# 28 - One Indian Author - Chetan Bhagat

It’s fashionable these days to dismiss Chetan Bhagat, as a writer, and a human being.

Screenshots from his latest book ‘One Indian Girl’ (page 56 to be specific) have gone viral, not for good reasons. As my Facebook Timeline informs me, he has been branded as a misogynist for certain portions of the book, he has been pulled up for one line in particular, mind you, he is writing in the first person this time, as a girl. The line goes “This is how we girls are. At times we want to be wanted, even when we deny it.”

Yikes!

Of course, this line hasn’t yet acquired the status of ‘Deti hai toh de, varna kat le’ from ‘Half Girlfriend’ and I suspect it never will, being somewhat lacking in shock value. 

I guess this is the part that I let out that I kind of like Chetan Bhagat.

And yes, I loved ‘5 point someone’.

"Buy the book, watch the movie, see the TV show."

If you follow his articles in Times of India, (for the moment leave aside the content, let’s just talk about his style) you’ll probably agree that he is to the point, expresses his thoughts clearly, displays a greater vocabulary range and sophistication than what you’ll find in his novels, and arguably – the content is devoid of misogynistic ideas.

Love him or hate him, you definitely can’t ignore Mr. Chetan Bhagat.

As mentioned in the back-cover of his books, he is ‘the biggest – selling English-language novelist in India’s history.’

Take that Arundhati Roy, Arvind Adiga, Amitav Ghosh,  Salman Rushdie, Vikram Sheth, and yes, Shobha De, Durjoy Dutta, you too.

So what makes Chetan Bhagat surpass the people listed above? His work definitely lacks the literary merit of the above-listed writers (barring two).

The target audience, for one.

Our friend CB knows what works, and what doesn’t.

He also knows that he can’t be a Vikram Sheth, no matter how much he tries.

But why would he try to be Vikram Sheth in the first place?

He plays to his strengths, and caters to the masses, and yes, he knows What Young India Wants.

Make no mistake, he isn’t entirely lacking in talent or sensibilities, ignore the badly written sex scenes [Again, Page No. 56 from One Indian Girl] or the stalker-type-lead-character in most of his novels.

There are two factors to be considered here.

Firstly, it’s fiction, goddamnit! When a character in his novel expresses his/her disgust for South Indians, or exhibits behaviour that is borderline psychopathic, it isn’t Chetan Bhagat letting off steam, it’s a character in a book. Deal with it.

How ridiculous is it when we play Sigmund Freud and attribute these character traits to him? I can imagine CB (when he is not partying with Bollywood stars, judging reality shows, or for that matter – writing) reading articles and comments disparaging him and shaking his head and thinking to himself: ‘Stephen King doesn’t have to deal with this shit.’

If we judge Chetan Bhagat for the way characters in his books talk and behave, we should also judge Mario Puzo, Martin Scorsese or Quentin Tarantino, right?

Secondly, what Chetan Bhagat writes, probably touches a chord somewhere. He identifies  and talks about things people identify with, popular issues - be it with respect to college life, call centre culture, or a desi munda having trouble pataoing a dilliwali.

‘Midnight’s  Children’ may be a fine, critically acclaimed book, but all I know is that I couldn’t go past page ten, my head hurt from the author’s obsession in describing a man’s nose.

I remember reading ‘Five Point Someone’ in the first year of my college, and I identified with a lot of the portions, the ragging, the GPA references, some of the other bits.

As far as my views were concerned, it was a funny, contemporary take on campus life penned by an insider, someone who had gone through the struggles, and managed to write an immensely readable book about it.

Mind you, contrary to popular perception about his readers, I was not a beginner to reading English novels at that point of time.

Think about it, with all of us busy dissing him and his writing, who are the ones reading his work?

For that matter, how are we able to criticise his novels without reading them in the first place?

I suspect it’s not just the tier II, tier III townies who are reading CB books, and I am pretty much sure that the appeal of his books is not restricted to people who are just ‘graduating’ from vernacular languages to English.

IT’S YOU.

Well if not you in particular, your son/daughter/ neighbour/neighbour’s wife who’s secretly having an affair with your son, etc.

I call it the Twilight effect.

Everyone you know seems to despise it, yet millions of copies have been sold and the movie series has made billions.

Chetan Bhagat is unashamedly masala. He is the roadside paanipuri wala (for example’s sake). You have doubts about the hygiene, but you visit him nevertheless, albeit slyly.  

People are reading Chetan Bhagat books, watching movies based on them, and they will continue to do so, there’s a market for it, and that market is growing, because there are INDEED people from Tier II/ Tier III cities as well who are reading his work, and of course those who are graduating to angrezi books.

And as stats show, they are loving him.

So, cringe.

Cringe, when you read an article about Chetan Bhagat waxing his legs as a part of his research on the female psyche.

Cringe, when you read lines like ‘This is how we girls are. At times we want to be wanted, even when we deny it’.

But, at the end of it all, padhna hai toh padh, nahin toh kat le. 

Image from here.

# 27 - Very Short Story - Piklu

As the rain lashed outside, 8 year old Piklu stared out of the window with his mouth wide open.

He recalled what his elder brother had told him a couple of years ago.

"That's not really a tree you know?" His brother had said matter-of-factly, pointing at the giant Sal tree that could be seen from the window. 

"Oh yeah? Then what is it?" Piklu had asked eagerly, sensing a story.

“It’s an old cursed monster”, replied his brother, with an air of theatricality.

Piklu belonged to that delicate age group when stories of knights and dragons from faraway lands had started losing their appeal, but he wasn’t yet old enough to completely disregard them.  After some thought, he said “You’re lying. I don’t believe you.”

His brother was a master storyteller who knew how principles of attention worked; with a shrug he said, “Fine. Don’t believe me. But what I was about to tell, would’ve helped you” and with that bit of mystery hanging in the air, he got up to leave.

- Okay, okay, tell me the story.

His brother sat down with a smile and started his narration.

-Many many years ago, there was a monster who used to terrorize people, eating them up. Eating up ten people at a time, sometimes even twenty.

“Why?” asked Piklu.

-What do you mean why? That's what monsters do, don't you know anything?

- Yes yes. I know. I was testing you. Go on.

-So the villagers went to a sage for help, because this monster was eating 30 people a day, and soon no one would be left.

-You said he ate 10-20 people.

-Yes, it was okay when he was eating 10-20 people a day, but he later started having 30...that's when the problem started. Interrupt me again, and I will slap. Now listen... So the old and powerful sage went up to the monster and asked him to stop eating people up...but the monster, full of arrogance, refused, so the sage and the monster had a great fight but –

-Don’t lie. Sages don't fight.

SMACK...retribution was swift and hard, and Piklu's cheeks turned a shade of red rather quickly. Pondering whether to cry and complain, Piklu realised that the story was unfinished, and didn't say a word.
-The next time you interrupt, I’ll slap you even harder. Some sages fight. Anyway, as I was saying, so the sage fought with the monster and finally defeated him. But, being a sage, he didn't kill him, he just made him sleep, chained him up and turned him into this tree so that he is rooted here and can't go anywhere else.

