Control & Acceptance

There was a point in my childhood when I used to have this recurring nightmare.
One particular nightmare.

The stupidest thing is that I could never remember what the nightmare is, really. But I used to wake up crying because of these things when I was eleven or twelve.
All I remember about these dreams is that they involved some situation wherein I had been working at something for a while, putting a lot of effort and commitment into something, and then very near the end, it abruptly was taken from me. Leaving me with a lot of time wasted, or perhaps having spent something that could not be gained back.
It sounds rather stupid, even to me.
But take this thought and this feeling and put it in the worst situation imaginable, and that was perhaps what it was.

It was loss of control.
Loss of control over something you have really invested in.

I have sometimes had this nightmare in the recent past, perhaps two or three times in the last five years.

The reason for the decline in the occurrence of this dream is perhaps the realization and acceptance over time that I am not in control.

No one is.




Acceptance is a version of control.

You will surely disagree.

But.
Acceptance is the version of control we delude ourselves with, everyday.

Your body and it's many wonders and more numerous failings, you control.
Almost.
It's hard enough to control your head.
Your mind wanders.
Weird shit pops into your head at the most inappropriate time.
You say things that shock you later. In the heat.
Of the moment.

Control.
Other people?
Na, you think so? You're unpredictable enough for yourself most of the time.

Remember what you wanted to be?
Remember how good you thought you would be? The good boy, the good girl? The perfect man, or the perfect woman. A friend to everyone.
Angelic.
Incorruptible.

You say it turned out to be impractical, being that. Yes maybe.
But.
Acceptance is the version of control we delude ourselves with, everyday.

Control.

Over yourself, over people you love, over people you hate.
Never had it.
In the first place.
Take it as it comes, is the mantra. One day at a time, is the prayer.

You take chances. And you throw the dice. And when it goes in your favor, you are rewarded with the illusion of control.

When it doesn't...

I have friends who, a few years ago, were in love with each other, young love, stupid irresistible, mad love. And I was happy for them. And I actually thought to myself whenever I met them together that it would be wonderful to party at their wedding. You know, get all drunk, and be happy for them, and all that shit.

Hate.
Each other. Now.

I know the usual. Shit happens.

Yes it does, doesn't it?

You promise to be good. You promise to be true. In front of your God, you promise to be faithful. More than all of that, you promise yourself that you will.
And then you are you! All of your shortcomings.

People? They are inherently good.
People are inherently good.
Laughter track.

Your version of control is the belief that other people will behave in the way that you expect them to.

It works a lot of the time.

When it doesn't...

It doesn't.

I do not particularly believe in destiny. Or in fate. I am not advocating fatalism.
I believe in resignation.
I believe in acceptance.

Acceptance is the version of control we delude ourselves with, everyday.

A small town boy...

I've enjoyed my time in Mumbai till now, I really have. I might say I haven't at times, but now, looking back at it, yes I have.
It is really the first time I've been on my own. Starting afresh, no ties.

Free.
More than ever.

It has been hard, yes, and it still is, most of the times, remembering the comforts and the pleasures of home, and the people I've always known - my family, and my friends - the people I grew up with, and my hometown.

It's a wonderful place to live in, you know... Patiala. Indisputably magical.

Although I'm sure everyone has that to say for their hometown. But I've had this opinion confirmed by a lot of my friends who came from a whole lot of other places, to study in Thapar.
I have had a ton of batch-mates who miss Patiala more than they miss the places they grew up in.

This may be me being nostalgic, or home-sick...or whatever.
Veterans of living in hostels may scoff here. You're quite right to. But this is not me missing my home. This is me missing a city.
A greater home.
A place that is now a home for every generation of graduate that passes through Thapar every year.
However much they might hate it, or feel frustrated with it during their stay there.

When I was still in class 12, I had convinced myself that whatever happened, I would not attend engineering college at Thapar.
Because my father graduated from there.
How pathetically juvenile was that thought...
I would even go to some place less reputed, but I wouldn't stay for four years in Patiala, I could not!
It was unthinkable.
I needed to go to a fucking 'metro'!
I needed to see the world! There is so much more out there! I would get stuck in Patiala if I stayed there.

How passionately I hate that version of me now.
How pathetically...juvenile.



'A Metro'.
What an illusion.
Sure, I can go to a huge fucking mall whenever I want to, and shop!
When I want to go out with friends and go crazy, sure there are these supposedly 'hot' and amazing places we can go to, splurge on overpriced shit, hang out with a lot of fat-walleted and tiny-brained people. Where the topic of discussion is more often than not the latest iPad, or the new uber-expensive restaurant in *insert posh area reference here*.

But do you remember where we used to hang out?
The canal? That 'Khansama' truck outside of Columbia Asia?
I want a canal, man!
I want that serenity.

Whenever I go home, I make sure I spend at least one evening with friends at that unbelievably sacred place.
Ironically, it is where we once saw a bloated corpse floating along the way, and then panicked.
Ha! Where else?
It's weird I know, reminiscing about something like that, but every memory acquires a romantic feel to it, given time.

It had everything, man, it did, that city. It does.
Short of an airport.
I never had to think to myself, oh hey, I'll have to go to such and such place to buy that. Or to do that.
It has everything. It does.

I go back now, and I never want to leave.

It's been a while since I went into Thapar itself. A small town in its own right.
Remember the lawns?
There was a time, I think in the beginning of my second year, during the monsoon, when the chemistry lab gardens were flooded because of the rain.
Half a foot of water perhaps, engulfing the entire lawn.
A group of friends and I came up with a contest, with each of us putting in twenty rupees in a plastic bag, sealing it and then throwing it way into the lake that had become of the chemistry lab lawns.
Whoever got to the plastic bag first would win the 160 rupees in the plastic bag.
I got to be the guy who threw the plastic bag into the lawn, unwilling to jump into the lake myself.
I did it, and five guys wrestled through the water and mud to get to the plastic bag, shoving themselves into the water along the way, and in the end wrestling for the money. The winner found that I had secretly pocketed the cash before throwing it out, and a memorable controversy ensued.

...What am I even talking about?

Nostalgia is a drug.

“I felt a pang -- a strange and inexplicable pang that I had never felt before.

It was homesickness.

Now, even more than I had earlier when I'd first glimpsed it, I longed to be transported into that quiet little landscape, to walk up the path, to take a key from my pocket and open the cottage door, to sit down by the fireplace, to wrap my arms around myself, and to stay there forever and ever.”

― Alan Bradley, The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag