Nice does not always mean weak

 A long time ago I read somewhere that when you're looking for help, you drastically increase your chances of receiving said help if you explicitly mention that you're looking for help instead of beating around the bush. Meaning you need to say, "Hey, I'm facing a bit of an issue with this, and would really like your help with it." There's some psychology behind it, which i've now forgotten, but if you think about it, it doesn't really even matter.

Because if you're someone who prefers being straightforward with people, telling them you're looking for help will be the easier thing to do than doing it the opposite way, which is being circular with the whole thing. 

Blogging this mostly to remember that i need to be doing this more. I need to have more long conversations in general. Used to do that so much back in college. I feel like that was so my thing. I do like less than one-fourth of all that talking now. Why does that happen? Why does a person start talking a lot less than they used to? Lol i sound like a Murakami character. Actually, a murakami character would abruptly stop talking one fine day, so this isn't that exactly, but kinda there. 

Have also not re-read a Murakami in ages. Actually, haven't read any of his latest books either. Work is taking up so much of my time. That and also my reading preferences have changed so much in the past 4-5 years. Since the lockdown, actually.  

But i am re-watching Schitt's Creek presently. Because Catherine O'Hara passed away earlier this week. And it was really sad to read about it. This is the only show mom and I binged watched together. I cannot forget how hard she laughed at all of Moira's and Johnny's and Roland's scenes. Because it is a damn good comedy. It's so hard to do comedy that is clean and wholesome and rooted in good values. A show that's so inclusive and doesn't punch down or make fun at the expense of someone's identity or beliefs or values. This show sits squarely at that intersection. 

Eugene Levy's eyes and eyebrows deserve an Oscar nomination of their own. Alexis is definitely ADHD. And Dan levy is a genius. 

Anyway, the title of the blog post is basically a dialogue from one of the episodes. The vet guy says it to alexis when she goes to his office. So true. And something so many people get wrong.

The internet does not disappoint

 Did not know that any tab from Chrome can be turned into an app through Chrome itself. Quite cool. Did that to a bunch of my always-open tabs. 

IG growth is unpredictable. It seems to have nothing to do with other factors like post performance, monthly views & impressions, and shares. That follower count metric in particular just seems to have a mind of its own. Which is frustrating at times, because you don't know what to make of it.

The Chairman of real estate company Confident Group, CJ Roy, died by suicide. I saw it on some big IG page and even before I could click to check the comments I just had a sinking feeling someone at some point would conflate the name of his company with his manner of death to come up with a stupid joke. And the internet did not disappoint - the very first comment was something to that effect. Disappointed in the internet overall, and more so in how inhuman people have become.

I did a piece on Kanye's apology. Again, was not disappointted. Lots of negative comments, lots of bashing, lots of 'who are you' kind of comments posted as gifs. Nothing of substance to counter my argument about how some accountability from celebrities is needed. That is not to say i didn't get any positive comments. 

AG did a piece on how slurs are back in internet slang once again. So many comments saying slurs are all right, no big deal, no one cares if they're called the r-word. Crazy, right?! I mean, are we snowflakes or are people really becoming immune to all this? Maybe both? I don't know.

Also noticed, the trolls and the ones with all the negative stuff to say to you without adding anything good or positive will mostly only resort to commenting on your posts. The ones who appreciate or have something constructive to add their thoughts and share it on their stories. This way, you'll see it and so will their followers. But the trolls don't want even their followers to see their trolling, so they do it surreptitiously in people's comment sections. Funnily, even if they posted it to their stories it wouldn't really matter because most of them have like 10, 20, or max 50 followers, gibberish written in their bios, no profile pic or a very blurred, illegible one, and private accounts. All the classic prerequisites to qualifying as a troll on the internet, especially on instagram.

