Chennai Diaries

Without opening my eyes, my hands set about their business looking for the phone as it kept beeping louder and louder. I finally got hold of the phone and looked at the display opening my eyes just enough to notice that it was already 8.45 AM. I had somehow slept through two alarms (again) and this was the final alarm, the backup to the backup. I sat up on the side of my bed for a moment looking at the mobile for any clue as to how I kept missing my alarms. But I knew there was no clue to be found there as I had this life-long struggle with waking up early. So, I roused myself from the temporary stupor and got into the washroom. I squeezed whatever little life was left in the toothpaste tube and got about my business. 

I turned off the flame in the stove where I had set a couple of eggs to boil. I got dressed quickly and gobbled the eggs in one bite each. Still chewing on the second one, I stuffed my backpack with the laptop, charger and the file I was supposed to be working on. Locking the door and running down the stairs from my 4th floor room, I looked at the watch which read 9:35. “Oh boy! Late again”, I thought aloud as I made my way towards the bus stop which was just a minute’s distance from my room. The April sun was shining with full fervour and made waiting for the bus a hugely taxing ordeal. I put on my earphones and played the “most played” playlist and it felt like the very first song was teasing me with the lines “His palms are sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy” which was exactly what the heat was doing to me. I was on my second year of the 3 years of internship every CA student had to complete and still had almost a year and a half at a minimum left in Chennai but I was physically and emotionally exhausted. 

Suddenly an ambulance zipped past the bus stop, sirens wailing which displaced enough hot air to hit me square in the face. That gust of air turned my thoughts to my very first day in Chennai. I had just disembarked on Chennai Central Railway Station from a 44 hours train journey at about 5.30 in the evening and the very first thing that I noticed was not the heat or humidity, not even the hordes of people pushing and shoving each other as some tried to get out while others desperately tried to enter the station. What struck me most was the peculiar inexplicable smell emanating from god knew where. That weird smell was probably the first in a long list of things that made me dislike Chennai almost instantly. 

As I was still contemplating my first day in Chennai, a huge bus came to a halt just in front of me which actually had the body of two buses adjoined like an ugly metallic version of the Siamese twins. It was probably my lucky day I thought as I got on the bus and gleefully took an empty seat near the exit. I was still listening to music looking out the window aimlessly when I suddenly felt like there someone’s gaze was on me. A row back to the right side of the bus sat a young girl who, like me, had earphones in her ear and was looking at my direction. She was probably just looking past me, outside the exit door I surmised and, without giving her much thought, started to turn away when through the peripheral vision I thought I saw her smile at me. I quickly turned to face her and my suspicion turned out to be true. She was indeed flashing a warm smile towards my general direction. That came as quite a shock and I looked around me to see if she was actually looking at someone else as I didn’t want to be embarrassed by returning her smile only to find it was meant for someone else. Finally, I felt confident enough that the smile was indeed meant for me. I took in a few breaths, calmed my nerves and turned around, my eyes frantically looking for her but the bus had just stopped and she wasn’t there. Instead, there was an older woman sitting there who gave me an apprehensive look as our eyes suddenly met. I quickly turned around and thought that girl must have gotten down at that stop.  At the next stop I got down, still thinking about her. It was almost 10 and I was determined not to be late. So, as was customary after getting down from a public bus, I checked to see if my wallet and mobile were still in my pockets. I was just about to start walking when a soft tap on my shoulder startled me. I turned around to find her standing right in front of me and gave her an awkward confused smile.

Apparently, she had left the seat for the old lady and was standing near the door, blocked from my view by another passenger. 

“Hi! You don’t remember me, do you?” she asked smiling. Tried as hard as I may, I just couldn’t recall that face nor that voice. I smiled sheepishly shaking my head, still trying, trying as hard as I could to remember that pretty face. “I’m Salina” she said waiting for a response from me. “We met at the interview room in that Auditor’s office near Chepauk Stadium a couple of years ago. How come you don’t remember a fellow Nepalese, that too a girl, in this far away land?” she grinned. “God! I’m such an idiot!” I exclaimed suddenly the memories of that day came gushing in and making me wonder how on earth I had forgotten her in the first place. We proceeded to make some small talk. “How come I’ve not seen you in this route before?” I asked.  Apparently, she was on her way to a client’s place for audit and this was her very first day on this bus route. “Lucky me”, I thought to myself. She glanced at her watch as we both realised we had to get to work.  Just as I was building up my courage to ask her for her cell number, someone called out her name and she ran towards the voice saying, “Bye, see ya!”.It suddenly dawned on me that I did not even know her full name. My heart sank and I stood there worried if that was it; worried that I would never see her again.

