Blurry

I had my first pair of eyeglasses when I was in fifth grade, a week after my birthday. I surprised everyone during the school assembly, and my classmates’ reactions ranged from the cool-they-look-good-on-you type, to the they-look-nerdy-get-rid-of-them, to the nonchalant I-didn’t-even-notice remarks. I didn’t care much, what mattered really was that my eyesight improved, and the world suddenly seemed crystal clear.

Now, thirteen years since my first glasses, I can say that my “relationship” with my specs has gone “on” and “off” several times. Sure I needed them badly when I was trying to flag down a jeepney at night, when I was watching a movie that seemed a hazy swirl of color, and had to bother my patient movie-mate to read to me the few subtitles in “Pearl Harbor.” A trip to school without my glasses meant sitting in the front row, trying to read the white marks on the board behind a zoomed-in image of my teacher, and squinting extra hard just to figure out who the blurry faced person waving at me twenty feet away could be. But sometimes I just wanted to get rid of them, not really for vain aesthetic purposes, but because for some weird reason, I like to see things not too crisp, not too perfect.

I’m not blind, mind you. Just nearsighted, so everything’s crystal clear when not too far (am I making sense?). –1.75, I guess, whatever that meant, but I’m sure my normal vision’s far better than your granny’s. Without my glasses, I’m far from being a lost oldie. In fact, it’s better in a sense, cool in the eyes, edges seem blurred and smoothened, objects seem closer than they appear (like in those taxi mirrors), and everything seems much less complicated.

Remember “The Matrix,” the first one? Remember how that guy would pay much just so he’d forget he knew too much? Just so he’d enjoy life, and be able to savor a sumptuous meal as it is, and not know that he’s being fooled by the signals sent by the computer program to his brain? “Ignorance is bliss,” he said.
That’s my point here. I don’t want to learn too much, to see things too clearly, to be a know-it-all. I want to maintain some fragment of innocence, so that I’d never lose my sense of wonder and awe. Besides, I'm only 24. I don’t want to see things as if my eyes were microscopes, scrutinizing every detail, as if my brain were a supercomputer processing every bit of data I sense. It’s fun when we marvel at things, when we realize our limits, and acknowledge that there is a Great Beyond.

Sometimes when I look at the blue sky, I try to forget about the high frequency and short wavelength of the violet color of the sun’s light, and our eyes’ sensitivity for the color blue. At times, I regret having watched the magician’s secrets revealed on “Exposed” (I’m sure I’ll regret too if I didn’t watch it), for it diminished my childhood fascinations into a clever bag of tricks. Still, I’m thankful for the knowledge I’ve gained, for it proved enlightening and helpful. After all, as Ernie Baron always says, it is “power.”

Don’t get me wrong. Learning is very important, and so is the enrichment of knowledge. People pay for good education, and would love to find answers to baffling questions haunting them. But sometimes, being a little naïve isn't a bad thing either. How I wish it were as simple as putting on eyeglasses and taking them off.

So while having a perfect world would be nice, the not-too-perfect, a little blurry picture of the world is perfect enough for me. But of course, my trusty specs are there anytime I need them.

On death

I have seen many people of all sorts die, and not one of them feared death once it was inevitable. ~ Abbé Henri de Tourville

Have you ever come across this word and just as quickly decided to move along and dismiss the thought as though it did not exist? I have struggled with this reality at a very early age and have come to terms with it on my own. Life to me is synonymous with death in the sense that one is not complete without the other. When I was three years old my grandmother died of a heart ailment and we had to go to our country to attend the funeral. It didn't register to me back then what it meant because as I related in my previous stories I could still sense my lolo's presence even after they told me that she's already gone.

The realization of my own mortality came to me two years later because of an incident that I will never forget. We had a neighbor who lived in a huge mansion in the back of our home. We had some problems with them in the sense they were not too happy in interacting with a non-white family and often used to do things, which irritated my parents. I was too young to get affected and in fact I don't recall exactly now how it came about but they also happen to have a dog that I became attached to and would frequently come over to pet with. But one day out of the blue, this dog bit me on my left ankle. The strangest thing of all, I didn't tell anyone what happened, including my parents. I just kept the whole episode to myself and decided to forget it ever happened.