- That's it? What a stupid story. and why did you hit me? I am telling Maa.

As Piklu got up to run, his brother sensed that Piklu's complaint could lead to him receiving a thrashing of his own, so he grabbed Piklu's hand and said "Arre Piklu, the story may be finished, but the lesson isn't. I want to warn you, there's a particular time when the monster is awake, and if you don't tell Maa, I will tell you what that time is so that you can be safe."

Curious again, Piklu sat down. His brother thought for some time and then told him how every time it rained at night, the monster woke up, while still rooted and immobile, it was almost certain that anyone crossing the tree at such an ungodly  time would be eaten up, as the monster's hands were free and he could swoop up people.

The story left a lasting impression on Piklu, and he believed it - indeed every time it rained at night, the three storeys high tree appeared no less than a monster. The howling of the wind seemed like a growling demon. The dark outlines of the tree clearly betrayed the shape of a monster trembling in rage, flailing its arms wildly to catch passers-by, it was sheer luck that no one ventured close to the tree at these times, Piklu thought.

Then one day, the unthinkable happened, after a particularly stormy night, in the morning Piklu saw that the tree had been uprooted, it had been struck by lightning, and was mostly burnt - the monster had fallen lifeless.

Piklu felt relieved, the monster was finally dead. Now everyone could cross the area, even when it was dark and raining.

Soon thereafter, in the vacant area where the tree had once been, construction work began, finally, they would have a neighbour. A house was built, and much to Piklu's disappointment, the family that moved in didn't have a child.

It was a young couple, the husband had long hair, which he tied neatly in a bun, he wore round glasses, and fashioned a beard almost long enough to rival Tagore’s, whose framed picture hung in Piklu’s study room .

 They seemed nice enough but hardly interacted with anyone.

It was that time of the year again, the dreaded kalboishakhi, the monsoons.

One rainy evening, Piklu, out of habit, stared out of his window.

Where the Monster had once been, stood the newly constructed house. The windows were open, and the light from the bedroom spilled over to the drawing room where the man was standing.

His hair was no longer tied, it was all frizzy and falling over his forehead, he held a bottle in one hand and was trembling, his wife was kneeling beside him, crying for some reason, and with his free arm, he took a swing at the woman, knocking her out, yet he kept hitting her, laughing as he did, Piklu couldn't hear his laughter over the wind, or perhaps his laughter was the sound of the wind.

Standing by his window, Piklu started shivering -  the monster was back.

***

Note: One of my earlier short stories, in fact still pretty proud of this piece. Not sure if that's a good thing or bad.

# 26 - Excerpt from a short story

Here is an excerpt from a short story I am currently writing. I have no idea when I am going to be finishing this, but it won't, in all likelihood be published in this blog, but nevertheless, have a look:

***

There was nothing particularly interesting about New Shakti Tower in Andheri East, at least during the day time it was as ordinary as a middle class residential premise could be in a locality bustling with commercial activity.

Thousands of people crossed the seven storey building without bothering to take a second look. Not that they were supposed to, in a city where the age old adage about time being money held particular importance, New Shakti Tower didn’t merit a second glance.

No one took notice of the building simply because it didn’t appear any different from the tens and thousands of other structures that lined the city; people of all ages, sizes and shapes came out in the mornings and heading out somewhere, presumably to their respective places of work; in the noons the building wore a deserted look, nothing unusual about that as well, and in the evenings, just before sunset, if someone would have bothered to cross-check, the same group of people who had left earlier in the day - returned.

Day in and day out, the same chain of events repeated itself, nothing unusual at all.

Except of course the fact that there were never any lights on in the building, not even after the entire batch of people re-entered their homes – that bit was odd.

In a city that never slept, the fact that there existed a tower, seemingly occupied, the residents of which were used to living in complete and utter darkness once the sun went down was anything but normal.

It wasn’t as if no one noticed this, but being situated in a commercial part of the locality, the office goers in proximity had little inclination to wonder about the oddity of New Shakti Tower.

Occasionally the passers-by did look at the building and talk about it, they sometimes wondered if it was an abandoned place; while travelling in groups in the evenings, it wasn’t rare for an individual to comment that the place looked haunted, but that was about it, their curiosity about the dark building never lasted too long. The fact that there were no reported incidents of criminal or paranormal activity in the area definitely helped, and New Shakti Tower continued being unremarkable, at least to the discernible eye.

***

Feedback is welcome. I know, I know, I am no greatbong, and this blog ain't Random Thoughts of a Demented Mind, but hey, can't blame a guy for trying, right?

P.S. Horror is the new romance.  

# 25 - Short Story - The Village

"Don't leave the village at night", Poonni di told me, waving her index finger in front of my face.

When a 90 something-year-old woman says a thing like that, you are bound to get a little jumpy, except I wasn't scared. Who could get scared of Poonni di?

I laughed, joining the other men-folk.

There was nothing remotely scary about the atmosphere at Tarapur, the sun touched the horizon, melting into a pond big enough to be called a lake, the unpolluted air brushed against my face, and I watched the birds rushing  to settle down to their nests as they sensed the impending dusk,

I realised that it was almost time for me to leave.

I was born in this village, Tarapur had been my home for the first eight years of my life before my family relocated to Kolkata, and it was only now, after twenty-four years, that I was visiting my place of birth.

I had planned this trip many times, but something or the other had always come up. It had finally taken a transfer to Cuttack, which was a five-hour drive from here, for the long unfulfilled dream to come true, even if the stay was only for a day.

Most of my memories of Tarapur had faded with time, but of the few that hadn't, Poonni di's was the most prominent. She was a distant relative of ours and until my family left the village for good, she, along with her grandson Janardan, stayed with us.

My world had once revolved around Poonni di, and I suspected that her's did too, for Janardan, who was about my age, frequently complained about the lack of attention he received from her. I remembered us having frequent fights for this reason, always ending with Poonni di separating the two of us and slapping Janardan. When we did leave Tarapur, we couldn't take Poonni di and Janardan along with us, and it had broken my heart,

Though we hadn't met in all these years, I never quite forgot her, she was the reason I wanted to visit Tarapur in the first place, taking a chance that she would still be alive and be able to recognize me, the gamble had paid off. I even met Janardan, and he seemed to have forgotten all about our animosity.

"Don't worry Poonni di, from now on, I will be coming to visit you at least once a month", I told her, trying to assure the old lady as well as myself.

She didn't seem to fully comprehend my words, and blinked a couple of times before looking away.

- "Is Janardan back? Would like to say goodbye to him before I leave."

Poonni di continued to avoid my gaze; one of the men who had heard my query shook his head, "you better get going, it will be quite late by the time he gets back."

I took the leave of my newly made acquaintances and came back to Poonni di; her excitement at meeting me had all but evaporated. Maybe she wasn't doing as well as I had thought earlier, physically she was still quite fit, but perhaps senility had been setting in.

 "I will be back soon. Tell Janardan to come and visit me sometime." I said, hoping for a response, seeing none I touched her feet and got up to leave, but in a swift motion she grabbed my hand, and with a look of terror, she spoke "Don't leave. Not tonight. It's not safe."

