TURNING THE CORNER

I’ve been a major pain to my friends – the ones I speak to often – over the last few months. I’ve been grumbling and simpering and feeling endlessly sorry for myself – basically doing things that are very unlike me. Worse still, almost none of my friends has heard from my mouth, as to what had happened, and why I was being a mass of tears. So in all, I’ve been unfair to them and I’ve been unfair to people who have been affected by my decisions.

This year has been one of decisions. It was an independent decision, respected by my parents, that I spent last New Year’s at faraway Singapore, with my friends; Singapore, that looks more faraway now than ever before. I returned, full of vigour and with a snazzy new haircut, that I thought was very me, bold and a little perky. The rest of ACJ flew off in a flurry, in work that didn’t get any less demanding at any point. When placement time came, Amma suggested I give The Hindu entrance a shot, so I thought why not, and wrote the test. It went decently, although, again very unlike me, I finished the test really early and left the hall with a nonchalance that I knew that most people in that room did not feel. Few days later, I found myself on the list. Preliminary reports revealed that they were interested in us all, and merely wanted to know preference of location, and as long as it suited their plan, they were fine.

I remember how the big man asked me if I wanted to take up desk at Madurai, reporting from Coimbatore, or reporting from Pondi. Desk was out of the question – I usually came up with slogans for headlines, and always, unfailingly forgot to give captions for the photographs in every damn editing test. Between Coimbatore where I had a few million second cousins and a very affectionate extended family – why the hell did I not think of that before! – and 3-hours-from-home, exotic vellakara ooru Pondy, the choice was obvious, at least then it was! Had I known that on the bus on weekday evenings, it actually took FOUR hours to get home and not three, my decision just MAY have been different.

So with the next one year of my life charted out, I went through an unexpectedly painless laser surgery, that ruined my spectacles fantasy for good. Myopia was no longer an excuse. And since I was forbidden from doing any exercize, my dramatic weight fluctuation tendency came back, and how. What followed was a short holiday at Kodi that Appa had planned, my first family holiday in a few years. Even though, in Appa’s defence, I remember that it was a good holiday in all, my most detailed memory of the trip was the day we left, when I spent hours writhing and twisting in utmost discomfort in the car from one of my worst tummy aches ever. Another searing detail of the memory is the resentment I felt coz he had insisted that we leave according to plan, even though I had woken up that morning in Madras, sick as hell. We forgive, but do not forget so easily – something I realized again a few months later, in a totally new context.

The looking forward to Pondy period was an exciting phase. I still have saved in my Drafts folder, the message I had sent out to a million people about the fledgling finally flying the nest. It started in absolute luxury, with the sweetest people I knew, a job I plunged into full fledgedly from Day One. It was all fine until I went home after nine days of work, and promptly broke into sentimental tears because I could smell the walls of my home again.

I was a bit spoilt in the beginning, living as I was in luxury, having it easier than others working away from home, and that troubled me. Luxury was a dangerous thing to get used to. And in my hurry to snap out of this, I sort of bulldozed a landlady into letting me in a little too soon. And it ended in a sort of a mess, and I moved again in a month, only this time I was bulldozed out. At ten p.m. one night, with almost my entire luggage loaded on to a scooter, bags dangling from every shoulder, handlebar and hook, I checked out. And for the first time, was fully aware of what an unbelievable situation I had gotten myself into.

I was alone for the first time in my life. I’ve always been a drifter, even though I have had my own gangs before. But this time, there was no one to even drift towards. Older colleagues, a much older new, nice landlady, and no time or energy whatsoever to do much, after nine hours at work. Nine hours soon stretched to ten, as I found it increasingly tough to peel my ass off my chair, log out of GTalk and get out there to find stories. The internet salvaged me sort of, reminded me everyday that there were still the people out there, whom you once knew, who still want to talk to you. On an impulse, I shed my superior stand on social networking, and joined the obnoxious, self-obsessed Twitter, which I soon stopped using though.

Even as I thought it wasn’t possible to be any more lonely, I went ahead to make the biggest decision of my life so far. I went ahead, and plunged myself into further, darker loneliness, and broke another heart to smithereens. You forgive, but you do not forget too easily. Resentment and anger threatened to burst my arteries. Hot tears scorched the pillow every night and my phone might have gone deaf if it had the capacity to. My already chubby face puffed up to new proportions every morning, and I went into auto-pilot mode, working and studying for exams. Soon, the resentment vapourized, to leave in its place, a yawning, cold emptiness that I continue to fight. I have still not found the courage to look back at the decision, in an objective rational manner. I don’t think I am ready yet.