Might do a post on that later. How about a short series? A troll who's making his way through the internet just waiting to bash people, unhappy with everything, angry, frustrated, alone... and then he finds love. In a pet. A dog or cat who loves him so unconditionally that he gives up being a troll, starts being genuine and sharing his life sincerely, and then starts getting trolled himself, and realizes what that life is like. Haha. 

I'm going to start a series on autistic burnout very soon. More on that later. 

Splitting hairs over barbers

 This dependence on barbers is too real. Over time, they take on almost the same importance as your family physician. 

It's not just about the way they cut your hair. I mean of course there's that, like they know what cut suits you best, what number to have the machine on, just how much to cut the top off vs the sides, etc. But it's also the environment. 

Haircuts are very sensorially disturbing. The whirring machine comes really close to your ears, sometimes strands of hair get entangled in scissors and pulled, the razor blade tickles at first, then makes your skin red and sore. It's all kinds of irritating. It used to be worse when I was a kid, and it's got much better over the years, but it's still irritating enough to make me put off going to the saloon right up until the point where my hair has grown so much that it won't part properly to either side and will just grow vertically towards the sky and make me look like Goku from Dragonball Z.

It's also almost 40% white now, so I look like a very old Goku. 

A few days ago I called up my new usual guy. Quick side story: my new usual guy came into the picture after my old usual guy became difficult to get a hold of. I had an even older usual guy who moved to Chembur, and I went there a couple of times (which he really appreciated) but I quickly grew out of travelling so far just for a haircut. Bloody haircut would take 20 mins and going and coming would take 2 hours.

So my new usual guy is great. The place is great too, it's close by. It's not too fancy, not too roadside. Perfectly in the middle. Like those old barbershops where your dad would take you on Sunday mornings. This one has a TV playing old Hindi B4U type movies all the time, and I always get the seat right below the TV, so I'm glued to the screen. Sometimes my new guy looks at me strangely when I'm watching TV that intently. I think he's thinking I come there mainly to watch movies, and the haircut is just a side thing.

Anyway, so this guy became my new usual guy because he just instinctively seemed to know what top and side hair length would suit my face best. And he did it without requiring much instruction. When he finished, I tipped him decently, which is my way of appreciating anyone who takes their job seriously and does it well. But the kicker is that I didn't take his number down that first time. And the next time I went there, the saloon was shut. I went there once again some days later, but he was fully booked out. And that's when I took his number down, and that's how he officially became my new usual haircut guy.

That sacred act of exchange of numbers is pivotal to making any new barber you new usual guy.

Long story short, called up new usual guy for an appointment. But sadly, he's just sat in a train to his village. I asked when he'll be back. A month. It's already been a month since I last got a haircut, so the hair's going quite out of control already. So now I'm left with the following options:

1. Suck it up and go back to old usual guy

2. Go to random guy (this is dangerous territory)

3. Make a new usual guy

I think it's too soon for 3. And 2 just doesn't seem appealing. I'll regret it for a long time if random guy screws up and does a bad job. So I guess 1 it is. 

But the problem is, old usual guy knew I was his usual guy. I haven't gone there for almost 6 months, and he might see me and figure out I have a new usual guy. Which would just get awkward because... I don't know why but it will. It feels like cheating. So i have to make up some lie to tell him about why I haven't come to him in 6-odd months and still don't look like Ranbir Kapoor from Animal.

So got to think of a lie before I go there. Or I wait for a month for new usual guy to come back, and just go to him only. 

Or I go back to option 1, and go there disguised as someone else. But I can't wear a wig, obviously, because if he goes to cut the wig he'll figure out it isn't someone else but me. If I wear a fake moustache, I can't get a shave. Damn. 

ETA: So I went for a haircut. Found a nice enough middle ground. Called up new usual guy, who said just go to the shop and meet this other guy who'll sort you out. So I did, and the new guy knew my usual guy (obviously), and he was pretty chill about the whole thing. This is what is called a situationship I guess. 

