Ranjit Kulkarni's Blog, page 23

Notes from ‘Deep Work’

A few months back I read a book titled “Deep Work” by Cal Newport. I found that a number of points raised and solutions offered in the book resonated with me. It was a very well-written book and I compiled some useful snippets from it into a bunch of notes.

Here is the first set of those notes:

Deep Work: Professional activities performed in a state of distraction-free concentration that push your cognitive capabilities to their limit. These efforts create new value, improve your skill, and are hard to replicate.

The Deep Work Hypothesis: The ability to perform deep work is becoming increasingly rare at exactly the same time it is becoming increasingly valuable in our economy. As a consequence, the few who cultivate this skill, and then make it the core of their working life, will thrive.

Three to four hours a day, five days a week, of uninterrupted and carefully directed concentration, it turns out, can produce a lot of valuable output.

In this new economy, three groups will have a particular advantage: those who can work well and creatively with intelligent machines, those who are the best at what they do, and those with access to capital.

It’s bad enough that so many trends are prioritized ahead of deep work, but to add insult to injury, many of these trends actively decrease one’s ability to go deep.

Deep work is at a severe disadvantage in a technopoly because it builds on values like quality, craftsmanship, and mastery that are decidedly old-fashioned and nontechnological. Even worse, to support deep work often requires the rejection of much of what is new and high-tech.

The connection between deep work and a good life is familiar and widely accepted when considering the world of craftsmen. “The satisfactions of manifesting oneself concretely in the world through manual competence have been known to make a man quiet and easy.”

“I’ll choose my targets with care … then give them my rapt attention. In short, I’ll live the focused life, because it’s the best kind there is.”

“The best moments usually occur when a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile.”

Human beings, it seems, are at their best when immersed deeply in something challenging.

To build your working life around the experience of flow produced by deep work is a proven path to deep satisfaction.

Whether you’re a writer, marketer, consultant, or lawyer: Your work is craft, and if you hone your ability and apply it with respect and care, then like the skilled wheelwright you can generate meaning in the daily efforts of your professional life.

***

Conviction by Doing

“Nowadays, there is no scope for getting away with half-baked knowledge,” Swami complained the other day over coffee. Jigneshbhai and I thought he was talking about his experience at work with clients.

“You mean you need to know your stuff in front of clients? No scope to faff around?” Jigneshbhai asked.

“Well, with clients yes. But even with family,” Swami clarified.

Jigneshbhai and I didn’t quite get what he was referring to.

“As in?” Jigneshbhai asked again.

It was an unfamiliar situation for me today, as Jigneshbhai asked the clarifications and Swami answered the questions. I was certain it won’t last long though and the tide will turn.

“Well, clients go online and cross check everything we advise them about, even if they don’t fully understand the subject. But that’s understandable. They pay us for advice,” Swami began.

“But even my son goes to Google or Wikipedia when I tell him about something I know,” Swami sulked in dismay.

Jigneshbhai and I glared at each other on hearing that.

“Yes, that is true, nowadays,” Jigneshbhai said, and I agreed.

Most people go online when they want to learn about something or check something. Clients cross check what we tell them.

But even family doesn’t take things at face value often, especially the children. Google is the starting and often the endpoint, followed by Wikipedia, YouTube and the like if they want a bit of a further deep dive.

“These sources make it easy to get quick information and form an opinion,” Jigneshbhai started. “It is often shallow knowledge, but sufficient for the moment,” he further added.

“That’s the problem. And they take that as true. And the shallow knowledge found out there may be different from what I say. And that creates a problem,” Swami continued complaining.

Jigneshbhai sipped his coffee and munched on his muffin for a while. Swami and I realised something was cooking.

“But that’s fine. You shouldn’t worry too much about it,” Jigneshbhai remarked with nonchalance.

“Why?” Swami asked.

“Well, one can find the information online. But one can’t find the conviction that true knowledge needs,” he remarked.

“Hmm..” Swami nodded, intuitively agreeing with what Jigneshbhai said. Even I felt that there was a point he had. But Swami wasn’t entirely convinced.  

“So where does the conviction come from?” Swami enquired.

Jigneshbhai sunk his teeth into another bite of the muffin.

“Well, it comes from having done it, and not just read it,” he replied. “If I have done something and experienced it, I know, for a fact, that it is true,” he said.

Swami and I looked at each other and pondered over it. Realising that we weren’t fully onboard, Jigneshbhai continued.

“Like this muffin,” he said, pointing at the muffin in his hand. “We know it tastes good. No Google or Wikipedia will change that conviction of true knowledge from experience,” he said, with a loud laugh that reverberated in the cafe.

As if to convince himself again, Swami took a bite from the muffin and instantly signalled his agreement.

“Yup, that’s right, we have experienced the goodness of this muffin,” Swami said, this time with conviction. The most internalized knowledge is the one learnt by doing and experiencing. It applies to the most mundane to the most abstract knowledge, I reckoned.

Swami seemed to have got some inroads from this experience.

He then added with a smile coming back to his original problem. “Maybe I should tell my son to do things he wants to know himself. My clients may not agree, but my son should.”

Jigneshbhai nodded. That sounded right to me as well.

“Next time when he wants to know how something works, don’t tell him the answer,” Jigneshbhai said.

“He will anyway google it and find some answers for himself. But if you tell him to try working on it for a few days, he will get the conviction after experiencing it,” Jigneshbhai said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Swami nodded his head. His thoughts took him to where he can use it next. He wasn’t fully convinced yet though.

“Hmm. Let me try,” he announced.

Jigneshbhai pushed the case for Swami to try further.

“Don’t teach him the theory. Tell him to try actually doing it, albeit imperfectly, for a few days,” he added.

“Like what?” Swami asked.

“Hmm, anything. Maybe how to make tea or some dish? Or something about a game or some exercise? Or whether a book or a writer is good to read? Anything,” Jigneshbhai replied.