Work and my new life have changed me. It has been a humbling experience, out of the cocoon of my Madras existence. I’ve met people who are not part of my Madras universe, I’ve learnt to haul around my 75 kg scooter around without any help – pushing it a kilometer to the petrol bunk is a weekly affair that I’d be sad to miss, I’ve learnt to hide the telltale signs of my upper caste upbringing in my Tamil – although ‘karthale’ remains a giveaway. It has given me perspective where problems are concerned. Many a trip, to meet Narikuravas in a garbage dump and in the company of abandoned children, have been spent in a blur of tears and anger towards the unfairness of it all. Cynicism was being shoved down my throat. But all the while, self-pity had not relinquished its hold.

Shoulders had slumped. Apparently the ‘priti’ expression has disappeared. The girl who was nicknamed Flubber at school had lost the spring in her step. When I looked into the mirror on my 22nd birthday, I felt cheated by what looked back at me – a tired, resigned working woman, who looked every one of her 22 years, maybe older. And I wanted to quit, and finish the game.

But Life goes on, the way it cruelly does no matter what happens. Much of it has been spent in numb auto-pilot mode, with the occasional aforementioned grumbling to friends, who have patiently listened. I don’t know if I have been more private this time, but I have certainly controlled the urge to burst into tears in public. A serviceable grin has always come in handy, so a lot of people haven’t noticed. Facebook happened, and even the once-superior-than-thou social networking hater is now officially hooked. My best friend, the one I had to meet every trip down to Madras for sanity retention has flown the nest too. And my knees haven’t buckled.

I am sitting here on New Years Eve, in an empty house with no one for company. But strangely, I feel no self-pity or sadness. I am proud I resisted the temptation to run home to Madras for a few hours to avoid this situation. It is, after all, just another day. New beginnings start in the head, and I am determined to kickstart mine soon. This afternoon’s tears dried up to reveal a deep-seated shame for my behaviour over the last few months. Every mother has given us the funda about how some kids do not get even one square meal a day, so we ought to be grateful for what we have. But we forget it when we need to remember it the most. This afternoon, I decided to be grateful. My earlier walk alone on the beach eating ice cream was fun, despite the creepy encounter (even Pondy men get adventurous on New Years eve), and despite the fact that my iPod shuffle relentlessly dished out melancholy after melancholy.

So what if I am alone on New Years Eve, having no fun? My family is four hours away, my friends, an SMS away and the world, a shout away. There is no pride in being sad. There is only pride is taking responsibility for your decisions, which are the reasons why you are alone in Pondy in the first place. There is pride in persevering at something without chickening out. And I am going to give that pride a shot. In 2010, I will turn the corner. There will be pain, and there will be tears. But I will not allow them to cripple me. I could use a hug right now, but Monday, when I will get a hug and custard, is not too far away. I am a big girl now.

Happy New Year, everyone. It is a good time to start writing my blog again. Sorry about the story-of-my-life rant, and a very belated sorry for my pathetic attempts at fiction on this blog. I am endlessly embarrassed. I will try to resist the temptation next time.

WHEN HOME IS AWAY…

Days pass in foggy detail, in a blur of riding all over town looking for inspiration, late night movies, carrot juice on the roadside and frustrating attempts to move a 75 kg scooter up a narrow stone ramp. The old Hyderabad city-meets-Mada Streets world is infinitely fascinating to live in. But it isn’t K K Nagar.

The ‘week’, which sometimes lasts up to 14 days, is finally drawing to a close. Blood gushes to the peripheries, rendering you hyper and restive. Work seems meaningless, as a silly grin refuses to leave your face. The clock strikes 4 p.m., but you are nowhere close to getting done. But the motivation is fierce, and quality takes a backseat. You send it in, and take off yourself, skipping down the stairs to the one bike that stands out in the entire sea of two wheelers on Mission Street, thanks to the gaudy yellow stickers on royal purple, screaming ‘PRESS’. 

Charger, purse and medicines – all else is insignificant; you know that. Still, you set aside your favourite pair of jeans, and at least 5 shirts, in anticipation of some miracle that will prolong your stay. The white shirt for the movie, the striped tunic for dinner, and of course, no trip would be complete without your Superman T shirt. The first things that find their way in though, are those dirty clothes that you are too lazy to wash yourself. Books, toiletries, trinkets – somehow they all find their space in that capacious sac. And you are off.

