Writing was the profession, the ambition, and the passion that I have always carried, right from my childhood, and was the sole reason why I joined for Journalism PG Diploma, much to the disapproval and dismay of my entire family, since they wanted me to do a B.Ed in English and become a teacher, which according to them is the most befitting profession that a woman can have. I was never in disagreement with the idea of becoming a teacher, and still believe that it’s a truly noble profession. But I did not want to pursue that for a lifetime, as the idea of remaining chained in the very limited encircle of a school campus almost scared me to death. I wanted to explore the world so badly, and do something very ‘different’ and innovative, which ultimately brings-in the joy, happiness, and contentment that I wanted.
Although I worked as a teacher for a few years, I soon embraced my passion back, and became a Content Writer. Though my Journalism course had opened up a pretty good number of much prospective career possibilities in both visual and print media, I chose none, thus giving my friends a shock of their lifetime. They called me a loser and a blockhead who couldn’t take advantage of the ‘golden’ opportunities that came to me. While they went on to become some of the much famous journos in the state, I entered the I.T industry that hardly has any elements of excitement and fame to lure me. Unlike my former classmates who became the inevitable parts of the media fraternity of the state, my I.T job never made me famous, but instead helped me get a financial grounding that I had never dreamed about. The happiness of becoming a helping hand to my ageing parents was what I took as the first and foremost priority, and the media houses that interviewed me couldn’t offer what it takes to live a pretty decent life, especially when the cost of living continue to skyrocket each day. My zeal and vigour to become a much celebrated journo was thus overpowered by the need to have stable, secure, and independent life that I desperately wanted to have. This indispensable reason almost wiped away all the possible thoughts further job hunt in the media , as I knew very well from my experiences that no matter how good I try to present my skills, they are sure to underestimate and underpay the newbies like me, and make us slog to death day in and day out.
One among the well known journalists of the state, whom I met during a job interview, gave me the shock of my life, saying that if I take up the job of a journo, I can be subjected to the worst of humiliations ever heard, and would even have to keep myself literally on tip toe all day long ,and get nothing other than fireballs of mockery and humiliation from the seniors. His concluding statement was the worst of all, as it said that I will have to forget my self-identity and prepare myself to get subdued and trampled for years long, until I get a senior position. I never wanted to experience all that and I never wanted to be underpaid as well, the reasons why I chose to shred my journo dreams and think practically. I don’t know whether I have done justice to me and my passion, but can definitely say that I continue to live life well with self identity, and at the same time slog much less than my peers in media, who hardly get a holiday to sleep their asses off.
When my friends continue to give adrenaline pumping news reports and presentations on television, practically each day, I am a behind the scene person, and work for clients across the globe with the very clear knowledge that none of the works will have my name etched on it. I am not disappointed or upset about the decision that I took, and nor am I envious about my peers who have established themselves as some of the well known people in media. I believe that this is what I am destined for, and I am very much contented with my career. I know that I haven’t accomplished the goal that I had set for myself, and couldn’t get hold of the career that I had dreamed about. But I never look back and regret for what has not happened, and definitely not with the career choice of mine. I chose writing, and I do that now, even though it lacks the thrill and fame that I might have had if I was a media professional. But when it comes to getting oneself a stable, stress free, and well-paid livelihood, certain ambitions will be forced to take the backseat of life, because, life lived practically and realistically is more important than sacrificing it for the the fulfillment of an ambition.
Revisiting the child in me is something that works wonders most of the times, and rejuvenates me instantly. I love embracing the bliss of those forgotten pleasures that make me forget the burdens of adulthood. I am always told that one has to be serious and matured with age, particularly after the thirties, but to my surprise, most of these die-heart advocates of maturity continue to carry a whole bunch of misconceptions about the idea of being matured. Many a times have I become the butt of ridicule for people, who have blatantly called me childish and immature as I never stopped myself from enjoying some harmless ‘fifth-grader’ that make me unwind after some of those demanding and strenuous weeks with truckloads of works that literally makes me feel completely washed-out.
Although I tend-to have the overflowing urge to reply to some of the ludicrous comments that people say, I save myself from plunging in to such an unnecessary debates, yet keep wondering why people carry a bloated nonsensical concept of what maturity and responsibility are. With every year passing by, one has to grow, older both physically and emotionally, but this in no way means that one has to have a ‘greyer’ lifestyle with growing age, and has to keep oneself away from the fun and enjoyments that had made the bygone years entertaining and pleasurable. Age, I think, is never a barrier to indulging in those reasonably exciting things that one wishes to be in, no matter whether they are from the reminiscent of one’s childhood or teen-hood. As long as, the happiness of a person remains vivid in throughout his life, one can definitely bring-out the mischievous and vibrant ‘fifth-grader’ in him/her and enjoy some funny moments that bring-in tons of energy and enthusiasm, along with loads of happiness. Age should never make us wear a masquerade of seriousness that would visible hide the vibrancy in us, making us take up a false and pretentious life to make the world believe that we are grown-up and are matured inside-out.
