An open letter to everybody who has a problem with my career

To whomsoever it may concern,

I am not a label you can stick to your box file.

I am not an acrobat walking a tightrope.

Meandering, unusual and uncategorised,

I am that candidate you dislike,

Who doesn’t tick your boxes,

The outlier who scares your system,

An enigma you question the sanity of.

For I am not a straight path;

I am but the ebb and flow of life

Walking lanes none else dared

Trying things out for just a lark.

For sometimes it is in those gap months,

In those miserable failures of side projects and attempted glories

That you learn that a career is not something you can craft.

That learning and experience comes in more ways than one

And that two months or two years at a job is not the criteria

But how much you gave and created

And how much you evolved in all that, that matters.

And sometimes life catches up with problems and pressures,

And yes, you buckle to balance, support, reconfigure, sustain;

Sometimes you stay still to simply survive, not thrive.

Don’t look at my two-pager with scepticism!

It hardly tells you the tumultuous tales

Of eating or watching films for a living

Defining the future of work, life or learning.

Cruising lives with fictional characters

And willing designs to manifest on paper,

Or how I gathered stories like flowers

from the thousand dreamers I met.

Talk to me about my life.

Don’t force fit my journey into 500-word cover letters

Of repeated same-olds

But ask me to brew you some magic

Put me to work and test my mettle.

Let not my growth be defined

by little check boxes of closeted thought

Let not my life and future be determined

by myopic visions and words like compliance and certifications.

And not just me,

But look at people as people, not job-fulfillers.

Jump into their shoes and grow up with them

Through careers that spanned

many hats, many places, many masters.

Forget the format

And understand that it is the journey that matters

And never a piece of paper.

A career is what a person shapes out of a potter’s wheel

And before you master a piece of art,

There will always be plenty of broken clay.

But oh what a fascinating collage even they make!

---

Originally published at https://www.linkedin.com.

Today

The reel plays over and over again inside my head. It has psychedelic colours. And they all form patterns. They are abstract to everyone else who sees it. To me, they make shapes I know.

Maybe the palmist was right. The time is not yet right.

Things won't happen. Plans won't take off. But it'll be better than last year. Definitely better, he said.

It is.

But today, I want to see if I can stretch. I can't wait. A year is too long. I want to make my hand extend to reach the treetop. There is a small little box there. It has a tiny wing. I want that wing.

With that wing, I can hold light in my palms.

With that light, I can finally learn to breathe.

Book Review: When Breath becomes Air

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I just finished reading Paul Kalanithi's 'When Breath Becomes Air' and wept my eyes out. Unnameable emotions overwhelmed me.

I have always been awkward about death - graceless about the abrupt and unannounced way it departs with someone close to me, unable to believe in afterlife or hope that I would still be able to foster a meaningful connection beyond this moment, beyond that instance.

I have protested in an undignified manner everytime death took away someone close to me (and there have been quite a few!)– loud and unhinged in a futile attempt to reverse the process and claim back what was mine. And one my colossal failure became apparent, I retreated into a shell of silence, muffled sobs and furious writing.

In my attempt to understand this natural and inevitable phenomenon, I have been making attempts to read about it this year. I started with 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes: And Other Lessons from the Crematory' by Caitlin Doughty. It made me aware of the post-death processes and helped me become a little less afraid of what happened to mortal remains.

I then picked up Paul Kalanithi's posthumously published 'When Breath becomes Air', an account of his life and death and his quest to understanding the meaning of both. The book made me address my own mortality and that of those near and dear to me.

Paul's writing sparkled with a flow and wisdom that most authors would envy. With an honesty and acceptance so admirable to witness, Paul shares with us the arduous journey he and his family had to undertake on the onset of his Stage IV lung cancer.

Being a neurosurgeon himself, he battled both as a patient and fellow doctor to fight and accept death, while making his life as meaningful as possible. As a reader, hyperaware of his fate, I struggled within as I read about how bravely he faced his disease.

The book made a fascinating read, increasing my respect for doctors tenfold. For the most part, to me, it felt like a philosophical treatise and at others, Paul's prose shone like poetry, reigniting his hikes, operations, struggles to live in our minds.

Everything about his life's story made me realize that we have lost a truly wonderful person who not only was a skilled surgeon but also a great thinker, a neuroscientist in the making, a loving father-husband-son-brother and most importantly, a caring empathetic human. As I read the book, I wished to know more about him. What books did he love? Did he like watching films? How did his lovely wife Lucy and him come to fall in love? How did he manage to show up to save lives when his own was ebbing away? It was an emotional journey traversing which tugged within me anger, helplessness and irrational hope for Paul to beat the disease, despite being fully aware that he was no more. Somewhere through his words, Paul had become a relatable friend.