My frown slowly turned upside down as I saw her scampering back. “How would we ever keep in touch without even exchanging numbers, silly?” she scolds me playfully. I had never in my life known that kind of happiness that too even after being called ‘silly’. I scratched my head, flashed a warm smile, took out my cell and finally asked her, “So, what’s your number?”. “Nine...Double Five....”she had just started to speak when we were rudely interrupted by a loudspeaker blaring a hit Tamil song which went ‘excuse me, Mr. Kandhasamy oru coffee kudipon ..come with me...’in which the actress was actually asking the guy out on coffee. Having come to understand a fair bit of Tamil during the 3 mostly miserable years there, I drew a quick parallel with our situation, looked at her and smiled. She must have understood as much because she too blushed, tucked the strand of hair which had fallen in her face neatly above her ear and smiled.

This was definitely something I would never forget. 

Crash & Burn

It was only about 7.30 in the evening but the the sky was pitch black and the infamous Nepalese power cuts(aka ‘load-shedding’) meant even the street lights were out. Nabin lived a very short distance from his office in New Baneshwor. He worked as assistant editor in a weekly magazine called “Aawaj”. He turned up his collar to shield himself from the cold breeze and started the ten minutes walk towards his room. 

He was already 39 and had worked extremely hard during his heydays to get the magazine established as a reputed weekly issue amidst the flurry of other newspapers and magazines. The magazine had never shied away from a story of public importance. Even in the best days, the subscriber base of the magazine was a fraction of the major news outlets, but the editorial team, consisting of Mr. Kiran, Mr. Binod and the editor Mr. Aashish, was proud of their work and they knew that their brand was unblemished and that if they printed something, the public would know that was something credible. While Aashish was undoubtedly the better journalist, Kiran and Binod thrived in the office environment. So, the workload was unofficially official in that Nabin would remain in the board but not have a major say in the day to day operations. He enjoyed the freedom of his role and would sometimes remain absent for days until the last day for submitting his articles. 

Nabin reached the gate to his building and saw that it was already locked. “Shit! It’s only 7.45.”, He muttered, “Why the fuck do they have to lock the door now?” He had been asking the landlord to not lock it so early but the old lady never listened. He turned around with the cellphone in his hand looking for the landlady’s number. A van suddenly screeched to a halt in front of him and even before he could react, a sack was pulled over his head and he was bundled inside by a couple of burly men. He tried to struggle and scream but a blow to the head knocked him right out.

He came to his senses, still a bit groggy from the hit and realized that he was tied to a chair with a scotch tape covering his mouth. He started twitching in the chair, trying to make sense of what was happening and where he was. “Well, well! Welcome back Mr. Nabin”, said someone and he instinctively turned right, towards the source of the sound. A bright concentrated light switched on behind the man rendering him almost indiscernible. “I hear you’ve been poking your nose where it don’t belong”, said the man he twirled a chair backwards and sat on it with his arms folded on top of the back rest. “What are you talking about?, I think there’s been some kind of a mistake here” Nabin said while the journalist in him was trying to observe as much as he could in an effort to put a face on that voice. All he could notice was that the man was well built and about 6 feet in height and his voice had a certain ring to it, kind of like the ones you hear over the radio.

“Oh, stop you,” said the man feigning a blush, “I know you’ve been looking into my ‘business ventures’ for quite a while now and I’d like to know what you know and who else you might have shared it with.” Nabin flinched ever so slightly, realizing that the man in front of him was the elusive crime lord he had been investigating for a few months now and who was only known in the criminal underworld ‘the boss’.

“There it is! I can see it in your eyes!”, ‘The boss’ gave a manic laughter exclaiming, “So, you do know me”. As Nabin kept professing his innocence, ‘the boss’ was losing his patience. “Boys, keep working on this guy”, the boss called out and left abruptly. Two of the goons came up to him and he could sense their malevolent intent. He knew he was in big trouble and that this was probably gonna be the end of him even if he gave up everything he had.

Suddenly, there was a sharp pain on the side of his head. His adrenaline kicked in and he managed to free his hands and stand up but the bright light almost blinded him. As he adjusted to the light, his world came crashing down.

His heart sank as he woke up to find that he was on his bed, sweating profusely with a light red mark on his cheek where his wife had slapped him. “Go and get milk and groceries, you useless little piece of shit!”, She shouted. As he got up and got dressed, he could still hear her venting about how a journalist was not a real job, about little money he made and about how he never helped in the household chores. 

