Each Beautiful Picture

So many times in life we bend our heads over in deep regret, wishing we had never made the move we made or had taken the plunge when we had the chance. We feel disappointed in ourselves, thinking we could have had so much more or be so much more. Many times, those deep, dark regrets overshadow our entire lives, eclipsing every single good thing that has sprung up since then. We fail to see that so much has happened since then to be grateful for. We immerse ourselves so fully into the dark past that we even fail to acknowledge or appreciate all the wonderful things that have lit up our lives as a direct result of that one missed opportunity.

So many people live out the entirety of their lives in some shell of regret, piling up on all those negative memories every single day. Instead of rising from the deep and soaring to the clear blue sky, they spiral ever downwards into the deep, dark chasm, all because they can't forgive themselves for one little mistake in their lives. Life is so much more than just one missed opportunity. We should learn to appreciate and celebrate life everyday, looking forward to each bright, new day with renewed spirits and a sense of optimism.

Sure, all of us make mistakes every now and then, but one grave mistake is no reason to give up on life entirely. Each bad choice should be analysed for what it is and noted down for future reference, but it should never be allowed to plunge your whole life into a bottomless pit of depression. When seen against the vast canvas of life waiting to be painted fresh, no single mistake can overwhelm your spirits. What is already painted cannot be undone, but we can strife to paint the rest of the picture as beautifully as we can. If and when we can do that, we would have lived a truly worthwhile life.

My Tryst With Life And Death!

Mumbai is a bustling city. Here, utter poverty and uber-richness coexist in seemingly harmonious fashion. A passing visitor might look on in amazement of the highest degree as they behold rickety slums on one side of the street and mega-storey luxury apartments on the other. But to the resident "Mumbaiker", it'll be all to see that nothing is out of place. That is actually what makes Mumbai the Mumbai it is. Overcrowded. Huge disparity in the distribution of wealth.

As we first descended over Mumbai, all we could see down below were numerous blue hills. Someone quickly pointed out to me that what we were seeing were actually the slums on the outskirts of the city. And man, they were huge! Not just regular huge but HUGE, in full caps! Before my unbelieving eyes the blue hills slipped by beneath us and the bold Mumbai skyline came into view. The transition was phenomenal!

I was alone in a strange, new city. As my first week in Mumbai passed in a flurry of filling application forms, clearing advance dues and settling into the hostel, I became more and more aware of how much my little knowledge of Hindi was helping me. I could at least read banners and other notices in public places, thereby saving me a lot of energy and perhaps some amount of embarrassment too.

The first discomfort I faced was the food, which was way too spicy for my more delicate digestive system, and which eventually led to my being hospitalised for three days. It's a good thing I'm slowly getting used to it. Everything else was not too shabby, at least after some adjustments were made. And there I was, standing nervously on the threshold of a new chapter in my life. Later I would discover just how difficult life was going to be from that moment on. For now I was just a little too hazy and wobbly.

Amidst all the many exciting new flavours of experiences life was now bringing me, I remember one very particularly. And for a very good reason too. It was truly a night to test my courage and survival skills.

I was a thrilled eighteen year old, and the reason for my thrill was that I was finally visiting home for my first summer holiday. The airport is a good two hours by train from my hostel--and I can't even begin to describe the conditions of the local trains here in Mumbai carrying five times their capacity during peak hours--and my flight was due early the next morning, so I wisely decided to spend the vigil night at my friend's, who by the way was to be my travel companion and also whose place was just 10 measly minutes from said airport. Well, why not? That seemed a good enough reason. Now for my ordeal following that decision.

Having made up my unsuspecting mind, I immediately dragged my suitcase (which, by the way, had been packed a good two weeks beforehand) to the nearest train station, which in my case was just across the road. "Endure one hour today and breeze through tomorrow," I told myself through clenched teeth as I stepped into the end-position of the quarter-mile long queue at the ticket counter, which, to my immediate irritation and impatience, was currently vying for the "world's slowest moving queue" title. I grudgingly participated.

After waiting for nearly as long as the duration of the dreaded journey itself that awaited me, I was finally at the counter. So much for forgiveness and tolerance, I calmly took my bitter-sweet time getting my ticket. I deliberately incoherent-iated the name of my stop when asked. It was perfectly understandable (provided the ticket-man remained in the dark about my now almost impeccable Hindi) because I was just an unsuspecting tourist struggling for the hair on his head trying to wrap his tongue around the slippery slopes of the local tongue. The station's name was Andheri(Ahn-dhay-ree) by the way, but which I persistently re-christened "And-the-rye". After enjoying the drama for about 10 minutes and ultimately getting tired of it, I hopped to the platform to await my train.

Fifteen minutes of patient waiting later, someone informed a clueless me that the Andheri platform was at the other end of the station. I prayed to God my recent "deed" had not caught up with me yet and hurried into the churning crowd to escape its presence if it indeed had.

A mighty wave of crushing human bodies carried me and my suitcase into a compartment where I stood packed in a Mumbai sub-urban train human-pie until another wave washed me out at my stop. I mused that if ever I had to go through a time-portal, the experience would not be too unfamiliar to me. Jump in; get crushed; escape out at the other end. Phew!

It was raining when I arrived. Not to worry. I nonchalantly fished out my umbrella from my bag and sauntered down the corridor-like platform and out the exit. I stood there for a good twenty minutes before I realised that something was totally wrong. Upon enquiry, I learned that the taxi union had called for a hike that day to protest against fares and the ever-rising fuel costs. This was turning into an ugly situation. It was late night now and I had not the slightest idea which way to go next. Or what to do.