So random guy knew usual guy, so there was no chance of him becoming new usual guy, and usual guy doesn't even get insecure that i'll dump him and get new usual guy. 

Point being, got a good haircut. He also advised me to put badam oil in my hair at night. Will do that.

Think I've spent a lot of time reflecting on this. Time to get back to things that help run the house. 

I'll see you down the road

 Watched Nomadland finally. What a fucking movie. Firstly, I had no idea it starred Francis McDormand, otherwise I'd have watched it long ago. I absolutely loved her in 3 Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri (which I must have watched like 4 times). 

The movie is about this woman's life who loses her husband and has to move out of the town they worked in, take up odd jobs, meet randos on the road, and live in a caravan. It's shot very documentary style, which is like lots of diagetic sound, natural light, long shots, choppy editing. But it never seems staccato. 

There's a beautiful line right at the beginning when Francis' character is at a supermarket and she meets a family from her old town who have relocated elsewhere. They now look at her with this demeaning, patronizing kind of pity, which she senses but takes the moral high ground and lets slide. The daughter says to her, 'My mother says you're homeless,' to which she simply replies: 'No, I'm house-less, not homeless.. and I think there's a difference.' Wow. What a line right!

That's the beauty of the character Francis plays. So much of silent grit, putting up a brave front while grappling with the inconsistencies, the fragility, the unpredictability of life as a single woman nomad traveller. But she finds companionship somewhere along the way. She keeps on bumping into the same people, she exchanges cigarettes and beers with some of them, she has conversations with others that make her smile, and all of this is her life unfolding day by day, minute by minute. That's it. That's the movie. 

Another conversation I loved happens towards the end. Fern is speaking to Bob, and he tells her this (i looked this up and copy-pasted it from Google becayse I didn't want to paraphrase, the line is just so beautiful).

“One of the things I love most about this life is that there's no final goodbye. You know, I've met hundreds of people out here and I don't ever say a final goodbye. I always just say, 'I'll see you down the road.' And I do”

And I think that's the denouement of the movie because this conversation puts a wide smile on her face, and she's come to accept her destiny as a nomad, someone to whom the confines of a home will never feel normal again. 

What I felt the film didn't do justice to was the downsides of being a gig worker at Amazon. She says it pays her really well, but it doesn't show that life quite fully, the conditions in which the gig workers do their work, the hours they work, the overall exploitative nature of the work, etc. 

Then for some reason I put on Kumbalangi Nights, which I had seen long ago but forgotten. Fell in love with it all over again. Didn't agree with some parts of it though, especially the end where the whole bit about toxic masculinity is suddenly presented as a mental illness (while both can and do co-exist, glossing over a major social and societal issue and reframing it as a mental illess felt like a complete cop out). But the characters are relatable, the comedy is well written, and the overall message the film gives of the brothers coming together and living under one roof despite their differences, and - mainly - working hard to make it work between them, is really nice.

And the music by Sushin Shyam is next level. In fact, the Nomadland soundtrack is brilliant too. Must check out who's given the music. Just did. It's Ludovico Einaudi. Apparently director Chloe Zhao picked some of the tracks from his Seven Days Walking box set for the score. So they weren't made specifically for the film. Interesting.

And completely forgot to mention, Chloe Zhao is neurodivergent. She's also a genius. She's a neurodivergent genius, which makes me so happy. Her latest film Hamnet is also nominated for an Academy Award this year, so I'm going to watch that one soon as well. Chloe Zhao is an absolute GENIUS. 

Anyway, i had no idea Francis McDormand was married to Ethan Coen. And that she's produced this film. Must watch Fargo again. 

And also must watch Super Deluxe soon. The Mattancherry gang of Malayalam cinema is so good. Dileesh Pothan, Fafa, Syam Pushkaran... what a talented bunch of guys. What it must be like to sit with them in a room thinking of scripts, treatments, ideas to turn into movies. Man. 

The whole damn system is corrupt

 ...and anyone who participates is just as guilty as i am. 