“I will tell him to make the dish himself or try the exercise for a few days. Or read a sample of the book. Got it,” Swami said in a tone of excitement. This time Swami seemed onboard.

He then added further conviction to it.

“In this way, the theory may be mine or someone else’s that he reads on google or Wikipedia, but the experiences and conviction built into the knowledge will be his,” Swami declared, fully convinced and with full conviction this time.

“Yup. The mind also remembers the knowledge gained out of experiences longer because of the conviction,” Jigneshbhai said with rare, redoubled enthusiasm.

And then, holding the muffin Jigneshbhai went back to the example he had started with. “Like the conviction we have for the taste of this chocolate muffin, which we taste every time we meet here,” he said and laughed out aloud again.

At that time, I saw the wealthy old man from the adjoining table also join us in the joie de vivre. As usual, he had been listening to our conversation for a while.  

“Learning by doing is the best way to build conviction for the knowledge,” he reconfirmed, looking at me and Swami.

“But don’t take my word for it. Try it for yourself,” he advised.

And then he took a piece of another unfamiliar looking muffin in his hand, and looking at Jigneshbhai, he said, “You should try the butterscotch muffin the next time. It is equally good.”

“I have the conviction of experience,” he added, biting into it.

***

Footprints: Short Story

I see Ram Pyaare Yadav park his two-wheeler a few meters away from my shop. It is a three-wheeler actually, with brakes, gears, and the accelerator near his hand.

There is a row of small chappal shops lining the lane at the end of which he parks it. Ram Pyaare Yadav doesn’t stop at any of them. He passes them all and walks straight to mine. He limps along like usual, but I don’t see the normal mirth of Diwali either on his crumpled face or in his stumbling gait.

The man who runs a small ‘tyre puncher’ shop as he calls it has the ritual of buying chappals for his family every year before Diwali. “Chappals are better than Clothes. They are easier to buy, they fit better, and they are more useful,” he once told me.

In normal years, he doesn’t leave it to the last day before Diwali like he did this year. There is a lot to do on the evening before Diwali at home in normal years. The sweets, the decoration, the crackers, the puja preparation. I see him limping along towards me. His hands are empty. His face is squalid.

“Happy Diwali, Ram Pyaare,” I greet him.

“Namaste, Ram Ram,” he greets back, wiping his brow with his sleeve on the hot afternoon.

The heat and the physical labour of his work might be getting to him, I think. More bikes and cars, more tyres, more punctures to fix, I guess. His tapering hair has more grey than black now. He has been a customer ever since it was all black. He is not growing younger; I feel like teasing him.

But he seems to be in a hurry, in a mood for finishing his business.

“Have you got the sizes?” I ask him.

He never remembers sizes for his four children. Four is a lot, of course. Some years back, he got all of them to the shop. But it led to a lot of fights and choices, and in trying to placate each of them, he ended up spending more than he had planned. So now, for the past few years, he doesn’t get them.

He pulls out a few sheets of paper from his pocket. Those sheets have the footprints of his children. He doesn’t need to remember sizes. Sizes change every year. All of them are growing children. The youngest must be six or seven now, and the oldest must now be thirteen or fourteen. I am not sure.

So, for the past many years, on the day before Diwali, he traces their footprints out on the sheets of paper. Each child stands on the sheet, and he traces out the outline. Then he gets me the sheet. Till a few years back, every second or third year, the number of sheets increased. He had become a friend. So I used to joke about it, and he used to blush. Now they are constant at four.

I look at the traces and get a chappal for the first sheet.

He doesn’t match it with the tracing like every year. He doesn’t ask me for any style or colour options too. He hands me over the second sheet. This time I have to stand up.

It’s a girl’s footprint. The girl’s chappals are on the other side. I get him a pair of chappals I know his girls like. I get three pieces in different colours and styles. He simply picks one, puts it aside and neglects the others.

Number three is a sandal for the second girl. He doesn’t twist the sandals for strength or check the quality like every year. Nor does he check the price or ask for a different colour. It is black and cream. He pockets it and puts it aside.

“130 and 170 for the chappals, 230 for this sandal,” I say. Like every year, the fourth one is always free for him. I total it up and give him a further 30-rupee discount.

“500,” I say.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Ok?” I ask. He nods, looking at the floor. I had put a buffer of another twenty rupees like every year. He puts his hand in his pocket and removes a crisp note. He hands me over the note without any haggling. I stand up to prepare the bill, albeit surprised.

He puts the three pairs in the bag he has got and starts walking in a hurry.

I watch him limp fast to his three-wheeler and tie the bag to the handle, while I am still preparing the bill. I want to stop him. He didn’t give me the fourth footprint. I shout out his name. I need to give him the free fourth pair, like every year.

But this year is different. This year Diwali is not normal. He doesn’t stop.

***

This story was first published in Setu Magazine, The Bilingual Journal based out of Pittsburgh in their November 2021 issue. You can read it here.

Notes from ‘The Practice’

A few months back I read a book titled ‘The Practice’ by Seth Godin. I loved it a lot and made some notes from it. They are some profound lines from the book which spoke to me.

Here is a list of some of them:

When you choose to produce creative work, you’re solving a problem. Not just for you, but for those who will encounter what you’ve made. By putting yourself on the hook, you’re performing a generous act. You are sharing insight and love and magic. And the more it spreads, the more it’s worth to all of those who are lucky enough to experience your contribution. Art is something we get to do for other people.

If you get good enough at throwing, the catching takes care of itself.

The desire for outcome is deeply ingrained, and for some, this is the moment where they give up. They simply can’t bear a process that willingly ignores the outcome.

Our work is about throwing. The catching can take care of itself.

And so, too often, we walk away from a creative life, a chance to be generous, an opportunity to solve problems.

[Making the world a better place through art] is the highest attainment of the specialization.

Art is what we call it when we’re able to create something new that changes someone.

And you’ve been told that if you can’t win, you shouldn’t even try (but now you see that the journey is the entire point).

Art is the generous act of making things better by doing something that might not work.

Waiting for a feeling is a luxury we don’t have time for.

I have a story in my head, all about how things are supposed to be.

Flow is a symptom of the work we’re doing, not the cause of it.

The trap is this: only after we do the difficult work does it become our calling. Only after we trust the process does it become our passion. “Do what you love” is for amateurs. “Love what you do” is the mantra for professionals.

Our commitment to the process is the only alternative to the lottery- mindset of hoping for the good luck of getting picked by the universe.

The world’s worst boss might very well be you.

The practice has nothing at all to do with being sure the work is going to be successful. That’s a trap.

The search for a guarantee is endless, fruitless, and the end of possibility, not the beginning.

The very nature of innovation is to act as if— to act as if you’re on to something, as if it’s going to work, as if you have a right to be here. Along the way, you can discover what doesn’t work on your way to finding out what does.

Worse, if you need a guarantee you’re going to win before you begin, you’ll never start.

The alternative is to trust the process, to do our work with generosity and intent, and to accept every outcome, the good ones as well as the bad.

Do the work, become the artist. Instead of planning, simply become.

Trust earns you patience, because once you trust yourself, you can stick with a practice that most people can’t handle.

At some point, the professional has to bring home the fish. That’s the fuel that permits the professional to show up each day. But the catch is the side effect of the practice itself. Get the practice right, and your commitment will open the door for the market to engage with your work.

You might seek a shortcut, a hustle, a way to somehow cajole that fish onto the hook. But if it distracts you from the process, your art will suffer.

The career of every successful creative is part of a similar practice: a pattern of small bridges, each just scary enough to dissuade most people.

***

Smallest Manageable Unit

“With 122 runs required from 18 overs and almost half the side back in the pavilion, the man that India needs, the captain walks in to bat,” the commentator announced as Swami and Jigneshbhai watched MS Dhoni take guard at the crease.

“This man will do it again,” Swami bet on the captain, like so many times earlier. “The target isn’t easy. How does this guy do it every time?” he asked further. I could see Swami walk up from his sofa and straddle paces in his living room with tight fists. Jigneshbhai watched him coolly while sipping his coffee. Swami was more tense than Dhoni, for certain. The only man as cool as the captain was, perhaps our wise friend, Jigneshbhai.

We had met at Swami’s house for the coffee because of the match today. Cricket was a non-negotiable, and the café often took a back seat. But the coffee didn’t. So there we were watching the match over our coffee, with the muffins in tow.

It did turn out eventually that, after many tense moments in which Swami quivered, India did win the match in the last over, with the captain still batting and hitting the winning runs.

“Finally, it is over,” Swami heaved a sigh of relief. “Why does he have to give us so much tension every time?” he asked, biting into the muffin.

“He doesn’t give it. You take it,” Jigneshbhai answered.

“Do I have any choice?” Swami retorted. “When one is overwhelmed by such a target, how can one not?” he asked.

I felt like reminding Swami that he wasn’t playing the match. But it was wiser to stay silent, I reckoned in these situations.

“But he is not overwhelmed by the target,” Jigneshbhai said.

“That is true. That’s why he is there, and I am here,” Swami laughed out loud. He turned his attention to the coffee and the muffin. We enjoyed it discussing the match for a few moments. That is when Swami’s mobile phone rang.

“Oh, it is Raichand,” Swami said with his eyebrows raised and shoulders suddenly drooping. “Why is he calling me at this hour on a holiday?” he asked with a frown on his forehead.

“Hello Sir,” he answered the phone. There was silence for a few moments during which all we could see was Swami nodding his head. We heard “Yes Sir” mutters every few seconds, interspersed with “But Sir” exclamations and “Ok Sir” nods.

Jigneshbhai and I looked at each other when we saw Swami walk in dismay towards us after hanging up. “My evening is gone. Maybe my night sleep too,” he murmured. We realised something had come up and decided to make a move.

“Where are you guys going?” Swami howled when he saw us stand up.

“Well, you have work, we thought?” Jigneshbhai asked.

“Yes, true,” Swami uttered in pain.

“And now, to take the winner’s trophy and the man of the match award, let me invite the Indian captain to come forward. MS Dhoni!” the voice from the television set distracted Swami with the presentation ceremony underway. It brought a momentary smile on Swami’s face as he forgot Raichand.

“MS, so another big chase? How did you manage it again?” the commentator asked. Swami was all ears and all eyes.

“I think what’s important is to break the number of runs into small, small criterion. You may say, okay, next two or three overs let’s look for 10 runs or 15 runs or even eight runs if someone is bowling really well. But at the same time it’s a team effort,” the captain replied.

“But there must be something else, right? It can’t be as simple as that to chase down big targets like these. Is there a secret formula?” the commentator probed the captain further.

“Well, not really. Once you break the big into many small, small targets, achieving those targets it just keeps giving you confidence, maybe 10 or 12 runs or 15 runs, but you gain confidence out of every target that you achieve,” the captain replied with a nonchalant smile.

“So just break it down? And without taking any risks? No big shots till the end?” the commentator persisted with his question.

“You get sixes and boundaries playing the big shot, but if you are batting at No.6, you know there’s no batsman after you. It sounds complex, but you keep breaking it down and in turn put the pressure back on the opposition,” he reiterated.

Swami was glaring at the television in awe of the captain. Jigneshbhai, not as big a cricket fan, looked alternately at Swami and the captain. When the proceedings ended, we decided to leave, wishing him luck for the evening’s work.

“Well, I am stuck with it, but it’s impossible to complete by tomorrow morning. I know that. You can’t expect a complex deliverable like this to be done in an instant,” Swami replied.