Throughout the book, the evident end loomed over like a dark storm cloud waiting to erupt and engulf me. Questions kept rising their cruel head – if I were to meet with Paul's fate, how would I spend my life? Would I go out with grace, even if I was vulnerable? Do I have the strength and courage to even understand what death would mean despite being afraid of its sudden swift blow near me?

For the most part, I had no answers. But I was grateful that the questions had been churned. It helped me bring my attention back to this moment, the now of life. Having struggled this whole year with my work, I had moved through the months only by taking one day at a time. Paul's book was a gentle reminder to plough on in the same way, convincing me that today is all we have so we better make good use of it.

And to the man who wrote so beautifully, his wife who wrote such a beautiful epilogue that had me racking with tears and to the legion of family and friends Paul leaves behind, I just want to say that we readers are all mourning his loss and celebrating his life with you. We are all in this together! And the lifelong moral search Paul undertook to solve what makes a life worth living has been answered by his own book. THIS, the search itself and the authenticity and grace with which we live our lives, aware or unaware of what awaits in the morrow is the only thing that matters.

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The Ellipsis

Crippling silences
Eyes squint for a sign of light
No sound alerts
No life stirs
A submerging in nothingness

Will voices rouse
a sudden shift in the clouds?

Until then,
a gentle death in wait

Cooing A Reassurance

Photo by Matt Borsic on Unsplash

Today, as I sat overthinking my work and despair once again began to flood my being, an impish car radio shifted from golden oldies to play a particular song that I used to favour.

This song, silly as it might sound, used to be my motivator during my board exams. On the mornings of the exams, I'd sing it with energy and intent in the bathroom as I bathed, encouraging myself in the process. It was what I now term 'a ritualistic shower' that comprised of four songs being sung while performing daily ablutions. You skip any one, and the paper would be doomed, of course!

Putting aside the hilarity of the situation, I realized that I'd simply banked on the power of words (the lyrics) and suggestion (the act of singing aloud willing me to take the right actions) to spur me on to face something I dreaded.

When that song revisited me today in the cab, a series of emotions gushed in. I was laughing in recollection. It'd been long since I'd heard the song. Tears stung my eyes as I recalled how I had immense and blind faith in the universe back then. And I was overwhelmed. It felt as if my past self was reaching out for a handshake and a hug through the speakers of an Ola cab. Along with the lyrics, she whispered a reminder to me on how driven, relentless and sincere I'd always been towards my goals.

It was a refresher I needed at this crossroads. A gentle nudge reassuring me that I am enough to be me, I have made the right choices and I need to now let things flow.

Sometimes, you need every kind of validation from everyone around to let you know that you are working towards the right causes. At other times, a simple song will do!

Looking Back

Usually, when I accidentally stumble upon an old piece of my old writing, the naivety and the absolute abandon with which I used to write pained me. It stood as a reminder of how trusting I once used to be – of people, experiences and the world itself. I used to give second, third, fourth and infinite chances to people, and every bruise they left in their wake got recorded in these pages as poetry or a piece of writing.

So much water has flown down the bridge!

Photo by rawpixel on Unsplash

And I say this with a lot of gratefulness and joy. Today, as I gathered my writing to sow them as seeds in various publications, I revisited my blog to see if they appear on these pages or are still unseen by the public eye. In that process, I went down the rabbit hole, reading of love lost, love longed for and love that was never mine. The writing is full of “rancid pain”, as my dear friend, The Moody Kettle calls it. But, for the first time, I smiled. It is a privilege to be able to view it all from today, where I hold abundant love in my arms. 

Many a time, I have considered deleting those giddy old posts (not just of love but also: slipper tales, my loo which is a zoo, etc.) preferring to showcase a curated list of decent writing that won’t make me cringe. And over and again, something stopped me from erasing the past. It should serve as a reminder, I told myself. And it did today. 

It reminded me that despite all the heartbreak, I found love in the strangest place. It also told me of how little I knew the world and — although a tad more enlightened — how much more there is still to know. It took me on a roller coaster ride, showing me how I grew from strength to strength to reach today. 

I may not have much. I am still writing but have not finished even one of the 20 different plot ideas I have begun. I am looking out for a stable career while moonlighting as a writer. I still have miles to go before I sleep. 

But that ride showed me how far I have travelled from where I began in 2004 — yes that makes 14 years of writing here. I was merely 17 years of age, high on life, passionate about everything and madly looking for love everywhere. Today, I am no more the extrovert, choosing a more ambivert style of life. I spend my days all alone, working in the peace and silence of my home, not for a second seeking any distraction, escape or company (I never used to be able to do that!) I have been focusing my energy on a career in writing and storytelling. I have a bit more clarity on what I want from life and I am seeking it with the man of my dreams next to me. I couldn’t have asked for more! 

