Price

Never ever compare yourself with anyone else. Never envy anyone.

You have no idea of the price they have paid to be where they are.

There is always more than what meets the eye. You only see what they have become today, but have no idea of the price that has been paid by them in the process of becoming. The inner outcome of paying the price is hidden, known only to the person who paid. You, being what you are, may have never agreed to pay that price.

Whom Not to Befriend

Some may call me prejudiced, but these words come from experience. Been-there-done-that-was-hurt-never-repaired.

Never to befriend ones tailor/seamstress/neighbourhood boutique's owner
Never to befriend ones beautician/hairdresser/masseuse
Never to befriend ones personal trainer/personal coach/yoga teacher

For all the above, you are a customer/client first, and a friend later. Also, they make themselves interesting to others by telling stories about their customers/clients and boasting about their confidence in them. Your confidences may well become the next most interesting story they share with others. Beware.

Never befriend your banker/lawyer
Never befriend a insecure jealous woman's husband
Never befriend your childs best friend

For all the above, your right place in their life is not as a friend. You are best where you are - at a arms length.

Never befriend your boss's boss
Never befriend your boss's wife/husband
Never befriend your boss's other subordinates

For all the above, your relationship with your boss will be the primary link, and any of these relationships will cause undue stress /impact on the boss relationship.

The Sixth Sense

It seems to me that I lack one of the essential senses that is needed in the modern world to survive and thrive - a sixth sense of sorts. Of Money.

I am unable to sense how much does something costs, in terms of money. Unable to sense the value of something, in terms of money. I can only sense the pleasure/loss/pain from my five sensory senses and my emotions, which was probably adequate in some antiquated time, when money was not currency for every worldly thing.

Money by itself gives me no pleasure. Nor does losing it give me a sense of pain. What matters to me is the way I get pleasure when I buy an experience through money, or face pain by an emotional hurt when either a experience is denied to me since I did not have money, or the distress I feel when I am cheated out of it by someone I loved and trusted. When I cause someone else's money to be lost or used, either due to my bad advice or judgement, I feel an enormous amount of guilt though. None of that happens when I am blow up or gamble away my own money. It is as if I excuse myself with impunity of the bad decisions/judgement I make on money which is my own. I don't give myself the same immunity of excuse when dealing with others money. It is almost the other way around with people.

I do know what money means, but in abstract terms, not in visceral ones. Coming as I do from a "marwadi" family, my non-visceral understanding of money is a severe disadvantage. Everyone I meet professionally, expects me to be well versed with money matters. Specially my own, and also specifically so since I am an entrepreneur, supposedly someone who only credo is making money. I am an entrepreneur alright, but my credo is my work, my vision of what I am trying to create, my art if one can call it that - and I wish to make money through that. Not by any other means, but in the only way I respect of making money, by creating an artistic value, by creating something that is beautiful and functional both. I am idealistic enough (foolish enough, I call that in moments of sanity) to believe that money will come, if I create some experience that appeals to at least one of the senses for my potential customers and clients. Money by itself is not the end, the enhanced experience that I create for my customers and clients is. The only reward that I crave for.

I have often been cheated by fellow professionals and so called business partners, who assume that I must have taken care of my money first and foremost. They assume a certain money sense in me, and with impunity cheat me out of money that I trust with them. They assume that I would have gotten value out of them before I give money to them. Not so. I normally give money for value that I expect in the future. I have no other protection against thievery, other than a child like faith that the person I trust will abide by the emotion of trust I have placed with him. Consequently, I lose not only my money, but my trust and emotions as well. Its happened to me several times, this brazen misappropriation of my trust. Unfortunately, despite trying, I am not able to have a adequate perspective about money.

When others give me money for whatever reason, it weighs me down, and binds my soul. I am wary about accepting dinner invites, gifts from people, and even taking money for work rendered. I feel indebted to people who give me money - earned, reciprocated, bestowed, inherited - the reason for my having taken the money does not matter. In most cases, I have earned it. But still, if someone has given me money, I feel indebted to him/her for life. I then work my darndest to repay the debt, but though the money is perhaps paid back in full measure, I can't get over the feeling of being indebted. I can try gifting stuff back, inviting people over and over again to pay back their food debt, give stuff to them that I love and cannot bear to part with in desperation of the debt I feel, sometimes even money that I cannot afford to give - but there is no escaping from the feeling. I feel weighed down. Forever.

On the other hand, I hold no such expectations when I give money. That is given in love, with hope and with trust. In fact, I have issues in making people do things for tasks I have given money for. I find my employees cheating me, my maids cheating me, my partners pilfering money from customer accounts, and though all of this makes me really mad, I do not find that morally reprehensible, which it is.

I am just plain weird about money.

Point of No Return

There are times in ones life when one reaches a point of no return. When the emotional, financial and time investment is so much that one cannot walk away. Even when the risks of moving ahead are staring at ones face. Even when the chances of success are mind-bogglingly slim. But one is too involved, and has no choice but to keep moving ahead.

On the other hand, at the point of no return, the cost of walking away is more than the cost of staying. And when the risk of staying is less than the risk of walking away.

It is terrifying, paralyzing, agonizing. This point of no return.

But strangely liberating. To know that one needs to do what one has to do regardless of the results. If one wants to live with oneself in the other breaths that follow this one.

I grit my teeth, take a deep breath and square my shoulders, and I tell myself to take the next step. And I do. And the next step. And the next one. And the next. And I just keep walking. Walking on and on and on.

The Relentless March of Time

Time is relentless. It marches on, with nary a thought about the debris it leaves behind. Just goes on and on and on.