"What's not safe Pooni di? The highways are quite safe, they have lights and everything, it's only a few hours drive. I will be home by 11."

She shook her head vigorously, "There are things, not safe. Stay for the night, you can leave early tomorrow."

I looked at her face, criss-cross with wrinkles, yes, she was old, but her eyes didn't show any signs of mental incapacity,

"What are these things?" I insisted on asking, but she wouldn't elaborate any further.

"I must get back by tonight, I can't afford to miss office tomorrow; but don't you worry, I'll be safe, if any of you had a cellphone, I would have called to confirm."

It seemed as if she wanted to say something, so I asked her to walk me to my car, which I had parked near the only pucca building in the vicinity, which was Pooni Di's house, or rather Janardan's. A few of the others also insisted on accompanying me.

"So what does Janardan exactly do for a living?" I asked Poonni Di during our brief walk.

"He has some business. He goes to a nearby town, he has a cellphone, but there's no network here." answered a man on Poonni Di's behalf.

Janardan was clearly a respected man in the village, not only did he have a house, he had a cellphone too, so what if there was no network, and I had seen that he had owned a bike as well; in a village caught almost in a time warp, people were impressed easily, the fact that I owned a car had them calling me 'sir'.

I waved everyone goodbye, and just as I was about to start the engine, Poonni Di leaned near the window and whispered carefully, as if she was afraid that some entity would hear what she was about to say.

"If you see anything strange on your way, don't stop, don't get down from the car," she said, and stepped away.

As I drove along the dirt road, I got more and more convinced that Poonni Di wasn't very healthy.

A few boys ran alongside the car, leaving muddy handprints all over the body.

I didn't mind.

The small conveniences of an urban location aside, there was nothing strange about Tarapur; it had felt like home.
The kindness and simplicity of complete strangers, the slow paced life, the lack of stress, what was not to love about this place?

Maybe someday, I would come back to this place for good, join Janardan in his business or whatever. Make up for the folly that my father had committed in leaving by coming back.

The dirt road made way for an asphalt highway in half an hour or so; it was a lonely stretch and barring the road itself, very little signs of civilization appeared; an occasional horn from an unseen truck, a makeshift tent on the side of the road, sometimes an abandoned tire hanging from a tree.

I enjoyed the calmness, whistling to an old Kishore Kumar song, I forgot all about my worries.

Darkness descended all of a sudden without warning, and the silence was replaced by a steady chirping of crickets and croaking of frogs. I even saw foxes crossing the road a couple of times. The trees on either side formed a series of arches over the road by the meeting of their branches and thick foliage. The headlamps pierced the darkness as I moved along; sections of the road momentarily visible only to be enveloped by gloom after my crossing.

Street lights now began to appear, but they were few and far in between, and only half of them worked, doing precious little to justify their presence.

Up way ahead, at a bend in the road, something caught my attention and I slowed down my car as I approached the point.

An accident.

A matador truck and a bike had seemingly collided, and the bike lay down sideways, the matador stood slightly ahead with its hazard lights blinking, almost blocking the entire road.

Right next to the bike, a human figure lay unmoving, with his hands twisted at an angle they wouldn't ordinarily make.

I had seen plenty of accidents, had encountered much worse scenes, but out here in the woods, almost running into a dying, or already dead, man, I began to shake uncontrollably.

 Taking a moment to gather myself, I wondered what I should do. Do I take the man into my car and go to the nearest hospital as soon as I could find one, or do I call the police or hospital and hope that they arrive at the scene as soon as possible? But, of course, there was still no reception on my phone.

I got out of the car, still panicked, but having decided that I would help out the victim. Carrying him to a hospital was the least I could do.

I had barely walked a couple of steps in the direction of the man when Poonni Di's words came back to me, and as soon as it did, I realised that the peace and calm of Tarapur had long been gone, replaced by a sense of terror.

Here I was, in the middle of nowhere, untraceable to anyone, trying to save a man who was probably already dead; for all practical purposes I was alone, except, I didn't feel so.

It wasn't just the frogs and the crickets, something told me that my presence was being closely monitored, that each and every movement of mine away from the car was anticipated and awaited. I was being stalked by a presence that I couldn't see, but of whose existence I felt certain.

My rational mind tried feebly to convince me otherwise, but ended up only asking more questions.

How come there was no visible damage to the bike or the truck? Where had the man driving the matador gone? Why did he leave his vehicle behind? If the severity of the accident was so great, why was there no blood flowing from the man lying face down ahead of me?

In spite of my wobbling knees, with every bit of strength that I could muster, I turned around and jumped right back in my car, locked the doors and started the engine, driving away from the scene, I narrowly managed to avoid hitting the truck myself.

Looking at the rear-view mirror, I felt my blood freeze.

The street lights were dim, but they revealed enough; the man lying down, the man who I was almost about to carry into my car, was getting up.

Showing no signs of injury, he dusted off his clothes and looked in the direction of my car, and emerging from behind the trees, five or six men joined him.

I could have been wrong, the mind does play tricks from time to time, and I had hardly seen his face for a second or two before the increasing distance made it impossible to discern any features. but I could have sworn that it was Janardan.

A long lost memory, tucked away in some corner of my brain re-surfaced - the reason why my family had left Tarapur in the first place.

Increasing crimes.
The repeated failure of the crops had made thugs out of farmers.

# 24 - Seven Strange Questions

The blog's name pretty much says it all, the contents are mostly (if not always) useless.

But for a change, here is a post I think is quite motivating, and useful. Chuck that, if there's one self-help article you should read this year, it has to be this. 

As you may have already guessed, the content to follow isn't mine, it's from Mark Manson, who describes himself as an author, a blogger, and an entrepreneur giving personal development advice that doesn't suck.

I agree with him, the article posted below was instrumental in reinitiating my writing endeavours.

Hope you like it.
--

7 Strange Questions That Help You Find Your Life Purpose

One day, when my brother was 18, he waltzed into the living room and proudly announced to my mother and me that one day he was going to be a senator. My mom probably gave him the “That’s nice, dear,” treatment while I’m sure I was distracted by a bowl of Cheerios or something.

But for fifteen years, this purpose informed all of my brother’s life decisions: what he studied in school, where he chose to live, who he connected with and even what he did with many of his vacations and weekends.

And now, after almost half a lifetime of work later, he’s the chairman of a major political party in his city and the youngest judge in the state. In the next few years, he hopes to run for office for the first time.

Don’t get me wrong. My brother is a freak. This basically never happens.

Most of us have no clue what we want to do with our lives. Even after we finish school. Even after we get a job. Even after we’re making money. Between ages 18 and 25, I changed career aspirations more often than I changed my underwear. And even after I had a business, it wasn’t until I was 28 that I clearly defined what I wanted for my life.

Chances are you’re more like me and have no clue what you want to do. It’s a struggle almost every adult goes through. “What do I want to do with my life?” “What am I passionate about?” “What do I not suck at?” I often receive emails from people in their 40s and 50s who still have no clue what they want to do with themselves.