In what seems like an endless stretch of time, the bus slowly weaves its way out of the fetid bus stop. The bus hits the highway, and you finally begin to relax and lean back into your seat. Your legs are cramped beneath the seat ahead of you, and your own seat protests in pain. But with raindrops pelting your face and the wind whipping the wisps of hair that have escaped your ponytail, your throat only chokes up inexplicably in a sudden surge of emotion. The bus ride is akin to running into welcoming arms, in slo mo. 

You wrench the ear plugs of your I pod off, as you turn the familiar corner. Irrespective of the weight of the backpack, you break into a 100 metre dash to the gate, throw it open and run upstairs. And it’s all a haze again, Gundu lifting you and dropping you on the ground with a thud, hugging a grimacing Amma and jumping up and down, running inside the house aimlessly like a juvenile 3 year old… 

Everything seems right suddenly, the week’s cynicism washed down with urulakazhangu curry, nei-drenched sudra saadam and rasam. And the thair sadam that you’ve waited for all week, of course. Catching up on family gossip over vanilla custard and banana. Nameless movie on HBO with Gundu. Random youtube videos, chat and blog post until you realize its 4 a.m. Unearthly hour shower before curling up into your bed. 

10 a.m., you wake up to Amma’s endless tirade on how ugly your skin is, how sparse your hair is, amazed at how comforting it is to listen to her scream. More custard, followed by more gossip and a thousand phone calls, until you yourself begin to feel the need to bathe. Bisibela bath, cucumber raita and oily oily appalam nearly moves you to tears. Guilty indulgence in the AC in Amma’s room, with an Archie comic or a Mills and Boon. Non-stop needling of Gundu. Happy laughing in the evening with friends, going out, or staying indoors over raucous games of Uno.

Now you begin to dread the end of the day. Amma hands you bills and important papers to take back. You sit at the computer desperately, as if that machine can rewind time. It can’t. Gundu gives you your hug and immediately falls asleep. Appa’s call lasts about ten minutes, and then Amma hits the sack. The quiet of the house itself saddens you immensely, as you move around, putting together the things you have to take back. 

Freshly pressed clothes, books, bags are all arranged neatly at the foot of the bed. And then you crawl in, into whatever little space remains and curl up. You shut your eyes, and pray that tomorrow never comes, wishing you could go on revelling in the comfort, nay, luxury of your own bed in your own home. 

Before you know it, its 5 a.m. Life is cruel.

LIFE’S A HUM, FOR THE MOST PART…

God. How long has it been since I wrote my last blogpost? Every time I come to Madras, I always put this down on my list of things to do. But in the flurry of, you know, walking around in dirty pyjamas, gossiping with Amma, visiting Ammamma Thatha, Uno with friends at home, and movies on the computer, I don’t get around to writing a post. Plus, when you write for a living, there isn’t much of an inclination to write otherwise. (God. Have I become a cold professional, who has forgotten how to write for pleasure? *shudder* ) But right now, there is a flow, so I shall write, and shall do so, without cribbing about the company, nay, institution, I work for, because a blog is an open book. ZZZ. How boring have I become? Anyway, any cribbing shall be restricted to personal gtalk conversations.