“Hmm, everything sounds complex till you start,” Jigneshbhai said. “Good luck,” he added and got up to wear his shoes.

I don’t know what it is about the wealthy old man. He seems to manifest himself out of nowhere. Even this time we didn’t notice when he crept on to us. It turned out that Swami’s door was open all the while. We noticed that the wealthy old man had been standing there. We don’t know how long he had been there but looked like he had been there for a while.

“Sir, will you have coffee?” Swami asked on noticing him.

“No, I am late,” he replied. “Plus you are busy now. Next time,” he added. It looked like he prepared to turn around and leave along with us. That’s when he walked towards Swami.

He put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Break it down to the smallest manageable unit, maybe one hour, one minute at a time.” He further added, “The small then takes care of the big,” leaving Swami and me with a point to ponder.

***

Notes from ‘Atomic Habits’

A few months back I read a book titled “Atomic Habits” by James Clear. It was a very well-written book and I found a lot of snippets useful that spoke to me. I compiled them into a bunch of notes.

Here is the first set:

If you find yourself struggling to build a good habit or break a bad one, it is not because you have lost your ability to improve. It is often because you have not yet crossed the Plateau of Latent Potential. Complaining about not achieving success despite working hard is like complaining about an ice cube not melting when you heated it from twenty-five to thirty-one degrees. Your work was not wasted; it is just being stored. All the action happens at thirty-two degrees.

Change can take years—before it happens all at once. Mastery requires patience.

Goals are about the results you want to achieve. Systems are about the processes that lead to those results.

Goals are good for setting a direction, but systems are best for making progress.

Achieving a goal only changes your life for the moment.

A systems-first mentality provides the antidote. When you fall in love with the process rather than the product, you don’t have to wait to give yourself permission to be happy. You can be satisfied anytime your system is running. And a system can be successful in many different forms, not just the one you first envision.

The purpose of setting goals is to win the game. The purpose of building systems is to continue playing the game. True long-term thinking is goal-less thinking. It’s not about any single accomplishment. It is about the cycle of endless refinement and continuous improvement. Ultimately, it is your commitment to the process that will determine your progress.

The ultimate form of intrinsic motivation is when a habit becomes part of your identity. It’s one thing to say I’m the type of person who wants this. It’s something very different to say I’m the type of person who is this.

The more pride you have in a particular aspect of your identity, the more motivated you will be to maintain the habits associated with it.

True behavior change is identity change. You might start a habit because of motivation, but the only reason you’ll stick with one is that it becomes part of your identity.

Every action you take is a vote for the type of person you wish to become. No single instance will transform your beliefs, but as the votes build up, so does the evidence of your new identity. This is one reason why meaningful change does not require radical change. Small habits can make a meaningful difference by providing evidence of a new identity. And if a change is meaningful, it actually is big. That’s the paradox of making small improvements.

The most practical way to change who you are is to change what you do.

Each habit not only gets results but also teaches you something far more important: to trust yourself. You start to believe you can actually accomplish these things. When the votes mount up and the evidence begins to change, the story you tell yourself begins to change as well.

Your habits shape your identity, and your identity shapes your habits. It’s a two-way street.

***

Caregiver: Short Story

It had been almost six months now that Kirthana had been bedridden. It had been six months since her husband Karthik had been her caregiver. “Another silent day, another silent night. What a useless life!” the thirty something Karthik said to himself. Kirthana tried to move her left hand and leg but her best efforts failed every day. She felt like talking to her husband, but no words came out of her mouth. Thoughts of the brain injury six months back haunted her. Sweat broke on her forehead. She turned her gaze to the food Karthik fed her.

“I am paying for my own past sins,” Karthik thought to himself as he fed her dinner. She looked at him straight in the eye after the first gulp. Her sight was as sharp as her brain, and her hearing was fine. Everything else in her body worked fine. If not for her left hand and leg, and her speech, she would be buzzing around like any other newly married woman.

Despite her sorry state at such a young age though, the jaunty woman hadn’t lost her zest for life. She signalled to him with her eyes that she wanted ice cream, which he promptly got from the fridge and fed her. Karthik always kept some stock at home. He knew, that whatever else she may lose, Kirthana will never lose her appetite for ice cream.

He then walked around the house. He checked that he had locked all doors. He checked that all windows were closed. That was Kirthana’s habit earlier. Then he switched off the tube light and, saying goodnight, went off to bed. 

The next morning at 6.30 AM, the doorbell rang but Karthik didn’t wake up. Kirthana was already awake and heard it. She tried to make some sound to wake Karthik up, but he didn’t. She wondered, for a moment, if something was wrong with him. She knew it was the milkman when the doorbell rang again. When Karthik still didn’t move, this time she got irritated. She tried to stretch her hand and push him but couldn’t reach him. 

She pressed her automatic bed switch with her right hand to get herself into a sitting position. Then she tilted a bit and tried to get on to her wheelchair. She stopped short of it, not confident that she can make the distance on her own. She banged her right hand on the arm of the wheelchair hoping that the noise would wake up Karthik. This was their normal signal when she needed something. When that didn’t work, the feisty young woman knew something was wrong. She decided to take charge.

She wanted to move into the wheelchair. She used her right foot to pull the wheelchair close to her bed. Once it was close enough, she tried to push herself out of the bed using her right hand. When that didn’t work, she used the strength in her back. After excruciating effort, eventually she succeeded. For the first time in close to six months, Kirthana had moved herself from the bed to the wheelchair. That too, on her own, all by herself, without the help of her husband.

She felt jubilant but not a sound emerged from her mouth. She looked at her husband with one hand raised and a broad grin on her face. She say that he was still lying on the bed. All the noise the bed and the wheelchair had made in the process still wasn’t enough to awaken Karthik.

