Rajrupa Gupta's Blog, page 11

Three random memories

1

I have just turned six and attained the minimum
age limit for the membership of the neighbourhood public library. I know this
because the librarian had said so last time. I proudly walk into the library, holding
a photo of my birthday celebration as the proof of my age. The librarian
scrutinizes the photo carefully. I wait patiently. After a while he says, yes, I
am eligible for the membership.




He asks me my name and address and issues me a
membership card – B111. He says till the time I am sixteen, my membership is
free.




Gloating, I go to the children’s section. Wow. Such
a huge room! So many racks, so many books! I can hardly contain my glee. But I am
confused. Which one should I read first?




The librarian is struck with a brilliant idea.  He says why don’t I read books serially from
the catalogue? He dives amidst the racks and emerges with a book and a
triumphant smile.




I am issued my first ever library book; containing
two stories – “Alibaba Aar Chollish Chor” (Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves) and “Aladdin-er
Aschorjo Prodeep” (Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp) from the Arabian Nights.

Thus starts my treasured relationship with my
neighbourhood library and the librarian - whom I would grow to love deeply in the
time to come.




2




I am studying in standard IX. The final exam is over.
One afternoon, I am alone at home. Grandma is visiting her sister with my
brother and mom and dad aren’t yet back from office. I am reading a Harry
Potter. It is so interesting.




Suddenly my mom appears outside of my window, in
the backyard of our house. She yells at me, “What are you doing? I am ringing
the doorbell for so long!”




Huh!! I didn’t hear!




My mom is upset. She thinks she made a mistake to
introduce me to books. She thinks I will ruin my life with this addiction of
mine. She says, it would be good if I had as much dedication toward my studies
as well.

I know I have gone too far. I make an innocent
face and give her a tight hug. She grumbles for some time and then hugs me
back.




3




I have come to a wedding along with my cousins. Our
favourite uncle is getting married. So we have taken the responsibility on our
shoulders to oversee everything. We are very busy. We are alternating between checking
the makeshift kitchen, tasting each recipe as they are being prepared and the
serving area that is being decorated.




A delivery truck has arrived. It is full of colourful
fabrics. We climb onto the truck unnoticed. It is so fun up here. We place
ourselves cosily inside the folds of fabrics waiting to be unloaded. But suddenly
the truck starts to move. We panic. We get up and shout. We try to catch the
attention of the driver. But he keeps driving. We reach the decorator’s shop.




He is surprised to see us. And we are crying. What
will happen if our parents find out? Will they then send us home from the
wedding?




The decorator assures he will take us back. But we
are scared because he looks like a kidnapper. He books us a rickshaw. When we
reach back, it is a chaos there. Five children are reportedly missing. We slowly
walk into the scene.




Initially they are anxious but as we tell our
story, they become furious. They lock us inside a room. But that doesn’t dampen
our spirit because we are still at the wedding and together. We start playing Antakshari.  




Love,

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

Do Children Lie About Abuses?

Yesterday I watched
a Danish movie – “The Hunt”, one of the best movies in the Cannes Film Festival
2012. I am really not a movie person but this one blew my mind away. I haven’t
been able to take it out of my head since then.




I won’t review the film here because I am not equipped to review
such a great art. But it sure is a controversial
take on an intensely emotional issue.




It’s the story of
Lucas – a kindergarten teacher, who is falsely accused of being a paedophile. A young girl, the
daughter of Lucas’s best friend, develops a childish crush on him while in his
care and when he gently explains the boundaries of their friendship, she begins
to pout.




Later, she tells the
crèche director that she doesn’t like Lucas anymore and claims that she has
seen his genitals — an accusation she later tries to retract but only after
it’s too late.




A witch-hunt ensues
against Lucas and as the mass hysteria sets in, his life crumbles around him.
He loses his job, his new girlfriend, friends and, potentially, access to his
son.