• I write for a living. I go to bed every night in mortal fear of having gotten a fact/quote wrong, and hope that the next day goes by without any untoward incident, such as, you know, have some hired assassin skulk around some corner waiting to finish me off, or worse still, have someone call office and demand that a correction be printed. Zzz.
• I have begun to write fast. Really fast, as compared to the 30 hours I took to write a 600 word piece in college. I am proud to say that today, I am a copy producing factory. Who calls up her sources 5 times in paranoia, to ensure she has gotten her copy right. And yes, I still write in Microsoft Word, and copy paste it before sending it. I can’t get myself to write anywhere else. Word limits and deadlines continue to agonize me.
• The features I write, I just realized, have become slightly formulaic, although I try to throw in a fair bit of both heritage and lifestyle. Hmm, must change that. The first feature I wrote, I wrote like I do in this space, and as a result, it got edited quite drastically. Must find some middle ground, and write acceptable fun pieces. I am not allowed to post my stories elsewhere without permission, and getting permission is too strenuous, and unnecessary for a nobody like me.
• I don’t think I want to do this for a living. Will get back to studying soon. These days, I really really wish I could study for a living. I know I sound like a nerd, but I really really like studying, but strictly only subjects I myself can choose.
• On the personal-ish front, I really like Pondicherry. Was thinking of doing a series of posts tagged “city girl in a small town” based on my experiences and observations there. We’ll see.
• I don’t have a laptop, and have sort of decided I don’t need one, considering that I have access to the net during my nearly ten hours at office. Have learnt to be really alert – whenever a colleague walks past my computer, I quickly change windows, so they don’t notice I am chatting. It makes me feel guilty, but its not like I don’t work. As always, I multitask superbly, and at very impressive speeds now. This also explains why I don’t/can’t blog from work.
• Having my pieces edited too much is a BIG ego issue for me. BIG BIG BIG. Oh, snap out of it already!
• I miss Madras quite badly. Not like in a depressed way, but in a yearning sort of way. I always thought that when I fly the nest, I wouldn’t return too often and my parents would miss me terribly. But I hate to admit that I am the one pining away here. My folks miss me, and call me enough, but not as often as i thought they would. I am the one who comes back home every off I get. So much for all the bravado. Zzz.
• Another completely reverse thing. One of the reasons I said yes to posting at Pondi, was all those images I kept conjuring in my head, of my wearing my Stetson and cycling around everywhere, with a basket full of flowers (refer to header of this blog for clarifications. How cocky I am).  But since I report, I need to get around a lot, and fast, so my purple Scooty Pep has come there. When I am in Madras, I get around on my old green Ladybird. What life has in store for you, no one can tell. Even I couldn’t.
• I am quite happy there. The one thing that makes me feel bad is my nearly complete lack of friends at Pondi. But yes, things are getting better.  And so, in the future, I hope to spend more time at Pondi and discover it, during the offs that I decide not to come home. that shall happen as soon as my social life is worth writing home about, and I mean literally.
• Like I said, trips to Madras are looked forward to. I almost always enjoy the bus rides back home, except when a creepy man is near me, and that has happened only once so far. I am now, and only now, discovering the pleasures of music and the i pod. I am no technology ignoramus, but somehow the i pod had completely evaded me, because I listen to no music. I do now, a little. And it thrills me no end that the tracks get shuffled on my ancient, hand-me-down i pod shuffle. It IS so damn cool.
• Lived with an angelic family-friends family in absolute luxury, until recently, I moved into the house of another warm family, not freeloading this time, but as a paying guest. I am really quite thrilled to have suddenly become so grown up and independent, but its also a little scary. Scary-exciting.
• My room is super, really dark and no cross ventilation. Just little windows on top of the AC I don’t use, and dark blue and grey curtains. Its so normal perfect.
• I have completely stopped using the AC except when I am in Madras, because my house is a furnace. I am glad I am weaning off it. Now, my tolerance for cold has also come down drastically, which may not be such a good thing. When I experience for real, the white Christmas of my dreams, I will probably just be a snowman on the landscape.
• Absolutely EVERYONE is off to the US. It is SO scary and thrilling. Maybe I will too, I don’t know. Amma sure wants me to go. Hmm…
• Every trip to Madras is marked by an alarming discovery/news. Sample: last trip’s shock quotient was provided by the discovery that Enge Brahmanan is over. How my heart broke. This trip’s discovery is that Balamurugan Stores has been razed to the ground. I feel like crying a little. How painfully I miss school. Why can’t I go back to being my gawky self, the one who dug up compost pits, spent hours doing Exnora work loving every moment of it, and earned her Pepsi Cola at Balamurugan at the end of everyday’s work? How I miss Exnora. How I miss everything.
• Thanks to Appa, dear Scooty Pep got a nice clean up. I have never done it myself really. The most I can do is, spend 5 minutes looking for a parking space on Mission Street that isn’t in the line of fire from above. What I have learnt is that kaka pi does not always travel in a straight vertical line due to gravity. Its paths are trajectories sometimes. Zzz.
• I used to eat lunch at a Gujju/Maru mess right below office. The first time I went, DDLJ songs were playing in the background, and they served a super rava kesari. My eyes welled up as I realized that it was Fate that threw me and Sri Balaji Mess together. But after Serena described the kitchen and cooking conditions to me mincing no words whatsoever, I don’t know if I believe in fate anymore.
• Ah. What can I say about the pleasure of Walls orange kuchi ice on a rocky beach? Or the chocolate pyramid at Hot Breads? Nothing, except “Thank you God”.
• I have actually stopped thanking him. Still procrastinating the “questioning faith” bit, but I don’t do my routine prayers anymore. I just selfishly pray for my ass to be saved, when I write some copies.
• I wonder often if I should write a book. I don’t know if I can. But when I think of Chetan Bhagat, and his ‘One Night at a Call Centre’ that claims to be a bestseller, I take heart at the fact that anyone can write, and be successful at it, even if not (any) good. Maybe I should try, no harm.