Kirthana pressed the motor switch on her wheelchair and moved it towards Karthik. Using all the energy she had in her right foot, she kicked him. There was no movement. She pushed again with full force. This time she noticed some movement. She breathed a sigh of relief. For a brief moment, out of worry for herself, she had feared that he was dead. Who would take care of her if he were gone – that was her first thought.

But he wasn’t gone. Then why was the lazy bum still sleeping? She kicked him with more ferocity now. After an unusual number of kicks and pushes, he stretched his hands and yawned. He opened his eyes and saw her sitting on the wheelchair close to him.

He got up with a start and said, “What happened?” She stared at him in silence.

“Good morning, why aren’t you saying anything?” he said.

“How will I speak?” she thought with a look of anger. “Doesn’t he know I lost my speech,” she stared at him in wrath.

He looked again at her and asked, “What are you doing on this wheelchair?” She glared at him even more. “Do I have a choice?” she thought.

He got up from his bed in slow motion. While going to the washroom, he said, “Get up from that chair. It doesn’t belong to us. Go and make some tea for me, please.”

“What’s wrong with him?” she thought. “Why is he asking me to get up from this chair? Whose chair is it, if not ours?”

“And make tea? Doesn’t he know I can’t do it?” A wistful tear fell from her eye on to her cheek in her own sympathy. “What have things come to? I can’t even make a tea myself.”

Memories of her early days of marriage filled her. Her thoughts went back to three years back when she had married Karthik. Theirs was a love marriage. They had been sweethearts in college. He loved his morning tea and she used to make it for him. They had a nice, simple life. Till six months back.

“What happened? Why are you still sitting there? I told you it’s not our chair,” Karthik came back, breaking her chain of thought and getting her out of her dreamy reverie.

Kirthana felt like shouting back at him in anger. But despite her efforts, words stopped short and didn’t emerge from her mouth. She felt a lump in her throat.

“I knew you are a lazy bum since college. What happened of my tea? I can tolerate anything in my wife, as long as she gives me my morning tea,” Karthik continued. Kirthana’s anger now turned to worry. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Why are you silent today?” Karthik asked with a smile. “Do you remember yesterday morning you made such wonderful tea and lunch for me? Make the same today, please,” he said.

“Is he kidding? What’s he talking about?” That was her first thought. “Or has he lost it?” she mused. She had an inexplicable frown on her face.

She watched him in silence. She didn’t have a choice. He went for a bath. He then wore his favourite blue shirt and formal trousers. She couldn’t understand why. He had left his job six months back to take care of her. So she wondered where he was going. The frown on her face changed to a question mark. Her eyebrows raised, eyes twitching, she probed him.

“I am going to office, Kitty. See you in the evening,” he said. He hadn’t called her Kitty, her pet name from college, for six months. After the accident, he had stopped calling her Kitty. Which office was he going to? Leaving her alone? Panic set in.

Kirthana started sweating. She didn’t know what to do. Her legs started shaking and her hands started trembling. With a quivering of her lips, she looked at him. He picked up his bag. Just as he started walking, he lost his balance and crashed on to the floor.

Kirthana reflexively tried to stand up from her wheelchair but couldn’t. In a few moments, Karthik got up holding the bed and said, “Kitty, I am feeling giddy. I think I am not feeling well. I will not go to office today. Ok?” He waited for a response but didn’t get any. She glared at him silently with fiery eyes.

He got angry and, out of the blue, shouted. “Why aren’t you talking to me? And why are you giving me that look?” She continued to glare at him in silence. His attention shifted and he sat on the bed. He was fidgety. He removed his shirt.

“What’s for lunch, Kitty?” Karthik asked as he sat on his bed. “And by the way, I am the one who is unwell. Why are you sitting there silently, lazy bum?” he asked. Her head grew hot like milk just before it spills over. “This is too much. Here I am, stuck to my wheelchair, unable to say a word. And he thinks he is unwell. Can’t he see what I am going through?” she wallowed in self-pity. “How can he have the gumption to ask me to make tea and lunch? As if nothing has happened.”

While she was stuck in her thoughts, he suddenly sat up and yelled, “Can’t you hear what I am saying? Why are you sitting silently staring at me?” His nostrils flared with wrath and his eyes glared. At the top of his voice, he shrieked, “Go, get up and make my tea.”

Kirthana trembled with fright. She moved her wheelchair out of the bedroom. She knew this didn’t look good. “Get off that chair, I say,” Karthik howled as she moved out of the bedroom.

Kirthana’s thoughts now went back to that fateful day six months back. The dreadful day that she hadn’t forgotten. It was on that day that a similar bout of mad anger had overcome him.

“Wait, won’t you listen to me? Won’t you get off that chair? Won’t you get me tea? How dare you won’t? Wait a second, I will show you,” Karthik screamed and got off his bed.

He walked past Kirthana on her wheelchair and pushed it in fury. The wheelchair banged on the wall and overturned. Kirthana fell on to the floor. Her thoughts were still stuck in that dreadful day. It seemed like Deja vu for her. She had been here before. She can’t let this happen again, she said to herself.

Karthik went into the balcony and picked up his cricket bat. He walked back with furious steps. On the way, he picked up his leather belt. When Kirthana saw that from afar, Kirthana was certain she had been here before.

She tried her best to get off the floor using all the strength in her legs. She got a grip on the wall with her right hand but her left hand didn’t cooperate. She felt like shouting aloud and calling for help but no sound came out from her mouth. There was precious little time left for her to do something.

She saw Karthik pace through the room towards her. He had red angry eyes, a bat in one hand and a belt in the other. Kirthana prayed to God to save her. She pleaded the Lord to give her strength somehow to escape from this terrible situation. Again.

Kirthana saw her crutches lying near the cupboard. She crawled fast towards them and grabbed them in her right hand as if her life depended on them. When Karthik came closer, she stood on her right leg and balanced herself with one crutch.