Part of the problem is the concept of “life purpose” itself. The idea that we were each born for some higher purpose and it’s now our cosmic mission to find it. This is the same kind of shitty logic used to justify things like spirit crystals or that your lucky number is 34 (but only on Tuesdays or during full moons).

Here’s the truth. We exist on this earth for some undetermined period of time. During that time we do things. Some of these things are important. Some of them are unimportant. And those important things give our lives meaning and happiness. The unimportant ones basically just kill time.

So when people say, “What should I do with my life?” or “What is my life purpose?” what they’re actually asking is: “What can I do with my time that is important?”

This is an infinitely better question to ask. It’s far more manageable and it doesn’t have all of the ridiculous baggage that the “life purpose” question does. There’s no reason for you to be contemplating the cosmic significance of your life while sitting on your couch all day eating Doritos. Rather, you should be getting off your ass and discovering what feels important to you.

One of the most common email questions I get is people asking me what they should do with their lives, what their “life purpose” is. This is an impossible question for me to answer. After all, for all I know, this person is really into knitting sweaters for kittens or filming gay bondage porn in their basement. I have no clue. Who am I to say what’s right or what’s important to them?

But after some research, I have put together a series of questions to help you figure out for yourself what is important to you and what can add more meaning to your life.

These questions are by no means exhaustive or definitive. In fact, they’re a little bit ridiculous. But I made them that way because discovering purpose in our lives should be something that’s fun and interesting, not a chore.

1. WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE FLAVOR OF SHIT SANDWICH AND DOES IT COME WITH AN OLIVE?

Ah, yes. The all-important question. What flavor of shit sandwich would you like to eat? Because here’s the sticky little truth about life that they don’t tell you at high school pep rallies:

Everything sucks, some of the time.

Now, that probably sounds incredibly pessimistic of me. And you may be thinking, “Hey Mr. Manson, turn that frown upside down.” But I actually think this is a liberating idea.

Everything involves sacrifice. Everything includes some sort of cost. Nothing is pleasurable or uplifting all of the time. So the question becomes: what struggle or sacrifice are you willing to tolerate? Ultimately, what determines our ability to stick with something we care about is our ability to handle the rough patches and ride out the inevitable rotten days.

If you want to be a brilliant tech entrepreneur, but you can’t handle failure, then you’re not going to make it far. If you want to be a professional artist, but you aren’t willing to see your work rejected hundreds, if not thousands of times, then you’re done before you start. If you want to be a hotshot court lawyer, but can’t stand the 80-hour workweeks, then I’ve got bad news for you.

What unpleasant experiences are you able to handle? Are you able to stay up all night coding? Are you able to put off starting a family for 10 years? Are you able to have people laugh you off the stage over and over again until you get it right?

What shit sandwich do you want to eat? Because we all get served one eventually.

Might as well pick one with an olive.

2. WHAT IS TRUE ABOUT YOU TODAY THAT WOULD MAKE YOUR 8-YEAR-OLD SELF CRY?

When I was a child, I used to write stories. I used to sit in my room for hours by myself, writing away, about aliens, about superheroes, about great warriors, about my friends and family. Not because I wanted anyone to read it. Not because I wanted to impress my parents or teachers. But for the sheer joy of it.

And then, for some reason, I stopped. And I don’t remember why.

We all have a tendency to lose touch with what we loved as a child. Something about the social pressures of adolescence and professional pressures of young adulthood squeezes the passion out of us. We’re taught that the only reason to do something is if we’re somehow rewarded for it.

It wasn’t until I was in my mid-20s that I rediscovered how much I loved writing. And it wasn’t until I started my business that I remembered how much I enjoyed building websites — something I did in my early teens, just for fun.

The funny thing though, is that if my 8-year-old self had asked my 20-year-old self, “Why don’t you write anymore?” and I replied, “Because I’m not good at it,” or “Because nobody would read what I write,” or “Because you can’t make money doing that,” not only would I have been completely wrong, but that 8-year-old boy version of myself would have probably started crying.

3. WHAT MAKES YOU FORGET TO EAT AND POOP?

We’ve all had that experience where we get so wrapped up in something that minutes turn into hours and hours turn into “Holy crap, I forgot to have dinner.”

Supposedly, in his prime, Isaac Newton’s mother had to regularly come in and remind him to eat because he would go entire days so absorbed in his work that he would forget.

I used to be like that with video games. This probably wasn’t a good thing. In fact, for many years it was kind of a problem. I would sit and play video games instead of doing more important things like studying for an exam, or showering regularly, or speaking to other humans face-to-face.

It wasn’t until I gave up the games that I realized my passion wasn’t for the games themselves (although I do love them). My passion is for improvement, being good at something and then trying to get better. The games themselves — the graphics, the stories — they were cool, but I can easily live without them. It’s the competition — with others, but especially with myself — that I thrive on.

And when I applied that obsessiveness for improvement and self-competition to an internet business and to my writing, well, things took off in a big way.

Maybe for you, it’s something else. Maybe it’s organizing things efficiently, or getting lost in a fantasy world, or teaching somebody something, or solving technical problems. Whatever it is, don’t just look at the activities that keep you up all night, but look at the cognitive principles behind those activities that enthrall you. Because they can easily be applied elsewhere.

4. HOW CAN YOU BETTER EMBARRASS YOURSELF?

Before you are able to be good at something and do something important, you must first suck at something and have no clue what you’re doing. That’s pretty obvious. And in order to suck at something and have no clue what you’re doing, you must embarrass yourself in some shape or form, often repeatedly. And most people try to avoid embarrassing themselves, namely because it sucks.

Ergo, due to the transitive property of awesomeness, if you avoid anything that could potentially embarrass you, then you will never end up doing something that feels important.

Yes, it seems that once again, it all comes back to vulnerability.

Right now, there’s something you want to do, something you think about doing, something you fantasize about doing, yet you don’t do it. You have your reasons, no doubt. And you repeat these reasons to yourself ad infinitum.

But what are those reasons? Because I can tell you right now that if those reasons are based on what others would think, then you’re screwing yourself over big time.

If your reasons are something like, “I can’t start a business because spending time with my kids is more important to me,” or “Playing Starcraft all day would probably interfere with my music, and music is more important to me,” then OK. Sounds good.

But if your reasons are, “My parents would hate it,” or “My friends would make fun of me,” or “If I failed, I’d look like an idiot,” then chances are, you’re actually avoiding something you truly care about because caring about that thing is what scares the shit out of you, not what mom thinks or what Timmy next door says.

Great things are, by their very nature, unique and unconventional. Therefore, to achieve them, we must go against the herd mentality. And to do that is scary.

Embrace embarrassment. Feeling foolish is part of the path to achieving something important, something meaningful. The more a major life decision scares you, chances are the more you need to be doing it.

5. HOW ARE YOU GOING TO SAVE THE WORLD?

In case you haven’t seen the news lately, the world has a few problems. And by “a few problems,” what I really mean is, “everything is fucked and we’re all going to die.”