There was a time when I loved to dance. And then there was a time when I could not dance anymore as I needed to train myself for earning money. I thought I would not be able to do anything if I could not dance. But I did do things - not perfect, not soul stirring, but marketable. I did not dance again. Time marched on. Unrelenting.

There was a time when I built the castle of my life on someone's shoulder. And then, there was a time when the shoulder collapsed and died. I thought I would never be able to build again. But I did. First a shanty, then a hovel, and now a house. Not the perfect abode, but a shelter nevertheless. Time marched on. Unstopping.

There was a time when I loved someone. And then, there was a time when he walked away. I thought I would not be able to breathe without him. But I breathed. And made eyes at other men, lusted for them - not lovers but wayfarers and companions. I did not love again. Time marched on. Uncaring.

There was a time when I birthed someone and fed the blood of my womb to her. And then, there was a time when the womb turned back on her and killed her. I thought I would never eat again if it was not to feed her. But I did. I ate, nourished my guilty womb. Not to fill up my breasts with milk - but to fill the bowels with excrement and piss, and give energy to body to survive. Time marched on. Unseeing.

There was a time when I befriended someone and laughed, dreamed and worked together. And then there was a time when the friend betrayed to save some money, and then turned into a foe. I thought I would never share a dream and joke again. But I did. I laughed and joked and broke bread together with people. Not with a friend, but with acquaintances, neighbors and relatives. Not that they got half the jokes, but we laughed together. Time marched on. Unfazed.

There was a time when I wanted to create something of beauty. And then there was a time when I broke my knuckles, hurt my eyes, and I could create no more. I thought I would never want to work again. But I did. I worked to build things which could sell, be branded and be useful. Not beautiful, not pretty - but they were things people wanted and paid money for. Time marched on. Unmindful.

There was a time when I wanted to be a soulmate to someone. And then there was a time when I realized that he did not need a soulmate, but a flatmate. I thought I would never do soul-talk again. But I did. I bared my soul to him in the hope he would someday listen to my soul. He did not listen, nor care. I settled to being a flat mate. Time marched on. Inexorable.

And there will be time when I will cease to exist. when this compromised life, such as it is, will be snuffed out. And then, there will be no more time to build the glorious life I knew I could have had. I will dissolve into nothingness, with my dreams and thoughts and stories and loves and betrayals still in my bones. The bones will be burnt and cast away into the streams and rivers and fields. Time will continue to march on. For others. Unaffected.

The Good of Wanting

"Nobody ever became a writer just by wanting to be one." - Scott Fitzgerald

Scott Fitzgerald is a writer I love much and admire. His "The Great Gatsby" is a story I have read again and again, and every time I have been filled with wonder at the exact, appropriate usage of words as he tells the story. Every word is perfect. Every conversation is vital. Every bit of story line is useful. Every character is carved exactly as it needs to be. I run out of adjectives. It is just perfect. I cannot imagine how he got to this level of perfection in his craft.

To the perfection he brings, I look at stuff that I have written, some begun, some done, and some still in the head - and I completely despair at putting my stories on paper. I feel so so inadequate. I want to tell stories. There are so many of them jostling in my head. There are times I can barely hear myself because the characters in them talk to much. I know I will die unhappy if I don't tell them.

I wish I had studied literature rather then engineering. I wish I had started writing when I was 10 or 12. I wish I knew I loved words and stories so much. If I had started then, maybe I could have learnt to write the way I now want to write. With exact precision of words and emotions.

I remember a writer friend of mine telling me that in his view, technique comes later, with the content coming first. He had egged me on to write the story first, and not worry about the style of telling. I shared some of my story ideas, which he thought were capital. I know I want to tell them - and I don't really care whether they are endorsed as being capital or not - as long as I get them off my head. But the style of offloading them is beginning to intimidate me. I don't want to write a story that I would not like to read.

Yes, I can never become a story teller till the time I begin to tell my stories. Wanting to be one is simply not going to make me one. I know. But the skill requirement of writing a story that I would like to read scares the shit out of me. I have begun so many stories, and have abandoned them, not due to the plot, but as I could not but cringe on what I had written.

People have spoken to me about creative writing courses. Perhaps thats the answer. Other people have told me to just write - even if I hate the way I write. Other people tell me to do it when I can completely devote my full energy and passion to it, without any distractions. Perhaps the right time is the answer. My own heart tells me to just begin - but my head scorns at the way I write and forces me to stop.

Whats the good of wanting to be a writer if I have no clue of how to go about building the tooling required for it? Just how do I hone my craft? How can I hone my craft when I have not even begun learning it? I don't know how to learn it. Even if I found out, where to learn, am I not old to begin?

Perhaps if I had taken my wanting more seriously earlier on, I would not have despaired of achieving what I want. I would have then had time.

On Valentines Day

TOTD:

There are two loves that you should never abandon quest of:
1. Find a person to love unconditionally, without ego, with full abandon. In the rare case of having found someone, make EVERY effort to keep her/him. And if you do happen to be with the person you love, rejoice every minute!
2. Find work that you love doing. Again, in the rare case of having found what you love doing, do it - without thinking of reward, its social payoff, its monetary reward, its acceptance in the world. Just do it.

But first, be the person who can love. By choosing to love, you allow yourself to be vulnerable. Fulfillment only comes to the vulnerable and the needy. It may take a while to come, but every effort spent in seeking fulfillment is worth it. It can be terrifying, giving yourself permission to love. Be of courage.

Love is the only thing that makes life worthwhile.