Ink
I finally got a tattoo. I don’t know why and I don’t know if I will regret it at some point, but I really wanted it. I cannot explain to myself (or to the ‘rents) why in the world I was scarring my body. Yet, I feel it’s that inexplicable desire, that innate gut instinct that convinced me undoubtedly that I wanted ink.
The spark that etched this desire was a best friend. After an incredulous five years of college shenanigans, we decided to get a life-defining song title inked onto our body, in some abstract, funky form. Corny? Yes. Let's leave it at that. The other best friend studying graphics design in Florence was the perfect contender to conjure up a sketch. Several months later, after crucial insight from my sister, and a few variations, we decided on something not-so-final. What the sister said was golden – it’s bloody permanent so irrespective of what it means to you, it has to look good and have enough abstractness to keep it mystifying and beautiful. So, after sucking in all the great feedback, and juggling a number of body locations, I finally decided on something concrete. But that wasn’t the end of that – that tattoo artist added his own twist to the tale. I loved where he went with it and allowed him to take what the Florence best friend designed, and make it his own. He kept the best from the original design, and redrew it to flow well with where I wanted it on my skin. And alas, the creation was complete and incorporated everything I wanted – abstractness, intricacy, meaning and a touch of originality.
Part two of this story is the actual entering-of-the-needle-into-my-epidermis-thousands-of-times escapade. As it was my first piece, I didn’t know what level/type/sort of pain to expect, and that rattled my brain a little. A lot of the people I spoke to right before didn’t help with their elaborate explanations of how painful it could be. So, yes I psyched myself a little far too much beforehand. But, it was all downhill smoothness after the first prick. It’s really not that bad, and I am not just saying it out of desire to seem brave or out of some ridiculous pompousness. Yes, it’s not a pleasant feeling but you know what you’re getting yourself into and with that in mind, the stinging is bearable. The three hours went by quickly enough. It ended with a permanent adornment on my body (holy shit) and a stellar conversation with the tattoo artist. He talked about how being a tattoo artist is heavy because most of the tattoos people get, are connected to tragedies or losses. Yes, there is stupidity to contend with too, but only a handful of people ink celebrations of life. Embracing happiness seems harder than dwelling on pain. But that’s for a different conversation.
The general feedback post needlework was positive. I was sublimely pleased with it, my tattoo artist was fascinated at his skills and the friends only had good things to say. The mother did give me a grumpy look with a “too-big” stinger of a comment, but that’s mum being mum. What I like about it is that everyone sees something different in it. I’ve gotten interpretations ranging from a dragon, a snake to a musical note. It incorporates all that means everything to me and is inspired by the work of a best friend cum graphic designer. It also kind of erodes me from this sheltered approach to life I’ve been blessed with, which for some strange reason, I see as a good thing. Too much of anything is plain bad.
However, my true appreciation or hatred for it will only come with time. Fingers crossed, it’s the former.
P.S. Thank you College Friend, Florence Friend, the Sister and the Tattoo Artist for making this happen.
Resident Alien
I am no longer a “non-resident alien.” The “non” has been ejected and my alien-ness is marginally more accepted – I am now officially a resident alien of the United States of America. Whoopdidoo. Doesn’t mean much, though. It doesn’t mean that I have a “Green Card” or a desire to become an American, nor does it entitle me to settle here irrevocably. It just makes me pay more taxes. Fair and all, but bloody hell.
I’ve always had an issue with my sense of belonging. India groomed my toddler touchie till I was about 9 year old, and as we all now, pre-age-nine is all a blur, so that's hard to count. My true formative years were in Dubai where I lived till I was eighteen believing devastatingly, that it was home. And it technically is, but with restrictions – I can only visit for two months at a time, after which I cannot enter for three months. I need a visa to go home to Dubai. Read that again – I need a visa to go home. That just doesn’t sound like what home should be.