When he lifted his bat to hit her, Kirthana, with all her might, balanced herself on the crutch and kicked him in the groin with her right leg. As he howled in pain, she rooted her leg back and swiped the crutch across his face in one tight slap.

The bat dropped from his hand as he fell on his knees. The belt fell off as he held his groin with both hands. Kirthana stood on her legs and, for the first time in six months, walked using her crutches. As she crossed Karthik, she opened her mouth. To her utter surprise, a voice emerged from her mouth when, in utter desperation, she screamed. “Help!”

After six months, Kirthana had heard her own voice. After six months, Karthik had heard his wife’s voice. He raised his face up from the floor, turned his neck around and looked at her. Kirthana saw on his face, after six months, an expression of unexpected delight. Karthik saw her walk with her crutches. His face had a smile. Kirthana turned back and looked at him.

At that moment, his head fell back on the floor face down and he lost his consciousness.

Kirthana’s mind went back six months to that accident. On that day too, Karthik had a similar bout of angry madness. He had a bat in his hand and a belt in his hand then too. In a frenzied episode, he had tried to hit her with the bat. He had missed her as he fell crashing on the floor then too.

But in trying to save herself, in panic, Kirthana had banged her head on the wall. Due to the impact, she bled profusely inside her brain. Her left hand and leg were paralysed since then. She started slurring due to the injury. She eventually lost her speech. The anger that she had for her husband’s erratic anger was forever shut in her head. She had no way to express it.

Till today. She had found her voice. She had found her feet. She decided that this was it. She had had enough. This was the second time that her husband was attacking her in six months.

So what if he had been her caregiver? So what if she still loved him? He was the one responsible for the accident. He was the one who caused her the injury. He better pay for it now that she had got her voice and mobility back. This is no way to treat your wife. She was going to make a police complaint. And she was going to make him pay. She decided that the time was now. She started searching for the closest police station on her phone.

While doing so, she glanced back at Karthik. He was still lying unconscious. Her thought went back to Karthik’s face when she had seen him fall down a while back. She suddenly remembered seeing drops of blood near his mouth when he fell. Had her crutch caused so much damage that he had so much blood on his mouth? she pondered. And was the shot so strong that he became unconscious? she contemplated.

Karthik was a strong man. He had been a boxer in college. She had never seen him with so much blood on his mouth even after the toughest of his bouts. 

Then she remembered that he said he felt giddy earlier. And he had crashed into the floor then too. She decided that she will register her police complaint later. For good or bad, he was still her husband. And he had been her caregiver for six months.

So, she walked back near him with her crutches.

Karthik was still lying on the floor. Next to his face was a pool of blood. She turned him around. He was still unconscious.

She decided to call the ambulance. But where was the number of the ambulance? Must be in his diary, she thought. Where is the diary? Must be in his bag. She rushed to their room.

Karthik’s bag was lying on the floor with papers scattered all around it. She picked the bag up and rummaged through it. She found the diary. But her attention was drawn to a large medical file. She wondered why he carried her medical file in his bag. She opened it.

But the file wasn’t her medical file. It said patient name, Karthik. The file had a lot of papers and scans. She went through one of the reports. What she read gave her the shock of her life. It said, “Patient, Male 33 years. Advanced Glioblastoma. Symptoms include severe delirium, violent behaviour, temporary memory loss, giddiness, excess sleep.”

She scoured through all the other sections of the file in a rush. His first report was dated six months back. She recollected that the date was one week after her injuries. She now remembered how much he had cried after hitting her. And how much he had cried after getting her home from hospital on a wheelchair.

It was then that he had tested himself. He couldn’t explain his acts of violence to himself. It turned out that the violent behaviour six months back was an act of severe delirium. It was this delirium that had resulted in Kirthana’s injuries. And it was another act of severe delirium today that had got her back on her feet and her voice back.

Kirthana fell on her knees and started crying. She went to her husband and lifted his head and put it on her lap. She was a spunky, gritty woman. She decided that it was time for her to be strong. She called the ambulance in a rush. The ambulance came in ten minutes to their house.

At the hospital, the duty doctor asked her, “Who is the patient, any history?”

She pointed to her husband and said, “Mr. Karthik. Patient of Glioblastoma.”

“We need a signature here for consent,” the doctor said bringing forward a form. “May I know your name and relation with the patient?” he asked, looking at her crutches.

“I am Kirthana. The patient’s wife,” she replied and added with fortitude, “and his caregiver.”

***

This story was first published in The Writer’s Egg Magazine in their November 2021 Issue #12.

Collection of Trophies

“For the last two years, this man comes to play every weekend,” Jigneshbhai remarked pointing to someone in the group having coffee on a table some distance away. We had come to the café straight from our weekend game of badminton that day. In the café was another group that frequented the badminton courts.

“That’s good. Two years is a lot. But I know a lot of regulars to the badminton courts. It has caught on and courts are springing up everywhere,” Swami said, not impressed a lot with what, nevertheless, looked like amazing discipline from that man.

“He even takes part in the competitions that happen in the courts every couple of months,” Jigneshbhai continued updating us about the man. It seemed like he had a special awe for him.

“Oh, I didn’t know that. So he plays in competitions? Never saw his game. Is he good?” Swami remarked, this time with his lips curled and brows raised slightly.

“Well, you can decide that after seeing him play,” Jigneshbhai remarked. “I am sure you don’t know something else,” Jigneshbhai added.

“What is that? Is he the reigning champion or what?” Swami enquired in all eagerness.

“No. Quite the opposite, actually,” Jigneshbhai said. He then set his coffee cup aside and moved closer and spoke in a whisper, so that only we could hear him.

“He never wins anything. In fact, he has never won a single game ever. Not just in competitions, but also in practice any weekend. He loses every time he plays,” Jigneshbhai told us.

