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https://beinggroanup.com/2014/11/30/in-betweens/Recently I attended my  uncle’s birthday party.  You know, one of those events which don’t seem to have any purpose of being celebrated except to be a reason for relatives to get together and gossip about those relatives who could not make it.

Now, I am very adequately discomfited around overtly gregarious mother’s uncle’s brother’s aunts who claim to have been my favourites my I was little (and dumb enough to put lightbulbs and dirty mud in my mouth, just by the way.) However, when duty calls one must go (actually one may skip it, but my mother called and when mother calls, well you know how it is).

As I was fake smiling through the do you rememeber mes, oh my god look how she’s grown, and wow, she looks exactly like her parents (I mean if I looked like the neighbours, won’t that warrant more of a wow?), I noticed a phrase which caught my fancy.

Young adult. I was called that about 500 times before I realised how confusing this phrase was.

https://beinggroanup.com/2015/08/13/judgementalist/

There was so many things on the news of 26/11. But I remember one picture clearly- of a father carrying his wounded child on his shoulder. And that image stuck in my head. Feelings of patriotism, of anger, of helplessness, of revenge surged through me. And when I heard, one terrorist had been caught alive, I could not help gleefully wishing for his end. That would be the perfect revenge.

I remember the headlines when Kasab died. I remember reading it and feeling a twinge of sadness. He was after all a misguided boy. Could he not be reformed, or if he had, did he deserve to die?

What had changed? Had time faded the memory of the picture? Had I forgotten all my anger? Or had basic humanity, and the distaste of death taken over? What made me feel sad on the death of a terrorist, of somebody who had killed so many in cold blood?

Narcissism exists. Period. As someone I know keeps saying, it doesn’t make us bad people- it just makes us people. There is some of amount of smugness in all of us. Some of us do a brilliant job concealing it, while others don’t and come off as jackasses. Narcissism may not even be a bad thing, if you think about it. Most of us will lead a fairly uneventful, meaningless life and die a pointless death. What makes it all worth it? What reason do we have to go through all the drudgery and misery that comes with living? It is the small things here and there that make us feel better about ourselves, that convince us that we are better than the rest of the world. And there is an innate need to prove this to the world, to shout it from rooftops. Your display picture on a social networking website is supposed to be youridentity, quite like the photograph on your passport. We’ve turned it into a platform for an egotistic dance-athon because that really is who we are. We are self-obsessed. Maybe we need to be. It’s a coping mechanism.

Which is the best of them all”,

Majestic I stood, haughty and tall,

Wearing my robe, hood, cape ,prepared to gall.

Cough, sneeze, and wheeze the lizard did try,

Till his tiny little oesophagus went completely dry.

“Stuck I am in this quasi static quagmire,

Truth I cannot tell, and I am no liar.”

Quickly I opened the repellant’s cap,

Wonders it did to the ol’ soothsayer’s trap

There was a book I read. The Pursuit of Happiness. It talks of the many travails that affect happiness. But I’ve always wondered, can happiness be affected? Isn’t happiness a feeling that is despite of everything rather than for the lack of it? Or is that enjoyment?

If somebody asked me today, when was the last time that you were happy, I’d stare. Not because I haven’t been happy, or because I have been, but because I have never taken the time out to acknowledge happiness.

I could very well answer the question of what was the last time I enjoyed myself. I am capable of enjoying myself very often and I exercise that capability to the best of its limits.

But enjoyment has nothing to do with happiness. Enjoyment can be part of the worst of times. You can smile at ironies of life and laugh at the twists of fate. You can joke in tragedy and you can celebrate in desolation

What if an inkblot is just a inkblot?Last night, in one of my many (everyday) phases of insomnia – I was involved in the highly intellectually stimulating activity of doing facebook quizzes. In the many of the highly insightful, look deep into my soul by 10 multiple choice question exercises – I came across the inkblot test. The one where the kind of shapes you see in inkblots determine the kind of thought processes you have.Halfway through the tests, I started wondering. Why is it necessary that we have to see a shape in the inkblot. If we don’t, do we have less imagination. If we just see the ink, the color of its sheen, the way it slowly spreads across the paper exposing the fine ridges, dancing around the tiny tiny spaces and let it be at that – is it not enough? Can we not admire things for what they simply are or do we have to put deeper meanings, signs and symbols into things.Our lives have to have meaning, and in some ways for that to happen, everything in our life has to have meaning. We look at things, then we wrap them and box them into what we thing they are, should be or should imply. 

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