This throwback also brought forth a few things that haven’t changed one bit — I still love writing, dreaming, exploring the world and telling stories of all kinds. I still trust the universe to always take care of me, but I know that sometimes the cosmos may be busy attending to others :) I guess it was good not to have deleted the past. It’ll always tell me my own story when I forget fragments of it. I’ve been going through a slightly challenging period in terms of work and this blast from the past made me feel grounded and happy again.

To the readers –if we still have that breed of excellent humans amongst us– thank you for all your kindness and time! I promise to write more and often.

---

Miss Subways by David Duchovny
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I received an advanced reading copy of David Duchovny's 'Miss Subways', thanks to publishers Farrar, Straus and Giroux and NetGalley.

The book does not fall into the category of my preferred genre. However, owing to my love for X-Files and curiosity on what Mulder/Duchovny can produce, I picked it up. Unlike the cliche associated with celebrities wielding the pen, Duchovny's writing is actually good.

The story is quirky in style and substance and makes an interesting read. What is unique about Duchovny's style is the humour he employs. He spares nothing and smartly paints a satire of society, its beliefs, practices, self-importance and whatnot! I was also quite impressed with the vast pop and ancient culture knowledge that Duchovny possesses and weaves in this fantasy tale with ease.

Miss. Subways is the tale of Emer, a schoolteacher whose seemingly mundane life takes a twist when she encounters a mythical creature, Bean Sidhe. What follows is a tale that is part sci-fi, part fantasy with a generous helping of romance and its share of happily-ever-after concepts. While this sounds like a crazy combination and it is, Duchovny makes the ride memorable and filled with surprises. Most of the times, I had to remind myself that it was a male author portraying a female protagonist. Duchovny is that convincing while voicing Emer!

While I found the beginning a bit patchy in narration, I persevered and did not regret giving it a chance. The meaty middle is where all the goodness of the book lies. The resolution towards the end was a bit of a let down for me since I felt Duchovny became a bit restless and quickly tied up all loose threads. The irreverence and boldness he portrays through the rest of the book somehow feel absent here and it seems as if he succumbed to some sort of audience-pleasing pressure.

Overall, it's quite an interesting read. Turns out, Fox Mulder has more up his sleeve than I'd imagined!

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One

Every week, a little piece

A writer falters, questioning if only sadness could evoke the pretty words. Happiness, it seemed, filled her cup. She couldn’t draw from it for some reason. When the cup was empty, dried-up: corners cracking, bits of old coffee stuck at the rim and dregs of long-ago teas lying at the bottom, she saw webs in dried froth — of intrigue, mystery, forgotten things and unsaid words; and like a soothsayer, she prodded bits of the dregs, found fortunes and futures in them.

But what could one see in a full cup? A ripple now and then, maybe. But the calm sea stirred no story. It reflected back to her with content, her own joyous face. 

And so, to lament of the past and present, to wonder and ponder over the complete draught of words, she picked her pen to write. 

“A writer falters…,” she began.

On Writing

Nobody reads what I write anymore!

Apparently, they are into vlogs.

“Are you a youtube sensation?” they ask.

Words, they don’t matter anymore.

“What are the numbers you’ve got?”-

They want to know.

It’s just not about what I make them feel

But about how many likes to my tweet.

I wooed all my loves with words.

Measured moments

Writing reams

On scraps of tissue and

'One-sided papers' that my uncle gave

With punched holes running on the sides

Diligently, I filed them away

And rewrote them

On pretty diaries that no one wanted

And a blog that I still don’t know

How or why to 'monetize'!

Thirteen years on,

They still want to know

How popular my posts are.

“Maybe you could put your poems on Insta?”

“How about you make short films out of stories?”

“You have so much potential!”

I am glad to hear that, but

I wooed all my loves with words!

When did writing stop to rouse?

The Greatest is gone

My grandfather made all three of us granddaughters read 'The Hindu' newspaper from top to bottom. We may not have followed his advice entirely, but we did end up finding interest in specific columns and sections of the newspaper. In a way, everything I read and write today could be traced back to my newspaper habit.

One of the columns that made me begging for more was the 'Comment' section in the Sports Edition. The man who authored it was Nirmal Shekar - a writer beyond compare whose stronghold on the English language left me speechless. The truth was, I only watched cricket and had a working knowledge of tennis, and yet found myself always drawn to his column in The Hindu's sports section. He would bring in a poetry into his prose and make sports feel like a visceral, enchanting, memorable dance. He elevated every game and player he wrote about into conduits that tapped on some universal energy and made magic unfold in front of us. And he, performed that very magic through his words and we were left entranced.