I’ve harped on this before, and the research also bears it out, but to live a happy and healthy life, we must hold on to values that are greater than our own pleasure or satisfaction.

So pick a problem and start saving the world. There are plenty to choose from. Our screwed up education systems, economic development, domestic violence, mental health care, governmental corruption. Hell, I just saw an article this morning on sex trafficking in the US and it got me all riled up and wishing I could do something. It also ruined my breakfast.

Find a problem you care about and start solving it. Obviously, you’re not going to fix the world’s problems by yourself. But you can contribute and make a difference. And that feeling of making a difference is ultimately what’s most important for your own happiness and fulfillment.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Gee Mark, I read all of this horrible stuff and I get all pissed off too, but that doesn’t translate to action, much less a new career path.”

Glad you asked…

6. GUN TO YOUR HEAD, IF YOU HAD TO LEAVE THE HOUSE ALL DAY, EVERY DAY, WHERE WOULD YOU GO AND WHAT WOULD YOU DO?

For many of us, the enemy is just old-fashioned complacency. We get into our routines. We distract ourselves. The couch is comfortable. The Doritos are cheesy. And nothing new happens.

This is a problem.

What most people don’t understand is that passion is the result of action, not the cause of it.

Discovering what you’re passionate about in life and what matters to you is a full-contact sport, a trial-and-error process. None of us know exactly how we feel about an activity until we actually do the activity.

So ask yourself, if someone put a gun to your head and forced you to leave your house every day for everything except for sleep, how would you choose to occupy yourself? And no, you can’t just go sit in a coffee shop and browse Facebook. You probably already do that. Let’s pretend there are no useless websites, no video games, no TV. You have to be outside of the house all day every day until it’s time to go to bed — where would you go and what would you do?

Sign up for a dance class? Join a book club? Go get another degree? Invent a new form of irrigation system that can save the thousands of children’s lives in rural Africa? Learn to hang glide?

What would you do with all of that time?

If it strikes your fancy, write down a few answers and then, you know, go out and actually do them. Bonus points if it involves embarrassing yourself.

7. IF YOU KNEW YOU WERE GOING TO DIE ONE YEAR FROM TODAY, WHAT WOULD YOU DO AND HOW WOULD YOU WANT TO BE REMEMBERED?

Most of us don’t like thinking about death. It freaks us out. But thinking about our own death surprisingly has a lot of practical advantages. One of those advantages is that it forces us to zero in on what’s actually important in our lives and what’s just frivolous and distracting.

When I was in college, I used to walk around and ask people, “If you had a year to live, what would you do?” As you can imagine, I was a huge hit at parties. A lot of people gave vague and boring answers. A few drinks were nearly spit on me. But it did cause people to really think about their lives in a different way and re-evaluate what their priorities were.

What is your legacy going to be? What are the stories people are going to tell when you’re gone? What is your obituary going to say? Is there anything to say at all? If not, what would you like it to say? How can you start working towards that today?

And again, if you fantasize about your obituary saying a bunch of badass shit that impresses a bunch of random other people, then again, you’re failing here.

When people feel like they have no sense of direction, no purpose in their life, it’s because they don’t know what’s important to them, they don’t know what their values are.

And when you don’t know what your values are, then you’re essentially taking on other people’s values and living other people’s priorities instead of your own. This is a one-way ticket to unhealthy relationships and eventual misery.

Discovering one’s “purpose” in life essentially boils down to finding those one or two things that are bigger than yourself, and bigger than those around you. And to find them you must get off your couch and act, and take the time to think beyond yourself, to think greater than yourself, and paradoxically, to imagine a world without yourself.

----

Article reproduced with permission from Mark Manson.

Original Link:

http://markmanson.net/life-purpose

#23 - Why I love Taher Shah, and why you should too.

Who is Taher Shah?

Unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past week or so, you’ve probably seen ‘Angel’ - Taher Shah’s second music video which has taken the world by storm. By the time you finish reading this sentence, probably 10,000 more beings have been exposed to his magic.

 In case you haven’t seen it, here’s the video, and in case you have, there’s no such thing as too much of Taher –

So why’s this crap breaking the internet?

Firstly, I object to YOU calling it crap, to be honest, the weird ass video and the tear-inducing lyrics apart, I actually found the tune pretty okay.

My good friend Vijay Purohit told me about Taher Shah a couple of years ago, and I remember watching ‘Eye to Eye’ only halfway, closing the video before the bit about ‘spectrum eyes’.

 But the song didn’t stop on closing the app, it played on in my head, repeatedly.

I gave in to temptation and saw the full video.

Disgusting. Who told this guy he could sing? Who gave him the idea to make a video?

In a while though, I knew something was off when I found myself humming “Without you, I am like a butterfly, without fly.”

I gave myself a mental slap and tried to forget all about Taher.

It was useless; the singer in me might have shut up, but now Taher’s smiling face cropped up everywhere.

Damn. This shit was addictive.

I watched ‘Eye to Eye’ over and over again, until disgust turned to hilarity and finally admiration. Then I watched his interviews.

The thing is, this guy seemed totally oblivious to criticism and didn’t seem to understand that people invited him to their shows with the sole intention of making fun of him.

“What do you plan to do next Taher?” a pretty Pakistani anchor asks him, eyes fluttering.

“My next project is a movie. It is a very love story movie.” He replies, dead serious.

I am still waiting for the said ‘very love story’ movie, it ranks number 3 on my list of ‘Movies I hope are released before I die’ (FYI, ‘Deshdrohi 2 – Return of the Deshdrohi’ and ‘MSG – 3’ are ranked 1 and 2 respectively).

A child like quality about Taher shone through all his interviews, he genuinely seemed to believe that he was the next big thing and that people loved his song for its musical merit.

Maybe the success got to him, maybe he thought he couldn’t fail. But he is at it again, with ‘Angel’.

The video and the lyrics have gotten more atrocious, so have the costumes, but the viewership has expanded as well.

In a span of one week, ‘Angel’ has garnered close to 2 million views.

‘Eye to Eye’ has 2.3 million views in two years.

Let’s face it, Taher Shah has become a bona fide YouTube Superstar.

The versions of the videos with the most views on YouTube appear to have been uploaded by someone else, but I have a sneaky feeling that Taher’s the man who earns from the ads, else he would have obviously had them taken down.

So, here’s what I think.

Behind the cherubic face, sparkling eyes and the 100 watt smile, lies a sharp brain.

You could forgive him for ‘Eye to Eye’, he was an amateur with a modest budget.

But a lot has changed since then, he’s made what I presume to be tons of money, (it shows on the video of Angel, he’s rented a golf course for christ’s sake!) and surely a well-wisher would have subtly warned Taher by now (‘Naa Taher bhai naa, wearing a purple dress and a tiara, and showing off your chest hair is not a good idea’).

Yet, he chose to go ahead, and if viewership and fame are the criteria, it’s obviously a mega success, it’s trended worldwide, even The Washington Post has talked about it.

Taher Shah knows what works and what doesn’t, and he’s made a living out of it.