As he left for the store, silently contemplating on his life and choices, he actually longed to be back in the dream even though he knew that, towards the end, he was probably not gonna make it. That thrill, it seemed, was worth more than this tedious life of making ends meet.

Cold sweat

The loud argument of the next door neighbors woke her up, again. One of these days she might have to call the cops on them, she thought. Her room was about a hundred square feet with a small window and an attached washroom-the best she could afford. It had two doors that she could use; one that opened near the gate and the other that opened into the small hallway next to which the sparring couple lived. She kept that door padlocked and only used the exterior one.

She opened her eyes and instinctively reached for her smartphone. She jumped from her bed with a startled look on her face when she saw that the screen of her mobile was broken but, thankfully, it still worked. She couldn’t remember how that could have happened as she never parted with it so much so that it could practically be considered a part of her body. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t recall what might have caused that. Did it break falling from her nightstand and she picked it up in her sleep without realizing? Possible, she thought. 

Alisha was not a very sociable person and she kept to herself mostly. She had precious little time for the ‘friends’ of today and she was too busy with her studies to notice anyone, anyways. She finally let up in her efforts to recall how that crack had formed in her cell. She sat up in her bed, memories of the past flooding into her mind. She revisited the day she, finally, had saved enough to buy a decent phone and even though she was sad, a faint smile formed on her lips. Yes, her family was not a rich one but they could definitely afford to help her out financially. But she was way too proud to ask their help and besides, her parents knew not to push the subject too much. She had always been independent and even earned her own pocket money when she was a little girl by tutoring kids in her neighborhood during her vacations. She didn’t need the money per se; she just had an insatiable desire for freedom and independence and monetary freedom was the only one she could attain then. Her parents understood her and respected her for that. They knew she would make them proud someday.

Alisha had a part time job to sustain herself in the capital, Kathmandu. After a couple of years toiling away as a temp in a small newspaper, she lucked out and found a slightly better job, as a content writer for a new magazine, which she continues to hold. The pay didn’t see a particularly good upgrade from her old job but she loves this job. She has a flexible work schedule and even has the freedom to work from anywhere as the only thing that mattered was that by the end of the deadline, she had to submit her writings.

She finally got up from her bed, thoughts still hovering over her broken mobile phone. She had a little money saved in her bank account and she thought of buying a new phone but she had been planning to use that to gift her parents something for their marriage anniversary. She could imagine the pride gleaning in her parents’ eyes. So, she thought maybe she could just get the screen replaced. She quickly freshened up and realized she had ample time for a breakfast before leaving for college. A corner of her room acted as the kitchen. She saw a couple of eggs and a loaf of bread. She quickly whipped up an omelette and had a few pieces of bread along with it. It was almost 8.30 AM by then, so she got dressed up for college and packed her bag with her notebook and her wallet. She plugged in her earphone, started her favorite playlist, put on her shoes and locked up. When she was locking up, she saw that her landlord was standing near the gate looking towards her locked door with a confused look on his face. Her rent wasn’t due for a week. So, she turned up the volume on her mobile as she so often did to drown out any and all unwanted disturbances. Her room was pretty close to her college and she didn’t mind the 10-15 minutes walk as she loved walking with music in her ears.

Just as she turned right towards her college at the intersection, her peripheral vision picked up a speeding taxi. There were two people in the taxi, of that she was sure. She looked at the back of the taxi as it was heading in the direction she came from. She could almost swear that that was her father in the taxi but she quickly dismissed the notion as she knew her father was most certainly at home along with her mother. She had classes from 9 am to 1 pm for 4 days a week and as it was the last semester of her Bachelors in Communications course. She had grown up thinking how she could become the voice of change, the voice of youth in the world of news media dominated by old graying men. Punctuality was one of her virtues and she had never been late to a class her entire life and she wasn’t planning on starting now.  So, she turned around and started hurriedly towards her college as it was almost 9.

She did reach her college on time. However, she saw a crowd gathered just inside the main gate where a huge notice board was placed. Some sort of a notice was stuck there but the crowd put her off. So, she didn’t bother to get near. She hung around the periphery of the crowd, the music paused but earphones still in her ears. She heard people talking excitedly about how that an intoxicated driver had lost control and hit a student not far from the college and that classes for that day were cancelled. Apparently, there was going to be some sort of a remembrance ceremony before classes started the next day. She tried to empathize with the victim and his/her family but she didn’t even know who it was. So, she started the paused music, put her cell back in her pocket.Walking away, she was thinking of what to make of the day.