2007 - Exit, Dubai. Enter, America. The air of democracy was refreshing. It mattered that my education and existence was not going to be defined by my race or color. The playing field was leveled and everything was hunky-dory. It’s been 5+ years now in the States for me, most of which has been as a student. The comfort that an average citizen here enjoys is unparalleled, and I am extremely fortunate for that. I owe my education and my just-ignited career to this country, and I respect that. But, my life is literally controlled by pieces of paper. If I get robbed, I am more worried about losing my passport and my documents, than my TV or my laptop. It’s currently almost impossible for me to leave the U.S. until my work permit gets sorted out, and that’s not going to be for another 9 months, if at all. If, by any misfortune, I do have issues with immigration, even if it’s because of a misplaced document, it goes on record and getting back into the States becomes a nightmare. Sometimes, I genuinely fear my compliance of the multitude of statuses, procedures and documents, and yes, it’s pretty close to the silliest of all fears. To get rid of all this personal bureaucracy, I have a two options – work here for 6 more years and then apply for my “Green Card” or take the super shortcut and marry an American girl. The latter seems bloody attractive, but the former? Six more years? That means that despite living in the United States of America for eleven years as a law-abiding, tax-paying, socially aware citizen, I will only be close to getting my Green Card. What the fuck?
I am not looking for your sympathy or for a American citizenship – I am just trying to validate my desire to belong where I live. Anyway, as much as this thumps my brain, it’s not important right now. As per the rules created by governance of the world, my passport says I belong to India. Someday, I envision embracing that. Not yet, though.
P.S. Yes, I pay Social Security and Medicare taxes even though I will never be able to claim either. Joy.
The Arsenal
My only heartbreaker is the Arsenal Football Club. It’s painful to support a sports team that should be dominating but doesn’t, that should be making the right decisions but doesn’t. If I could choose, I would have chosen a mediocre team that’s not expected to win regularly, a team that's offbeat enough to be a 'cool' choice and yet, plays the sport with the kind of attitude you relate to. But, any true sports fan will tell you that you can never choose a team to support, the team chooses you.
Having lived my formative years in the random culture-less city of Dubai, I wasn’t born into supporting a football team. It was around 2003 when football starting taking over my life. I watched it, my friends watched it, and we talked about it till we fought over it. We played it at every available instance. We played in our short breaks wearing our uppity private-school uniforms with ties, pants and dress shoes in the blistering Dubai heat. We played on dusty sand fields where the 20-on-20 games we had were more of a chaotic carnage than a football match. We played under the Maktoum bridge in one of the Sheikh’s ridiculously large gardens where we were often chased down by the police. I played in our little apartment where I’ve broken quite a few things to my mother’s bemusement. I had mastered every single FIFA video game since the ’99 version. I was obsessed and I was proud of it.
It was around this time that I realized that the time had come for me to choose a football team to support. For some East-Indian reason, I was very Anti-English but as the English Premier League was the most watched football league, I had to support an English team. I was going to work around this issue by supporting a team that was the most Anti-English English team. So, I made my first mistake of selecting Chelsea as my supposed love – they had a Russian owner, an Italian coach and not a lot of English players – perfect. Or I thought so. It was more like forcing myself to fall for a girl that meets all my prerequisites but just doesn't make the heart beat faster. Chelsea, quite frankly, didn’t turn me on.
It was while I was forcing to fight through my fling with Chelsea, that Arsenal suddenly came from nowhere with her flawless flowing hair, petit gentle touch and sky blue eyes. Two things massaged this infatuation – (1) Arsenal were playing absolutely sumptuous, literally unbeatable football and (2) Thierry Henry. The infatuation was soon over – I was in love.
Arsenal went unbeaten that season and yes, I did seem like a glory supporter. But I wasn’t. I felt for the team. I felt every win. I hurt after every defeat. I cringed, cursed, screamed and got yelled at by my parents multiple times for waking them up during late night games. There was this unexplainable connection that emancipated my emotions in both directions. When we lost a game, I hated looking at the sports section and avoided my friends. Once the Internet started taking over our lives, I resorted to bloggers and forums for news, updates and most importantly, remorse. Since 2004, Arsenal has struggled and being an Arsenal fan has been painful, but not for one instance did I question my affection. It was beautiful and it still is.
December 2012 was special. I was in London, by myself for 3 weeks with only one goal in mind – to watch Arsenal play. I am not from London, so watching Arsenal live was a pipe dream. But, this pipe dream came to life on December 27th, 2012. I had tickets to watch the Gunners take on the Wolves. I had already done a stadium tour with Charlie George a couple of days ago, but all that meant nothing compared to an actual competitive English Premier League game. I had been supporting Arsenal for almost 9 years then and had watched every single game I could – but that was on TV. To breathe with the Arsenal faithful in our majestic stadium was just surreal. Ten minutes before kick-off, as the players walked out of the tunnel in their kits with the referees, my nine-years of obsessing all came back together and severely overwhelmed me. We played terribly that game and drew 1-1 against a pathetic Wolves team, but my first experience watching the Arsenal with the Gooners was so so special. We might be oceans apart, but every fan was on the same emotional ride, and sharing that love and hate was beautiful. I felt like I belonged there. It was absolutely amazing. I watched two more games while I was there. I saw Henry play on his return and even though he was wearing #12, it was a phenomenal bonus. I traveled with the away fans all the way to Swansea and had the pleasure of experiencing the away experience with one of my best friends, who is also a massive Arsenal fan. We met in Dubai, have partied in Florence and have watched our beloved Arsenal play at Swansea. It was an overwhelmingly joyous time in my life.