After this incident, I began to hear stories about how people can die and have died because of rabies from dog bites. Being an impressionable kid that I was, I soaked this all in my young mind until this story was related to me that suddenly hit me like a lightning bolt. I heard somebody said (as to its accuracy today, I cannot really say) that Napoleon died cause he let a rabid puppy lick a wound he sustained during a war. I also do not remember where I got this other information that stuck with me but I also got this impression that it can take up to six years before somebody finally dies of this rabies infection. Of course, I realized much later when I finally surpassed this mental ordeal that this was greatly exaggerated since the incubation period can range from 10 days to 2 years at most.

Nevertheless, I thought to myself that my life was doomed. But being the ever-optimistic girl that I am, I seriously gave myself six years to live! I find that somewhat funny and amusing now but back then it was very real to me. I can still remember that awful day of realization - what I was wearing! The sights and activities that surrounded me, as if it was all trapped in an hourglass. That was tipped over and the sands of time slowly but surely starting to fall and with every grain representing each second of my life that was now slipping away in front of me. All of this at the tender age of five!

Just imagine how this radically changed my thinking and perception of life. In all honesty, I wasn't afraid at all. I just sort of accepted it point blank and made a mental note in my mind that when I reach eleven or twelve at most, I'll be dead.

This event practically made me a mature lady, at least in my own thinking, overnight. My whole perception of the world changed. Before, I used to think that the whole world revolved around me. After that it seemed that I was just a speck of insignificant dust in the cosmos of my existence. And so I made every minute and day count. No amount of self help book today could have taught me everything I have learned at that young age on my own about life and priorities. I came to look at things with a different pair of eyes and what I saw was a beautiful world. John Lenon's song "Imagine" encapsulates all that I envisioned at that tender age. Hence I became an achiever. I studied really hard, polished my talents and smartness, because I knew I did not have much time in hand. I also became unselfish and thought of others first before my own. I became generous and more forgiving.

Some of my classmates in grade school must have thought of me being strange. While all they could think of then was having fun and being care-free, here I was being a diligent student who helped my teacher clean up after school and never wastes time idling around but goes straight home everyday. Not that I did not enjoy my childhood anymore. There was still time for me to hang around with my friends but more than that, I got to talk to them about serious stuff about life although I wasn't quite sure whether they understood me back then. Finally, I turned twelve and everything was anti-climactic to me by then. Through those years I doubted if I was really going to die but if I did then I was surely ready. But nothing happened. So I just moved on with living.

Much later, as years passed by, I went much closer to death and saw it right on my doorsteps as unfeigned and real as it can be. But that’s one more milestone in my life.

If you ask me what I think of death, I'd say death is very much like sleeping. But the strangest twist must be to find out after you died that you were just sleeping and dreaming all along. And you suddenly woke up.

Rain, Rain - be with me.

I love the rain. Ever since I can remember, I've always enjoyed sitting under the weeping sky. I like to think of it as God's tears (back when I was more...errrr... religious) that He sheds to cleanse His people. In a way, despite my...err... religiosity's decline, I still felt cleansed by the rain.

When I was about 2 years old, we were on a vacation to India and a big storm hit Calcutta. Flood waters reached my uncle's hip. I know because we walked across the street to the still-open Paan shop, with me on his hip, my little feet dipped in the dirty water. Most of the houses around us were almost submerged. Those with second floors looked like bungalows perched directly on water. Broken branches and debris floated around the oily gray water. Lighting flashed. The wind howled. The heavens wailed.

But I looked up the sky in awe. I felt the raindrops kiss my face. Tiny cherub kisses. Gifts from God. I saw the rain as a boon, even as flood waters rose higher.

Thus my love affair with the rain began. Now that I think of it, most of my memories involve the rain.

Since I lived in England, rains were a part of life and still I loved them. As kids, my brother and I would run around the garden, with beach-pails in our hands and try to catch as much rain as we could. We had this long-running notion that saving the rain would mean good luck when we bathed with it in the shower.

