Guatemala, You Beauty

October 30, 2017

There is so much to say. Guatemala has opened its arms and embraced me with nothing but love. And yes, all this sounds corny, but contentment breeds corniness, fortunately or unfortunately.

I am not going to lie, I was a little scared. Everyone and their mothers couldn’t stop warning me about the dangers that engulf this Central American country. And then these other mothers spoke to my mother, and filled her up with bother, and that was not fun either. And then there was this other brady bunch that didn’t know what "Guatemala" was. All in all, the uncertainty of where I was going, and the certainty that I was going to be robbed as soon as I got off the flight, made it all very interesting off the bat.

I landed, and I did not get robbed. I met a friendly taxi-driver who friendly-ly drove me to the bus station, where I got on a friendly bus, and made it to the friendly city of Xela some four hours from the capital, where I was greeted by my friendly Spanish teacher, who took me in a friendly cab to my super-friendly host family, and all this friendly hospitality made me all giddy inside. It’s not to say that Guatemala is not dangerous at times, but it’s like any other developing country – if you do stupid things, and go to stupidly dangerous places, or get ridiculously unlucky, something not-so-fun might happen. I know of friends who have been robbed at knifepoint even in New York.

After flushing this unreasonable fear out of my system fairly quickly, I was in dreamland. Yes, the showers here are not great, the internet is choppy, the lights go out occasionally coupled with a mini-earthquake or two, but all that has not mattered. I have been happier than I have ever been in my whole entire life (remember contentment = corny?), and my problems are trivial compared to the seismic schizophrenia Corporate America used to give me. I know what I am trying to achieve, where I am trying to go and I am no longer dreaming about it, I am actually doing it. And it has all made sense so far. I spent my first month learning Spanish in a school exploding with love and goodness. My teacher was the personification of patience and prudence, and dealt with my constant self-destruction, sublimely. I was grounded a little because I thought I would be rattling off Spanish in a month, but learning a language is bloody hard, and jawbreakingly frustrating. But the folks at the Sisai School of Spanish made it easier. Every weekday, after five hours of Spanish class, the teachers took turns in taking us students on local excursions and activities. And these weren’t just any excursions, these were well thought-out, immersive experiences that you would only get if you spent enough time with the local folks out here. We went to secluded towns adorned by zero tourists, but instead by the warmth of the local Mayan people. We explored the legend of San Simon and the beauty of Mayan philosophy (I am getting an “El Ajau” tattoo before I leave.) We did Salsa classes and cooking classes, played football and crammed ourselves in the back of a small pickup along with twelve other people who magically found ways to make room where room didn’t exist. We learnt about the city, about the people, and we danced together, sang together, ate together and drank together. It was a glorious time with a glorious group of genuine people, and I was so overwhelmed by their warmth.

The people here are something else. There is a genuine flow of love right from the way everyone greets each other, to how everyone respects each other, and to the way everyone treats one another. I missed this in the States and in Dubai, so I am going to embrace it. And embody it. As much as I can. My host-family took me in as one of their own, and my host-mother became very quickly my second mother. They fed me like their own child, and showered me with all the picante they could muster, as soon as they figured out that spice was my thing.

After a month of drowning myself in Spanish, it was time to begin my fellowship. And this moment was really important for me. It was like I had waited all my life to finally start doing exactly what I wanted to do – and not just any random thing, but finally landing on the road that I had created, that is headed in exactly the direction I want it to go in. It is so liberating and so empowering. And believe it or not, the one month I have spent at this fellowship has totally lived up to the hype. I am still in Disneyland and this honeymoon phase isn’t ending as of yet. I hope it never does.

If you have ever thought of doing something like this, do it right now. Don’t let these rules created by society control you. It’ll be the best decision you ever make.

P.S. Indians are pretty non-existent here in Guatemala (I thought we were everywhere?) I seriously think there are only two of us in Xela – one chef / owner of the BEST restaurant in town, and me. So yes, I now know what it somewhat feels like to be Icelandic in just about any country except for Iceland.

Goodbye America

August 16, 2017

I am sitting here, at the O’Hare International Airport. Where I sat exactly ten years ago, waiting for my uncle to pick me up, as I made my first foray into these United States. It is fitting then as I say goodbye, a full circle of sorts, almost an inverted poetic mime.