He keeps the trend going by issuing statements from time to time, such as revealing that his hitherto unknown wife and child have been featured in the video, and issuing a post that says ‘become angel like humans and value humanities worth and diffuse love throughout the world. Like all of you humans are like angels I am also like an angel’ (sic).

He knows that there’s little or no musical merit in his songs, he knows that the videos are pathetic, but he also knows how to turn his weakness into his strength. He knows how the internet works and how to exploit an average internet surfer.

Laugh at him, he wants you to.

For every chuckle and guffaw, keep in mind that he is also laughing; all the way to the bank that is. 

# 22 - Of sexist ads and immature minds

“The more things change, the more they stay the same.” 

- Alphonse Karr

‘Pandeymonium’, the semi-autobiographical book by Mr. Piyush Pandey fleetingly mentions an incident that probably deserved an entire chapter.

Apparently, in 1983, a television commercial for Vicks Cough Drops was pulled off the air, simply because the two year old girl winks at her father.

Rules at the time didn’t allow women to wink on television.

Pause for a second and let that seep in. Keep in mind that Bollywood was still seven years away from its lowest, colourful, loud, sexist phase known as the 90s. Aamir Khan, Ajay Devgan and Akshay Kumar were yet to start their eve teasing antics on the silver screen, which to be fair to them, was the norm those days (Five songs, four murders, three fight sequences, two rape scenes – One helluva superhit).

The point I am trying to make here is that as far as the mainstream media is concerned, the seeds that germinated to that twisted time in the nineties were probably sown much earlier, earlier than the eighties probably.

The media constantly depicted women as mere sex objects, winking or not. Television told us that women were good-for-nothings, bimbettes.

It was as if the sole aim of the female species was to look glamourous in order to catch an unsuspecting mate. Not too glamourous though, else the girl risked getting raped, and of course she deserved it; good girls didn't wear revealing clothes. 

And when women weren't getting their husbands/boyfriends/brothers into trouble, it was probably their sons/grandsons.

Luckily, better sense eventually prevailed. Public perception of what was acceptable and what wasn't, changed, for the better. 

Cut to 2016. Ajay, Aamir and Akshay may not be playing gentlemen on screen, but their perv playing days are certainly over.

So all is good, right?

Wrong.

True, the times have changed; the in-your-face-sexism is no longer prevalent. The message is more subtle these days, and from what I can make out, the men are now at the receiving end.

It probably started with the ‘my choice’ ad. Here, have a look:

There are so many things wrong with this video. It pretends to be progressive, tries way too hard to look cool, highlights non-existing issues, etc. etc. It ends up being a shallow, unimpressive attempt that merits a second viewing only so that you can do a double check on whether she really said what you thought you heard. 

I thought feminism was about equality and not superiority. 

It's sad that this is a part of the Vogue Empower campaign, as the other advertisements in the series were so well made ('ladke rote nahin' featuring Madhuri Dixit and 'Going home' featuring Alia Bhatt).

Then I saw the OLX advertisement which was, for the lack of a better word, disturbing.

The girl in the ad says 'Shaadi se pehle main zyada independent thi', apparently because she doesn't have a car of her own. The husband promptly sells off his own (big) car and gets two smaller cars. Makes sense, right? Well, at least they had the 'equality' bit covered here. 

On a serious note, is having a personal car the criteria for achieving independence? What's wrong with taking a cab home? 

The third and final ad is one that I caught a couple of weeks ago. It's called 'Ariel - #ShareTheLoad'.

This is actually a pretty good advertisement and makes way more sense than the others referred to in this post. Until you stop and think about it for a while.

The scenario is unrealistic. 

The wife in an urban DISK ('Double Income Single Kid') upper-middle-class family as depicted in the ad, is about as likely to wash clothes after returning from office as.....words fail me, this basically never happens. 

Yes, a woman is more likely to do household chores, but don't demean a homemaker. Being a housewife is a full-time profession that doesn't earn pay in monetary terms, but ask the men, it is rarely unappreciated. 

I felt that this was a  well-made and well-intentioned advertisement, but it sends a wrong message in these confused times where the definition of feminism and equality has been lost somewhere between Miley Cyrus's twerking and Indrani Mukherjea's marriages.

I repeat, these are confused times, people mistake feminism for something else, advertisements that declare women as the sole stakeholders in family matters not only miss the point but inspire an entire generation who believe everything that they see on the internet.

Tread carefully, we know what happened last time.  

# 21 - Apologies

"Is it too late now to say sorry? 'cause I am missing more than just your body" croons Justin Bieber in his somewhat new song, but forget Justin Bieber, this is my blog, and thus I apologise to the loyal followers (?!) that I have built up over the years.

I know, I know, like a recovering addict I have gone back on my promise, my promise to post more frequently.

I don't know who my followers are and if they keep visiting this page from time to time, but there's bad news, guys.

I will be publishing new posts only once a month from now on, at least till 30th June 2016.

So what is the sneaky bastard up to now, you wonder, is he feeling too lazy to write again, and what's with the date?

The good news is, no, I am not feeling too lazy to write, far from it.

It's because I am writing elsewhere that I am too busy to collect my thoughts and blog with all my heart.

The thing is, yours truly has turned ambitious, he thinks that he can actually manage to write a novel. That too in four months.

Hah!

I know, I know, truth be told, I don't believe in myself either. But the thing is, I promised myself many moons ago that someday I would actually be good great at something. Something that I enjoyed doing. Something other than video games and profanity contests, and hey, 2016 is still a relatively new year, so what the heck....

So, come on, give this underdog a chance, won't you?

In other news, I had somewhat summarized the Uncle Posts from this blog and emailed it to the Times of India, for publication in the Soul Curry section, and it did get published. You can check it out here.

Well that's about it, for now, I would love to see your comments on this post, but pretty sure that that's not going to happen, but doesn't hurt to ask.

And in case you're wondering what the proposed novel is about, it's the same cliched thing that people (especially Indians) have been writing about since the last two decades. College life, what else?

Ciao, and wish me luck.

#20 - Byomkesh versus Feluda

Fiction in regional languages seems to be on the decline, both in terms of quality and quantity.

As a proud Bengali who has been an avid reader and follower of Bengali literature, it seems the next generation will either switch to English for their reading kicks or must dig into the treasure trove left by Bengali authors born in the first half of the 20^th century. Fortunately, there are still a few left and the trove is deep enough to last a lifetime.

Call me biased, or ill-informed even, but I strongly feel that Bengali literature has been rich and distinctive enough to take on its English counterpart, and it’s a shame that the reading population the world over couldn’t have greater access to the gems that Bengal has produced.

Coming back to what this post is about.

Detective stories have enjoyed their limelight in Bengali fiction, as a matter of fact, the debut of Sherlock Holmes coincided with the first Bengali detective series, Darogar Doptore by Priyanath Mukhopadhyay (himself a retired police official).  This was followed by Panchkori Dey’s Debendra Bijoy Mitra.

I have read neither.

From what I hear, I haven’t missed much there. Things started looking up from Dinendra Kumar Ray’s sleuth Robert Blake, a British detective, London being the setting. Robert Blake, while inspired by Sherlock Holmes, enjoyed unprecedented popularity in its time.

