Berate and resign...

Don't get me wrong my friend; I come not from a place of envy. Your life is plush with prospects, all well deserved. You believed, you persevered, you achieved. I stood by, helping little but hoping generously for your success. You have struggled, you have bled and the fruits of your labor are yours to keep.

I envy not your laurels. I envy not your admirers. But I do envy the poise with which you face that man in the mirror. You embrace yourself in completeness, cognizant of your imperfections but at peace with them all the same. You know your life is not about you. You live every breathing moment knowing that with your destiny is inter-twined those of a million others.

Every now and then, the latent narcissist in me fantasizes that my life too would be a life of purpose.That I too was made to be more than a speck in the sea of obsolescence. That I too could look at my reflection and see more than the darkest shades of grey. I shudder. I'm appalled by my contemptible thoughts that revolve around becoming one less like me so I too would be remembered once I’m gone.

For what could be worse than being forgotten once you are gone! And as I ask myself that question, I surrender with a helpless awkward smile. There is worse. To be loved, to be noticed, to be accepted but to never be known for who you really are... while you are.

My mind is an irate inferno. This lack of clarity, this yearning for vanity is unbecoming. Crippling. Lamentable. The whirlwind of my confusion leave my judgment blurry. That small place of sanity lost somewhere inside me whispers- "It will be alright". "I will belong". "Be strong". 

But the world owes me nothing. "The crowd will not consume you", it says, as I run out of the room, clutching to my paltry insecurities. "They see you, with warm eyes and embracing glances". But the November chill is far more forgiving than the icy cavern that is the jaded heart.

As always, 

The voice of reason fades, the whispers turns to hush. 

And all that I hear instead is the deafening silence in this cemetery of hopes and dreams.

Concessions for the twisted

We all know that person; the one who stood out in the crowd because he just didn't belong. I don't understand his tribe. Their language is vague and offensive, their mannerisms are awkward and alarming and their nervous energy is far from charming. They always smile when they see you, but they mayn’t see you at all. They may walk right past you as though possessed by a far more interesting phenomenon. They may talk to themselves or not talk at all. They won’t look you in the eye too long since they are guarding the secrets of their inconsequential existence. Their lives are grainy pictures. Some of them- we call artists, some of them- stars, the rest of them-we couldn't care less who they are.

I would tell you the story of these invisible people, but they matter too little. The best stories are the ones that are about you- where you can identify with the trials and tribulations of the protagonist. These people are little more than whispers in the woods and shadows on the wall that fill the trivial seconds of transition between the monumental moments of our lives. If you had the opportunity to know this awkward breed I don’t know if you’ll like what you get. It’s disturbing how they compare disappointment to a blood-stained reflection in a shattered mirror. As you appreciate a glorious sunrise, they see the hazy silhouette of the inevitable sunset. They suggest that the shadow of death is our only constant companion. They know they invite judgment and yet they persist.

I hope that you have figured out by now that I’m not talking about serial killers, individuals with a penchant for biting off bat-heads or any Emo boy or girl. The twisted lead far less glamorous lives. Is it a quest for a non-existent spotlight that drives these people? Do they revel in the ostracization that they receive- sometimes mild sometimes unkind? Maybe it’s both of the above. Maybe it’s neither. It’s a little disconcerting, but no-one will lose any sleep over it.

Have you had a belief so strong that it caused you physical pain if you tried to contain it too long, a dream that was so vivid in your head that words and sketches could never do justice, and that made you feel like you would implode if you didn’t shape it into reality? The twisted live their lives constantly experiencing this overwhelming emotion giving them their nervous energy. They see the same world that we do, but they see it differently. They are consumed by their vices as much as we are consumed by our virtues. They know they may never belong, but many will try all the same. An average life is a miserable life, no doubt. But the life of the twisted is painful, beautiful, enriching and impoverishing all at once. It’s a living contradiction. 

Of course I have no way of knowing this. Or do I? 

Point of inflection

You spend sleepless nights pondering, weeks exploring, inquiring and deliberating... and then.. you take that giant leap of fate, not knowing whether the decision you've made is the best one. I, too, spent those sleepless nights pondering, I did my fair share of deliberation, and now a month after my giant leap of fate, I finally get it (or so i think). "Best decision" is a mythical being. In fact, there are no good or bad decisions. There are just decisions, and once you take one, the ball is in your court. A month into b-school, some of these dots are beginning to connect, but if i said they are all there...well, lets not even go there!
A month ago, on an eventful Saturday morning, I took my first step onto what has been very aptly called the 51 week roller-coaster. It's not jungle warfare, its not Russian roulette, but its definitely not inconsequential. If there was ever a task more perplexing  than choosing between 'n' equally lucrative possibilities, I'm yet to find it. And that is precisely the dilemma I find myself in, here at ISB, just 1 month in. Just 1 month in but with only 11 more to go. It doesn't take longer than a couple of minutes to realize that you are potentially in the land of opportunities once you get to ISB. Leadership development opportunities (read as- clubs in need of Presidents), networking potential (bright eyed, ambitious folks with some seriously  impressive stories to share), a plethora of learning opportunities (that you know you will never be able to do justice to), sports and skills to be picked up, parties to unwind at, unlimited midnight oil to burn and even an occasional moment of solitude and reticence to soak it all in. The legend of the b-school kind may well be true- the competitive, competent and omnipresent creature who leaves no mountain un-scaled and lets no opportunity to connect, inspire and transform pass him/her by.
I'm just not the legend. I'm still fascinated by the people i meet here everyday, i'm still awe-struck by the stories of their lives and i'm still overwhelmed with the choices i must make. You put bakers, entrepreneurs, soldiers, bankers, planners, doctors and some of us regular folks under one roof, and suddenly even the ordinary seems extraordinary! Is it the place or is it people? I'm not sure if I'll ever know, but there definitely is something magical about ISB that inspires even us unassuming folks to do more and be more.
Maybe my understanding of life and business has evolved little in the last one month. Sure i talk market segments and diminishing returns and even network every once in a while. But the 1 thing, that i now truly get, is that one can get out of an MBA only as much as he/she is willing to put in. From where I'm standing at this point of inflection, this roller-coaster is going up with no signs of sloping down. But before i wallow in my glorious present, i leave a note to self- the ball is still in my court, but i must return the serve.