I checked my cellphone and my fears came alive as the "No Network Coverage" message flashed across the display in almost taunting bold letters. The in-built GPS had no signal either and the internal Maps were no help either as I couldn't make out my current position. I felt some neurons snap inside my overheated brain and burst out laughing in the pouring rain, looking like a total lunatic.

I did some direction-asking and returned more confused than ever as the instructions couldn't have been more conflicting from source to source. I shrugged it all away and took a leap of faith down the street. I felt I had never been more courageous.

Five minutes into my determined stroll, I was dripping wet from head to toe, walking down the deserted street like the dead man dragging his coffin from that good ol' ghost story someone absolutely terrified me with as a kid. My oversized suitcase was water-proof by the way. I braved through twenty more minutes before a miracle manifested before my eyes. A lone taxi stood parked at the side of the road. I tensed immediately. Robbers? Murderers? A serial-killer waiting for his next victim? A scene from "Zodiac" flashed before my eyes.

I slowed down and carefully circumvented the next-morning paper's front-page news. I wasn't taking any chances. I heard someone yell behind me as I passed the taxi. Pretending not to have heard, I quickened my steps, only to hear a pair of footsteps splashing through the street towards me. My heart nearly exploded. I turned around and faced the driver, an old Muslim man. He didn't look dangerous in any way, and I could tell that he definitely didn't fit into any of the categories I had listed earlier. He told me that he'd be willing to drop me to my destination. I agreed and followed, because I trusted him to be a good man. But mostly because I could also tell that I was quite capable of "handling" him if I had to.

Once seated in the warmth of the back-seat, he informed me that he was taking a huge risk in going against the union's directives by plying today. I could tell he had something really serious to tell me by the look on his face. He leaned closer and told me that he'd be charging 10 times the rate. I heaved a huge sigh of relief and smiled. He smiled back, relieved too, and I told him where to go. As we drove down the street, the events of the night began to fade from my mind like nothing more than just a horrible nightmare. There was nothing to worry about now.

My smile broke into a beam as I gleefully realised that I had been walking in the right direction afterall!

Extraordinary Measures

Before I say anything else, thank you for stopping by at my new blog and reading its first post. I'll be nineteen next month and though I can safely say that more stuff than is comfortable are simultaneously fighting for my undivided attention right now, I'll strive to give this blog as much time as I possibly can, and hopefully I'll be able to share with everyone even just a small part of my life.

When we were small, Dad used to make us keep diaries. First me and my younger brother, and then my sister when she came of age. My littlest sister is still in the waiting but she'll be joining the bandwagon soon enough. And yes, I'm the eldest in my family. I still remember how we would protest and Dad would calmly try to explain why he thought keeping diaries weren't as nonsensical as we argued it was. But then, Dad is Dad afterall, and before very long he would give the final word in his stern final-tone that would silence us all immediately.

In the beginning, we would simply pen a line a day, summing up an entire day's story in one filmsy, careless line. Most of them started with "Today . . ." followed by the one-line summary. Every 31st December evening we would receive our new diaries, 365 or 366 fresh entries waiting to be filled in. Over the years, our resistance relaxed and we slowly came to enjoy it too. The best part was opening our diaries at the end of the year and following our journey from January 1 to December 31. We laughed and cried as we witnessed a full year of our lives roll before us page by page, in the most detailed narrations. And Dad would simply look on and smile.

Even today, my diary is my closest and dearest possession, sharing secrets not even known to my closest friend. In those pages, I find an unfathomable energy, a power, that lifts my soul and gives me strength. I can pour out my heart, share my deepest fears and secrets, my achievements and failures without the slightest worry about being betrayed.

What I'm doing is not a childhood habit that refused to die with growing up. It's an investment. How many of us stop, just for a second, and wonder what life truly is all about? What makes a person's life worth it all? What is the measure of a person's life?

The answer is quite simple: memories. That is what life is all about. That is what makes a person's life worth it all. That is the measure of a person's life. In the end, we're left with nothing but memories. And then, when that moment finally dawns on our horizons, we'll see who's truly rich and who made poor investments.

I know that one day all the diaries that I've written so far will be a testimony to my life, speaking on my behalf. Even today I sit down sometimes and flip through those pages, amazed at how far I've really come. Sometimes a tiny smile lights up my face as I come across a happy memory. Sometimes I laugh out loud. Sometimes I blush with embarrassment as I stumble upon one of my not-too-proud-of days. And sometimes I cry as I relive that painful moment a second time. That is the joy of keeping a diary.

It's never too late to start writing one. Wherever you are, whatever you're doing, however old or young you may be, each person's life is a unique story, a story worth telling. Nobody's life is too unexciting or too uneventful to not merit a journal page. And then if you want to spice up your story, go ahead, spice up your life. You don't need any special writing skills to start writing a diary. Afterall, it's your life's story. No one else can narrate it better, or with more detail, than you can.

There are many ways to write diaries, but the most common is to write it as though you are narrating the story to a friend. It's not a school essay you're working on but rather a conversation with an intimate friend. It also helps to give your diary a name, so it feels more real. Stick with the name even when you get new diaries.

Many people dismiss the idea of keeping a diary saying that they can keep it all in their heads. Yes, big incidents in our lives are very rarely forgotten and most of us can narrate them with the tiniest details even years later. But life is just not the big moments alone. In fact, it's all those moments in between the big moments that eventually make up our lives. What is a story without all the moments leading up to the big moment. In fact, the big moment is not even a proper moment without the rest of the plot.

I earnestly hope that this article has inspired you to start keeping a diary if you don't have one yet, or atleast meant something to you on some level. And for those of us already doing it, let us continue to work towards investing on all those wonderful memories in life. Along the way we may sometimes drift away or just get lazy, but let us remember that one day, these pages will be our greatest assets, assets no amount of money can ever hope to buy.