I came here as a naïve, skinny, innocent Indian boy, full of principles and hope. I was fortunate that an American University education was very much part of the script, so despite this being a land previously uninhibited by my body, it was the obvious choice. Wide-eyed and eager, I thought monobrows, untamed hair and sobriety was all naturál, and I preached my pride – like me as I am, I don’t need to fit in.

And then the first girl gut-checked my heart, and then another, soon followed by some social punches, and that led to my first American epiphany – I had myself all wrong. I do need to fit in, at least just enough. So, off went the monobrow, and after a beer in Spain with my sister and a trip to the hairdresser, almost everything changed. Even though I spoke with a weird accent, I was suddenly more American than ever, with spiked hair and a red cup of beer in my hand. I not only attended house parties, but we started hosting our own, making sure there was always enough alcohol at our apartment, a thumping set of speakers, and the ultimate utility – a sofa bed. Hip-hop was suddenly bearable and became skeet-skeet melodic after several nights out on 6th street in Austin, Texas. I started listening more to Kanye and Lil Jon and less to Robbie Williams.

My life was suddenly governed by the notion of work hard and play hard. And I worked hard to earn my right to play. I blossomed academically, especially once I realized that I might have had a head start in the theory of things, but my application abilities needed major reform, and that was glorious. I was suddenly double-majoring and minoring, doing laundry for the women’s university soccer team (plus ball tending), and became President of brown-town. But, most importantly, I was surrounded by the right people. I made the best of friends, and amidst all the chaos, those friendships were the ultimate sustenance. I don’t ever want to go back to college, not because it wasn’t the best time, but because I can’t imagine the thought of not making the same friends as I did.

Getting a job after college was not an achievement, it was an expectation. I entered Corporate America, ready to rock, and it was quite the concert. I got a finance gig with a media company, and even though my passions back then lay in sport, I justified the opportunity for the money, the stability and obviously, the work-visa sponsorship.

I entered the workforce brimming with confidence. I was supposed to be stellar at Excel, and a paycheck meant independence. But this confidence combusted quickly. When I saw my boss work his magic, I realized I wasn’t really that good at Excel. Or anything. I was also quite an anomaly in our little San Antonio office – the only Indian person in an office surrounded by Tom, Greg, Matt, Mark, Brandon and Brian. Yes, all white men with the whitest of names, and they were all lovely. By now, I had mastered the art of fitting in. So, I quickly put on the best make-up I could find and slotted myself in.

I worked hard. Really hard. San Antonio is a dead city which was an incentive to work harder. I was absorbing, learning, growing and adding a ton of value. Suddenly, I was actually good at Excel, and PowerPoint, and Finance, and story-telling and analysis. And then, the dream was realized – I won myself a promotion to New York. Here I was, a kid who spent his first nine years in Aurangabad, about to move to the greatest city in the world. It was too good to be true.

New York, you beauty! The city is the best that America has to offer. The diversity, the nightlife, the food, the people and the excellence are all intoxicating. You can pursue whatever you want and find a mini-verse dominated by professionals and experts milking their passions into excellence. It’s intimidating and inspiring. I found my click in the spoken-word poetry universe and started playing for an amateur football (soccer) team. We were just the right amount of committed – it was for fun, but we wanted to win. We had a manager and late-night practice sessions on Wednesdays. Only in New York will you find enough folks committed to a 10-pm “practice” session on a workday. Meanwhile, the dating scene was incredible and tragic at the same time. There were so many single people that flings were easy, but commitment was hard. Why commit when there might be someone else out there that is better? It was fun at first, and then harrowing, all the while, bloody expensive.

Professionally, I worked even harder in New York. I was promoted every year and was soon leading a team of six. They liked my work and wanted to “clone” me. So, I was hiring and training and deploying. The learning curve was steep, and I loved it. I was adding value and working almost directly with the CEO of the company. It was stressful. I was always on call – whether on vacation or late at night. Not quite like a doctor, but close enough. Definitely not as important. The weekdays were especially hard, so the weekends meant it was time to let loose. I partied harder than I should have because I “deserved” it after a long week at work. The weekdays were stressful, the weekends blurry.

This was a time of extremes – lots of learning, growing, earning and “enjoying” but it was also lonely, depressing and conflicting. I was breaking a little. I was hard on my team. I could barely stay in a relationship. And I was starting to not like myself. What’s the point of working so hard and then not liking yourself? What’s the point of working so hard to make some rich people richer? Why am I not putting all this effort into solving real problems of the world? I had made the money, conquered my dreams of being in New York, partied, traveled and I was still unhappy. That’s when I realized this was not it. This could not be it.

