Time for a career switch!

I am drunk with chocolate, day-dreaming about what my "real" calling is, if there is one at all.

I love stationery. It traces back to my childhood when stationery was a child’s (at least my) most coveted possession. Stationery was the measure of richness! My parents only got me stuff when I needed them. I could never hoard stationery. I always wanted to. I always wanted more than I needed. I ALWAYS envied people who had more riches than they needed. I remember the colourful, floral pencils that my benchmate had. He even tricked me into showing him a sum in class, and said he would get me those pencils. But didn't. :( I once even fought over a pretty sharpner my friend showed off, saying pretty things were always delicate, quoting a new saying I had picked up "All that glitters is not gold", all the while wishing I had that sharpner!

One winter, my uncle got my sister and me, a set of sketches, pencils and something else. Me being the younger one who couldn't resist the unfair monopoly the older sibling generally has over deciding who gets what, ended up with that something else. Of course, I wanted the sketches and the pencils! (Even if things didn't concern stationery, I never knew what I wanted until my sister decided what she wanted and then of course I wanted exactly that!)

Then there was the time of the notebook fetish. I always wanted to save up old notebooks' papers that I had, while my mom always wanted to dispose them. I loved the smell of new books. The old books of course had another interesting smell. And the times before school began, when you buy wrappers and notebooks; and sit with your thatha on the messy floor, covering your notebooks and labeling them. I distinctly remember phases when I hated this job, and other times that I just loved it. I loved the part when you did a neat job and could later say, "I covered it on my own", while all other kids had their moms doing it for them! When moms do the wrapping, they don't let you do much, lest you spoil it! But my thatha, ever so encouraging, would make sure I do it and would teach me tricks of doing it nicely. Then there were times when we used to wrap the notebook with shiny white back-of-the-calendar covers. My sister started this, and I followed suit. She later alleged that I had copied her; claims that I squarely denied! (evil laugh)

I have decided that I want to work in a stationery shop. Stationery always made me feel nice. I love the smell of a stationery shop. Erasers, pencils, highlighters and crayon packs give me a high. The more stationery I own, the richer I feel. Plus the customers are usually little kids. Therefore, I want to own a stationery shop. But since that would require business acumen (read shrewdness), I will make do with just working in a stationery shop, owned by somebody else. So will someone who owns a stationery shop, or someone who knows someone who owns a stationery shop, preferably in the peaceful town of Pondicherry, preferably overlooking the beach, preferably with a non-bossy owner who owns a lending library and who also gives chocolates and books out for perks, pleaaaaaaase let me know about it. Cause it is time to listen to my true calling!!!

Man and machine

Why is it that I do not particularly like Nadal and Hrithik? I do not dispute the fact that they have got talent. :P People might even argue that it is an understatement. But I have the right to put forth my opinion about them. So here goes. I think they are too plastic. Too machine-like. Too muscly.

Nadal plays like he has a mission to accomplish. He runs to and fro on the baseline, is agile, hits power shots at unbelievable angles and reaches the ball no matter where it is placed on court. He attempts shots to keep the ball at play, hits winners - ONLY from the baseline, and if lucky maybe from elsewhere, all of them with machine-like precision. Little wonder that he wins most games. And yes, his angles and the way he reaches for every shot makes one gasp, but I have somehow decided in my head that he is too plastic for my tastes. Agreed, after he finishes a match, when he wins and takes off his head band, I feel a sort of fondness for the emotional/non-plastic kid in him. The way he talks, his spirit - he is a sport and hence a sweetheart whether he wins or loses. When the win is against Federer, all this doesn't hold of course. :)

Federer on the other hand, has more variety. Watching his tennis is like listening to music, as so many people have rightly put it. And even a non-believer would agree, after watching fed's strokes in slow motion alongside the symphony playing in the background of the rolex advertisement. He can(or is it could) play against anyone, with any style of game, on any surface, improvises his game anytime required, and comes up with shots that are a beauty to watch. He is just art at work.

And Hrithik is another story. He dances well. Okay, maybe very well. But I just do not appreciate his dance. His movement is fluid alright. But again is so machine-like in precision. Like he was programmed to dance that way and he would move every muscle just as much as it was programmed to move.

This is how I see them. Maybe it is partly because I think perfection isn't human? No, it is because, I think to achieve perfection, one needs to be free. To be boundless. To be free to improvise. To do what one really wants to do. To do it in a split-second of thought or even without thought. To do it because you just knew it was what you ought to have done. To fail. And in the end maybe, just maybe, win. :)

monkey trouble

I was walking down the road to the IIT hospital with a bag of apples and bananas, when I saw this monkey that was heading for me rather aggressively with frightening snorts! I panicked and in the fright, it took me a moment longer to understand what it was that the monkey wanted. I let out a scream and dropped the bag down. But by the time all this happened, there was this "saviour" who shooed the monkey to a side with his bike! The monkey wasn't sure whether to take his threat seriously or to head for the alluring bag of goodies. By the time, the saviour-of-my-goodies shouted for me to pick up the bag and run to the hospital. I did just that. When I reached safe territory, I turned back and saw the saviour-of-my-goodies still dodging the monkey with his bike. "Thank you!" I called back to him. He gave me a sheepish, big smile. I returned the same. In an afterthought, for a fairy tale finish, I should have sighed loudly, "My hero"!

I still can't help laughing thinking about the incident. It is funny for more than one reason. One, I (but actually it was my bag!) was like a victim being saved. By a guy that I have begun to regard as the-saviour- which is absolutely unacceptable in my head except for the funniness of the situation. And of course the knowing smile I received in the end.