Swami and I broke into a small chuckle. We couldn’t figure out what kind of player was this who played for two years but never wins anything. We turned our necks to have another look at that man. “Quite a sample,” Swami remarked with a sardonic smile.

“Well, there’s another way of looking at it,” Jigneshbhai said. “That he must be really loving playing the game. For what reason, only he knows. But it’s not easy to keep playing if you keep losing all the time,” he added. Jigneshbhai seemed to have an unusual tone of appreciation for the man in his voice.

“Play for the love of the game, sportsmen say. It would be interesting to ask them if they would play the game even if they lost every single time. Easier said than done,” he said, silencing our chuckles for the loser.

Most of the time when we play a game, we play for the win, for the trophies, not the love of the game, I reckoned. I seemed to agree with Jigneshbhai when he said that ‘play for the love of the game’ was easier said than done.

But Swami wasn’t fully convinced yet.

“But what’s the problem with playing the game to win? All champions play to win, isn’t it? What kind of loser plays not wanting to win?” he asked.

Jigneshbhai munched on a muffin in silence.

“Nothing wrong,” he replied in a serene voice.

“Then why are you singing praises for this loser?” Swami probed, albeit with some bitterness.

Jigneshbhai sipped on his bitter coffee for a few seconds to gulp down the muffin. We knew something was cooking. We waited.

“Because he doesn’t win but still keeps playing. Maybe he wants to win but isn’t winning. But he is still playing. Maybe he is not good at it, but he still keeps playing. That must take something,” Jigneshbhai concluded. “So I think that he loves the game, so he just wants to play more than he wants the wins. He enjoys playing more than the trophies,” he said. “That’s not something you see every day. Even champions find it hard.”

Swami and I pondered over it a bit. Jigneshbhai had said a lot in a breath. I thought most champs loved the game. But it seemed like many loved the trophies more than the game.

Swami wasn’t willing to take it lying down.

“But what’s the point of playing if you aren’t pursuing the trophies? Or if you are not winning them?” he asked.

“You can pursue but you may not win. The question is will you still keep playing? Ask that man. He is still playing,” Jigneshbhai said. “It’s clear he loves to play the game more than he loves the trophies.”

It is the love for trophies over love for the game that is the problem, I reckoned.

Swami looked at that man and saw him laughing loudly.

“He seems to be having fun,” he remarked pointing at that man. “Despite having no trophies or wins,” he smirked with an expression I didn’t understand.

“You should see him on the court. That’s where he has even more fun,” Jigneshbhai remarked.

Swami and I kept staring at the man, this time in a mix of some awe and appreciation that had replaced the earlier amusement.

While we were staring at him musing over the question of whether we can play just for the love of the game without thinking about winning any trophies, a feeling of curious awe for the man filled our hearts.

But Swami still felt that unless he has some chance of a win, he can’t play. “Not easy. Tough. I can’t do it,” Swami said. Jigneshbhai smiled and left him at that.

It was then that the wealthy old man walked towards Swami and put a hand on Swami’s shoulder. “You might end up with a collection of trophies. But then, when will you enjoy the game?” he said and left with more food for thought.

***

New Year and Old Notes: On Writing

Wishing you all a Happy New Year 2023! Hope it gives you everything you desire, though I like to say be careful what you wish for; it might actually come true, and then maybe you realise it is not what you are seeking!

I have the habit of making notes from books that I read, and storing them for reference later. I thought posting some of those notes on my blog will be a good idea. I have noticed that people who read my blog (and books, and what I write) tend to read stuff similar to what I read. So maybe you might find some of those notes useful.

This week I am posting notes from one of my favourite writers – Ruskin Bond, and these are notes from some of his essays on writing and writers. Hope you enjoy reading them.

“Writing, for me, is the simplest and greatest pleasure in the world. Putting a mood or an idea into words is an occupation I truly love. I plan my day so that there is time in it for writing a poem, or a paragraph, or an essay, or part of a story or longer work; not just because writing is my profession, but from a feeling of delight. The world around me—be it the mountains or the busy street below my window—is teeming with subjects, sights, thoughts, that I wish to put into words in order to catch the fleeting moment, the passing image, the laughter, the joy, and sometimes the sorrow. Life would be intolerable if I did not have this freedom to write every day. ”

“I cannot always please others because, unlike the hard professionals, the Forsyths and the Sheldons, I am not writing to please everyone, I am really writing to please myself! My theory of writing is that the conception should be as clear as possible, and that words should flow like a stream of clear water, preferably a mountain-stream! You will, of course, encounter boulders, but you will learn to go over them or around them, so that your flow is unimpeded. If your stream gets too sluggish or muddy, it is better to put aside that particular piece of writing. Go to the source, go to the spring, where the water is purest, your thoughts as clear as the mountain air.”

“I may write for myself, but as I also write to get published, it must follow that I write for others too. Only a handful of readers might enjoy my writing, but they are my soul mates, my alter egos, and they keep me going through those lean times and discouraging moments.”

“Of course, there comes a time when almost every author asks himself what his effort and output really amounts to? We expect our work to influence people, to affect a great many readers, when in fact, its impact is infinitesimal. Those who work on a large scale must feel discouraged by the world’s indifference. That is why I am happy to give a little innocent pleasure to a handful of readers. This is a reward worth having.”

“In the course of a long writing career, it is inevitable that a writer will occasionally repeat himself, or return to themes that have remained with him even as new ideas and formulations enter his mind. The important thing is to keep writing, observing, listening, and paying attention to the beauty of words and their arrangement. And like artists and musicians, the more we work on our art, the better it will be.”

“I did not set out to make a fortune from writing; I knew I was not that kind of writer. But it was the thing I did best, and I persevered with the exercise of my gift, cultivating the more discriminating editors, publishers and readers, never really expecting huge rewards but accepting whatever came my way. Happiness is a matter of temperament rather than circumstance, and I have always considered myself fortunate in having escaped the tedium of a nine to five job or some other form of drudgery.”

