It comes at a cost

They wake up cursing their mother's voice

He snoozes his alarm till he no longer has the time to bathe

They get served hot piping breakfast and milk

He gulps the piece of stale bread down his throat

They meet with their friends to travel together

He waits for the timezone to allow him to call his

They gossip about their office politics

Here he is, trying to appear less foreign

As they open their lunchbox, the aroma lingers

He counts his money to decide if he wants to eat

They surprise their girlfriends with river boat cruises

He stands by the coast wishing for his girl to hold his hand

They have dinner together, staring into each other's eyes

He sends her a picture of the food he cooked himself

They give goodnight kisses pressing their lips against each other

He tells her he misses her over the messenger

And then they said to him

You live a life many dream of

The joy in kvetching!

There's a poetry from where the thoughts below arise from. This was written by Michelangelo, one of the greatest painters in the history of mankind and also a wonderful poet. He says this to Giovanni da Pistoia while he was painting the renowned Chapel of Sistine, the official residence of the Pope in the Vatican City.

I've already grown a goiter from this torture,
hunched up here like a cat in Lombardy
(or anywhere else where the stagnant water's poison).
My stomach's squashed under my chin,
my beard's pointing at heaven,
my brain's crushed in a casket,
my breast twists like a harpy's.
My brush,above me all the time,
 dribbles paint so my face makes a fine floor for droppings!
My haunches are grinding into my guts,
my poor ass strains to work as a counterweight,
every gesture I make is blind and aimless.
My skin hangs loose below me,
 my spine's all knotted from folding over itself.
I'm bent taut as a Syrian bow.
Because I'm stuck like this,
my thoughts are crazy, perfidious tripe:
anyone shoots badly through a crooked blowpipe.
My painting is dead.Defend it for me, Giovanni,
 protect my honor.
I am not in the right place—I am not a painter.

 What? Did he just call himself - "I am not a painter?" Was this a form of forced humility. It could surely be a desperate attempt from Michelangelo to keep the modesty in himself alive.
But I doubt that. He is just doing what we humans love to do - complain. Now most of what Michelangelo describes is physical pain he has while painting a ceiling, maybe a very natural trait to complain physical pain. After all, who likes to withstand body aches? But then why the "I am not a painter" in the end? The very fact he says it, means something deeper than what it appears to be.

Your best friend calls you to tell you how big a mess he is in. How his life is fucked up, and how low times are. And what do you feel like saying? "So you think you've had a bad day, huh? Listen to this.."
and you go on telling how a bigger mess you are currently in.

Who said you're probably not enjoying what you are doing? Who says you are complaining out of dissatisfaction or boredom?

Kvetching, has always been seen as the sign of the weak. Mum used to say, "Now don't complain about it." But as I have come to realize, we all need our share of complaining. Perhaps our finest friends are very used to us complaining, they share that joy of kvetching with us too! The trade continues, each of us bothering the other with our so-called sorrows even when we are at the peak. And I guess no one else perhaps will understand this feeling as much as them, for others it'll be just show off.
Imagine for instance, Sachin Tendulkar stands up and says 'I am such a bad cricketer'. What will you say? Mock him maybe. But if he does really have a bad day at practice, doesn't he need an outlet - to complain?

The point being, there is a certain joy in kvetching, a satisfaction of some sort when we complain. It may not be to let down things happening around us, or to be a medium of pure gloat, it really is sympathy. Sympathizing with ourselves, to feel sorry about the state we are in, try provide a rationale to it and move on (maybe?).

I like to believe in the joy of kvetching.

Am I next?

Its not today for the first time that this feeling crept in. And for all I know its definitely not the last that I imagined myself getting raped, against my will, forcefully and cruelly.

It has always been in my memory that news snippets describing brutal have appeared on every news channel. Only initially was it surprising that rape news made it to the top news of the day almost daily. Then it became routine. Somewhere the security and comfort around me asked my sane mind to ignore them, like just not heed any news item describing a woman harassment case. Yet in those days, I have distinct memories of asking papa to change the channel for the disturbances it caused in my head.

And then slowly, without any conscious knowledge, I started getting nightmares. Nightmares where I pictured all these said descriptions graphically in my sleep getting abused sexually. Suddenly, sex for a teenage girl wasn't a fantasy anymore. Men who gave me vicious stares on my way home would be the antagonists of my little movie. Where of course, their harmless looks took the form of a wicked reality. Before I could even forget the course of events happening in my dreams, I would be fed with newspaper articles the following day. These thoughts were becoming like haunted ghosts, except that I was a living proof of the form in which ghosts existed.