Only the son and a
close old friend stand by him as the community descends into paranoia and other
children, getting swept up in the frenzy, accuse Lucas of molesting them as
well.




The movie is
disturbing and nerve raking to watch but the message it carries is absolutely
unsettling. It left me emotionally drained.




We know children do
not lie. There are moments in the movie which reciprocated this common belief.
Like when the little girl tries to tell her mom, that, what she said, had never
happened, her mom says, “it did happen baby” or the time she says, “My little
daughter doesn’t lie”.




I am not a parent,
nor am I a child psychology expert, but this movie drove me to some online
research. And I found some shocking truth.




CHILDREN DO LIE! AND
OFTEN!




It’s not a surprise
that thousands of children ARE abused everyday around the world. Although most
of them are telling the truth, some of them are lying too.




For example, if a
child really hates the math teacher and has been taught about “good touch” and
“bad touch” at home, he/she can report the teacher to take revenge. And society
would accept it as the truth, unexamined. As a result many innocents are
punished.




Like the man who was
accused of abusing a 6-year old and was sentenced for a lifetime. After twelve
years it was proved that the child lied. So he was released. Nevertheless, his
life wouldn’t be the same anymore.




Study shows, during
cross examinations, only 33% of all children complaining sexual abuse said they
were abused when asked for a polygraph test. Whereas 76% of all the children
complaining sexual abuse said they were abused when no such test was involved.




Thousands of lines have
been written on this issue. I read at least one blog a day where parents,
teachers and doctors speak about child sexual abuse. But none speaks about the
other side of it.  




I do not undermine
the grave importance of this. It is also important for the parents to listen to
their kids. But the question is, is it alright to believe the innocence of the
children without verifying the facts?




The movie “The Hunt”
asks some very valid questions.




Love

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

Aid the Braid!

This post has been written for the ongoing Indiblogger
contest - Beautiful Ends
to your Beautiful Braids! sponsored by Dove
Split End Rescue System.

“Oh my god! Your hair look absolutely stunning!” exclaimed
Swati. I smiled innocently, secretly gloating inside. Of late I am getting used
to such compliments. And I can’t say how much I am loving it. I can once again
wear my favorite hairstyle - a thick braid that goes straight till the end
without tapering. I am wearing my braided hair everywhere these days – to
office, to parties, to hangouts – everywhere. I don’t anymore have to tie my
hair in a boring bun to hide the horribly split ends I used to have not so long
ago.




“What have you been doing? I mean last time I saw you…”
Swati said again.




“I know I know. Last time you saw me, my hair was all
frizzy and dry. I know. Don’t remind me.”




“It’s like the old you again, remember in school?”




“How can I ever forget?”




Swati and I were childhood friends. We studied in the
same school and college. Even though our jobs keep us away from each other
these days, we make it a point to meet as often as we can. Like now, she flew
1200 miles to meet me in the disguise of attending my brother’s wedding. And
just as I had hoped, she was taken aback by my renewed hair.




◊




I used to have really thick hair back in school, nearly
ten years ago. Two waist length, jet black, well-oiled braids were my USP those
days. Boys were in awe while girls were jealous. Oh how I loved walking past
those starry eyed boys and green eyed girls.




As I walked on the school ground between classes amidst
my admirers, my enemies got little jealous and picked on me every now and then.
With an innocent flick (I swear) of my head I used to turn to face a girl (yes,
every time) and my braids would go flying like whips and slam…slam. And yet
another poor girl would walk around with two distinctive red marks on her skin
that would last for days.




If that’s not all, I was the default female lead of all
school dramas and musicals. Thanks to the cascading lengths of my hair. I was
the unanimously chosen queen of the coroneted few with nice hair.




I used to go back to a home where my grandma would heat
up coconut oil in the sun and then apply the oil on my hair every day. During
nights she would tie my hair tightly because she said it helped the growth.




◊




Then college happened. Being a queen reduced to being
cool. Choppy styles, perms, funky colours and torn denims took over straight
thick braids and school uniforms. Staying away from home didn’t help either. Unbalanced
diet of mostly junk food put the last nail on my dying hair’s coffin.




