Everything was just a number. Ninety eight, ninety nine, hundred. Any of his writings could've won....any of them could've lost. His fifty seventh piece might have been way well received than his thirty first. He might not even have liked his first ten pieces - but the eleventh one was a winner.  Yet without the thirty first, there was no fifty seventh. Without the first ten, there was no eleventh. 

He allowed the these thoughts to linger on for some more time. And then it seemed obvious. Agreed. Without the ninety-ninth, there was no hundredth. Yet the hundredth piece could still have its own identity and presence in this wide world, without having anything to do with the other ninety nine. Unlike in cricket, where the hundredth run had a meaning because of the previous ninety nine. A character, an idea, a plot, a climax were born with each piece and could hold their own, without any connection with those in the previous one. The writer in him took birth with each piece....and at the end of each one, he died. Only to be born again with a fresh idea.

He turned his attention to the Block again. He had done what he used to every time it had hindered him. Allow it to possess him for a while. Give it its due. Then search his depths for a while to find out if he still had the urge to create. More often that not, he found out that he did. Whether the urge would result in something meaningful to the world at large was a different question. While he was still creating, meaning would find him in some way....

And as for the game with numbers, he hoped he could put it to rest. A hundred pieces read by the world, meant that atleast twice the number of ideas that had originated...never made the light of day. Some were a line long, some were a page long, some were pages long - but never found a sense of completion to stand on their own. 

Ninety-nine, hundred, hundred and one....the count would go on! Whether the world noticed or not, each piece would still be his creation.....an edifice that would stand on its own!

                                                                                                              -11th May 2022

The Apprentice , Forever

                                    The Apprentice, Forever

 The urge is palpable on days when work has been particularly stressful. And on weekends when I wake up from my siesta and find my evenings rather empty - thanks to one lockdown after the other.

The Kitchen. An art-house where delicacies are creatively crafted by master chefs to satisfy the sensory urges of smell, taste and sight. A factory where the raw produce from farmers is transformed to nutrition and well being every morning, afternoon and evening - by people we love. A lab where novices like me experiment with spices, mortally endangering others of our species gracious enough to be part of the charade I call cooking.

Ironically, what dragged me to the kitchen at a practical level was my parents confined to different rooms in home isolation, with my brother and I trying to take care of them. As I cautiously tried to turn on the gas and light the stove without causing much alarm, even my sick mother suppressed a weak smile. The double whammy was a younger brother with a condescending stare and a certainly superior skill set in home science. 

Our family's tryst with COVID seemed to have affected our palate and appetite in a definitive way. We were not confident enough to go down the home delivery route just yet - but we were equally concerned by the restlessness of our taste buds that were used to at least occasionally tasting  something that was a departure from the usual kitchen menu.

YouTube guided our imagination. A younger cousin expanded our horizon of possibilities with her exploits in the kitchen. I either pushed or gave enough confidence to a now fully recovered Amma (prefer to believe in the latter) to try something new in the kitchen, with me being her aide.

And yours truly, slowly climbed the hierarchy. Cutting vegetables was where I first made myself useful. Adding ginger, lemon, chilly, salt and pepper to complete a salad was my induction. The riot of colour in the salad was my first art.

Amma made it abundantly clear that if we wanted to taste novel stuff "from the kitchen", we better make ourselves useful by being "in the kitchen". I was soon standing in front of the stove, watching the pasta cook - as Amma indicated if I need to lower or increase the intensity of the flame, always sceptical because I'm left handed.

I was soon proficient enough to tell cooked from raw and vice versa. Then came the initiation to sauteing
. The hissing of cooking oil as the water evaporates sounded ominous initially, but was soon music to the ears. Adding chopped ginger, garlic and chilly to the boiling lake of oil and watching the changing colour turned out to be a bi-weekly craving. The pungent smell emanating from the combination would be the first announcement that something interesting is evolving in the kitchen. 

I learnt to sort vegetables by their cooking time, made sure that that the vegetables didn't stick to the base of the pan and burn and learnt to carefully remove a piece of vegetable to see if it was still raw or cooked. And all these commanded hundred percent attention that left little head-space for other thoughts during the hour or so. For someone who doesn't cook regularly, the phenomenon of onion changing from pink to brown was wonder. A certain brightness sauteing in oil gave the carrot was amazement. The tomato melting in the frying pan was magic! And I never knew that all this happened in the kitchen everyday!

The Magnum Opus though, had to be the Vegetable Biriyani. The condescending tantrums of those calling it an oxymoron notwithstanding, this simply is the most beautiful cooking experiment in our kitchen till date.

It's as though the entire family comes together to create the biriyani. Father is in a corner peeling garlic. Amma is carefully cleaning cauliflower. My brother has gone out to get the rice and spices. I'm in charge of cutting the other vegetables. Then the kitchen comes to life. The cloves, cinnamon, cardamom and the mishmash of spices; The different vegetables blending with these spices in a canvas of oil and water. The rice is getting ready in a separate vessel to lend meaning to the vegetables.

The finishing act is what takes my breath away, always. The vegetables are spread in the cooker. Then a layer of rice on top of them. A smattering of saffron and fried onion. Then layers of the remaining vegetables and rice. The monument of our collective efforts steadily takes shape. The countdown begins as the vegetables and rice slowly lend their flavors to each other in low flame. We want those fifteen minutes to be the fastest and slowest of our lives at the same time. When the biriyani eventually comes to life, it is the anticipation of almost two days that attains salvation.