Ahhh...the innocence of youth.

I remember getting caught in a downpour with my brother when he went to fetch me from my kindergarten. Instead of cowering under the waiting shed or seeking the protection of umbrellas and raincoats we braved the lightning to walk home hand in hand, splashing in the puddles and dancing on the people-empty streets. Sure, we got scolded for walking through the rain and risking getting hit by lighting. But it was worth the fun and the laughter of course, dancing in the rain.

When I got news that I got the admission to the University for higher studies, it rained. I found it unusual that a thunderstorm brewed, matured and dropped its cargo barely two minutes after I opened the envelope containing the results. Needless to say, I threw all caution to the wind and ran around the neighborhood with the other kids as the rain pelted down on us.

Even in the University campus in Sydney, the rain continued to brighten my day (ironic no?). Rains were not as frequent there, as in England and I had to wait for the monsoon months to arrive. During the monsoon months, I remember walking around the campus, letting the water soak into my jeans, making it heavy and problematic, yet I loved it. I kicked up a spray of water from a puddle and sang insane songs with my friends as we performed our wet procession. Sometimes, we'd don our shoes and crappiest clothes and play soccer in the mud, despite the repeated warnings about viral and colds and fever.

My first heartbreak happened under the rain. He was my closest friend at a time when I felt all my other "friends" had abandoned me in exchange for their own pursuits. I had believed it was love, but I grew to realize that I fell in love with the idea of love rather than with him. Still the rain did not ease the pain of losing a friend to a (wrong) illusion of love. Ironically, it was raining when he and I met again years later. Me in a fresh new relationship, him just out of a stormy one.

Now I live at a place, where it does not rain. Only a ten minute drizzling, 4 times a year and that’s it. I do miss the rains, very much and I allow my dreams and thoughts go back a few years where I sit beside our huge landscaped glass window on the living room in our house in England, watching the heavy showers. My mother is furious that it ruined a perfectly sunny day to dry the day's laundry. My dad is complaining that he just washed the car and the rain has spoiled the waxy shine it had. My brother just called up, announcing that he is stuck in the rain and is getting late.

As for me, I'm still watching the rain drench the earth and suffuse it with new life. Who knows? Maybe it’ll infuse me with more life.

Stupid Questions

I hear a lot of stupid questions all around. Once there was this guy who took my bottle of distilled water and asked me, "oh hey, can I take a sip?" when he has already removed the cap, and looked so ready to scour the contents of my bottle. The question was stupid simply because the person never gave me an alternative.

Interrogative remarks are made to give people a substantive choice between agreeing or disagreeing. Although mathematicians and scientists often use rhetorical questions that are condescending and undemocratic, but they really don't count. They are literary and oratorical devices utilized to deliver a point. That guy who asked for a sip had no point to prove. He was simply a rude and uncouth type of a guy, who used my vulnerabilities to quench his thirst. Left with no alternatives, I quickly succumbed to his request while he anticipated some kind of response, as if I had a choice to say no.

Another stupidity came from a beautiful, blonde girl from my French class who asked my teacher in front of thirty students if she can go "potty, potty." I understand why she once again forgot how to say est-ce que je peux aller aux toilettes after taking years of French lessons, but can she be more indecent and insensitive? I mean, didn't she realize that such an immature remark is inadmissible in a class, especially in front of ten or more esquires who are so sensitive, they shiver and puke when hearing the f*** word being uttered?

Then there was this annoying American girl I know, who simply can't stop asking questions. When people solicit an explanation from her as to why she always make stupid inquiries, the irritating carrot-top always said, "why not, it's a free country, isn't?" I don't know why, but she makes me wanna be a totalitarian dictator of the United States, just so that America's freedoms would banish away along with her exasperating queries. What a coincidence that she has thick-framed eyeglasses. I just thought that if she could wear a green outfit with ubiquitous question marks printed all over it, she could ultimately replace Jim Carey as the Riddler. However, the title doesn't quite fit her personality. Riddles actually do make sense. Her questions don't.