Thus, began some good old soul-searching. I started reading again, thinking, contemplating, prioritizing. And then it all started coming together. It was time to take everything my past had blessed me with and do something useful with it. My sister bestowed upon me the concept of social enterprise that had been lying dormant in the back of my mind somewhere. I dug deep to encounter that injustice really bothered me, and how were we okay with this? Poverty, I think, is one of the greatest injustices in today’s world. How can we be landing on the moon and have poor people at the same time? Problems are fun to solve. What if I take what I know and try to solve a problem that makes a positive difference in the world? Fighting poverty through social enterprise? Bingo. So, I quit.

After spending nine years in India and nine years in Dubai, this ten-year chapter in the United States of Immigrants has been my longest, and the most enriching so far. American higher education is the most flexible and the best, especially if you want to learn and grow, but it comes at the expense of innocence. Maybe that’s okay. Corporate America is the most functional economic art in the world, but draconian capitalism allows for the ignorance of morality. While the governments of developing countries are marred with corruption, the private sector of America has its own demons to battle, and the financial sector needs a schooling in ethics. My professional growth came at the expense of some corrosion, and that, for me, is difficult to swallow. So, getting out of Corporate America feels like a liberation of sorts, but don’t get me wrong, I have no regrets. No good adult story is all hunky-dory, and it is the lows that help etch the statue of your principles.

Thank you, America, for everything. You have been the capstone to my learning experience. I am ready to unleash everything that I have learnt where I think it matters the most, and I have never felt more prepared for my next chapter. As you try and prevent yourself from imploding with all the current political turmoil, I will let you be. I am one less immigrant to worry about.

P.S. America, you let me embrace spoken-word like I could have never had anywhere else. You got me on stage, and allowed me to be as dramatic as I wanted to be, as I tried to rhyme my emotions. Cheers for that!

The Effective Altruism Movement + EA Global Conference, Boston

July 6, 2017

Effective Altruism (EA) is a movement. I was at their conference in Boston last month, and needless to say, I was moved. Here’s my take.

Effective Altruism is literally what it says it is. It is doing good, as efficiently as possible. It’s optimizing philanthropy. It’s doing good, better. They would be hypocrites if they didn’t come up with an efficient name. So, for instance, if you’re an engineer by trait, and you quit your job to go to Vietnam to teach English, you’re essentially wasting your stellar engineering skill-set and not being effective. At that point, if you were an Effective Altruist, you would seriously question your decision – am I really making the most impact possible by teaching English versus let’s say, engineering a way to build huts more efficiently?

So, how is this a movement? In my opinion, it is a movement because it urges you to break conventional thinking. Should you donate to a charity based on your emotions (I love dolphins and they are being killed)? Or should your dollar go where it makes the most impact (deworming does not sound fun, but might be a more effective use of your money)? It is a theory, a state, a science, a way of thinking that encourages demands that you give back in the most scientific, data-driven, efficient way possible – whether it is through donations or your skill-set. As a quant guy, this resonates with me wholeheartedly. Why would you not want to make the most impact possible? But, if you’ve lost your little sister to cancer, it becomes a lot more difficult to be rational about where you want your donations to go. And, right about there, this theory gets a little extreme. It calls for “cause neutrality” and urges you to drop emotion out of the equation altogether. So, how much ever you are craving to prevent other little sisters around the world from inducing cancer, EA tells you not to give to cancer research because it is over-funded, so every additional dollar you give to cancer has lower marginal utility. Instead, you should donate to Malaria. And at this point, you’re probably thinking to yourself, HELL NO.

But, that’s the point of this school of thought, this science, this theory. It has to be extreme. It cannot make any compromises, any emotional exceptions. That’s how other schools of thoughts are as well – socialism, capitalism, democracy, communism – all these ideals, in their purest form, are extreme. And that’s okay from a theoretical perspective. But, as humans, anything in extreme amounts is unhealthy. So, the most productive way forward is by taking the best from all these theories, and not ever treading on the extreme. Yes, I might have a gone a little too far comparing EA to communism, but before you misconstrue, it was to make a point.

