Where the mind goes to die

Lately I've been feeling a little discolored. I am doing things mechanically, just for the sake of doing them. I am neither interested nor uninterested. Its like boredom has seeped into every little corner of my world and is refusing to leave.

I want to do things, but I just don't think I can. Its not so much a question of ability as it is a question of end result. For what great goal am I doing what I'm doing? Everything is pointless.

I envy the generations before me, the era that had built my parents, uncles, aunts and teachers. Whenever I hear them speak about their youth, a little voice inside me begins to cry. Just quiet, silent tears of misplaced regret. Why wasn't I born in those days? Why did I have to be a 21st century kid? What keeps me in this world? Gadgets, gizmos and greed? Power play and pedantry? Self-obsession, self-image and selfishness?

Oh what's the point!

I wish I were a part of the groups my parents belonged to. The times when being in college was a chance to mature intellectually. When idealism would inspire sonnets and odes to flow from every cell of your body. You were not you, you were they. Utopia wasn't just a concept. It was your future. One that you would build.

Yes I know, they didn't really do what they had set out to. Many such generations failed miserably. They ended up doing what they wanted to change. Same old cities, same old desk jobs, middle-class family, two bratty kids, one car, one house etc.etc.

But at least they had hope. Even if they were just for a few moments of college life, they felt they could make a difference. That's a lot more than what I feel. Where there should be hope, there is apathy. I know the world needs me, the world needs anyone she can get to help save her. There are a thousand things I can do, a thousand things that I should do, a million things that I must do.But I just can't.

My love for the world is eclipsed by my love for myself. Not that I don't care, I do. The only reason why I chose chemical engineering as a discipline is so that one day I can be an environmental engineer. I do care. Just not enough. There are no idealist thoughts, no inspiration to change things. I know where my life is headed, the land of Same-Old Same-Old. And I know I need to prepare for it.

I wish I had the fire in me to change the world. All the personality quizzes I take tell me that I should be out there, healing the world. Instead I'm here, sitting on my bed, wrapped in a warm blanket on a Saturday afternoon because there's nothing I can do. Nothing I think I can do.

Voice.

I don't know how many people do this (or whether it easier to everyone does this) but I find to associate people with one feature they have. Not qualities; simply things you were born with/developed while growing up/developed by paying up etc.

When I picture my dad, for example, I first think of his warm hazel eyes. Then I see his hooked nose in my mind, followed by his shiny almost-bald head and sweet, indulgent smile. With my mum, it always starts with her cute button nose, one that I sort of got from her.Then I see her beady eyes hidden behind her gigantic frames, her lovely wheatish complexion and her long wavy, wispy hair.

I would start describing my oldest friend with her gorgeous, straight, raven black hair. Then I'd tell you about her nose, which turns up right at the end, like the roof of a Pagoda. My sweetest friend I would describe from her smile - one that captures the beauty and the joy of each ray of purest sunshine that falls on your face. One of my favourite uncles I would start describing by his Voice.

One of my earliest memories of him involve an untimely cough that resonated through the whole house. That's how we'd get informed of his arrival, the wind would carry his deep voice till the last room where we (the kids) used to hang out and we'd run to meet him. He has always been one of my dearest uncles. This very moment, I can hear his deep voice being lowered to a childish coo as he says my name while pulling my cheeks. "Tuntuni", he calls me by the nick name my parents have given me. Not the god-awful "tuntun" everyone has reverted to.

His voice has influenced me in more ways than he'll ever know. More ways than even I know. I love voices. At a young age, I developed a fascination with voices. You know how people enjoy good food, good wine and/or good music? I enjoy good voices. I love hearing them. And no, I  don't mean singing voices. I don't really care if someone can sing or not. But I do love a good speaking voice. I love orators, sexy articulators, just about any one with a rich luscious voice.

I try to go out of my to be a good speaker. It has become one of those things that I find attractive in a man. Voices have become such an integral part of my life that I can't imagine living without my own, living without listening to others. The first boy I actually liked liked had  has a beautiful voice. They mean so much to me.

And it all started with an uncle. "Do you know him? He has a very deep voice. No? He's tall too. And a deep voice...". That's how I used to talk about him.

That's the only way I know how to talk about him.

Imagine my shock when I found out that my uncle, due to some medical condition ( I don't know the actual medical details and to be honest I don't really want to know), his voice box would have to be removed (these are my mum's actual words). That was more than a year ago. He's visiting my folks tomorrow. I'll probably talk to him. Hear his new, mechanical voice.

not His Voice.

never His Voice.

I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that talking to my uncle will not be the same. I know there are things I should be thankful. "It could have been Life-Threatening" mum keeps reminding me. At least he's alive.

Maybe, like my mum says, I really do hate change. Maybe I'm just not ready to face the fact that something that shaped me doesn't exist anymore.

Tomorrow should be interesting.

Less than a month to Chowpatty!

Not that I'll be going too Chowpatty the moment I step on the muddy lands of mumbai.

Still.

I've been eating Mumbai street food on the streets of Dubai. They just don't cut it. Too hygienic I think.

Admitted, the last month hasn't been all bad. I got paid...that's good news. Plus I got a big packet of Dark Belgian Chocolate... another plus point.

Oh. And there's a Hot German in my office.

So yeah, things have been pretty good, if you see the 'whole' picture as they say.

At a personal level - I'm still stuck in a rut. Feeling very isolated, distant, detached. Its like every bond I ever made with anyone is snapping. I'm just too tired to be related (to people).

That can't be good.

I'm getting more reclusive, but I'm also turning into a better cook. I'm cooking stuff now. Pretty awesome stuff too.

I don't even feel like typing anymore.

Sheesh.