If people around me urge that I have to change myself and ‘behave’ maturely, I can only say one thing – I am too bad in acting and I would pathetically fail in no time if I start to exhibit some moments of fake maturity. It would be nothing less than a visible folly that the entire world would find out at the very first glance. So I never act, never mask myself with a serious and unfriendly get-up that are dynamically opposite to my persona at-present, which also means I was hardly as vibrant and cheerful as this a couple of years back, when I was a teacher; when I was tutored to be dead-serious to every student of mine. Like most of the people out there, my mentors too had the very false notion that a serious and unkind body language would help me earn much revere and admiration from my students, and I almost blindly did what I was told to. No student was free to talk to me and always kept a safer distance throughout. I mistook this as their respect and admiration for the teacher in me, but later understood that it was just their scare and strangeness that created false swathe of respect and admiration.
Even before that, back in my college and teen days, the effervescent emergence of chirpiness and vibrancy that would have molded a different me was nipped out, and was instead taught to have a pretentiousness and seriousness all-the-time; the supposedly lady-like qualities that the world wanted me to become skilled at. Looking back, I feel I was nothing short of a smug who made a fool of herself before every one for her insensitivity and lack of jolliness. Thanks to these misguided thoughts, I never had any friends at any point of my life, People came and left before long, and I never find it odd enough, until I forced myself shed all the fallacies that I continued to carry throughout the years.
Soon I left away false seriousness and ostentatious ‘matured’ look, and started being the way I want to be, enjoying life in the way I wished. That shed light in to those dark corners of my mind, where those much deluded thoughts lived for years together. They were driven away in no time, and life turned out to be on a better side when it looked much lighter than ever before. Now I do very less thinking, or precisely, not just an ounce more than a Yes Or a No. Because, everything in life ends with either of those, the reason I finish my thoughts right there. This helps me life without overblown seriousness and the much showy ‘matured’ face that I once carried. The revelation has finally come and has made me understand that maturity is about handling life with ease and brilliance, living life to the fullest, and being kind, merciful, and friendly to fellow human beings. I know that some hurtful moments may arise in between, and I have witnessed a good share of them, but now I don’t find it hard to rise and get back to life with a lot more vigour.
To conclude with, maturity and seriousness needn’t be evident on your face or you needn’t look stern to make people feel the maturity you have, nor should such misconceptions make you keep hard and fast rules that block the happiness in your life.
If the world believes that having a boyfriend is essential or rather indispensable, I have to admit that I have no qualms of not having that male companionship in life. If you’ve started brainstorming to dig out the reason why I made this much startling revelation, I can clear the air right away. I met a 60 plus years ‘younger’ friend of mine the other day, and amid our usual chitchats she came up with this somewhat odd question, asking me why I don’t have a boyfriend when every other woman in the rest of the world has. I was much amused by her inquisitiveness, but chose not to answer, as I felt that no reason of mine would sound rational to her, especially when she had had a sudden and surprising meeting with her granddaughter’s boyfriend, just a few minutes before meeting me.
Although I chose not to answer, I was not far away from a much foreseen debacle, as she soon started giving me a pretty long lecture on the benefits of having a handsome, educated, and ‘bankable’ boyfriend, or precisely someone like her granddaughter’s male companion whom she met a few minutes back. I was desperate to leave and save myself from more deeper conversations, but didn’t want her to notice that I am forcefully bidding goodbye to flee from her ‘how-to-find-a-boyfriend’ tips that I am compellingly made to listen. So I came up with a sudden but quite sensible sounding excuse that I was getting late for the office, and luckily she accepted without any second thought, allowing me to leave.
Even when I was walking back to my room, I couldn’t help but think about the question that she had put-forth, and the reasons that she has cited one after the other to conclude that I am very much unfeminine, and lack the charm to lure a man. Although I was hardly bothered about her viscous remarks about my femininity, I kept thinking how the world around me has changed over the years. There was a time in my life, way back during my high-school days, when even the thought of having a boyfriend was considered as contemptible. Yet, a few of them, the smart girls’ team, had their share of secret affairs with some of the much good looking and well-off boys in the school next to ours. Often showered with lovey-dovey talks and expensive gifts from their sweethearts, the girls were always on cloud nine, and we the much less smarter ‘plain janes’ felt that all those fairy-tale relationships would last for a lifetime, akin-to those ‘happily ever-after’ stories and movies. But to our surprise they never did, rather faded-away almost the very next day we completed our schooling.