A movement must also have a conference. Enter EA Global – Boston. Not going to lie, I was as excited as a guinea pig for this one. It spanned two days at the Harvard campus where two hundred or so eager, effective altruists convened to listen to what’s next in the social impact world that is game-changing. Now picture this, the folks at this conference are at the confluence of two separate MO’s – on one hand we care about social impact, and we are a passionate bunch. On the other hand, we are also quant-nerds drowning are emotions in rationality. Combine these two divergent traits, and what you get are passionate social impact enthusiasts looking for a way to quantify everything. And honestly, it is this combination that makes the atmosphere electric, if that is your cup of tea. If not, then I don’t know how you made it this far in this post. The people I met there were highly intelligent and highly motivated, who cared to solve the worlds problem in the most rational way possible, and that is beautiful. The other thing that took me by storm was that even though this was social-impact-centric, the talks and things we were discussing were all game-changing technologies – AI, blockchain, genome editing, food-creation. That’s the crux – everything that matters has social impact tied to it – the sustenance of the friggin’ human race. And it wasn’t all about how all these breakthroughs are going to make the world a better place, but also around the real dangers associated with it – singularity, nuclear war, using data deceptively and so on. A girl next to me asked me what my story was, and the hero that I am, I gave her my shmeal, chummed about my prospects. And then, I asked her what brought her there and pretty casually, she said “I work in a lab where I grow meat, so we can stop animal cruelty and still enjoy a piece of steak.” Grow WHAT? She also said that she has succeeded and she has tried it, and all I could say was – “Is it gross?” She chuckled and said it wasn’t - in fact she trusted it more because she knew where it came from. And basically, she said we were pretty close to making real-fake meat sustainable. I was in love. These are the kind of conversations I left with.

Most of the talks were thoroughly engaging (there were a couple I just couldn’t follow and a couple that umm, uh yeah, let’s just leave it at that). The two that really stood out for me were:

• Max Tegmark’s take on existential risk and existential hope: He gave an eye-opening perspective on how nuclear war will not be an intentional act, it will just happen by mistake.

• Vikash Mansinghka’s breakdown of AI-assisted data analysis: This one was a little personal for me because I thought I understood data, because that’s what I did for a living. Not quite.

It was honestly an extremely enriching experience – I was surrounded by brilliant people, and it left me just wanting to read more and learn more and grow more. If any of this resonates with you, do give William Macaskill’s “Doing Good Better” a read – he does an entertaining job of explaining what effective altruism is all about. And if that hits home, go to one of these.

P.S. It was eerie to actually be in the presence of a couple of people whose books I had read and actually strongly believe in. I did a great job turning off fanboy mode though – got to keep it cool.

Next Steps

June 28, 2017

I’ve never been more excited. After galloping down the beaten path, I can’t help but be dramatic — it’s time for something new. I’ve studied hard and worked hard, climbed the corporate ladder, traveled the world, partied way too hard, on and in all kinds of clubs, speakeasies, and rooftops, lived in the greatest city in the world in an awfully comfortable apartment, met amazing people, built perennial relationships, and it has been friggin’ great. And still, hitting the eject button never felt so good.

But it’s not really the eject button, it is more of a delicate surgical extraction of sorts. Or honestly, I just grew a pair. I have been thinking about this for a while, but was constantly torn. “I am going to quit my corporate job, and just travel the world.” Yes, that sounds great but kind of useless, and self-centered much? Option two was — “Oh, I’ll work as a bartender on a beach in Thailand.” That’s fantastic — let’s just trash away everything I have learnt over the last decade. Option three resonates so much more. I am looking to take all that I’ve learnt in this stupendous, bittersweet, borderline-existential journey that has been Corporate America, and apply it to where it matters.

The social enterprise world has been like a dormant volcano in the back of my head that has recently exploded back into life. I read this book, thanks to my oh-so-amazing sister, and click, it switched on the lava flow. Jacqueline Novogratz is special. Her story is special. Her mind and her heart are special. It just makes so much sense.

If you make over $50k/year annually, you’re in the top 1% earning population of the world. Think again about not having ever won the lottery. And every dollar you make over $80k/year has a severe diminishing marginal utility when it comes to the age-old quest that is happiness. Please don’t be disillusioned by the illusion of happiness that comes with the extra money. Money matters, but only to a certain extent. There are only so many islands you can buy.

