What is better- to write a blog post full of I-sentences, or to not write at all?

I’m waiting at the monorail station, two grocery bags full of chocolate and candy and dried fruit, and all manners of snacks that have caught my fancy. A grubby looking man pushing a cart approaches me. Here goes, I think, and ready my default “avert eyes, firmly but politely apologise” response. The man peers into one of my bags, and says, “Got anything sweet”? Oops. he could have asked for money, and I’d have refused. He’d have asked for food, and I might have refused. This is what I have repeatedly heard in my family- if someone asks for food, give wholeheartedly. If it is money, refuse, because you don’t know what they’re going to do with it. Even then, grubby-looking men at monorail stations are dangerous, and my personal safety is more important than upholding some principle. But this man asked for something sweet, and immediately endeared himself to me. Can’t be dangerous, he’s one of us. I smile, fish around in my grocery bag for a small packet of peanut butter cups, and hand it to him. He’s happy. I go on to eat my way through a whole packet of (really dry) crackers before the train arrives, and end up skipping dinner.

Now that I think of it, people under the influence of ganja do begin to crave something sweet. To be very clear, I follow Sean Plott (Day9)’s advice- magic is for winners, kids. don’t do drugs!

My sister is upset, hungry, angry. It is dark. We are walking along the narrow Maharashtra State Highway 4, a 10-foot wide road which at times makes you slam the breaks and drive at 10kmph. We need food. There’s the perennial question of where do we eat, first unasked, then asked, then hanging in the air. Next to a lane that leads to Guhagar beach, I notice the quintessential beach food stalls- corn cobs, badaamshake, and bhelpuri (with the addition of “chineese bhel”, which I refuse to eat now, having experimented with it at multiple places and times). First sarcastically, then seriously, I say “let’s have bhelpuri”, and see puzzled faces. Moments later, Baba and my sister agree, and we walk into the stall. Aai is left puzzled, her world has turned upside down. The stall is run by a family. There’s a small “kitchen” counter, clean. The daughter maintains a handwritten notebook where she tracks orders, in some form of shorthand. On the table is a plastic-laminated menu, with a good amount of variety. The walls are decked with photographs of the dishes specifically prepared to look good in photographs. We order 3 dishes. Someone wants a repeat order, someone wants to try something new. We do a mix, and order 3 more. And 3 more. And 3 more. We end up ordering nearly the entire menu. Everytime, I walk to the counter, embarrassed, asking for more dishes. The owner brings them to the table. Finally comes a time where I am too embarrassed to give another order, and firmly ask for a “final order”. (An order to end all orders). I promise the owner that there will be no more, we won’t be bothering him now. “अजून लागला तर अजून देऊ”, he says with a smile. We pay the bill. I have my watery, sugary, badaamshake, asking for cash to get one, like I never did when I was a kid. Dinner is forgotten. Here is the thing- in the twenty-five years of my life, our family has never ever eaten street food together. It has been just a day before we pulled the same stunt in Chiplun, ordering the whole menu at a restaurant owned by my uncle’s distant distant cousin. A few days later, when I’m about to leave Pune, while speaking about something completely different, my dad says “if you’ve noticed, my resistance to things has slowly been going down”. The message seems to be- I was carefree before, became rigid later, and now I’m carefree again.

Makes me remember something from Bill Bryson’s “Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid”: At a lunch counter in San Luis Obispo he invited me, urged me to have a large hot fudge sundae, and when I said, “Dad, are you sure?” he said “Go on, you only live once”. (Ok. I didn’t remember the whole thing, just the “hot fudge sundae”. I’m quoting from a book that I have open right now)