Dad’s concern about my future or grandmother’s worry about her teenaged granddaughter, I am not sure what led me or ‘forced’ me to accept the admission to a woman’s college, but I have to confess that my family was more than moderately conventional those days, the reason why they preferred a woman’s college for me, and not co-ed. So my entire college time was not as adventurous and funny as it had to be, but I have had some fare share of chances to watch and hear some of the great romances of my friends. But to be frank no one much paid attention on me as I was never a head-turner like most of my college mates. A relatively unlikable and nerdy looking woman, or to put it more precisely, I was the most unappealing female in the college, or so said most of my college mates. Silent and dead-serious faced most of the times, dressed in dull colors, with no ornaments to adore my teen looks, I walked around wearing thick glasses, carrying a huge piles of books. While most of my girl pals used to blabber about their love life, I was always a silent but smiling listener, and they in-fact loved having someone like me around, as I had a pair of very patient ears and widely popped out eyes that used to eagerly pay attention to each and every word they uttered. Seven years and seven hundreds of those college romances, one after the other, some succeeded down the lane, whereas some others gradually faded as seasons passed.
Jobs and job changes dominated my life a few years from then, until I settled in this fast-paced city, where romances are short-lived and sexual urges continue to rule-over selfless love and mutual understanding. I still haven’t evolved to become a head turner, but am living a contented life amid a huge moving crowd. To be frank, I don’t expect that fairy-tale romance, and for this reason, I am not much affected when I become the butt of ridicule for not having an arm candy by my side. But yes, I do wish to have someone who can be my friend for a lifetime, and hope for it with all my mind and soul.
Holding so much talked about book which turned a best-seller and commercially successful within days of launching, I cannot help but buy to quench my curiosity to know what exactly makes it the talk of the town, and why is it sold like hot cakes. By far, I have read quite a good number of reviews of the book, and those write-ups have added-in more inquisitiveness and hope about the much-talked -about interesting elements that I may come across while reading this best-seller. Although I am not sure about what I would be writing about after reading the book, there is one thing that I’ve noticed while reading the reviews. The book is based on a totally distasteful and probably offensive interpretation of one of the much worshiped Hindu gods. Hampering the religious sentiments of people has become a predominant trend among the new-age writers, and sadly many of them are rated as the best-sellers of the decade. A good number of them received roaring economic successes despite the fact that they dealt out some very subjective and mostly unacceptable interpretations of deities of some predominantly followed religions in the country. This is where I strongly and vehemently disagree with what the so called authors boast about as the writers’ freedom to write and interpret anything and everything under the sun without thinking twice about the impact it would create among a readers. Religious sentiments, as all know, are not something that majority of the people would compromise on, and using ones literary freedom to make a mockery of gods and religion is disrespectful, absolutely cheap, and a completely unacceptable shortcut to hog the limelight.
I am not against writing facts about religions or gods. I do believe in the freedom of speech and writing that my country offers, but strongly disagree with some of the wildest imaginations of new-age writers, whose thoughts simply go so unjustifiable and downright freakish enough to sell their works based on controversies alone, and particularly those which resolutely swirl around gods and religious sentiments, through ludicrous writings that sell their wild and hallucinated imaginations. Here they fervently interpret religions and gods in accordance with their own whims and fantasies, and mould spiced-up and offensive stories on deities and beliefs of various religions of the world. All these desperate efforts are ‘to make’ a book by hook or crook and hit the market with a big impact, to generate sales with the help of a range of well-cooked up stories and controversies.
With their unquenchable thirst for name and fame, such selfish and profit loving writers leave no stones unturned to churn out as many controversial elements as possible, and craft them perfectly in to their book, so that they never fail to generate a huge amount of negative publicity, controversies, and heated debates, which will ultimately do what these self-proclaimed authors want, which is money and overnight fame. Any remark is good publicity, says such overlooked and overrated writers, and the controversies and heated arguments turn out to be the easiest ways to cash their much acclaimed writings, which are mostly the undiluted and unpardonable mockery of some deity or religious belief.
This is nothing but a sheer exploitation of our very own flaw to get curious about every bit of hullabaloo that arises from nowhere and abruptly takes the world by storm, for absolutely no reason. We fail to see the real reason that makes such hubbubs, and get carried away by the momentary heat and storm that such hypes cause. By the time we open our eyes and see what exactly happened, the people who made the hype-and-hoopla will amass profit out of nowhere and become overnight heroes or celebrities, by mocking at something or someone who has been revered since ages. I cannot help but feel sorry for such overvalued writers who believe that they are the epitome and personification of classy literature and exemplary writing. Such books, mostly, never stand the test of time and die out untimely, asserting the value of classy writing, but yet, when one dies, hundreds come out and take the place, making sheer mockery of literature and writing.