Whether this applies to you or not, it caused a massive earthquake in my psyche. Earn more money, and do what? So, here I was, sitting on coffers full of gold, earned earnestly by selling my soul to Corporate America. It was all hunky dory until my learning started to plateau and I started to somewhat implode — ironically, it was a blissful implosion of worthlessness, straight out of a Tarantino movie. And then, I quit.

HELLO WORLD. It’s like I am reborn. Never have I ever been more focused, and excited about my next steps. I have learnt so much, and I am so pumped to use what I have learnt and apply it to where I can actually make an impact. And the best part about this journey? I’ll be learning throughout. I suddenly prefer staying in and reading to going out and grabbing a drink. What is fiction? And, why would you? I can’t wait to sell all my stuff, and collapse my belongings into a suitcase. I can’t wait to explore the world with the purpose of looking to make a positive social impact. Income inequity is such a shame. Nothing against the rich, but let’s just raise the floor for the poor. There’s enough food to feed the world, but the seesaw is lopsided. Do your donations make the most impact possible? Why are ‘non-profits’ not called ‘for-purpose’? How can Burger King spend millions on advertising while for-purpose organizations get skewered for investing in scale? We are at the cusp of some sort of social enterprise renaissance. As data becomes easily available, the world is getting smarter. I want to be in the middle of it all. And yes, I might be wildly optimistic but this natural high is great. It’s the longest high I have ever had, and I am going to milk it. For once, I am not ashamed of being naïve. I am proud, excited and driven. All I am doing to protect myself is I am hedging my heart. Just a little though, just a little.

P.S. My first stop is Guatemala for 6 months where I will be doing a fellowship at Alterna, a social enterprise cultivator / incubator.

Self Diagnosis

November 28, 2014

I hadn’t worked out in two months. I finally hit the gym on a lazy Thanksgiving Friday, vowing to bust a sweat everyday for the next two weeks, so I could trim up a little before heading home to Dubai for the winter. After destroying my mind and body with unhealthy grub-ness and beautiful intoxication over the past few months, the gym session turned out to be a little pathetic. But, I rushed back home to write.

Work sucks my soul. It’s deceiving because you’re compensated for it, so you “can’t help it.” More importantly, it stumps your brain from doing anything after. And, I worry when my deep-sleep dreams are dominated by my new domicile – work. So, when that long weekend comes along where you don’t have a whole lot of trash planned, the brain craves stimulation – a stimulation not driven by monetary compensation, but by a true desire to nurture pride. Or that’s what I am attributing this epiphany to. Yay.

I’ve realized that I have spent a lot of my life adapting. Trying to “fit in” and not be that “weird” dude from abroad. It started in first grade. I was thrown into a preppy private school full of wealthy kids. For a little street rat sputtering in a language that wasn’t English, who played in chappals on the roads of a suburban city in India, to be thrown into an arguably uptight English private school, was slightly unnerving. Thank the lord I learnt English though because three years later, we shipped ourselves to the Emirates. Enter Dubai and all it’s vainness, and begin “Fitting-In:  Phase Two". Don’t get me wrong, after “fitting-in,” I did thrive a little. But, just when I started singing my song, it was time to set sail again. I hit the oh-so-liberal state of Texas for my college education. A new continent brought with it a whole lot more “fitting-in” that I could imagine. This was phase three – I should have been getting better at it at this point. Or not. My exposure to sex, drugs and rock and roll EDM was baptism by fire. It was such a different world, and I was so different from it, but not indifferent to it. I didn’t want to be that weird “FOB” that immature juveniles snickered about. It was a battle – how do I be generally accepted and yet, be true to myself? From haircuts to extra-curriculars, I did what I did best – I fit in.

I am in New York now and there’s something surreal about this city. I am constantly exposed to people that are doing anything but “fitting in”. They are doing what they love and working hard at it. They embrace the pain and share the pleasure. Their comfort zone is the uncomfortable. It’s so inspiring and yet a little depressing, but all in all, a much needed slap in the face.

While I was in the gym today, my brain, probably turned on by some much needed physical exercise, churned out a fittingly unscientific diagnosis of sorts from all the above chatter: Amidst all this “fitting in”, I’ve lost sight of what I really want, and who I really am (cue: gasps). I have been so busy protecting myself from standing out that blending in is all I am good at. My escape is lighting my emotions and building castles in the air that I suddenly see crumbling down. I have less to be proud of, just a lot of mystical pipeline-pride I seem to take solace in. I don’t remember the last time I set fire to my comfort zone. I am getting way too comfortable in mediocrity, and that’s scary.