I always thought being a foodie meant that you need to be gorging on anything and everything in sight. Then I had this light bulb moment when someone corrected me: being a foodie was more about enjoying different foods, appreciating the cooking and presentation - and knowing when to stop during a sumptuous meal. As I discovered the kitchen and its indulgences, I found myself resonating with this statement more and more. There are even days when the process and preparation are more enjoyable than eating the end result. And the appreciative nods and lip smacking means that the effort has found its reward.

If Amma were to read this piece, she would definitely point out that my occasional apprenticeship in the kitchen (under adult supervision) is only good for this sophisticated essay, while she faces the music of having to plan breakfast, lunch and dinner everyday - and has been doing for as long as I can remember. Yet in moments when she lets her guard down, she is hopeful that I might eventually learn to whip up a Rasam or a Sambhar with some rice and relieve her for a day from the kitchen!

But then....I've never been able to convert an apprenticeship to a permanent job offer, just yet!!

                                                                                 - 19th July 2021

A Writer's Woes: The "Empty Vessel" or The "Blank Canvas"?

                         A Writer's Woes 9: The "Empty Vessel" or The "Blank Canvas"?

The Vessel emptied. Just like that. There was no more doubt about whether it was half full or half empty. Enough intellect, logic and wordplay had been expended on the matter.

The Writer sat staring at the blank wall. The Blank Canvas that his mind was at the moment, projected effortlessly on to the wall. He knew that the Blank Canvas often gave birth to the best art. There was no prejudice, no framework, no bias. A clear sky that summoned the writer to give wings to his imagination.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Here he was. Trying to get out of a rut that he often found himself in. Multiple times. And each time he climbed out of it with nothing less than superhuman effort. On the contrary, his mind was teasing him with a question, asking him to decide  if the writer in him was now "An Empty Vessel" or a "Blank Canvas".

Perhaps he was an "empty vessel" now, after all! The cacophony in his mind that eventually manifested on paper seemed a perfect example of the adage "empty vessels make more noise". Crude ideas, vague articulation, powerless language - he'd been there, done that. And whenever he went the empty vessel way, even the noise died midway.  Then the silence. The silence that challenged his ideas and his need to write, in the face. The silence that ironically seemed so comfortable. That spared him of questions on his intent and ability to write. The silence that sounded so meaningful in front of  the noise from the empty vessel. That exposed his probably withering ability - an ominous reality.

"There is so much to write about the empty vessel, though" the writer chuckled.

The "Blank Canvas" he wondered. The whiteness of the canvas exuded a sense of liberation. Unlike the empty vessel that had its limitations and boundaries, the canvas could stretch as far as the writer could imagine. The canvas didn't compel wisdom, like the vessel, but guided child like creativity. There were ideas of different colours and textures that seemed to flow without judgement. The canvas seemed to soak up everything that was on offer and always seemed ready for something more.

"Curious Contradictions" the writer mused. There, suddenly, was an improvement. A levelling up of the questions he was posing to himself. For a person who was wondering whether the writer in him still existed, he was now asking himself whether he was "an empty vessel" or a "blank canvas".

Did that now mean that it was established that the writer in him still lurked somewhere? He wanted to believe so. It would definitely let him take the next question up with more authority.

The "empty vessel" construct appealed to him from a wit and wisdom point of view. Knowledge and ability would fill a person's mind and heart - and how empty (or full) a person's "vessel" was would point to how learned he was. Filling up that empty vessel to make it "half full" or "completely full" in due course was an intellectual pursuit and an ambition worthy of the esoteric. The more full the vessel was, lesser the noise. What would then flow out would be mature, meaningful ideas taking shape within the vessel and that of the vessel.

The "blank canvas" though, tugged at his heart. It had this child-like simplicity that was endearing to him and for that matter to his audience as well. For some reason, he felt the canvas didn't judge. And it never forced itself on the onlooker. Each angle offered a new perspective. There was ample room for multiple perspectives to converse and converge - or simply coexist. It was almost how the author wanted the real world to be. Liberated. Free of bias.

In hindsight, may be everything he tried to write derived from both elements. While some ideas stemmed from his deep seated beliefs, value systems, upbringing and societal constructs, there was a part of him that yearned to break away from these structures and value things for what they are. While his logic, intelligence and wisdom guided him on the contours of his characters, his creativity added the zeal and empathy for life which  made the characters come alive.

While the "empty vessel" wrestled the ideas into a perfect form, the "blank canvas" playfully imposed newer perspectives. While the blank canvas wanted to stretch itself and create beyond limits, the empty vessel stepped in with its own set of realistic limitations that provide direction.

It was now time for the writer to step in. He had to choose his construct. The blank canvas offered him infinite possibilities yet the empty vessel was tryst with cogent reality. He knew both of them helped him hone his craft. A world of ideas wouldn't do him any good if he couldn't distill them and give them concrete shape and form.

He stood in front of the blank canvas and projected his newest idea onto it. The canvas turned to an endearing hue of colour and life. The idea slithered and spread on the canvas and soon even beyond it. The author smiled. He collected the spreading idea into his empty vessel. There was definitely a better shape and form to it now. He closed the lid of the vessel - lest the idea escape into the dead of the night, while he earned his well deserved sleep. Life was good.

                                                                                                       - 09th November 2020