My affection for Arsenal doesn’t just revolve around the way they play – it’s the attitude and the culture at the club that meshes so naturally with the way I principle my life. In Arsene, I trust. Even though his decisions off late have been mystifying, I cannot imagine an Arsenal without him. I like how Arsenal is a sound business that does not spend frivolously. It might scare away the best, but I like how Arsenal refuses to overpay a player – it goes a long way in establishing a sense of fairness and equality within the team. Yes, it’s easy to ridicule this wage policy when we are struggling to win trophies, but it’s also forgotten when we are experiencing success. Sometimes, especially when we are not doing well, I wonder if it’s healthy being an Arsenal fan and there is an easy argument against that, but nonetheless I am proud, real proud, to be in the Red Army.
P.S. Arseblog is the best source for all your Arsenal needs, in pain and pleasure.
The Power of Visual Storytelling
Yes, there is a lot of garbage out there on TV and on the Internet, but it’s all about finding those hidden gems – those mystically resonating television shows that you feel you can relate to like no one else can, that movie that makes you question your commitment to the “safe” path when there are oceans left to explore, that comedian who finds humor in truth and makes you wonder why the world doesn’t run that simply, that live soccer game that could only be scripted in the heavens, that advert that slaps a momentary smile on your face, and that speech that convinces you, at least for an instance, that living is a lot more than just money and food. It’s those moments that send a serene shudder down my spine and make all the visual vomit seem worthwhile.
I want to pay homage to these gems. Homeland blew my mind, multiple times, with its take on human unpredictability and the power of emotion. Modern Family takes simple relationships, and makes them genuinely funny, proving that blatant exaggeration and fake background laughs are not always needed to illicit laughter. The Social Network inspired the entire world of twenty-something, ambition-filled, pot-smoking, binge drinking college dropouts to find their high through success and perseverance. Heath Ledger showed the world how gripping terror can be, even under the persona of a Joker. The Lord of the Rings is the epitome of what the human mind is able to create – an entire fantasy world that magically stays true to human emotion. The Matrix eclipsed the concept of reality and Gladiator screamed the importance of staying true to yourself, despite injustices. Jim Jefferies and Ricky Gervais are arguably the two funniest people in the world and they find their humor in the clash between truth and social construct, which is ironical to say the least. Lionel Messi continues to mesmerize and do the impossible, proving that you don’t have to be tallest, strongest and fastest to be the best at sport. I am not from Detroit, but I watched that Chrysler/Eminem commercial over and over again on YouTube – it was just so well done. Sarah Kay has made me severely emotional a number of times, and thanks to TED, looking for inspiration has never been easier.
We are constantly looking for a story, and these great stories that seem impossible for the most part, help us write our own. They send us down an emotional rollercoaster that helps us find ourselves a little, and that’s fantastic. I want to someday be able to tell a story with such power. Hah, let’s see how that goes.
P.S. I judge people by the shows and movies they love. Also, would love to see some mathematical calculation as to what % influence media has on human behavior.
Ambition
The word “ambition” has such a proud feeling attached to it. In my world, it’s the ultimate driver. This desire to achieve, make a difference and be successful is applauded and thus, addictive. It’s born out of this dog-eat-dog environment that I have been engulfed in – always surrounded by overachievers, raised by truly successful parents that made a lot out of little, and thrown into different continents where the single common factor that the majority of the people around me possess is a desire to get somewhere, before embracing what is already there.
Ambition is tuned in my mind to be positive, and good, and healthy, and the right way to go about living my life. And all this is great – the daily dose of food is never an issue, the world suddenly makes sense because I can afford to see a lot more of it, and the ladies enjoy the talk that comes along with it. There is also this voodoo sense of superiority that lingers over. All hunky-dory, of course.