Last year, I drove down the Pacific Coast Highway with some friends from COEP. One friend described the trip as “the highlight of my year”. The highlight of that trip, for me, was the Malibu Lagoon State beach. Perfect water. Perfect temperature. Huuuge waves. Safety. Amazing company. Running towards and throwing oneself at an ocean wave is one of the happiest things I have done. There’s another thing about beaches that I like. I have a younger cousin who has “casually” amazing, bouncy hair. The only “tip” I’ve ever received from him is “I swam in saltwater once, maybe that’s why”. From then on, I have had a semi-serious obsession with washing my hair in salt spray. All in all, in Guhagar, I have planned to run towards the sea with relish, and crash into the first wave that I encounter. I do that. But in my first or second jump, I crash-land on the sand, and feel immense pain in my left heel. (I can’t belive you are using an injury to gain sympathy, Akshay! Shut up, its life experience, this story has *meaning*). This was definitely a bite. This was not a jagged rock, or a piece of glass. I howl in pain, and limp back to land. There is a wound. And there is sand on my feet. There is a single small hole, which I see once, then it disappears in blood and sand. Fire in my ankle. Pain in my shin. Pain moving up my left leg. I hop back to our beachside cottage on one leg, and scream for my father like a child. I tie a tourniquet around my shin, hoping that the “poison” does not reach my heart. I start regurgitating things I remember from Meditations. “It could be a snake, it could be poisonous, or it couldn’t. I can’t control that. What has happened has happened. What will happen will happen. I’m just going to go to the doctor and let them do what is necessary”. The pain is crazy. I laugh, delirious. I scream. I hop across to the car, adjust the seat all the way down, and place my wounded leg on the dashboard. We are at the doctor’s. Seems like a genial, careful man. I lie down on the bed, saying something to the effect of “I don’t mind pain, I just don’t want long term damage”. The doctor tells me to shut my trap. (Not really, he says “let me worry about that”). Then he begins to explain- “have you ever been bitten by an ant? How does that pain feel? Jellyfish bites are similar… “. Then he looks at my wound and realizes that it is not a jellyfish bite. There is a needle-like mark. It is likely- .. a Stingray. I get an injection. Its probably an antibiotic. Maybe a pain-killer. Just like every other time when I’ve faced an injection, I tell myself- As I grow older, I grow increasingly scared of needles. Perhaps I should get an injection once in a while, just to overcome that fear. As always, the injection causes no pain. The doctor prescribes some medicines. Painkiller. Anti-Inflammatory. Antibiotic. A probiotic to counteract the antibiotic’s effect on my gut. Taken with food, twice a day. For the next two hours, I go crazy due to the pain. Let me tell you. “Pain isn’t real, its the injury which is”. No. When in great pain- “wubba lubba dub dub” level pain- only the pain feels real. I try all kinds of remedies. The painkiller does not help. Cold water and ice makes it worse. Screaming for morphine, or “I’d totally smoke up if it made the pain go away” helps, somewhat. Playing metal on loop (Thunderstruck, Hurt. Enter Sandman) helps, somewhat. My sister sitting beside me, holding my hand straight up, because I decide that it’ll reduce the pain, helps. Two hours of pain are like meditation. I breathe deep in the hope that the pain goes away. I scream and laugh and I try to cry. I think about nothing but the pain. It isn’t real- a lone voice in my head goes. The voice is quickly drowned out by a million others. Eventually the pain goes down. I have dinner. I go to sleep. There’s no pain the next day. Aai will now go around telling people how I have a high tolerance for pain, and since the stingray venom made me scream, it must be really painful. I’m not so sure. People have all kinds of pain in their lives. It may or may not be real. But it feels real. And all you want to do then is to make it go away.

I’ve just had dinner with the other friends from COEP, whom I didn’t go on the road trip with. The appetizers are tasty. The pizza is adequate. The pesto is nice, the aglio olio dry. The tone is somber, because unhappy things seem to be happening all around, and then its irreverent, because we still want to laugh. I’ve downed a spoonful of Tabasco sauce as a joke. Tabasco sauce, like wasabi and mustard pickle is something that I enjoy “snorting”, because it makes something go “pop” in my head. After a drawn out discussion on getting some form of “real” food, outside this falsely-fancy bistro, we go to Kalyan Bhel for Kulfis, and sit out under the sky after they have closed shop, talking about.. life (and mathematics, brownian motion, pricing complex derivatives). To be accurate, one person does the talking, and I’m listening, blown away. This is something that I’ve learned to do recently, and I love it. Really listen. Make an effort. Concentrate. Catch yourself when your mind wanders. Ask them to repeat what they said. Seems like people like it. After some ranting and anger and philosophizing, I end up saying “Desire is the root of all suffering!” And my friend says, quietly, with a tone I read as “resigned”- “.. and happiness”. I’m going to remember that.

If you are reading this, you’ll know I’m addressing you. This has been an unexpected year. Difficult? Enriching? Full of joy. This one’s for you.