Two thoughts that crossed my head, when I tried really hard not to think of which waiter’s sweat made it into my cup of dal last week:

• There is a foolproof method to decide if your family and the things they do are normal: imagine a family like that on TV or in some movie. Are members of the audience likely to say “loosu kudumbam”, or worse still, “ayiye”? If they are, then SO not normal. Let’s not even begin about my own. The windows had better remain shut all the time.
• There is a foolproof method of being able to tell if a person eating at the table in front of you is settu or South Indian (assuming that the telltale signs, such as tight transparent Hrithik Roshan T shirt or pattai/namam are missing): the settu will tear his roti using both hands, make a sort of a loop with the piece and scoop the gravy into the loop neatly. We? We are destined for yellow fingernails.

Phew. I think I am done for now. Will try my best to write during my next trip down. Can’t wait to go to ACJ tomorrow with friends. There is this warm, fuzzy feeling deep within whenever I think about ACJ. Sheesh I am too wistful and nostalgic and emo for my own good.

WHERE BRAHMIN?

When the megaserial storm started to blow, my household was somehow, perhaps the only one whose roof didn’t get blown away. We were quite unaffected by the revolution in the living room. As Amma liked to say to people with that smug smile on her face, “We don’t watch TV at all. Aduvum enakkum adukum sambandame ille…” I do try and tell her that I remember her crying buckets over some episode of Premi; to which she says “Po di. Adu edo oru episode! Nan enna daily Premi paathundena?” Which is true, I think. Amma has, she herself admits, tried to watch some K Balachander serials because of some sort of misplaced loyalty towards him. But it never did last more than a few weeks, which means Amma watched about 1 percent of the entire megaserial. The only reason why are abreast with whatever is happening in every megaserial worth knowing about, is because Meenamma and Pads watch it when they come home.

 

The day it all changed is the day Ammamma spotted this little promo on Jaya TV – a little animated sketch of (gasp!) Cho and the word “Viraivil”. It sent Ammamma flying to the phone, and tell Amma “Cho vara poranan di, Jaya TV le! Edo viraivil viraivil nu podran! Ennava irukum?” Amma promised to watch Jaya TV as often as possible to find out what exactly Cho was going to do on Jaya TV.

 

Some background information at this point: any reference to Cho Ramaswamy in my house, will have people reacting quite dramatically. A good thing about him and the entire household will join you in singing his paeans and I suspect Ammamma will cry. Any criticism about Cho, and there’s no way you can leave my house alive. Because to them, Cho represents the quintessential Tamil Brahmin. The infallible intellectual who makes acute observations. The brave journalist who does not mince words. THE multi-faceted Cho. Cho is to my family, what Che is to a true blue Marxist.

 

An integral part of my childhood memories constitutes of my innumerable trips to the nearby potti kadai to grab the first copy of Thuklaq just as it hit the stands. And, much as she was tempted to grab it from my hands, Ammamma’s priceless expression as she made me place it in her hands, ever so gently, cherishing it as though afraid to wound it. Ammamma’s tattered copy of the Kamba Ramayanam in the pooja room and Thuklaq were unfailingly treated with the same reverence. One also noticed a certain servility while handling both these books. Even today, I am made to make a million trips from my house to Ammamma’s more than a kilometer away, to hand over/collect ancient/brand new copies of Thuklaq. And countless hours have been spent by Ammamma on the phone, discussing everything that figured in the latest issue of Thuklaq, with anyone who was willing to listen – Amma, Du, Manni, me, whoever. I am also urged very often, to start reading Tamil more seriously, and mark my foray into Tamil literature with Thuklaq. 