My once lovely hair became dry and frizzy. I had split
ends that ran upto the shaft, ruining the whole strand of hair. I developed
acute dandruff due to excessive use of hot iron and blow dryer.




It came as a huge shock to me because I had always
taken my hair for granted. I never noticed all those effort my grandma put to
make my hair what it was. The disillusionment came with a lesson – everything pretty
has a price.




I started doing everything I could to regain my hair
but nothing worked. It was too late. All expensive hair salons failed to bring
the natural shine and texture of my hair back. I tried every homely remedy on
earth, but nothing worked. My morale had hit an all-time low. And I was sick of
the limp bun that hung at my nape.




I had almost given up. But then a particular advert of
a new shampoo
from Dove on TV caught my attention. It was like the product was made for my
problem specifically. Dove has always been a favorite brand of mine. And I knew
if they promise something they deliver that. And frankly I had nothing left to
loose!




So I tried my hand with the Split
End Rescue Shampoo from Dove. And my hair started changing after just two
washes.




Renewed with new vigor I religiously used Dove Split
End Care shampoo for two months along with the hot oil therapy of my
grandmother’s and the result was unbelievable. My hair started smoothing out. And
guess what, once again the my hair was perfectly healthy till the end. Most
importantly I could flaunt my braids again!




◊




“You didn’t change at all”, said Agni, my brother’s
best friend and best man, whom I was meeting after a very long time. He had
disappeared to pursue his studies and career after teaching me how to hide
small chits of papers inside my braids during exams.




Back then I used to have a crush on him and going by
the way my heart was beating, it was no better even now.




He fondly pulled my braid a little and said, “I just
love your hair, you know.”




I blushed and breathed, “So do I. And believe me I am
never letting it go away again!”




Love

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

A Desi Girl in Videsh (Surviving America) - I

Living in the US is not as easy as it seems to be. Especially
when you don’t have a driving license and have a husband who lives 400 miles
away. Hence I am reduced to taking a cab, a train, a bus and then a gracious pickup
in the husband’s car to reach his place almost every weekend.




And as unbelievable as it might sound to an average city-dweller-and-heavily-dependent-on-public-transport-for-daily-business
Indian like me, you have to time everything! You can’t just miss a train or
a bus here, for the next one is only a couple of hours later. And they all have
excruciating smart phone apps to remind you that you have a train to catch in 15
minutes and the next one won’t be coming until two hours later.




I had asked a lift till the train station from a person
who is genetically programmed to be late in everything. So with ten minutes to
go for the train, he still hadn’t finished his work.









So I ran with my heart in my mouth, called a cab and
panicked so much that the taxi driver got panicky herself. When I reached, the
train was already entering the station. I didn’t bother to buy the ticket and
caught the train just in time. Later I paid $3 extra for buying the ticket from
the ticket collector in the train.




The train reached Chicago three minutes late sparing me
exactly 8 minutes to catch my bus. After five minutes of half running I finally
breathed when I reached the bus station.




And then it
started snowing. Scared as I was of missing the bus, I stood there and didn’t
move to the shade a little far away. I could tell others were thinking the same
too, because nobody moved.




But then three minutes turned thirty minutes, thirty
minutes became sixty minutes; my teeth started clanking but the bus never
turned up. Numerous phone calls by various people didn’t help either. The customer
service agent didn’t have any info about the bus, and all the officials serving
our station suddenly vanished. 




Finally when it was time for the next train to reach
Chicago, I got seriously frustrated. I mean all my efforts had already gone
wasted! I decided to take a coffee as I was freezing.









As luck would have it, the bus decided to show up just
then. I had to run again to catch it! And the bus driver’s words to me was – “Honey,
you gotta come on time. I was about to strike you off as no show!”




I mean, seriously? So much for living in the world’s
largest economy!