Having a moral code to guide your work is only going to be a hindrance in the long run. The system weaponises morals and moralistic behaviour, and uses it to keep those who care too much in check while, ironically, rewarding anyone who doesn't. 

Been reading Emily Ratajkowski's book My Body, and the title of the blog is from it. 

It's a super engaging read. The internet and incel culture have put up these smokescreens around women in showbiz that obstruct any view of them beyond their bodies. REddit threads and X conversations are abuzz with absolutely garbage talk about Emrata, shaming her for her choice of clothes, body count, choice of roles, and pretty much every decision she takes. 

She knows this all too well, and addresses these things multiple times throughout her book. It's not an autobiography as much as it is just a collection of non-linearly told essays almost written like diary entries. 

She talks about women being hyper aware about their sexuality since very early on in their lives. Which doesn't just mean sexual orientation; i think it's got more to do with how they're perceived in the world, and what society tells them their innate worth is attached to. 

Also, class is all pervading. It's there - and it's non-negotiable - in every aspect of life: work, relationships, friendships. Emrata talks about going on this assignment in the Maldives where she's surrounded by rich billionaires and their families, and she thinks about how she doesn't belong there, amidst them, because they're spending their own money to come vacation there but she's being sent on an assignment. 

She has this thought about being paid to model for a rich billionaire's bikini line, and that if she's endorsing some billionaire's fashion line to her 20-odd million instagram followers, she might as well have her own line. And that's exactly what she does.

It benefits the system to treat women like commodities that exist just to serve men. It benefits the system to enable an environment in which women lose their individuality and are bunched up together into one 'group', and each woman is only relevant till a certain age, beyond which she is easily replaced by the next, younger one. 

Because so many women realise this so early on in their lives, they work harder to make sure they're fighting the good fight for as long as they can. And which is why we have so many brilliant women everywhere today making their mark in so many different fields. 

I haven't finished the entire book yet, but I will over the weekend and maybe do a more detailed review sort of thing. Maybe not, don't know. 

We also finished watching Can This Love Be Translated? - which is a south Korean romantic drama. It touches upon dissociative identity disorder, which is what we used to call a split personality back in the day, but it basically means someone living with two distinct personalities in one body. 

The series is great until the first 4 or 5 episodes. The story is fast paced and flows smoothly, showing the characters' development and the blooming romance. Then suddenly around episode 7 or 8 things just come to a grinding halt. Sequences become slow, the plot stops making sense, the mental health disorder is shown in great detail but no explanation is given for why she doesn't seek help. 

She does go to a psychiatrist once or twice, but that's about the full extent of it. I did love the cinematography, the music, and some of the acting, not all of it. 

Also - we finally watched KPop Demon Hunters, which was actually a great watch through and through. Fun, gripping, great storyline, and decent animation. Hard to believe this was just a side project for Sony. I'll do a separate blog on that later for sure. 

I've got Soul Boom by the guy who plays Dwight on the Office lined up after My Body. And then I'm planning to read The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari, mainly just for kicks. Actually that's not true. I aactually quite enjoy self help and have been meaning to read more in the genre for a long time, and think I will finally do so very soon. 

For now, going to try hard to remember Emrata's words. We are all part of the system after all.  

Runner's high

 Did a treadmill run in the morning today after really long. Almost 2 years I think. Didn't clock in too many kms, just about 3.5 or so. But it was really great. Did it watching the 5th and 6th episodes of 'How to become a tyrant'. Great show - more on it later. 

After the run, I had a cold shower. It's January but it's getting quite hot here, so I didn't want to shower in hot water. And I came out feeling super euphoric. Like proper euphoria. AG was cutting fruits in the kitchen, and I went up to her with this big smile on my face like I was drugged or something. She looked at me and smiled, almost like she immediately knew. 

Then I looked it up. A runner's high is a very real thing. Like it's a real 'high', not just a feeling of euphoria. There's science behind it. 