Suddenly feeling safe became a priority. Suddenly the feeling of having people around always started mattering. Suddenly I felt like I needed more hugs more often or hear the words, "I will be there for you". Suddenly I was dreaming less about my backpacking trips alone but rather with a group of travel enthusiasts. For a long time I told myself that travel is more enjoyable when with friends. I remember traveling in the rickshaw with a friend, and then hugging on tightly just because I saw a Crime Patrol poster on a bus advertising rape statistics. I don't think I felt so insecure mentally ever.

The nightmares were an on-and-off business. Little incidents like a man pinching my butt on the station bridge or a man trying to grope me triggered them occasionally. I would weep in silence as those thoughts troubled me. I think I should have spoken about them to someone right at its inception. I tried finding solace as I wrote short poems like Worries of a Woman. 

Now that I think 50 shades of Grey is not at all an arousing book or porn is just not exciting as it should be. It is all scary. Anurag Kashyap's movies, documentaries on women harassment and news snippets buzzed around. I can associate only pain with anything remotely sexual. 

The Nirbhaya documentary sure points out the cheap mentality of men out there. It sure voices the opinion of liberal women and men fighting for justice. Kirron Kher's argument in the court is definitely worth clapping for. But, do they make me feel safe? No. Sure I felt like slapping those lawyers hard on their faces as they compared women to flowers and gems. I felt angered as the convict spoke so calmly without regret or shame in his eye. But that rage melted away in seconds of its genesis, giving birth to fear and crippling me with endless questions about my existence. If a man's company couldn't save Jyoti, how can I expect it to save me in my situation? What is safety? What am I really seeking here? Even I don't know.

While on one hand I want to change the world at a top-notch tech firm with latest advancements in technology, the thought of "Am I really contributing?" arises. While I have several opportunities to travel and sing and enjoy merrily, my safety is my concern. It is a shame that an educated, well-protect happy girl like me has to go through this. It is annoying that men who were sentenced to death are still breathing. It is also fearful that while I took 20 minutes penning my thoughts down, somewhere another girl realized the nightmare for real.

This post will be archived somewhere, unknown, will float around for a while and just like how this news will die down, no one will ever know how scary this night has been for me. No one will really wonder how many other women thought, "Am I next?"

Rumbling and Moaning

Rumbling and moaning each part of her body pained

Hands weary of the vessels she scraped

Feet rugged skin blue cold, even as she whimpered

The noises only squelched the energy already drained

Deep sunk into her hard coiled mattress

She felt the burden of the earth rest on her shoulder

She perhaps needed another arm to rest hers

To provide her slender figure with warm buttress

While her kernel coalesced to desperate rest

Her mind was free to wander on its way

Nonchalant of the worries to come the next day

The inner most self was at its happiest best

She dreamt about the things her body would crave

Her skin could already feel the orange sun's warmth

As her eye painted a serenity descended from heaven

There stood victorious over melancholy, her spirits brave

The unwavering force of her head stretched leaps and bounds

Until the chirping birds ignited the dawn

The physical self summoned her unrestricted soul

Rumbling and moaning into her body, her spirits drowned

She didn't cry

May 4th 2014, 6:37 P.M.

"We were sitting on
the leftmost table sipping
Irish Coffee and cold Hazelnut
drink in my hand
We laughed
We flirted
We smiled
Spoke philosophy and mystery
Who said it was large cafe
When we were shut
Shut away in our own world
cut off from the rest
We didn't know
We didn't care
We laughed
We flirted"

Those memories moistened
her green eyes
as she waited for him to come
The middle table she chose
The view from where
she remembered
That day in March
clear as the blue sky
Because she knew
She knew
She knew today was the day when he'd confess
Confess and tell her
the wrongs he did
The lies he lied
They fought
They said mean things
She cried
They said sorry
It was time to go
Time to let go
to forgive and forget

Twelfth day of November it is
seven months passed since
She remembered
the smell of the windy
evening coffee
of that day only two months later
It only remained
a memory in the memory
as she sipped a micro cup
shared trying to pretend
To let go along
with the bunch of friends who came along
this time to wash away
bitterness of the cafe
They made intelligent talks
inspired advanced technology
to symbolize the shop of a start
a start of something
where old beginning ended
As the cafe witnessed the flow
of sensations
Only this time she didn't cry