I was already pissed from being cold and waiting, the bus
driver’s comment was the only provocation I needed. And turned out, it was all
the others needed too.




So ultimately, the bus company made a full refund of
our money and a bus full of people rode the bus for 5 hours free!




But was the money worth the torturous wait in the cold?
No. Would I ride the bus again? Yes. Because I don’t have a choice. Because public
transport sucks in America.




So what’s my big lesson? Get the driving license faaaasssttt.




Love

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

You have written a book. What's now?

When Suresh of Life is like this asked me to write about my publishing journey, I was honoured. Even though I was excited and wanted to write immediately, I was forced to put it on hold for a loooong time. Weeks later when I asked Suresh tentatively that if the request was still valid, he was gracious enough to say yes :). Thanks to him!




So here it goes, my guest post for the Indi Fiction Workshop - You Have Written a Book, What Now?




Hope it will be useful to some of you!


Love,

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

A Little Change in Attitude is All We Need!!

So yes I moved to the US. Now
I am just getting back to my normal routine after quite a long time of literally
living in the air and on the wheel. From New York to Seattle, from Chicago to Miami
– it has been a crazy fortnight.




In spite of the
concept of globalization my transition to this new country was full of new
experiences and every day is still full of them. So for now, my next few posts
are going to be full of my expatriate experiences.




>>> <<<




I was a citizen of the
glorified global village. Too much a believer of the concept of India shining. That
was why I was super pissed when an elderly lady at the Frankfurt airport told
me that being able to drink directly from the tap was one of her small joys
after coming from India. And I took a little pride to myself when she had to
take my help because she could not figure out the sensor of the automatic tap
from which she was going to drink.




As I travelled
more I was surprised to see that I was subconsciously agreeing with her. There
were few shocking experiences that made me wonder about the reality. More than
infrastructure, we Indians needed to change ourselves if we really wanted our
country to come out of its forever status of a Developing Third World Nation.




Despite the
common belief that Indians are a friendly lot, I found Indians running away
from each other. I found all of them too busy to Americanize themselves and
trying too hard to shake the Desi tag off. I mean what’s wrong with being an
Indian?




In India I used
to work in an office building which has won several awards in categories like
architecture, infrastructure etc. Yet the restrooms there were almost always
dirty. There were even people who squatted on the toilet seat! Many times I saw
footprints on the seat. Dustbins overflowed with used tissues and the floor was
invariably wet.




But here in the
US even though my offices have a substantial Indian population the restrooms
are sparklingly clean and dry.




What makes me
wonder, if we can behave here, why can’t we back in our own country?




Another thing
which I only heard of but never really experienced was a healthy work culture. People
I work with here come to office sharp at 8:30 in the morning and live by 5 in
the evening. I mean that’s amazing right? Such working hours have always been
my dream back in India. But in India people came in late – 10 sometimes 11 in
the morning, and after numerous tea, snacks and smoking breaks later when they
finally started to work the days already would have yielded to the afternoons.




Indians always
boast of their smartness and the of the Americans’ dumbness, yet it’s the Americans
who keep their surroundings clean, streets free of litter and follow traffic
rules strictly.






Sometimes you
got to wonder what the use of so much of smartness is if it can’t be used for
the betterment of our own lifestyle in our own country. Sometimes you got to
prefer the dumbness. Don’t you?

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

The Indian Sense of Privacy & Proximity

How Much will you allow?








Indians have scrambled sense of personal space. And I am
happily included in the parade. I have had always liked my brother’s stuff more
than my stuff. Even though they were often identical, I never thought twice
before claiming them. My dad’s t-shirts have always been my favorite wear-at-home
clothes. I have always eaten happily off my aunt’s hand when she used to mix
rice and fish curry together in a big Kansa thali and feed all my cousins
simultaneously from it whenever we were having our mandatory family picnics. And
I have slept with my mom and dad till I was eleven. I have travelled in cramped
trains and buses standing so close to another person that I could count the
open pores on their noses. My best friend and I walked together holding hands
most of the time.




          College
hostel was worse. Anyone was allowed anytime (that means literally any damn
time) in anybody else’s room. You could wear/not wear anything and still roam
about freely without the fear of being laughed at. The whole hostel would know
about your latest crush even if the person you are having crush on didn’t. And everybody
was even aware of everybody else’s bathroom schedule!




Yet the same people would leave you alone
when you needed to be. So really I had always thought that the notion of lack
of personal space was a big hoax. And that it really didn’t matter until I found
that there were people who were still nosier and had still more scrambled sense
of personal space.




My first such experience was after we’d
just joined our jobs when Suchi and I were forced to move into a hostel after
we’d exhausted our one week of company provided accommodation.




Suchi and I shared a room and a tiered cot.
We had only one small wardrobe to ourselves that didn’t lock. So we locked our
room when we went to our office. The lady who looked after the hostel might
have tried to tell us that it was against the rules to lock the rooms while
going out but we obviously didn’t understand given the big language problem. But
that anyway couldn’t have been the excuse for what happened next.




One day after returning from office we
found that our lock was broken! And two more cots were cramped in the narrow
space of our room. If that was not enough we soon found that the attached
bathroom was in fact a public bathroom which could be used by the other tenants
as well. And that there was a switch outside our room to put out the light of
our room and that we were not allowed to keep the light on after 11 p.m!




This was my first taste of how little sense
people could have about any individual’s privacy!




Needless to say we moved out to our own
rented place within a month. Finding a decent rented apartment for two girls
(who were also non-South Indians and ate Non-Vegetarian food) was another
struggle but more on that later.




Though there were always people in office who
were more than interested to know how much salary we got or how we two girls
were staying “alone” in an unknown city or whether or not we had boyfriends and
whether or not we were misusing our “independence”.




But as Suchi said, it was more the un-accustomedness
to a self-sufficient Indian woman and less the invasion of privacy.




But then I discovered what it was like to
have the complete absence of any such sense.




A couple of days back I was returning home after
spending most of the day shopping. I had taken a train as that was usually the fastest.
I was past the point of exhaustion and my hands were full of shopping bags. I
got a seat and immediately dozed off only to be woken up by a fat belly
pressing squarely on my drooping head and a firm hand digging on my shoulder. I
jumped and looked up. A saree clad middle aged lady with a huge bare midriff was
standing just inches ahead of me. She smiled broadly at me. I looked around. Though
there was no empty seat, the train was fairly empty. I looked at her again. This
time irritation flooding me. 




Her little son or grandson (I didn’t care) who
stood beside her offered an explanation in English (clearly understanding my
inability to understand the native language), “She is very tired. So she is
leaning on you.”




“What’s wrong with the sidewalls?” I couldn’t
help but ask.




“They are hard. You are soft.” Came the
reply.




Perplexed I couldn’t think of any other
thing but to stand up and offer her my seat.




Though she and her little companion seemed
perfectly nonchalant while she heavily sat down on the seat, it took me two
days to finally recover from the incident and assume an amused outlook about
it.




Have you ever experienced such perplexing
incidents?





Love,

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

It's Not About Losing Freedom, It's About Gaining a Partner!

In the country I live in, men are easily the
fairer sex. Everything they do is the norm. Just by being male, they earn the right
to exercise control over their female counterparts. From the time they attain
their teenage, by some mysterious ways of nature they turn expert critics of a female’s
appearance – they do not hesitate to pass unwanted comments at a passing
female -  about her clothes, hairdo,
pimples, lipsticks, the way she walks and many more embarrassing topics.  





Girls never point back that the superior gender
looks damn funny when they walk with their arms slightly lifted from their
torso as if they have two big puss filled boils in their armpits. Or that it is
not so masculine to smell like sweat. Or that it is not cool to brag about the
supposed infallibility – the you-must-be-joking-how-can-I-be-wrong
syndrome and about the inefficaciousness at household works – you-want-me-to-cut-the-vegetable-homogeneously-you-must-be-joking
syndrome.