Think of getting a call in the middle of the night and as you somehow utter a sleepy hello, there is voice on the other side, full of enthusiasm and rabidity, who asks you, "were you sleeping?" No, I was not, was just lying flat thinking of the long day I had and was pretending to sleep, when I was actually waiting for this call. Wham!

Yesterday I was confronted by a someone, who randomly asked me if I was his friend. Surely, he was, but asking such a question right on your face puts you in a dilemma if this is the friendship you had really wanted. If I weren’t his friend, why would I be wasting my precious time talking & being with him? Friendship is felt and it doesn't have to be said and such questions are meaningless.

It makes my blood boil whenever people try to stereotype and degrade other people into this wild jungle of chaos and barbarism, as if the they are the only civilized individual in the world. Call me uncongenial and stupid for ranting about these insignificant faux pas, but encountering such social blunders everyday would definitely make a beast out of a gentle human being.

Just like this incident.

I had an American friend who once told me that America is the freest nation in the world. I asked him how many countries he has visited throughout his lifetime, and he told me that he has not been anywhere, but he watches the TV and CNN, so he is aware of the world happenings. He asked me if the main reason for a traffic jam in India is cause of a cow sitting in the middle of the road, or monkeys running around in the streets. He also asked about the Indian charmers and the black magic experts and asked if Indian magicians (who form a big chunk of the Indian population) survive without food. He perhaps hypothesizes India as a dilapidated nation, raped by poverty and decades of backwardness. I could have never realized the in-depth knowledge and intelligence of this so-called friend of mine, had he not asked me those stupid questions.

Questions, questions, questions. They come in different forms, and in different degrees of rationality. Even though some may seem inflaming because of their stupidity and obvious fallacy, without them, I can't write this article. Stupid questions give me a different kind of perception of the world and of the people I interact with, everyday. Stupid questions are great. Without them, we can't really discern what intelligent questions are, or can we?

Sandcastles

I envy children. As I look at them while they play by the shore, I feel this longing to be a child again. Life was much simpler then - all I cared about was why Tom chases Jerry and how to dress up my Barbie doll. Nothing could hurt me back then, but I grew up and life got complicated. I was supposed to go home, but I sat down and watched them build sandcastles instead.

Bringing out the child in me, I too made one. But then the waves came crashing towards my castle, causing it to gradually be washed away. Looking at it stirred something deep inside of me. It was just like us, slowly falling apart. The sun was setting and I shifted my gaze to the water. The sea was quiet and serene, soothing but at the same time depressing. As if it was pulling me back to remember all the things that I had struggled so hard to forget, or run away from. I tried to appreciate the scenery that was before me, but it only made me feel the emptiness inside of me.

I stood up and walked by the shore thinking of what happened the previous week. I heard the news that you were taking a leave. You were moving out of the town, out of the country on a new job. I was in a shaky state and hearing that you are leaving was the last thing that I needed.

I did not want my friends to think I was affected, so I acted nonchalantly as if it didn’t matter to me. I tried not making it obvious so as not to have my friends worry, but I was really disturbed. It was about two in the morning that time, and open coffee sachets surrounded me.

In front of me were mounds of scratch papers with countless equations in them. I pretended to study, but every now and then I caught myself staring into oblivion.

I tried to look for you the next day, but I was not successful. It’s frustrating because during the time when I wasn’t really sure when I wanted to see you, you were practically everywhere. But now that I really needed to find you, you were nowhere in sight. I decided to call your apartment and I almost cried when your voice mail said that you already left. I wasn’t even given the chance to talk to you before you left. I wasn’t given the chance to say goodbye.

I continued walking and decided to collect seashells. I told myself that if I would be able to see you again, I would fill an entire bottle with shells and give it to you. While doing this, it occurred to me that I asked for this, I prayed that you would just leave. My life was fine before I met you. Maybe my life wouldn’t have sunk so low and you would not have the power to hurt me like this. But now that you are leaving, it’s just the same. I’m still hurting. I ask myself, do I really want to break myself free from you? Or will I continue to hold on to the little hope that someday you will learn to appreciate me. It always ends up that I choose the latter.