So running increases the levels of ß-endorphin and anandamide in the bloodstream. Now ß-endorphin is an opioid and anandamide is a endocannabinoid. And the cannabinoid receptors in our brain cause anxiolysis after running, which causes the euphoric feeling. 

But the super interesting thing is this: the levels of sensitivity of your cannabinoid receptors determine the intensity of the high you'll feel after running. The more sensitive your receptors, the quicker and more intense your high. 

In the 9-odd years that I've been running regularly, I've felt euphoric and relaxed after running, but I've never thought of it as a 'high' because that to me was something that is associated with brain fog and high levels of lethargy. And running makes me feel the exact opposite. But running is an addiction, and if I don't run for 3 or 4 days straight, I feel cranky, have brain fog, and don't feel like doing anything. Which I've read in many books and accounts of drug users is what opioid withdrawals feel like too (most famously, in people's accounts of Layne Staley's last days). 

So yes, runner's high. Addictive. Almost drug-like. Stuporous. They say the high is in the mind or the bottle would be drunk. This just puts it all into some kind of perspective. 

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Welcome to the city

 Wrote one after a really long time. Came to me in pieces on a recent evening walk through Breach Candy eating a vanilla softy. 

----------

 Saturday, 7 pm. 

I'm standing outside a mall uptown. It's so densely packed I can't think. I tend to freeze with so much happening around me. 

My cab pulls up to the mall entrance where I've been waiting for the past 5 minutes. I get in. I'm alone, as I always am. In the time that it pulls up and I sit inside, 5 cars have lined up behind us, and about 50 humans have either narrowly missed bumping into me, or bumped into me, or shoved me, or elbowed me on their way inside. The cars are all honking their horns, relentlessly and in unison. But it's a regular workday for my cabbie, who is unperturbed and pulls out of the mall at his own, sweet pace. 

Cabbies can be so put-together even in the harshest of environments. It's kind of the biggest prerequisite of the job.

The city around us this particular evening is a spectrum of faded golden and brown hues from all the dust and particulate, like most other evenings. Not only is it loud, the air quite literally is poison. But being that it is a Saturday, fun is prioritised over everything else. Because the world has now caught up to YOLO, which was earlier just a stupid internet phenomenon. 

And that's why everyone's outside- entire families on Activas, packed into rickshaws, Ubers careening down the wrong side of the road, food delivery bikers zipping past everything like the Roadrunner, best buses sounding their pom-pom horns as they jostle for space with kaali peelis, and entire roads dug up as pedestrians on mobile phones snake their way through whatever little space the city makes available for you while you're positively kept engrossed by whatever latest micro-fiction is trending on the internet, and you must watch it because what even is the point of life otherwise.

Space. Room. To be. To exist. The most premiumized thing in the city. All that enables this orchestra of horns, this sandstorm of dust, this abyss of chaos. 

The driver's still casual, almost chill. All drivers are. You've got to be if you want to be a good driver. Even a bad one. Drivers learn to tune out the noise, the chaos. Just like they tune out the grandiose, the sparkle of the city. With tall buildings all around you with sparkly, shimmery ceiling-to-floor windows that give you a peek of dazzling chandeliers and shiny lives, it's easy to get lost in spectacle. Not cabbies, though. They see right through the fluff. They have that been-there-done-that attitude. Even though they might have only 'been there', as their job demands, but not really' done it'. Does that make sense? 

Half-an-hour later there's still people and vehicles everywhere; even more that earlier- if that's even possible - coming at you in all directions as you make your way through to the restaurant you want to go for dinner. 

How do people make all this money to buy all this stuff? Mostly useless stuff, too. 

Where do people get the energy to drive their fancy cars and bikes in this madness? 

How are more people not pulling their hair out from all this shit? 

How are people able to tune out the noise and tune into themselves? 