 I remember reading Robert Blake and liking it, unfortunately, it’s been quite a while and I don’t know for certain whether a re-reading would bring back fond memories or lead to the death of a childhood favourite.  

By then, the genre had picked up popularity and investigators of various shapes, size and age started making regular appearances over the years.

Gradually the influence of the Raj began to wane, and the stories became more Indian in nature. Apart from the fact that more stories began to be set in Bengal, the nature of the crimes too began to evolve. For instance, in the case of Bengali investigators earlier, their work at times involved helping the British administration, including facilitating the catching of freedom fighters.

The new breed of detectives stayed clear of such ‘crimes’. Started donning Bengali attire (until the turn of the twenty first century) and in general, stopped being derivative of western literature.   

Few of the new breed of Bengali investigators who merit mention are Kiriti, Byomkesh Bakshi, Feluda, Gogol, Kakababu, Arjun, Colonel Niladri Sarkar, Pandob Goyenda and Mitin Mashi.

A special mention to Pandob Goyenda here.

Written by Shasthipada Chattopadhyay, the series enjoyed a brief period of popularity.  It was based on a group of friends and a one-eyed dog (Panchu) who went around town solving crimes. Sounds ridiculous? It was. As far as I recollect, apart from remarkably similar plot points, all the stories had another thing in common, the final line being “Panchu barked woof woof”.

Amongst all these seekers of truth, two have stood out for their longevity and timelessness; I am, of course, referring to Feluda (Pradosh C. Mitter) and Byomkesh Bakshi.

 Satyajit Ray may have been a film director first and an author later, but his Feluda has arguably aged better than his films. First making an appearance in 1965 and meant to cater exclusively to children, the character found immediate acceptance amongst readers of all ages. Ray wrote 35 pieces featuring Feluda and himself directed 2 movies, both in Bengali.

 Feluda has over the years been portrayed in various mediums. It’s been translated to English, made into graphic novels, television films, animated series, etc. Even Shashi Kapoor portrayed the character in a telefilm.

Byomkesh Bakshi by Sharadindu Bandyopadhyay made his debut in the pre-independence era, 1932 to be specific.

To call Sharadindu talented would be an understatement, his work was vast and varied, he also wrote screenplays for Hindi movies for a period.  

To readers of this generation, he is mostly remembered for Byomkesh Bakshi, which is unfortunate considering the quality of his short stories of other genres.

Unfair it is to draw parallels between writers, especially those writing in different languages, if I had to name an English author whose works were similar in terms of writing style and plot, it would have to be Roald Dahl, what he wrote for adults.

A separate post can (and should) be devoted to the works of Sharadindu, and Roald Dahl, but we are here to talk about detectives. So, more on Byomkesh.

What typically distinguished Byomkesh from other detectives (including Feluda) was the fact that he has a life outside of his investigations. He has a family of his own. He falls in love with one of the primary suspects in a story, although after her name is cleared. Unlike the demigod that is Feluda, he physically resembles a commoner. There’s nothing remarkable about him.

He also ages during the series, the stories often refer to the usual middle-class issues, Byomkesh’s wife nagging him to buy a car, trying to get him to quit smoking etc.

Feluda is a more one-dimensional character, that doesn’t make him any lesser though, the gold standard in fictional detectives is also one-dimensional, though Mr. Holmes’s quirks alone are fascinating enough to develop an interest in the character.

It’s taken around 900 words for me to reach the point I intended to make. So here goes. Bring out the brickbats.

In my opinion, Feluda is an overhyped, not very well written character, who takes part in a series of quite unremarkable adventures, and while a cultural icon, Feluda is probably more suited to films than literature.

Before you reach your conclusions and for your chappals, let me elaborate.

The primary element of a good detective story should be that the reader actually gets a chance to take part in the proceedings. The story and the dialogues should leave a series of clues that should at least theoretically let the reader be able to solve the crime himself. Of course, most authors would never leave all the clues for the reader to decipher, but at the end of it all the reader should smack himself for failing to see a few hints, which in hindsight seemed obvious.

I have always felt that works of Feluda never fulfilled this basic criterion, and that’s why he will never be in the same league as Byomkesh.

The end scene, where all the loose ends are meant to be tied up has Feluda usually explaining “I saw X doing Y, therefore I reached the conclusion Z”. That’s fine, but where were the readers when X was doing Y? We readers are a pervert lot, we want to see” X doing Y” (pun unintended), so that we can figure out Z for ourselves, or, at least, try to.

Sharadindu, on the other hand, laid most of his cards on the table. There are even stories where all of the clues have been revealed sufficiently in advance. Unlike being a third party witnessing a tale being told, the reader actually feels that he is in the shoes of the protagonist.

Besides this, Feluda is a bit too condescending for my taste, a tad too preachy for my liking. Add to that the fact that he is tall and blessed with movie star looks, excels in hand to hand combat, is a master of disguise (Byomkesh shares this trait) and is a fairly competent marksman. It’s fair to say that Feluda stops short of being a superhero. Of course being a larger than life character has never prevented us from liking fictional characters.

We love Batman and Chulbul Pandey, right? Even Sherlock Holmes who is in the same field? (Read my admiration for Salman Khan here.) 

Wrong! Sure, we love larger than life characters but we tend to root for them only when they are at least as flawed as we are, or are up against an equally formidable opponent. To call Sherlock Holmes, a cocaine addict, borderline psychopath with limited social skills – ‘flawed’ is only fair.

Of course, Satyajit Ray had certain limitations that Sharadindu didn’t have.

Feluda, though read by people of all ages, was primarily targeted at children, so Ray had to restrict himself to theft, robbery and murder (though some stories do refer to drugs). Sharadindu had the freedom to let Byomkesh expose drug rackets, extramarital affairs and even illegitimate children.

To make up for that Ray ensured comic relief through the semi-sidekick Lalmohan Ganguly, generous dosage of factoids imparted from Feluda, and ensuring that characters travel to locations likely alien to most middle-class Bengali children of the time.

Noble as the intent may have been on the part of Satyajit Ray to mix fiction with knowledge, Feluda remains my least favourite character of his.

Good, yes....great, no.

The reason for Feluda’s continuing popularity and fan following to this day remains a mystery to me, perhaps a mystery worthy of Byomkesh to crack.   

# 19 - Goals

Apologies for the two month break between posts, I have been busy lazy, no excuses. 

It's that time of the year again, we look back at the past twelve months and feel pathetic about ourselves, we think of how we could have done things differently, how the planet and stars conspired and aligned themselves to, umm, ruin our happiness. 

Then we find a glimmer of hope in the fact that the year is about to end, 'maybe our bad luck ends with the year'. Maybe the next year will be the best year ever, 

I was browsing through random articles a few weeks back, and I came across the wikipedia page on Hunter S. Thompson. The name seemed vaguely familiar, and I read about him. The more I read, the more fascinated I became. In the very likely possibility that you already know who Hunter S. Thompson was, please skip the next paragraph.