The sun had already set and I could barely see what I was picking up. Still I continued to collect shells, not caring that I was damaging my French manicure, which took me so long to do the night before. All I had in mind was that I needed to fill the bottle I was holding. I don’t know why in spite of the fact that I cried my eyes out for weeks, I am still doing this. It’s as if all the pain you caused me was erased by the news that you are going away. It sucks that emotions could really betray you when you have set your mind on doing something, which you know, is the best for you. I recall the time when I tried to be angry with you, just to have a reason or motive to be able to forget you. I coped by telling how I felt to many people, that I was tired of being the fallback and that I would not be stupid anymore and wait for the day that I’ll be your priority. Then I realized that it was not them I was convincing of that I’m not so foolish anymore. I was actually convincing myself. I tried to tell myself that I am moving on. Who am I kidding?

As the waves crashed on my feet, I was also hit by a realization. I hate to admit it but shit, I am still in love with you.

As much of a cliché as it may sound, I’ve never loved anyone as much as I have loved you. I may be foolish to believe that it would last, but I will forever treasure the moments that I spent with you. It’s ironic how one thing, that was once full of bliss, now causes me unbearable agony. There were times when I blamed myself because maybe it was my fault why we drifted apart. I told myself that I shouldn’t have done this and that. My friends always tell me that you weren’t worth it. Maybe you weren’t, but it doesn’t change the fact that I miss you terribly.

When I was finally able to fill the bottle I headed back to where I had built my sandcastle. I came back just in time to see the very last of it getting washed away. I tried to save it but the water was just more powerful than I was. The castle was us, no longer existing as it was washed away by the waves. Again I sat down by the shore and gathered sand and I watched every grain slip slowly out of my hand. It reminded me of how you also slowly slipped out of my life. Before I knew it, you were gone. I looked at the bottle in my hand and even though my mind tells me the opposite, I knew why I wanted to give it to you.

Pathetic, but it would give me a reason to see you for one very last time. Tears welled up in my eyes, because I know that things would never be the way they used to be between us. All I have are memories to hold on to, for I do not have you anymore. No matter how many sandcastles I make, they would still be washed away. I hope it’s not too late to climb out of the deep abyss that I sank into. I pray that the like sand, the water could wash all my pain away.

I stood up, threw the bottle of sea shells into the sea and walked away, not looking back, bidding farewell to making sandcastles and looking forward to moving on with my life.

As the World Turns

I got an email from an old friend this morning. She asked how I was. Funny how I was able to come up with a long letter when all she asked was just that one question. She and I came to know each other through a common friend. When that friend migrated to the provinces, maybe for some nostalgic reasons, we started hanging out.

We met at a time, when I was a teenager and we both were out of home for college and our adrenaline was so high that we could get into anything crazy at a snap of a finger. We used to experiment with pubs, discos, used to explore new restaurants, tried HipHop music, latest fashion, rock stars, bands and everything we could think of. Some nights would see us hanging out in rock bars and somehow we’d always manage to come home unscathed because we seem to give this impression that we were snobs.

Our interests went beyond music and alcohol. We would get into almost anything together: Mountain treks, working out, yoga, incense sticks, scented candles and trivial things such as fish balls.

She was also my protector when men she knows to be playing the field would ask her to be introduced to me. She’d dismiss them by either lying that I’m married or that I am that much of a snob that they wouldn’t live up to my standards. She was both an older sister and a friend.

I remember one summer when we ran off to Queensland for wind surfing. I could still remember how the sun felt on our skins and taste the salty air as it wove its way through my hair while we navigated our way over the calm waters. It was on that board when I noticed that watching the changing pallets of the sky couldn’t have been more beautiful than seeing it from atop the waves. I never really noticed the sunrise until then.