Though she lived near BuddhaNagar and her college was in Sankhamul, she had never been to the Patan Durbar Square which was barely a fifteen minutes walk from her college. So, at the intersection, she went straight towards the square instead of going left towards her room. She reached the Square and sat in the steps of the temple adjacent to the “Krishna Mandir”. She just sat there not particularly looking at anything but just soaking in the environment. She was marveling at the grandeur of the temples and the buildings when she saw a tea vendor, a kid no older than 14, walk across the temple with a portable kettle strapped on his shoulders and she called out to him, “भाइ चिया देउ त.”("hey, a cup of tea please"). The kid paused, turned to his right towards her but continued walking. “What the hell was all that about?”, She thought but didn’t give it a second thought as some other vendor would be around soon enough. “Maybe he was out of tea”, she tried to shake that weird feeling off.

She sat there for a few more minutes and got up, dusted her behind and saw a couple sitting to her left in the corner, kissing. They looked ecstatic. She never did understand the concept of love. Apart from a few infatuations in the teenage years, no boy (or even a girl for that matter) ever had the substance to make her even look twice, let alone fall in love. As she was walking around the square, she passed a small nondescript shop, the smell of freshly made momos caught her attention. Even though she wasn’t particularly hungry, she called out to the shopkeeper, “दाइ, मोमो छ?”("Brother is Momo ready?") The shopkeeper seemed engrossed in his newspaper and didn’t even look up. “How rude”, she thought to herself and called up again. Again, he didn’t even look at her. “What an ass”, she said loud enough for him to hear before walking away, enraged. She felt tired and just wanted to return to her room thinking that maybe she could finish a few pages before lunch. 

She resumed the music and inserted the earphone in her ears. As she was walking, she thought of getting her phone repaired at the repair shop near her room but thought against it because she had heard how some creeps steal pictures and data from the phones. So, she planned to find an authorized service centre the next day and quickly made her way towards her room.

The gate to her building was open and a few kids were playing there. She got along pretty well with kids, however she didn’t have the energy or the patience to deal with them at the moment. So, she walked past them quickly and when she reached her room, was shocked to see that her door was open. Immediately, her mind raced to the worst case scenario and thought that she had been robbed. Trying to rationalize however, she thought she didn’t have anything particularly valuable enough apart from the kitchen utensils and cookware. As she entered, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw her parents inside. Then, she remembered, the last time they were here, she had given them an extra key just in case they ever needed one.

Then she saw something strange. All her books, clothes and stuff were neatly folded and packed. Only the corner kitchen remained as she had left it. She was surprised and angry. She screamed at her mom,”Mom! What’s the meaning of this? Why is all my stuff packed?” But as she got closer while screaming, she saw her mother sitting in her bed with swollen, red eyes. It looked like she had been crying. She turned to her father who sat slumped in a chair in another corner. He looked shabby with unkempt hair, wrinkled clothes and looked generally tired with a solitary tear rolling down his cheek from the right eye. She realized that her parents hadn’t noticed her come in and didn’t even turn look at her while she screamed.

Quickly, her anger faded and it was displaced by fear and apprehension. She knew something terrible must have happened. She moved closer to her mother and softly asked her, “आमा, के भयो? किन रुनुभएको?”("Mom, what's wrong? Why are you crying?"). Still no answer. She turned to her father and asked, “बुवा, के भयो? किन केही नबोल्नुभएको??”("Dad, what's wrong? Why are you silent?"). Her father looked up. Alisha was scared shitless now. She realized that he wasn’t looking at her at all. He was looking right through her at the wall ...It was as if she wasn’t even there.

Then, her father turned his head up as if looking at the ceiling and let out  a soul piercing cry, “Why God!? Why her? Why not me?” Her mother moved closer to her father and embraced him, crying.

At this moment, Alisha knew. She knew why her college was closed and why people seemed to be acting weird around her today. She couldn’t bear to see her parents in such a distraught state and kept calling out to them, “बुवा! आमा!”("Dad!! Mom!!")

Her heart sank and she felt as though the ground beneath her feet was suddenly removed.

She woke up panting, cold sweat trickling down her forehead; her throat dry. “Phew! What a dream”, she thought to herself. She sat up in her bed and picked up the water bottle. She downed a few gulps and sat still, thinking about her parents. She, suddenly, had the urge to hear their voice. As she picked up her phone, she saw a crack on her screen, exactly the same as the one she had seen in her dream.  

