Photography, Expression et al

In everything man does, he seeks a certain sense of meaning and purpose. And expression forms a major part of all that drives human endeavour. Though speech and text may appear as fundamental, pedestrian modes of ‘communication’ rather than those for seemingly loftier objective of ‘expression’, one must clearly understand, that all that separates the two near identical twins, is an invisible wall of man made context. And all that lends any semblance of weight to the wall, is the coloured lens of perception that we all so gracefully adorn.
Realizing the generic flavour that my wandering mind has lent to this piece thus far, I shall embark on a quick hyperlink, straight to photography.

“Writing with light” – it is surprising how sharply accurate this etymological translation can be. For in every frame that one captures, by design or happenstance, there are inscribed a million words, each waiting for one’s eye to place them together. Every line that directs you to a higher object, each shade and colour that embellishes the developing orchestration, every single entity present, distinct or otherwise, is an ambassador of so much. From one world to another, and yet, in so many ways from one to one’s own self.

Photography lends a relatively easy-to-decipher, and easy-to-implement medium to that which poets fill pages with; which dancers use to immerse themselves in; which painters dedicate their every stroke to; photography gives wings to the mind which knows no bounds, in a manner that negates deficiencies of more physical talents.
Personally, I have observed I love pictures that don’t overtly speak out too much to you. For instance, to me, a bunch of friends snapped just after they break their pose beats the picture posed for initially. For it is when images are left alone, with little expectation of direct meaning, that they allow one to read deep into them. Every expression captured, be it human or otherwise, asks one to sit down and listen; listen, to a long and fascinating story that it has just witnessed. All that stands between our selves and that untold story, is our own willingness to lend it the ear it so deserves. Linkages may be drawn to this quote I chanced upon long back:
“What is destroying humanity today is not the lack of wonders, but that of wonder.”
(Think. Digest. Proceed.)

So the next time you chance on a picture, pause, and listen to it speak. The music it encompasses is very, very beautiful. Lakeside lens loving is indeed the stuff dreams are made of!

PS: Lakeside Lens Lovers - The Photography Club of IIMC.

On joy, sorrow, depression, and the love beneath it all

Or in one word: Placements
Being the follower of self-proclaimed abstractionism, I shall at the very outset inform you, innocent passerby, of the total disregard for stats and figures that this post holds.

Also, the views/experiences/opinions, are obviously those of the author, and may not hold true for anyone else under the sun.

(I'm not called a diplomatic rat for nothing! :-)

Continuing...
Placements are a tough time for the best of us. The scope and depth of its influence makes it one of THE most brilliant social experiments around. (Pardon the tone of insensitivity. Those who know me would realize the contrast. Either way, scientific temper requires objectivity. Perhaps not to the extent of Stanford and Milgram)
Either way though, I think "we all emerged from the experience, stronger and wiser" should fit in without much of a diplomatic hassle.

Continuing.. further.
Placements are inherently laden with such distinguished qualities that make the whole experience quite the potboiler. Even a blockbuster season leaves its fair share of highs and lows, cuts and bruises. The bleeding markets all around had got the alarm bells ringing in jokaland as well.
Eventually though, 6 days from the moment the Goldmans of the world landed on our shores, looks like we're done. We've done better than many feared. But thats just what this post is not about.

Most of us live in a world where ambition, relative competence and (the by now cliched) "competitive advantage" govern most of our actions. [Unrelated sidenote: I think (stress, owing to my respect for logic and rational thought. Empirical observations cannot be deemed facts) this phenomenon is a product of one's own choices; though these choices are often hard to see, let alone take.]
Coming to IIMC (or any other "institute of excellence" for that matter), is one milestone on the path dictated by the above decision; sitting for placements is another; you get the picture.

So.
To give a rough sketch of what these 6 days go like.
(Though my experience is only with one IIM, I am pretty sure it can be extrapolated, with no loss of generality. What may change will be the duration or flavour of the insanity, but the insanity, in essence, is everywhere the same.)

Day 1
The offers begin to trickle in. General euphoria reigns, as one by one, the next set of PGP2 idols take their place in the annals of joka's rich culture.
Those of us with no calls tend to enjoy the scene, jestering around with those not quite as chirpy. Relative ego sizes, and perceived life priorities also played their part in the whole role play assignment.

Imagine a little kid staring at a tidal wave, coming to gobble up the entire town. Typecast that, to the end of day 1, and the little kid gets personified by every unplaced candidate who started with 5+ calls. That sinking feeling, is a carefully prepared cocktail of helplessness, looming inevitablity and plain old gloom. All sense of perspective and balance gets dunked into the lake. The thought of repeating the process another day. is. sad. bad. mad.

