Skip to main content

The Unsettling Truth about Chasing Your Dreams- A Staircase to Nightmares 📉📊

I've stopped counting how many times I've been rejected as a research associate from excellent institutes and have been disqualified by the prestigious, creepy NTA NET/JRF. I recall the failures with another cup of refreshing tea because tea is a gentle hug. I fail, I study, analyse, and fail again. It reminds me of my school's intercollege debate speeches. I never was able to make one! 
Passing moments reflect the shades as in the colour palette of Harry Potter or La La Land. Both are fantasy, just like my success.

Am I successful? By society's definition - definitely not. For me? Umm... I suppose I've grown. I can critically analyse the anti-charismatic authors like Salman Rushdie or Amitav Ghosh. Don't get me started with their lavish lifestyle and distorted facts for merely placing their books in the genre of magical or eco-realism. I would have preferred Mr Roald Dahl as a better author for us adults. People say the truth is different for everyone, as they call truth subjective. Taking the notion of law and justice to another level. If truth is subjective, I believe kids are born murderers or old people are the most innocent.
Truth is complete white with the fragrance of comfort, siding with justice.
Education is numbers, while learning is losing 2 cents in the back pocket near the coin telephone in the middle of a souvenir shop after being robbed of luggage. Experience isn't talks and grand metaphors; it's the dedicated pain with patience. Philosophy leads to comfort, and it's not a weak talk in an air-conditioned hall with elites having private jets. 

Oh! Splashing mud on successful people is better than accepting the "Not Qualified" failure of one's own. Is it? Accepting failures and living with "oh, Mrs Bhalla's son got into Cambridge" isn't a portable talk during jogging concessions.
Accepting win is a day goal - sweets distributed, pulling soft cheeks, getting more Instagram follows (we live in weird technical advancement), and gallant behaviour, and then living the future with a content complaining self. 
Failing - oh, a word that scares even kids under age 7. Suicide is the least painful step for failure, living with the guilt of not being successful tops it, better than the debatable pizza toppings. Is a pizza delivery person successful? I can imagine a person screaming in my figment of imagination, “Ms Writer, stop messing my happy life with the perfect amount of payment with your nonsense. I take mouth-watering samosas for my kids with laddus each day, don't disclose the gajra I buy to recall my wife's presence, when she was alive.” Is it ironic or funny to bring in the delight of failures the used notebooks and pens suffer? It's irrational to talk about failure because "if it's a happy one, it's the end." 

Too much about failure, I got the definition of success - it is getting my favourite ice cream before the ice cream truck moves away from the colony's lane. Hurrah! As my sweetheart says, “When you're dead, you're dead. And until then, there's ice cream.” 🍨

Comments

  1. Failure isn’t the end it’s the raw material of growth. Thank you for sharing this honestly. It's stories like these that remind us that setbacks are setups for comebacks. Keep going, your courage inspires...

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. You've been brave. Understanding failure and going through it is understatement. Failure take us to places where we find enlightenment. And that's how we win. May God bless you, Kritika ✨

      Delete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Pitch, Poetry, and Parallel Times: What a Joka!📽️🍁✍🏼🗓️

कुछ कह दिया होता? कूर्ग का टिकट करा ही लिया होता? शायद सब बेहतर होता। The “if theory” is the wisest of all for the pitch — even for skeptical humans. Time traveling has always fascinated my mind, as it does for many of us. We often wish to leap into the future or alter the past. Last July, I unexpectedly got a call from the city of Jhilmil and Barfi. I felt the emotions exactly as Satyajit Ray’ s movies make us feel, with the metaphysical boundaries of dreams and reality, reminiscent of Nobel Laureate Rabindranath Tagore’s poetry. Before my rotting thoughts could steal all the joy, as they did in the movie Lootera near lakes, I tried to reassemble my gratitude while being in sujood. Literature expertise would lead to an institute talking about consultancy. Phew! I never thought God’s pitch worked like that. If 25-year-old Munazza hadn’t heard that, she wouldn’t have thought of this pun: What a joka! No wonder I’ve stopped writing. Ideas only come in dreams, in waves, often butchered...

11:11? What a stupid wish-granting factory reset ⏳

Scene I   Lights Camera Pen☀️  How lonely and lovely at the same time, To live in a castle of own, How strange and fluffy  The winds from roof Where rain keeps showering  Like dancing along. I keep singing poems While doing the laundary  And hanging the clothes to go dry Some lose their charms Some crankles, some run  Some turn out from black to greyyyyyyyy! I tip toe the work I Like it's an art! It's always always better to do work this way. It's easy, and lovely  And as Mary⁵ and Bert⁶ says,  "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."¹ The people around notice nothing unusual as they're part of their own musicals. The kids love splashing in lakes, the women complete their everyday chores sharing emotions like an art, men walk around with an umbrella so dark making sure they hide their emotions, strangers both men and women whistle along (some hidden, most vague), cats own the roads and walk like Hadid sisters on Victoria's last ramp walk, lea...

A Love Poem, Finally🗺️🏡

Scribble, Scribble, Scribble, Crumbling another poem on paper  without a word, Oh! Wait, scribbling on your skin.🪟 The beautiful arc of the stretch marks—I always wish I had one. Ammi had many; she told me Nani got some after giving birth to her. I stole a man with a scribble [strech marks].  Oh! I can't stop imagining the loud crackles during heavy rain- One in his eyes that I name his cheeks a land of tears, Other outside his window of the slurs people speak for him.  Their ugly mindsets never come close  to even his bin polythene. 🗑️  The man I stole wore long sleeves to hide the stretch marks. 👔 I wore long sleeves to avoid being questioned about my favorite burnt skin, “ Hey, what kind of mark are on your neck and forearms .” 👘 I am tired of telling them  How much I love my burnt skin, As they made me a living story. Along the ocean of unbothered waves, I'm tired of his disgust for hating his stretch marks. Sometimes I carve a line or two, 🖋️...