Since they are the alpha species, I try to refrain
from commenting when I see someone turning up in office unshaven, wearing dirty
shoes, sporting fingernails with accumulated dirt or hair that resembles a lion’s
mane. They are male, so, such fallacies are tolerable.




But then I lose my temper sometimes when a male colleague comes trolling (?) with his wedding card and invites me
to come and pay homage to the sacrifice he would be making by getting married.




Something snaps inside me. What do you mean?
Sacrifice?




Yeah. You know
no freedom, no drinking, tantrums, and emotional dramas. A toothy smile follows.




Why are you getting married then?




Family
pressure yaar!




Is it?




Yes. What else?
Mom wants somebody here to take care of me. I live here alone na?




Oh so you are getting married because you need to
be taken care of? Are you crippled?




No yaar! See that’s why I didn’t want to discuss
this with you. I always knew you are a feminist type.




Needless to say, this statement was not the end of
the argument.




But the sad thing is, he was not the only one who
think this way. My question is why get married then? Why do they need wives
if they consider them to be destructive of their personal space? For the
purposes they cite, hiring a maid seems enough to me.




Also where the hell does the notion of losing the
freedom come from? It is not even funny if that’s what it’s supposed to be! A
guy never has to leave his house in order to get married. It may sound cliché but
true nevertheless. A guy is never judged based on his capability of cooking
delicious meals or on the degree of perfection with which he performs the
household chores. A guy is never questioned about his working hours. Nobody
reminds him that now that he is married he must give priority to his family. A guy
is never required to put his aspirations on hold after marriage. And yet it’s
them who lose the freedom after marriage.




A girl on the other hand, has to come to a
completely new house, among new people. And immediately she is expected to make
those unknown people her family. So much so, that, now she is expected to put her
in-laws' interest first rather than her own parents – They-have-sent-you-off-now-this-is-your-home-and-not-that. Her every
move is monitored. Her each spoken/unspoken word is judged. And yet she never
complains of losing freedom.




Grow up guys! Stop being boys and be men! Or rather
stop being just male and be humane. Appreciate that you are getting married to
your life partner and not a free maid servant. Appreciate that the house will again be a home. Appreciate all the sacrifices she makes to make the home a happy one. And remember appreciating DOES NOT mean giving expensive
gifts on anniversaries or birthdays. 




And if you still like to continue being a jerk,
trust me, the world is better off with you remaining unmarried. One less kid will grow up seeing such an a*****e of a father.

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

My journey with The Crazy Algorithm of Love

It
is still a little hard to believe that I have written a book worth 80000+ words
and its actually published. It’s still seems like an elaborate fairy-tale to me.





It
all started in the final lap of 2010 as a mere hobby. I was idle for two weeks
between jobs and had nothing better to do. So I started writing. I would wake
up in the morning, sit comfortably on a cushioned chair with a steaming cup of
coffee and write.






I
only had a broad outline of what I wanted to write. I wasn’t any blog post or
any sort of writing exercises old at that time, so in one word I was an amateur.
I wrote whatever flowed through my fingertips to my laptop’s keyboard.






I
was surprised at the amount of fun I was having while writing. I wrote and
wrote, never stopped. Within two weeks I had already written one third of the
book.






But
then once I joined my new job, it stopped abruptly. The pressure of settling
down to a new work atmosphere claimed most of my energy. By the time I settled
down, my wedding was three months way.






So
my story remained neglected for the major part of 2011 as I struggled with so
many new roles in my life. Finally when I picked it up again it was the last
lap of 2011. I had to re-read  and re-write many pages before I could start writing again because by that time
the story had changed significantly in my mind.






But
this time I wasn’t distracted. I would write during the night after getting
back from office. It felt tough at that time. But I enjoyed it thoroughly. I would
just sit in front of my laptop and start typing till I dozed off and fell down right
on the keyboard. It was exhausting but strangely invigorating.






But
till now I had no intention of submitting it to any publisher. I was writing
because it was making me strangely happy and fulfilled. The more I wrote, the
more I wanted to write. It was as if I had finally found the call of my life.






Then
one day after I’d completed the story, my husband wanted to read it. I was skeptic
to show him what I wrote because innately I am an introvert and didn’t feel
comfortable about sharing it with him. It was that guarded, it was that
personal.






It
was not until he forced me, that I started submitting my manuscript to
publishers. I didn’t even know how to write a proper query letter. It was
during the same time that I understood writing was the easiest part of the
whole business.






I
was a new author with no back story. So nobody really gave a damn to read my queries. I could tell because I never received any reply from any of the publishers. Not even
rejections.






Months
passed. I grew irritated and frustrated. It was a bit humiliating too. Forget about
acceptance, I hadn’t even received any rejection. Agents asked money upfront just
to read through the manuscript without any promise of representation. It was a
depressing world.






Then
one day Frog Books replied. They wanted to read the whole manuscript. I was
elated.






Things
changed pretty much after that. I received replies from two other publications,
albeit less famous ones, but enough to make me happy. I sent my full MS to all
three of them, hoping to be accepted by at least one of them.






Another
long wait followed. Then just when I had almost given up hope, the golden email
came. Yes. I was going to be a published author after all.






I
cried when at last I held the first copy of the book in my hand. If writing the
novel was my achievement, holding it in my hand, bound as a book, was the
reward. A reward I’d never dreamed of.






So
here it is. I present to you my dear reader, my debut novel, The Crazy Algorithm of Love.






Do
read and let me know how I fared as a debut author. 




Love,

© copyright 2012 – All rights reserved

Riot of Random

The Humble Case of Hypergraphia!

There’s a constant bug inside
me that keeps going, “prring prring prring” every time I type WinWord in “run”,
an omnipresent guilt that indicates something is missing.  




I know I need to write to
throw this weight off of me. It’s been too long now that I have been ditching
my blog. For that matter, it’s been too long that I have been ditching any type
of writing. As a result of this long deprivation, it’s got really badly wired inside
my brain. I need to write, rubbish it might be, I need to write nevertheless. 




My mind wonders right in
the middle of an important meeting, everything goes hazy and it starts typing
inside my head furiously. “Rajrupa, what are your thoughts on this?”, someone
asks and I snap back, blinking, “Sorry. You were saying?”, red eared and shame
faced. 




It’s annoying. Every time
I try to make it go away, it comes back more powerful. Now, right now my life
is spanned out in such a way that I really should concentrate on those other things,
but this bug inside me is like those itchy coarse blankets in a cold night. You
can’t keep it on your body; you can’t let it go either.




Now I realize that I have
already filled half a page and not said a single word that makes sense. Seriously!
What is wrong with me? So I do a
little Googling and discover this horrific truth – there’s actually a formal
term assigned to my condition – Hypergraphia. 




Ok maybe I am exaggerating
a little about my condition, but still it’s a condition nevertheless. Why else,
would I look dazedly at anything that comes in the path of my sight and wonder what
I should be writing about it? For example right now I see a withered Christmas tree
sans all the decorations being dragged out from the floor and I feel, Oh the Christmas tree must be feeling very
bad, maybe I should write about it – The
Fallen Mighty. I hope you get it. Do you feel the same sometimes?




And now I realize, a
colleague has been sneaking behind me all this time I was writing this nonsense.
“You are a nut case!” She chokes now, “You seriously plan to put this up on
your blog?”




“What’s your problem? My
blog, my writing, I don’t have a quality check there.” I fume.

Now my case rests upon
your hands. If I can get at least one of you who feels the same way, I can be
either saved from being a nut case or can at least have another sharing the
same sorrow.




Love,

 

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Riot of Random