Very briefly, he was an American journalist and author who pioneered a style of reporting called "gonzo journalism", It involved a first person narrative and unlike the traditional neutral style that merely stated facts, gonzo journalism sometimes incorporated fiction and was highly opinionated. 

I haven't read any of his works, nor do I intend to, but the man's life and his take on life was intriguing. He was a badass of the highest order, and had a wit to match. Don't believe me? Here are a few of his quotes :-

A man who procrastinates in his choosing will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.

I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me.

If you're going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you're going to be locked up.

I have a theory that the truth is never told during the nine-to-five hours.

You get the idea. 

Read more about him here. After you're done with this blog entry. 

Anyway, you might be wondering what does this crazy dead guy who had a flair for writing have to do with a post that's titled 'Goals'? Let's not digress any further then.

A friend of Hunter's (that's a helluva name btw) had once written to him, asking what he should do with his life. Hunter's reply is arguably the most insightful and thought provoking piece of writing I have ever come across, in spite of the fact that I couldn't understand a few portions.

***

April 22, 1958

57 Perry Street

New York City

Dear Hume,

You ask advice: ah, what a very human and very dangerous thing to do! For to give advice to a man who asks what to do with his life implies something very close to egomania. To presume to point a man to the right and ultimate goal — to point with a trembling finger in the RIGHT direction is something only a fool would take upon himself.

I am not a fool, but I respect your sincerity in asking my advice. I ask you though, in listening to what I say, to remember that all advice can only be a product of the man who gives it. What is truth to one may be disaster to another. I do not see life through your eyes, nor you through mine. If I were to attempt to give you specific advice, it would be too much like the blind leading the blind.

“To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles … ” (Shakespeare)

And indeed, that IS the question: whether to float with the tide, or to swim for a goal. It is a choice we must all make consciously or unconsciously at one time in our lives. So few people understand this! Think of any decision you’ve ever made which had a bearing on your future: I may be wrong, but I don’t see how it could have been anything but a choice however indirect — between the two things I’ve mentioned: the floating or the swimming.

But why not float if you have no goal? That is another question. It is unquestionably better to enjoy the floating than to swim in uncertainty. So how does a man find a goal? Not a castle in the stars, but a real and tangible thing. How can a man be sure he’s not after the “big rock candy mountain,” the enticing sugar-candy goal that has little taste and no substance?

The answer — and, in a sense, the tragedy of life — is that we seek to understand the goal and not the man. We set up a goal which demands of us certain things: and we do these things. We adjust to the demands of a concept which CANNOT be valid. When you were young, let us say that you wanted to be a fireman. I feel reasonably safe in saying that you no longer want to be a fireman. Why? Because your perspective has changed. It’s not the fireman who has changed, but you. Every man is the sum total of his reactions to experience. As your experiences differ and multiply, you become a different man, and hence your perspective changes. This goes on and on. Every reaction is a learning process; every significant experience alters your perspective.

So it would seem foolish, would it not, to adjust our lives to the demands of a goal we see from a different angle every day? How could we ever hope to accomplish anything other than galloping neurosis?

The answer, then, must not deal with goals at all, or not with tangible goals, anyway. It would take reams of paper to develop this subject to fulfillment. God only knows how many books have been written on “the meaning of man” and that sort of thing, and god only knows how many people have pondered the subject. (I use the term “god only knows” purely as an expression.) There’s very little sense in my trying to give it up to you in the proverbial nutshell, because I’m the first to admit my absolute lack of qualifications for reducing the meaning of life to one or two paragraphs.

I’m going to steer clear of the word “existentialism,” but you might keep it in mind as a key of sorts. You might also try something called “Being and Nothingness” by Jean-Paul Sartre, and another little thing called “Existentialism: From Dostoyevsky to Sartre.” These are merely suggestions. If you’re genuinely satisfied with what you are and what you’re doing, then give those books a wide berth. (Let sleeping dogs lie.) But back to the answer. As I said, to put our faith in tangible goals would seem to be, at best, unwise. So we do not strive to be firemen, we do not strive to be bankers, nor policemen, nor doctors. WE STRIVE TO BE OURSELVES.

But don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean that we can’t BE firemen, bankers, or doctors — but that we must make the goal conform to the individual, rather than make the individual conform to the goal. In every man, heredity and environment have combined to produce a creature of certain abilities and desires — including a deeply ingrained need to function in such a way that his life will be MEANINGFUL. A man has to BE something; he has to matter.

As I see it then, the formula runs something like this: a man must choose a path which will let his ABILITIES function at maximum efficiency toward the gratification of his DESIRES. In doing this, he is fulfilling a need (giving himself identity by functioning in a set pattern toward a set goal), he avoids frustrating his potential (choosing a path which puts no limit on his self-development), and he avoids the terror of seeing his goal wilt or lose its charm as he draws closer to it (rather than bending himself to meet the demands of that which he seeks, he has bent his goal to conform to his own abilities and desires).

In short, he has not dedicated his life to reaching a pre-defined goal, but he has rather chosen a way of life he KNOWS he will enjoy. The goal is absolutely secondary: it is the functioning toward the goal which is important. And it seems almost ridiculous to say that a man MUST function in a pattern of his own choosing; for to let another man define your own goals is to give up one of the most meaningful aspects of life — the definitive act of will which makes a man an individual.

Let’s assume that you think you have a choice of eight paths to follow (all pre-defined paths, of course). And let’s assume that you can’t see any real purpose in any of the eight. THEN — and here is the essence of all I’ve said — you MUST FIND A NINTH PATH.

Naturally, it isn’t as easy as it sounds. You’ve lived a relatively narrow life, a vertical rather than a horizontal existence. So it isn’t any too difficult to understand why you seem to feel the way you do. But a man who procrastinates in his CHOOSING will inevitably have his choice made for him by circumstance.

So if you now number yourself among the disenchanted, then you have no choice but to accept things as they are, or to seriously seek something else. But beware of looking for goals: look for a way of life. Decide how you want to live and then see what you can do to make a living WITHIN that way of life. But you say, “I don’t know where to look; I don’t know what to look for.”

And there’s the crux. Is it worth giving up what I have to look for something better? I don’t know — is it? Who can make that decision but you? But even by DECIDING TO LOOK, you go a long way toward making the choice.

If I don’t call this to a halt, I’m going to find myself writing a book. I hope it’s not as confusing as it looks at first glance. Keep in mind, of course, that this is MY WAY of looking at things. I happen to think that it’s pretty generally applicable, but you may not. Each of us has to create our own credo — this merely happens to be mine.

If any part of it doesn’t seem to make sense, by all means call it to my attention. I’m not trying to send you out “on the road” in search of Valhalla, but merely pointing out that it is not necessary to accept the choices handed down to you by life as you know it. There is more to it than that — no one HAS to do something he doesn’t want to do for the rest of his life. But then again, if that’s what you wind up doing, by all means convince yourself that you HAD to do it. You’ll have lots of company.

And that’s it for now. Until I hear from you again, I remain,

your friend,

Hunter

*** 

Take into account that he was only 20 years old when he wrote this. But that's beside the point. 

Have a great 2016, and good luck with the resolutions.