Not taking pride in Feminism

Yes, I'm a feminist and no I'm not proud of it.
I'm NOT.
But before you get all judgmental on me, hear me out (or in this case, read).
I was born in the year of the great Nepalese revolution; the revolution that managed to chain the hitherto out of hands and out of bounds kingship. For people like me, the concept of freedom of speech, freedom of expression, and the constitutional rights that guarantees equality is a given. We do not give a second thought into what life would be without any of those. But maybe we do need to think about all that. We need to remember that nothing in the world is absolute and that everything is constantly changing. I remember a king trying to smother our rights as recently as a decade back and us having to fight tooth and nails to oust him. So, yes I do know a little bit about what it takes for a big political revolution.
That being said, not all revolutions need to be political.
I'm personally extremely proud of the cultural and educational revolution that's been happening silently over the last couple of decades in our country and the world. In 16 short years of the 21st century, we have progressed a lot as the human race.
Hundreds of medical and technological advances past, however, I CAN NOT wrap my head about why feminism is still around as a major political issue. Equality (basic equality!!) among human beings is still something we have to fight for? WHY! This is not an issue at all. It's a major "non-issue". It's just Equality that women are after for God's sake. It's not like they are demanding Extra rights; just to be treated equally and not be discriminated against just because of their gender.
So, yes, I am a feminist if believing in basic human rights and decency makes me a "feminist" and No, I am definitely not proud of the fact that this is still seen as a "radical" concept by the powers that be. Also, all of these make me wonder as to why we do not have more feminists out there.

However I do want to add a few cautionary things at the end. Reservations on education and various other avenues are supposed to empower and embolden people of little or no means. I do not want to see the system abused. I do not want to see a perfectly healthy girl of 20 making an old/ill man leave a seat in public transport just because it's reserved for women. That's not feminism. That's just immoral & wrong. And this is equally applicable to guys as well.

Basically, if you're able, don't use the support system meant for the differently-abled ones. 

Deification of the dead

Recently, ie, the 14^th of Poush 2072 BS was the 70^th birthday of the most liked and revered Shah king of Nepal, King Birendra. On the occasion, I saw numerous posts wishing him on his birthday and countless others worshipping him as the actual avatar of the Hindu God, Bishnu. Among all the emotional posts, many had also opined that Nepal would have been far better off had he been alive to this day. I also saw many kids who would have no firsthand knowledge of his existence praising him to the hilt. This deification of Birendra made me question the rationale behind this whole idolizing and deification process.  

Birendra was the 11^th King of Nepal. He was a soft-spoken man with a charismatic personality and according to the mythology associated with the Nepali Royal Palace; he was supposedl to be the avatar of Lord Bishnu. He was one of the longest serving kings of the Shah Dynasty that ruled Nepal for around 300 years starting with Prithvi Narayan Shah (1768) and ending with Gyanendra Shah (deposed in 2008). He was one of the very few people from the royal lineage who had complete faith of the people and seemed to be the “real deal”. He inherited Nepal as a 27 year old in 1972 and was credited with the transformation of Nepal from a prohibitionary “Panchayat” system of governance where the King held absolute power as the chairman of cabinet into a multi-party democracy overseen by a Constitutional Monarchy.

 It’s not a question of whether or not he deserved the credit and reverence he got. Yes, he did have a role in a peaceful transition and yes, he should be respected. But is it necessary or wise to deify him? As human beings, we are taught not to speak ill of the dead. So, is that what’s keeping us from having a rational and non-prejudiced discussion on his positive and negative aspects? Or, are we just happy in perpetuating the myth? We, as humans, are the result of millions of years of continuous evolution. So, how is it that a human being was actually perfect, that he had no flaws and that he be idolized and deified?

It’s not just the question of Birendra. We are an inherently subservient race. It is as if we “need” a deity, a holy being and one in a human image at that. Instead of just gleaning the positives from people, we turn them into myths, mystify and glorify them and preach what we think is true and wise. In the process, history is often window-dressed to perpetuate the myth. We jump at any chance to glorify the dead while we are ready to condemn the living at the drop of a hat.

So, for a change, how about we take an objective look at the actual deeds, both positives and negatives, and not just the sweet words uttered by them or the whitewashed version of history presented to us by a few prejudiced historians?
So, the next time you read something about any dead guy, I hope you can say,” Okay! He was good, but not THAT good.”