 

In my opinion, if Ammamma knew how to articulate her feelings for Cho and not find it blasphemous, she would describe it as a ‘crush’. A long standing crush, because her admiration is not just for today’s sharp political analyst, but also for yesteryear’s bumbling comedian. She would say to me, giggling like a little girl, “Anda padathule Cho romba vedikkaya pesuvan.” Anything the Cho-with-hair said is vedikkai, and anything the Cho-sans-hair says is “avlo correct di.”

 

To Amma, Cho represents the ideal Brahmin. “Irunda avare madri irukanum,” she says. What else is there to say?

 

Thatha is not far behind. The man, who used to watch all sports on TV, and only sports on TV, because he understands them all better than anyone else in the WORLD, now watches Enge Brahmanan too. I know how proud Thatha used to be, about his TV watching habits, because he deserved to be. He could not just understand every sport, he could play most of them competently. Thatha, whose TV always had to play what Sheetal wanted it to play (Sheetal is a sports freak too, so it really suited his convenience) despite the choice of anyone else in the house, even a guest, today plays Enge Brahmanan, often against even (gasp!) Sheetal’s wishes! Thatha himself, today asks his once-beloved Sheetal to shut up when Cho is talking. Sigh. How the mighty have fallen.

 

It really cannot be articulated suitably enough, how the family watches Enge Brahmanan every night – with a mixture of awe and devotion and reverence, and what else; and those expressions of delight and glee and sudden comprehension and realization… But I think I know why they watch Enge Brahmanan. Ammamma, because of the references to all the Hindu scriptures, and their glorification, and because of Cho. Thatha, because he himself is a big Cho admirer, and not grudgingly so. (Poor Thathu is no jealous man. The only ground on which he and Ammamma concur, is perhaps in their opinion of Cho.) Amma, because of the depiction of the poor Brahmin and the rich Brahmin in the serial. The rich Brahmin represents for my capitalist mother, the ideal Brahmin in the ideal situation he must be in, in today’s material world. The poor priestly Brahmin eases her conscience by staying true to what the scriptures dictated as to what the Brahmin should be – poor and priestly. Overall, my family watches Enge Brahmanan, because it appeals to their closet RSS sentiments (even if poor Cho did not himself intend it to do so), and reinforces the superiority of the Brahmin above all else. Or so they like to think. GASP! Did I mention Cho as one of the reasons why they watch it?? 

 

Today, Amma still says, “I don’t watch TV at all.” But also remembers to add, “Enge Brahmanan paapom ana naangellam. Chellama aduku Where Brahmin nu vera per vechirkom. (giggle) Pinna Cho vandal, pakka maatoma?” What can I say? Every night at 8, its veda gosham all the way.

 

 

RUN OR STAY?

So naïve of me to have thought I escaped the rat race when I made my career choice. But I guess there really is no escaping it. I really like academic competition. But I hate having to impress someone, and forever trying to up others in order to land a job. Placement time is the time you really forget why you originally chose to do what you are doing. Everyone around you is in a frenzy – preparing, discussing, plotting – all of that, to land a job. Just any job. And doing all that not knowing why exactly you want the job. Is it the money? Not to everyone, its not. For most, it is just something. All those lofty ideals you started out with just fly out of the window, as you are caught up in all the paranoia around you.  

This is such a bad year to graduate. With so few options, the paranoia is sharpened, and so is the competition. And when you tell your mother you are just disgusted with this whole concept of running the race with everyone else, trying hard to sell yourself and trying to seem just a notch better than the others, she thinks you have no aspirations. And you know that you have already disappointed her enough with your choice of career, and your almost-absolutely disregarding attitude towards money. She has deemed you a lost case. So you know, there is a sense of guilt. There are little ways by which you can appease her – at least appearing for all the placement tests, for instance.

 

I wish there was a way by which you can lead life on your own terms, without having to conform, without having to do things others are doing. I know there is. I wish you didn’t have to buckle to pressure and try to conform. I wish I could just travel and write, (and make money, for Amma’s sake). I wish I could choose to do what I want to do, and be good at it. I wish I could just not write a CV, extolling my achievements and trying to seem like the perfect candidate for the job. But I do have to write a CV – but the least I can do, is not sound pompous, which I think I have managed. 

 

But as I sit here looking at my CV, wondering if it comes across as a little TOO lacklustre, despite the presence of some achievements and strengths I know I possess, I feel like there is someone standing apart from this rat race, in the stands, and laughing at me. I want to be that person.

 

Running away is not always cowardly. Sometimes, it is the most courageous thing to do.  

 

 

Update: I have been placed. And I sort of get to travel and write.