At day’s end, even as just about every limb screamed for warm covers, we stayed up with friends playing poker. I was never really one for card games and she poured the alcohol. When the conversations began to get louder and topics less comprehensible, I slipped away with a cigarette stick. I treaded on waiting for their laughter to fade and sat on the shores and waited for the sunset while allowing my thoughts to fade with the smoke wisps into the burning horizon.

I came home to bodies slumped over glasses, rum or beer bottles and cards haphazardly stacked in one place. A snore here and there, otherwise there was silence. I captured that moment when the world seemed to have stopped long enough for me to observe it. Alone with my thoughts and the clashing of waves against sand, I looked at them all. With her pending immigration papers, I knew one day all this would have to end.

That was the last summer we were to spend together. By Christmas, she was in Canada. She’d send me picture of the White Mountains, the miles she covers in her early morning runs, the places she has been to. The new life she leads in another country. She has always dreamed of this, she would say. And how she fitted well. The succeeding summers brought her a new job and truckloads of schoolwork for me that even the emails dwindled.

Eventually the surfing and the travels stopped the blaring music and the dances lost its luster, the cigarettes tasted stale and even alcohol gave way to water. The only thing that remained is the way my heart stops with every view of the sunset and the myriad lights at nighttime. And how, every now and then, I’d still capture that moment when the world stops long enough for me to observe it and know that when the world turns, all this will have to change along with it.

Sometimes I wonder if she, along with all the friends and relationships I have failed to keep, brought a chunk of happiness with them every time they leave that I have successfully trained myself to rely on logic than sentiments. Maybe getting so attached and being left behind over and over again has turned me into the less emotional person that I am. Or maybe I have just learned to move with every turn of the world.

She asked me how I was. "Well Sonia," I wrote, "…where do I begin?"

Virtual is for real.

My second semester exams were over and when everyone was holidaying, I was stuck at University, having opted for a special course on "budget preparations" which a big official from the World Bank conducted and as I am absolutely crazy about World Bank, I chose to attend. The officer was yet to arrive and I had 2 free weeks at hand. Too short to visit my parents, and too long to kill time, without many friends around.

July 2000.

*Yawn*

I am bored to death. Larry King stopped grabbing my interest a long time ago. All that seems like yap yap yap. I flipped through the channels. The same old boring stuff. They have 'Joyride' on HBO. Don't know why, but I always manage to catch that movie from the point where Rusty Nail dude starts harassing Paul Walker and Steve Zahn. Flip Flip Flip...Wait! Roll back, was that Ben Affleck'? No. Damn! Flip Flip Flip....

I scan my room and look at my computer. I try to divert my attention to something else. Did I tell you that I am an Internet addict? If not, let me introduce myself. I am 20 years old, an economics student, and lead a very happy life. Except, that is, for my extreme fascination for the "Net". (I mostly used the net to do nice things, like update myself on the economic models, read news online, teach myself more about music, and educate myself on different mythologies. But, at that point, during those 2 weeks, nothing was exciting me at all)

Finally I give in to my urge and decide to experiment with chat rooms. They seem to be really popular. After all, how many times have we read: I met my life-partner in a chat room, I met my soul-mate in a chat room so on and so forth. I don't need a partner, but maybe I will be able to find some remedy for this boredom or if things really click, a good friend. With such hopeful thoughts, I pick a popular Indian chat site.

I have to decide on a name first! What should it be: "boredtodeath", "boredtotears", "xyz"? No. They are boring handles and I suspect when someone logs into a chat room with a boring handle, they are put on virtual ignore. At least that is what I would do.

Something more interesting, something more appealing, something more feminine. Names? Naah. Flowers? Yes. Best bet! Okay, "redrose", "buds", "yellowlily", "pinktulips", "Daffodil"...YES! "Daffodil" it is.

[Daffodil has entered the chat room]
Chitter chatter chitter chatter

Someone: Daffodil, nice name!

I am on my way to greet fellow chatters when this huge flow of PM’s (personal messages) starts.

rajiv89 says 'a/s/l?
hotguy2000 says 'ready for a hot chat?

And there is this guy who seems to have lifted a ten-line paragraph from an erotic novel and sends it every two minutes.