Thoughts, post the Paris Attacks

In what could only be termed as a barbaric, inhumane act in Paris, hundreds of innocent civilians have lost their life and multiple others remain injured, scared and scarred. While the group or groups of people responsible are yet to take “credit” for this, we can safely assume that this act alone will be enough to send the French Troops barging into multiple countries trying to smoke out those responsible with the French President already vowing vengeance.

The French people have received tremendous global support in the face of such audacious attacks, the chief being from President Obama who has termed the attack as an act not just against the French people but against humanity as a whole. All countries, rich or poor, small or big have voiced their support and solidarity with the French in this hour of grief.

The international outcry over the heinous crime got me thinking, however.
How valuable is a human life? Does its value depend on what continent you reside, what country you are from , what skin color you have or what nationality possess? To answer the question of, “Should It?”, of course it shouldn’t. All religions and beliefs teach us that all lives are sacred and that all are equal in the eye of God. So, then, why does an act of terror on European/American Soil produce global outrage whereas the acts of terror in the remaining parts of the world doesn’t even manage to produce a tiny fraction of that outrage and solidarity? Doesn’t this seem wrong? Doesn’t this clearly say that the life of the innocent kid that was killed by terrorists in France was worth more than that of the kid killed in the attack by Al-Qaeda or the American drone strikes in Pakistan?

According to the studies conducted by Brookings Institution, for every militant killed by the drone strikes in Pakistan, 10 civilians are killed. Each year, hundreds of innocent people are killed as a result of an act that they were no way connected to. When the bombing of a hospital in Afghanistan by the Americans, run by Médecins Sans Frontières, a Nobel Peace Prize winner, could not elicit a clear apology, what chance could the people have who live under constant threat of the Taliban/Al-Qaeda/ISIS and the American drones?

I’d like to further discuss about the swift and strong response from the American President, Mr. Obama. Yes, Mr. President, I agree with your statements entirely. However, Sorry to say this but you do not possess the moral mettle to speak about the act of war against humanity. America has historically been the largest exporter of violence and terror. There are documentary evidence of how the CIA created Al-Qaeda, how they have time and again used various terrorist groups and how they have supported dictatorial and extremist regimes as long as the American interest in the Natural resources and other Geo-political threats are addressed. Mr. President, please lecture the world on humanity when you have acted on the plight of millions of Palestinians living under the world’s largest open air prison, when the kids in Pakistan and Syria are not afraid to venture out in warm sunny days because they are afraid of the drones that you are using to kill “terrorists” and when the  Indian Government can no longer block the supply of daily necessities into Nepal.

In what has turned out to be almost a yearly process, an act of terrorism takes place in a Western country and the whole world comes together to condemn violence. However, the whole world either doesn’t care enough or is too scared to talk about the violence that those very countries are propagating. It’s ironic how in the name of the war on terror, by killing innocent civilians around the world, the Western countries are themselves creating the very thing they later have to fight.  It’s a hellish circle of death and destruction that is only fueled by the death of civilians, be it in the posh neighborhood of Paris or the dusty backyard of Damascus.

So, while strongly condemning the terrorist activities and the loss of lives in Paris, I would also like to condemn the blockade by India over Nepal, the act of terror unleashed by the “Democratic” western countries, the American policy of arming various militant groups for temporary gains, the inhumane blockade imposed upon Gaza and Palestine, the indiscriminate use of drones in Yemen, Syria, Pakistan et al. 

The first Impression paradox

Okay, so, let’s start with a simple fact.

How many times in your entire life have you heard the statement that “the first impression is the last impression?” Countless times, haven’t you? And most of us live our lives repeating this preposterous theory.

Let’s delve a little in the literal and practical implications of “first impression”. Going by the literal meaning, it sounds quite normal and practical even. It is supposedly unchangeable and thought to be a permanent marker against that person. Therefore, making a good first impression seems extremely important. Doesn't that play into our minds to somehow subconsciously affect our mannersims, the little quirks that actually supplement our personality?

The practical workings of a “first impression” is highly superficial and judgmental. The only thing you can possibly fathom about anyone from first sight is the looks and the way they speak and the way they behave with people in his/her immediate vicinity BUT with you, the observer, being in the picture. These things can, however, be quite misleading.

It is all about "appearances" in a first impression, the physical appearance of a person and the semblance of mannerisms. Let’s take a deep breath and think for a second. Did the person you see put on a show just for you or what you witnessed was the genuine side of the person? You just don’t have enough information to answer that, do you?

So, how about not letting an insane theory ruin anything even before it begins.