“We cannot prevent sorrow and pain and tragedy. And yet, when we look around us, we find that the majority of people are actually enjoying life! There are so many lovely things to see, there is so much to do, so much fun to be had, and so many charming and interesting people to meet… How can my pen ever run dry?”

The Class of 95 Reunion

After being forced to cancel the actual reunion during the real silver jubilee year of 2020 despite a year of hectic preparation, the class of 1995 reunion happened (that’s the year I became a computer engineer!), albeit in the 27th year, with renewed enthusiasm on the weekend of 12th to 14th August 2022.

It all started in 2019 when a few enthusiastic batchmates formed a WhatsApp group with the express intent of tracing as many batchmates as possible for the planned reunion of 2020. The disappointment of 2020 meant that members still held on to the group in fervent hope. Two years of relative silence and sporadic arguments culminated in a renewal around April 2022.

Yes, the actual reunion was planned and executed in less than four months of hectic organising, thanks to a dedicated core group of volunteers and a supportive (even if not at all times) large group of batchmates, which included those who attended and those who could not.

While many of the batchmates reached campus at different times on their own on 12th August, the nucleus of the reunion took root from Hyderabad where two buses were organised to transport the now middle-aged alumni in relative comfort to the NIT Warangal campus.

The bus journey was the beginning of a two-night – three-day adventure. During that time, most of us, closing in on fifty, had little qualms about going back in time by almost three decades as we revisited the place where we had grown up together as twenty-year olds.

As the bus passed Kazipet station, everyone’s minds went back in time to that oft-taken route to campus, surprised with how much had changed, while eagerly searching for the NIT gate. As the gate emerged into sight, the bus was drowned in an outburst of joy re-awakened from the past. The memories of the place from the past were in stark contrast to the present road surprisingly littered with eateries and shops on the way to our hotel in Hanamkonda.

As we started meeting each other on reaching the hotel, the lobby was filled with a flurry of hugs and hi-fives mixed with expressions of glee and surprise on seeing balding pates amidst greying hair of our own. The energy was further given a fillip when, in the evening, we boarded the buses again to visit the NIT Warangal campus for a small stroll. We settled in on the old basketball court for an early evening of fun-filled cricket. It saw some of us compete hard, scoring runs and bagging wickets, while most sat on the side chatting, commentating, cheering, and clicking photographs.

In the evening, at the hotel, the energy seemed to have redoubled with many of us catching up on each other making up for the intervening years, with a gala dinner and dance party that kept on getting better as the night progressed into the wee hours of the morning. It seemed as if time had gone back and made a lot of us teenagers all over again, albeit for a few hours of the reunion.

The next day started early at the campus at the Kalam Hall where many of us enjoyed the sumptuous breakfast. The organisers told us to assemble at the main building with a plan to take group and department-wise photos soon thereafter, taking us back to the hurried times of making it to the first class soon after breakfast in the mess many years ago.

The photo sessions with our black commemorative t-shirts and blue jeans provided adequate memories for us to store for the future with the main building and library as the backdrop. In the close vicinity, we also completed the flag hoisting a couple of days before the Independence Day. It was a happy occasion to do it with the staff of NITW who had arranged for flags as well as plants for the alumni. All of us took our turns planting the saplings into the green expanse with great mirth, hoping that many of them would add to the beauty of the campus over the years for future generations of students.

The morning program was followed by all of us branching out by department and visiting the respective buildings, meeting the faculty and students for an excellent overview and many stimulating discussions. It was nice to see the progress across departments, interact with students and professors, and exchange fresh ideas on how alumni could contribute to the departments and institute in a multitude of possible ways.

After the department visits, a bout of nostalgia took over as we walked towards to the old hostels, cafeteria, and mess to have a lunch that was arranged, reminiscing the old times. There is nothing like the hostels and messes to take an alumnus back in time. Many of us had sharp memories of the mess and its food, who ate what and how much, with all the extra sweets and special meals coming back from the deep echelons of our memories. A few remarked that while a lot of things had changed, a lot of things had remained the same.

In the afternoon, we walked across the campus and assembled in the new auditorium, next to the old auditorium and clubs where many of us remembered spending our weekends while on campus. The new auditorium seemed to be the new nerve centre of activities on campus, and was also the location where we, as a batch, had organised the felicitation of faculty members by department.

It was also the perfect occasion to announce the Give Back Fund that the class of 1995 had put together. It was a pleasure to declare that, for an initiative that had started only a couple of months back, the Give Back Fund had received an amazing response from batchmates across the world. It had managed to get a positive response from those who could attend as well as those who could not, all adding up in the form of contributions totalling in excess of 30 Lakhs.

After the formal events in the afternoon, it was time to get back to ‘Swarg Lok’, a wonderful cultural program, pulling together memories and snippets from our time together on campus three decades back. It was wonderful reminiscing the good times, as well as recalling memories of some of the funny pet names (and their origins!) that many of us were known by then (and even now!). A round of thanksgiving to the key members of our organising team followed. It was time once again to get back to our hotel for our last night(out) of high energy games and dance before it was curtains for the reunion.

Late in the night and on the morning of the last day as all of us started leaving one by one, it was time to say our goodbyes with promises of staying in touch. All of us knew that life would take over once again. But we also knew this reunion would serve as the starting point for the next one, perhaps sooner than the 25 years (plus 2) that we had waited for this time.

These forty-eight hours had been a packed bout of a blast from the past – a heady mix of revisiting the alma mater, reawakening great memories, felicitating faculty members, giving back to the institute, and most of all, meeting old, long-lost friends. Happiness, perhaps, is meeting an old friend at a college reunion after a very long time, and realising that, after all, nothing much has changed.

***