I corresponded with a few journalists I admired, thanks to the kindness they showed to the giddy teenager I was. I had been reading him for a few years when, in this very blog, I had gushed about his writing amongst many others in The Hindu. He had encountered that post, browsed through some more of my writing and left this comment on my blog. 

Thrilled to bits (as I often used to get back in the day) I wrote back to him. He replied, patiently, to each and every question that I asked him. I had written, "I find it philosophically, intellectually and spiritually satisfying to read your writing." and he responded "My passion has always been to scratch the surface, dig deep and see sport (and people who play sport) for what it is. Sometimes I myself find my relentless pursuit of truth in all areas scary. It is better to keep dreaming like Sandhya!" "There is enough on the net though in my name to last several life times" he said, when I had asked him if he had a blog where I could read more of his words.

He was extremely down to earth, accessible and ever ready with a word of encouragement for a young aspiring writer like me. During that time, I was freelancing with The Viewspaper and took the opportunity to interview him. I still vividly remember his office - he was heading Sportstar then - and sitting in front of him, wide eyed and grasping on to every word he uttered. This was the greatest playing ground, the star was at his game and I was the enraptured audience. The conversation has always remained special to me and I revisit it every now and then to thrill over the fact that I actually pulled it off - meeting one of my favourite writers and interviewing him.

Moving to another city for my post graduation, I had somehow lost touch with him. My reading habit took a back seat, with films - watching, reading, making or writing about them - occupying the majority of my time. But once in a while, I'd google and catch up with his words, more often than not revisiting the ones I had cherished and cut out for safekeeping. They are still there in a bag at home - a precious memory of days I regaled his writing and of the first steps I took in building my love for words.

On 29th Jan 2017, as Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal matched wits on the court and my sports crazy husband was sitting at the edge of his seat, rooting for Federer, we spoke about Nirmal Shekar. I asked if I had made him read that piece of writing on Sampras that I keep going back to and he answered in the affirmative; I had read it out to him sometime during our initial days of courting. This is an excerpt:

Pete Sampras ascends the Everest of tennis By Nirmal Shekar LONDON, JULY 10. At three minutes to nine on Sunday evening, as night was licking its lips in anticipation before eating up what was left of the day for a sumptuous supper, in silver-grey rather than golden twilight, one of the truly extraordinary sportsmen of this or any era raised his arms skyward in a familiar gesture on the centre court at Wimbledon. Mark that moment - 8.57 p.m. to be exact, three minutes before 1.30 a.m. on Monday morning in India - for you'd find few like it in the entire history of organised sport. And, those of us privileged enough to have been a part of it on tennis' greatest stage, will perhaps find nothing to match it in the rest of our lives. It was a historic moment when all arguments ceased, a moment that answered one big question and many small questions, a moment that put an end to all comparisons. Step forward Mr. Pete Sampras, wet eyes notwithstanding...the greatest of 'em all! Argue if it pleases you, but the moment Pat Rafter failed to direct a Sampras serve back into the court in the men's singles final of the millennium championship in gathering gloom, arguments and comparisons became meaningless.

I then made a mental check to google what he had written about the Australian Open. Unfortunately, that article never came by. Four days later, my friend messages me saying Nirmal Shekar is no more.

Nirmal Shekar should have written a book, I thought with a pang after frantically googling to see if this horrible news was true. I was angry that he had died, that he had never written a book and that he had remained the undisputed king of sports writing to me.

When Muhammad Ali passed away, Nirmal Shekar had written,

"With all the revolutionary advances in medicine, they tell us that death may become optional in a few decades.
But that belief seems like a desperate attempt to turn daydreaming (to stop thinking about the terrifying certainty of eternal demise) into a form of science — gerontology.
But a few lesser mortals like some of us — who harbour no illusions and know that death is the end of everything for the individual — who have no access to multi-million dollar laboratories, and even less access to the latest findings that are being tested out do believe that we are all in queue, that one day we might have to vacate the tiny space that we occupy in a planet that the late, debonair scientist Carl Sagan called “The Pale Blue Dot.”
Then again, life would be much less invigorating, much less interesting, much less worth living if we were to rid ourselves of the notion that there are a few exceptions to the rule."

And just like Ali would always be immortal, your words will live on Nirmal, for you were the exception to the rule yourself, making us look at sports writing like no one else could. Wherever you are, we know you must be digging deeper to uncover the truth. I just wish, that somehow we could still continue to read about all the things you find in those realms. To think there will no more be your 'Comment' on things is deflating.

I hope somebody compiles and publishes his writing so that generations in the future will understand what made us all open the newspaper last page first.

Thank you, Nirmal, for your restless pursuit and inspiration! You will be missed.

(The title is a copy of his ode to Muhammad Ali. To me, Nirmal Shekar was the greatest in his field, and this little imitation is my way of paying my respects to the man and his irreplaceable incomparable writing)