But, also omnipresent is stress, hair loss, a lack of time and the constant feeling that there is a lot more left to achieve. And, when all that loads itself into my drive, a parallel ambition-less universe becomes a lot more interesting. In the end, ambition is a social construct severed by society that we succumb to believe is the right path. Throw that in the trash, and my mind seems revolutionized. I suddenly like not being ambitious. That itself is ironical, and well, sad. Just doing enough to make ends meet and living an eventful, joyous, stress-free spirit should not be revolutionary.
All this is easily said and thought. Doing it is extraordinary, because for me, ambition is now the safer path. Wow.
P.S. All this eerily comes down to the overused and annoyingly true “grass is greener on the other side” metaphor.
Four Midnights In Paris
Not enough. Four days in Paris is nearly not enough to get a decent grip of the city. Paris was my last stop and like every journey, the end is the hardest. On my way to Paris, I thought I was burning out. I was getting focused, making plans and generating lists of all the errands I need to get at once I go back to Texas. And amidst all that focusing, Paris came alive, and it wasn't only at midnight.
Like all good movies, the best bit is normally at the end. And the end is sometimes what is least expected. Just when I thought Europe could not get any prettier, Paris trotted in with its sensationalism. Paris is so precisely pretty. The buildings, the roads, the gardens, the picnic spots, the cathedrals, the sky and the river are all so much more defined than the rest of Europe. It's a combination of contrasts, comprising both grand palaces with massive gardens and small stone-paved streets with cute houses. It has the rich, sophisticated, touristy Eiffel tour, and the more raw escape that is Montmarte. There is so much to see and absorb and experience. Paris was the climax I didn't expect.
There were two main elements of Paris that I endeared. The first was simply a bridge, the Pont Alexandre III bridge. It was this semi-short bridge with massive statues at its ends, serenely decorated with intricate carvings all around and consistently sprinkled with gold. In my opinion, it kicked Prague's Charles Bridge's butt. The second was the Montmarte area. Montmarte is on a slope of a hill, with this raw community of French people, French bars and French restuarants. The best part about Montmarte was that it wasn't touristy, and had its own local flair with some beautiful escapes. The only un-local aspect of Montmarte was Sacrè Coeur, but Sacrè Coeur had a great view of Paris, so it's all good. Ooh, and let me add a third - the Gardens of Versailles. They were truly breathtaking. Imagine waking up to two kilometers of the most symmetrically beautiful gardens in the world. It's one of those must-see things that must be seen and even after all the high expectations, it is a must-see-again. The Eiffel Tower was good. Champs-Elysees is a good street, but way too commercialized.
The biggest downer of Paris was that it is a bloody romantic city. If Europe in general is considered romantic, Paris is a hundred thousand million billion times more romantic. There are no single people in Paris, only couples and umm, children. With every beautiful monument comes a wet kiss, or a solid make-out session. It's in-your-face romantic. Do not go there if you're single, but make it your first destination with a new girlfriend, fiance or wife.
Oh man, the women. The women are beautiful, so so beautiful and when they speak, they suddenly become goddesses. It's a pity that there are no single women in Paris. And the people in general are extremely friendly, and the friendliness seems starkly genuine, in comparison to the States. The Parisians only dislike Americans.
Lone traveling is defined by the wondrous people that you run into. I ran into these two super girls that I had randomly hung out with in Prague. The world is small, and Europe is smaller. I met a long lost Texan friend in Paris and we shared two milestones together - watching the Red Hot Chilli Peppers in Stade de France, and the Euro 2012 final on Champs-Elysees. Both were fantastic. Flea makes the Chilli Peppers an awesome live band, and I have never seen so many honking cars with Spanish flags on a street that is not in Spain. Both were true spectacles. I met these two fantastic Israeli girls who were just fantastic. They burst into songs and accents on call, and had the maturity to laugh at themselves. Refreshing. I also met a close friend's doppelganger, a couple of delightful Italian girls and another crazy Australian who was only living in a hotel (and not a hostel) because he followed a girl to Paris.
Paris, at the core, is a great city. They have a square named after a dance-pop pioneering French singer, Dalida, who tragically killed herself after all three of her husbands took their own lives. Heavy stuff. But, this was as early as 1987 and it's telling when a city commemorates a pioneer who did not live 500 years in the past. It was a fitting end to a great holiday.
I did not see the Monalisa. Apparently, it's small or something.
I have a thing for large statues with horses.
Texas.
P.S. Local beer = Wine.