Don’t get me wrong, all of the above sounds a lot more lethal than it really is.  I have amazing people in my life that have made this more of a joyride than anything else. This isn’t a tragedy that I’m addressing, just a diagnosis. Sometimes laying it out helps you take the next step.

P.S. http://www.quickmeme.com/img/1e/1e462aa4dc8d5e394c146c5e70043f2ae36946ba7161be7100f7a8cd010db488.jpg

Goodbye San Antonio, Hello New York

June 1, 2014

Transitions are exciting. “A new chapter.” “A new beginning.” New people with a few drops of the old. A restart. A cleanse of sorts. Exploration. Opportunity. A reboot. A chance to correct, improve and grow. A step forward, hopefully. It’s all a part of the plan, or not really.

Transitions are hard. Goodbyes. We pretend that goodbyes are never goodbyes, and only see-you-again’s, but that’s optimism at its best. A step away from your comfort zone is pretty uncomfortable. Good or bad, time etches a sense of settlement. Disturbing that settlement makes you lost for a little, until you slowly find your newly adapted comfort zone. Discomfort teaches you the most about yourself.

I have dreamt of New York, cheesy as it sounds. I interned here a few years ago, and it was such a tease. It’s wrong and harmful to fall for something you can’t really have. So until nothing could jinx my move here, I hedged my hope. All that’s history now. I’m all moved in, have a Saturday soccer league I play in, a whopping awesome familial support system, a Citi Bike key and a wonderfully spoilt crib. I’ve always struggled with the sense of belonging. Nobody really belongs to New York City – it’s this transitional melting cauldron, infested with corporate soul-eating, yet an ever-enthralling roller coaster of opportunity not always meant for children, and definitely not meant for folks that have a distaste for sirens and horns. I take solace in believing that I might actually belong where no one really belongs. For once, diversity makes up the majority of the population. Makes me feel all nice and giddy inside, so that’s all that matters.

San Antonio was a little soulless. But it served its purpose. My co-workers were a joy, and my learning curve unprecedented, at least in my short history. More importantly, work paved my way to my next pit stop. Plus, I finally got the chance to learn the art of driving, because being carless in San Antonio is like listening to music on mute. I eventually found an endearing group of friends that consisted of people who were nothing like me, and nothing like who I’d ever imagine getting closely acquainted with. On retrospection, it is fascinating how close I got to them, and how much I felt for them. Good people are good people – doesn’t matter where they come from, what their past is and what they do. Jack Dup always and forever.

It’s been two months in New York and I feel like I have physically settled in. I did build up this city way too much, and building anything up way too much is unhealthy. Realizing that grounds you though, which is always a good thing. There are certain things I want to conquer in this city, and certain interests I want to explore. Nothing like being in a city where nothing is impossible.

P.S. Food food food, so spoilt here for food.

Emotional Rollercoaster

May 3, 2014

Till the day before, I had not properly spoken to my parents for a good fifteen days. My nights are painfully nostalgic and I am missing home more than I previously thought I would. Getting on to Facebook late in the night, - tired, but longing for belonging and longing for the treasured companionship that is now only the past, I was often depressed. Not depressed in the sense that I have issues, but just sad. Lost in memories, I started to wonder whether I will ever find friends like the ones I left behind. The whole concept of starting my life again, seems exciting, but at the same time a little scary. To physically disassociate from the life I once breathed, and the people I knew and loved, is sometimes difficult to swallow. Maybe it’s because I am thinking too much and have nothing else to do late at night. Yes, I know it’s a phase, and that everyone goes through it. Yes I know it’s temporary and it will last for sometime, before stabilizing itself like it does every morning anyway. Yes, I know I will meet new people, learn new things, grow, enjoy the independence, enjoy 6^th Street [hopefully] and get accustomed to the “new life”. Yes I am excited and I have been excited ever since I have been here. I know all of this, and I know everything will eventually work itself out. But knowing is not feeling. And I can’t help but let nostalgia get the better of me sometimes. Attachment and detachment, however opposite they are, are both so hard.

Ahhh, life! Fascinating, we humans are.

P.S. I don’t know why it took me so long to watch Good Will Hunting – it is an unbelievably brilliant movie, so if you haven’t seen it yet, please do watch it.

Ink

March 3, 2013

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

January 26, 2013

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

January 19, 2013

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.