There are approximately fifty users logged in and I get PM’ed by about twenty of them. Not one wants to chat in a decent way. Boy! Let me tell you. If you really crave male attention, I suggest you login with a real nice female name preferably that of a flower!

There were messages with people saying, Want a hot chat? Respond fast, I am at work. What the hell? So is this what some people do at work in India? What happened to Internet monitoring? All the while I keep closing the windows that seem to pop up relentlessly. A few guys are even angry that I don't respond. They say 'You have to respond. I know you will.’ Why?

In the main window, I see some people trying to strike up a meaningful conversation despite all the hidden private chaos. But none of those conversations seem interesting. The usual flirtations, a/s/l questions, "What's up", "So how's life" That is one question that bores me to death. I don't like being the one to break the sad news to a poor unsuspecting enthusiastic dude that life right now is very boring. I take a pass on that.

And then I hear this question. 'Are you a virgin?

I just avoid the question and move on but the guy keeps stalking me. So I say, "Yes" and then comes the million-dollar question:

"How come you are in Australia and still a virgin. Don't fool me now" And the other chatters follow: "Why?" "Don't you have a b/f" and all manner of other obscene questions!

At that point, I just close all the windows, hit the 'shut down' button, put my computer away and go to sleep thanking my stars that I am not out looking for a mate in this new, weird, techno-world where the dynamics of meeting people seem to have changed completely. No matter how many people deny it, the Net seems to have become the preferred medium to meet people/dates. I am glad I am not part of the scenario where nameless people ogle at a handle!

I hit the sack and slip into a deep slumber, even as I metaphorically kick myself for experimenting in the first place.

My heart went out to all those single people out there trying to strike a decent conversation with someone in a chat room intending to find his or her man or woman. My sympathies for them.

This was my concept of chat rooms, chat "friends" and chatting. Everything was indecent, fake, bogus and complete crap. The concept remained convincing until, after two years, when I was working in Dubai.

August 2002.

The other day Nida, a shy friend of mine, confides "I am in love".
I was, "Wowww!!! Who’s he? When can I meet him?"
She: "Uh! He's not from anywhere here. You see it may sound ridiculous but I met him online in a chat room. We haven’t met yet."
Me: "And you are in love?"
She: "Well am almost sure. I will know for sure when I meet him. See it sounds strange but... "
And her words trailed off, unsure how to explain a phenomenon that is very recent. And that set me thinking.

Can you really find a nice person in a chat room? Is it really ridiculous to love a person you haven’t met yet?

Thinking logically, in days bygone, there was predominantly only one concept in India—Arranged Marriage. You would marry someone who was chosen and approved by your family. After marriage you fell in love. This concept is the prevalent one even now in India. Well earlier, women were mostly not allowed to work. Hence only the neighbors and the elders she grew up with would know the real her. Also marriages would take place quite early and kids wouldn’t be mature enough to decide. Thus, arranged marriages evolved as the need of the hour. Proponents of this trend went to the extent of vehemently disapproving "love" marriages.

But doesn’t mate selection mean selecting your mate? Wouldn’t you be most concerned about whom you spend rest of your life with? Years passed and primarily because of their increased empowerment, women became an integral part of the work place. And with that increased the proportion of love marriages in the Indian community -- with or without the consent of elders. It is but natural and perfectly right. If you interact with a person for long hours you get to know that person better, hence you are better informed in deciding with whom you would be happiest. Over the past few years, slowly, love marriages between people working in the same office or studying in the same college have become just as much a norm as arranged marriage.

And now once again comes yet another forum into the picture--Internet and chat rooms.

In a chat room, you do not see the other person, but you get to know the other person a lot. You try and meet like-minded persons so you can enjoy some good conversation. Many in chat rooms are out to meet new people, listen to different thoughts, and even make friends. Some are also in it to find life partners.

If your conversation lasts even one interesting hour, you know you are going to talk more and you do just that. Despite not meeting the other person physically, you get to know about his/her convictions, values, strengths, and worries. Yes, many are concerned about putting their best foot forward and many are likely to fool others. But I have noticed that this happens only when you are new to this phenomenon. Later you yourself get bored of fooling others. After all you really cannot see if the other person squirmed. But mostly people speak the truth. They want to reach out and share their thoughts or worries or happiness, which they might not be able to do otherwise for one reason or other.

All of it to be taken with a strict assumption that there exists decent people, who visits the chat rooms, defying my past experience.

For Nida, on that day she had entered the chat-room for a lark. Looking at all the id’s she was lost in thought about these anonymous persons who had made their identities in the virtual world. She could recognize a few id’s from the last time she had visited that room. There was this ‘proudly_indian’ who was probably a bald guy with a great sense of humor, no gf (girl friend), and who probably was a student. No, Nida had never talked to him. But his profile on MSN says he sleeps on the couch, cooks for himself, and watches girls but doesn’t listen to them. Surefire signs he doesn’t have a gf. With an id like proudly_indian he was located in the USA and didn’t miss the irony of it.

Suddenly, TENANG! A window popped up on her screen with a guy saying hi to her!!! She got herself ready, to face those series of "usual" questions, starting with asl.

"Do you know me?" Nida asked.
"Yeah! I kno u a lil but wld kno more if u told me abt u." Pat came the reply.
She lol’ed (Laughed Out Loudly) in response. Now he knows how to strike up a conversation she thought. Within fifteen minutes they had established a great rapport.

The next day they talked for five hours at a stretch and in a few weeks she couldn’t believe a person thousands of miles away could almost read her mind. Know exactly the kind of emotions she had, even when she hadn’t written anything to that end. It just wasn’t possible.
And to top it he was everything she expected a guy to be – Witty yet not dumb, sensitive yet not a pity-party holder, principled but not obstinate and best of all, interested in her in a decent way!!!!!

And so the chats became the norm for the next three months. Every morning she would see her mailbox full with "good morning!" mails and in the evenings there would be "eat ur dinner on time and rem why you are here far away from your family" mails. And if mails were not enough, they would chat later during the day and share everything about each other- what he had for lunch, how she missed her father at night, and so on and so forth. And thus Nida knew more about his values, his desires, his fears, his regrets than anyone else ever did before. It just so happened that she could speak to him easily and he could listen and understand her very essence perfectly. Nida had decided that this had to be nothing else but love though it didn’t seem to be the way one fell in love (or did it?)

Perhaps it is the anonymity that chatting affords, that makes a person bold enough to talk about something that he would otherwise be ashamed of discussing. Perhaps it is the listening/understanding ear that makes a person strong enough not to fear talking about his worries. Nah! I think it’s probably both of the above. I guess exactly the same reasons why someone visits a support group.

Love is not just a convergence of thoughts and beliefs said Richa, a no nonsense friend of mine. According to her, there has to be some sort of sexual chemistry too, or else it is just not going to click. Well I am guessing here now, but is that why you would want to see how the other person looks physically? Listen to how she/he sounds? And finally meet in person to see the way he/she is in flesh and blood? A funny (or would that be sad) thing noticed by me is that people are reluctant to talk about love and sex in the same breath.

"I don’t know if I love her man! We get along very well but she’s not good looking and I am not attracted to her" would immediately frame you as a jerk and an idiot with no future. "Love is all about knowing the other person and liking him/her for what he/she is", says the world. And what is sex all about, if I might ask? All I get are incoherent ramblings either about the need to reproduce or bodily pleasure. And love is about respect. And thus the two don’t gel. But they do gel. More on this sometime later. Let us not digress any further.

Thus was the situation of Nida. I guess it’s about time we all agreed to accept chat-rooms as another and much better meeting ground than arranged-marriages, and accept it as norm, provided there is honesty.

The virtual reality certainly has some drawbacks. It isn't all gold that glitters. But this is the age of computers and when it has vastly enhanced how we learn and how we work, why should one be oblivious to the fact that it can, and has vastly improved how we make some of the crucial decisions of life? And wouldn’t one be a fool to ride in a bullock cart when one can travel using much faster modes of travel?