Why do people still want to live together, amidst each other, when no one really gives a fuck about anyone else other than themselves and their own? 

How does this system even work? How to even make sense of all this? 

As I make my way to the restaurant alone, I look at all these tall buildings. The roads leading up to them may be crammed and busy but the buildings themselves are tall and lavish. The rich take up all this space in the air and the poor down on the ground. The rich create space out of thin air, they buy space, invent it. The roads are a pastiche of colours, shades, aesthetics, and - most crucially - class and status. There's people pouring over on the roads and vehicles running on pavements. 

The restaurant I want to go to is packed. They say there's a 30 min wait. I don't want to wait that long. So I set off walking again. All alone, in the most crowded city in the world. Fighting for space with cars, buses, taxis, bikes, people, animals, buildings, trees. Tempers are flaring. Even trees seem angry and depressed. People are mean to each other. Someone's screaming at someone else on the phone. So much about all of this is so unfair. And yet, a lot of work is put into keeping things this exact way. It's all a tightly put-together mirage. 

At around 8 pm I am able to find a cafe in a part of town not far away from where I got down from the cab. It's relatively empty. But, not surprisingly, it's loud. Because as a people, we're loud. The city demands it, because you have to speak over all the noise. I order some basic food that'll kill my hunger, and I wolf it down in 15 minutes flat. I pay, get out, and start walking towards a cigarette shop. I buy a cigarette, light it up, and look at the street in front of me. It's almost 9 pm now. The street is way less crowded. 

I wonder about the people who walked here today. About who they were, what their reasons might be for voluntarily participating in this madness. Just like me. What are my reasons? I don't know. I just know that I have to do it. I have to do this. Like I have to breathe to stay alive, eat to kill my hunger and smoke to feel normal. 

I start walking again. Towards nowhere in particular. The buildings around me stand tall, still, poised, lit up. Some are mellow, others are ostentatious. But each almost his its own distinct personality, dressed up in a fusion of lights and shadows and colour and class. I walk around gaping at the windows, wondering about the lives of the people inside. Are they part of this madness? Do their cosy homes cocoon them from what happens out here every single day? 

A car passes by, honking loudly. I look to see who it is. Believe it or not, it's my cabbie. Of course he doesn't notice me, he's smiling away to glory talking on his cell phone, which he has in his right hand as he navigates the steering wheel with his left. He's nailing that no-fucks vibe. He goes ahead and takes a U-turn at the signal. I walk over to the side of the road and put my hand out to flag him. 

He comes to a halt by the side of the road where I am. I get in and tell him where I want to go. He nods, puts the meter down, and we set off. A cool evening breeze is now gently caressing my face. Now that the city's a bit calmer, and the streets are relatively emptier and everyone's back home, and the honking is less and the crowd is thinner, it feels like the end of a hard day. The city makes you feel like you've accomplished something even though you may not really have. Even though you may have just walked around, complained about everything, then walked around some more, then sat down to eat somewhere, and then taken a cab to go back to wherever. The city makes you feel... all grown up. Like a big, responsible adult with big, difficult duties working super hard to get by.

Like a winner. That's what's so special about it. 

The air smells like shit, but it's refreshing nonetheless. I flick my cigarette out the window and put on my headphones. That's why they made music, I think to myself - to drown out city noise. 

As I'm about to hit play on my phone, I notice my cabbie sneaking a peek at me through the rear view mirror. Our eyes meet for a split second before he breaks into a thin smile. So he does remember me from earlier. I smile back. 

And just like that a connection is made. In a big, noisy, packed city where you're the winner, and he's the winner, and you're both just two city winners making a connection through a pathetic little, split second, blink-and-miss rear view mirror smile. Believe it or not, this is the most shit anyone - especially the most no-fucks cabbie you've ever met - will give about you here. 

Because everyone here is a winner. A winner who has no time.

And winners who have no time are only ever found in cities that have no space. That's just how it is.

Cabbies are chill