A whisk of bad

Apparently I'm good, Humble I am

Selfless, zealous and perfect

Not too far fetched

To address me as

Oh I loved the attention

The envy the love and care

My name on everyone's lips

Who wouldn't dream of that

But lately I've come to realize

Of the devil in me

Who only thinks of I, me, myself

Unlike the world presumes me to be

This perception is new

Unknown to the rest

Still dawning upon me

As I think more about it

I start fearing the evil inside

Is it that bad

My intentions so wrong

What all happened

To the genuine feelings I once had

Oh or wait

Am I still the same, same old me

What if it is those people

Who started expecting much more of me

Ah I lay in a mess

To messy to be cleaned

Thoughts cluttered and the heart

Dominated by the malign side of me

All I have to do is identify

Locate it and give a slow kill

The venom will destroy the poison

To get back the original me

With the passage of time

I will defeat that demon

Its my own soul

Who'd make a better killer

Its not gonna be easy

I am going to that road

A whisk of bad it is

But it is still what complete me

Lack of Appreciation

So they say the internet generation is a pretentious charlatan. Perhaps true, in the rat race to know everything, they ended up knowing nothing. Information available at finger tips but no one to process that information. We simply rely on the so-called "reviews" and then make decisions. Be it simple book and movie reviews or the review about how a politician performed during their tenure. Opinions on a diverse range of topics are nothing but opinions of other people without even knowing why.

What this reservoir of unlimited information has made them is not genius, but critics. Mindless critics. It is just impossible to please them with anything!

Sarcasm seems to be the mother tongue. 95% of the tweets are nothing but sarcastic comments about people you don't even know personally. It surprises me to see that most of the times it is not their work we tend to criticize, we end up criticizing the person himself!

The day people are exposed to the internet, that very instant is born their hatred for Justin Beiber or One Direction. On what basis? Oh right, on the basis of being cool, is it?

Take for instance Alia Bhatt. What is really wrong if she doesn't know the name of the President of India? Why did we start bombing the social networks with tons of Alia Bhatt Memes depicting her "blonde nature"? It is quite possible that her field of work doesn't allow her to catch up with politics or she is simply not interested in the nature of the subject. What she needs to be criticized upon is her dancing skills, acting skills or looks. That's precisely what her work demands!

Consider this, had this great mathematician not known a very popular Bollywood song, what would our reaction be? "Oh, he is pretty busy doing intellectual stuff. He doesn't have time for this."
So why can't we give a very similar, unbiased, uncritical opinion for her?

Agreeing to the fact that little and less knowledge about things really has far more implications than I have elaborated over here but the overdose of criticism is something which really irritates me to the core.

Truth is, people don't have the guts to appreciate.

Work your ass off, run haywire to get things done, go out of the way to make stuff happen and yet, zero appreciation. Because we're too busy finding flaws and commenting sarcastically about it. Days of constructive criticism are long gone. It's only commenting for the sake of commenting.

Another recent example would be 'Sarthak Agarwal' memes. Does that tenth grade boy deserve that? Nobody came forward saying achieving a whopping 99.6% was a major milestone but everyone came with so called witty memes. There are even pages on the him! I really can't imagine how it will be in his shoes.

Time and again the lost nature of appreciation has been the reason for fear of failure. In the midst of struggle, overcoming difficulties and challenges, when one looks up to find hope, he is given either discouragement or worse, false hopes and a long saintly advice.

It is always too late before we realize that we need to acknowledge certain things explicitly, that it needs to be stood up and told. That it is not a sign of weakness but of gratitude.

Why do we wait for people to die and then appreciate them with titles and awards beginning with "In the loving memory of.. " Why does Google have doodles on the birthdays of only people who are dead? Why not celebrate the living? Make them feel good about the contribution they have made to the society as artists, mathematicians or philosophers for that matter.

Forget them, when was the last time I stood up to appreciate someone and tell them they did a good job? In my heart I probably felt so, but out of envy or rather out of habit (of overlooking the good intentions) I never took the courage to tell them so.

Before it gets too late, before they're long gone, the one least thing which we all could do is call them up or drop them a message admiring things we really regard from the bottom of our heart and let them know how much it matters to us. You'll probably make someone's day in these critical internet times!