Days 2 through 6
After the hype over Day 1 subsides, one is made to awaken to days of progressively higher levels of pragmatism. With each passing day, one learns the fine art of sprouting up new 'dream companies' in one's head, so as to put up a respectable show in the interviews/GD's. Unbeknownst to the self, one begins to sink gradually into an invisible 8th lake, that of a slowly growing disillusionment, dejection and melancholia. While this is hard to detect for the self, as one indulges in random jestership all day long, it seems the truth is all too evident for the objective bystander.
To elaborate on the subtleties that mark the 2-6 continuum:
With each passing day, small/pep talk becomes more and more forced. At times, and this is I'm sure amongst the darkest hours of the entire period, the concern shown by those out of the process before oneself, takes on pereptive colours of condescension, and general hues of unpleasantness.
People break down all around you, again, in direct proportionality to time passed by. Some keep that collapsing skyscraper within themselves, as they sit alone, staring into blankness, while others let it out after a few warning signs of the impending flood. Within or without, the sense of heavy despair that this lends to the air, is very, very palpable. Perhaps the lowest phase of the entire process is when one begins to doubt one’s own capability and worth.

And now, as is very often the case, the sole positive to emerge from such hopeless darkness, raises its head.

Before continuing with that infinitely bright, all overwhelming revelation, a partial disclaimer is in order:
As with most things in life, this too lies almost completely in the eyes of the beholder.
While this takes nothing away from the pain endured, or the injustices dealt, it does serve to add meaning to an otherwise torrid, torrid week; it is essentially symbolic of that spring of light that is part of the deal one makes with oneself, on every crossroad of faith et al. Somewhat aptly, the most pertinent example I can think of now, is that of Job.

That one light, that in retrospect makes one weep tears of joy and gratitude; that reveals one's innermost selves to the self; that embodies the one real result of the entire social experiment that so many have just endured, is love.

Love, is perhaps the one thing one can give to the beleagured many, without any overt, mis-construable action. Returning to the wonders encompassed by this blog title, 'simply being a friend' is sometimes the most one can do for a loved one in need.

When one bleeds upon seeing those around one weep, one is confirmed of the underlying humanity that forms the basis of one's existence. High concepts of dharma and the like suddenly lose much of their abstruse quality, to simplify to something elementary, bordering on the naturally obvious. Much like the way Ganga opens one's eyes to many new shades and meanings, so does this gala of figurative sordid torture. After all, the message is what counts, why discriminate by the colour of the messenger.

At the end of every single one of those morosely painted days, one looks at the moon, the stars, and the people all around; and one feels this very hard-to-put-in-words emotion, wherein one is extremely moved by the state that one's people are in, not to mention one's own self, and at the same time, the very fact that one is this deeply touched, induces a sense of objective, dispassionate, un-rejoicing bliss. It is similar to some extent, to the surprisingly profound speech Butters makes in Southpark's "Raisins" episode.

With so much drama all around, quite unsurprisingly, one almost forgets one's own plight, wishing instead to be truly free, so as to be next to one's people, unburdened and unhindered by the blues directly pertaining to the self.

Anyway, one manages to hold oneself together, enough to survive a near breakdown just prior to the critical interview. Of course, the nameless volunteers present to fulfill "good begets good" do come in handy.

Eventually, the show gets over.

One is done, and so are the others, or pretty much at least.

And one looks back at what was lost and won.

An alumnus once claimed that the batch loses its happiness after this week. This can only be verified with time, though I sincerely hope and pray that it is disproved.

Though many a tear were shed, and many a bleeding hour lost, one and all did emerge stronger for sure.

And not to mention, I was blessed with the added boon of realizing all the aforementioned; of experiencing that lofty ideal which makes up a big, big part of humanity, that is both compelling yet liberating at the same time, that is, my favourite four letter word, love.

And that I believe, is the first and last duty assigned to us, as we fly down to take our places on stage.

Cheers duniya.

Be happy.

You are loved.

PS: From a conversation during the week:

sometimes i stop and stare,
and see the pain all around.
and in that feeling raw and bare,
i search for that which cant be found.

as i gaze at the people i so love,
the wounds appear to lose their meaning,
is this not the gift from up above,
that lifts us up thru every leaning?

Edit PS1: It seems to me that the joys that embellished the process were somehow lost in the course of the post. Thus a clarification, there were several instances of great, great happiness, for the good news of one's peers. But I guess those were after all tiny, twinkling stars, in the oceanic, black, shrouding sky. Still, worthy of a mention they are nonetheless, given that love shone through then as well.

Also, equally importantly, happiness, sorrow's twin sister, though easier to appreciate, loses none of its artistic/poetic sheen.

:-)