I Am فنان; Almost

The name of the blog is changing, not the theme. Because I just decided to give myself a more crafty name that is less Allu but equally Almost (if you know what I mean.)

Just like everybody else, I am an artist (yeah, that's the English meaning for the Arabic word  - fa.nn.a'n - sounds similar to salaam.) But don't confuse that, please, with the guy wielding a paintbrush dripping with ominous colors that, once forced on a cheapest paper would become in a matter of seconds a costliest modern art. The art I am harping on here is different. Among the countless (but mostly pathetic) philosophical synonyms given to the heavy word LIFE, art is one. So if the life is an art, the one who is living it is an artist. And that includes everybody breathing on the face of this Earth. And each one uniquely different at it, in their own special ways.

Now it's a different matter that most of us take this art of ours (aka life) for granted and miss on its beautiful art-iculations. We fail when we don't make an effort to know how to st-art something new. We disappoint or get disappointed when we are not sincere in dealing with someone's he-art. We lose friends and family when we don't show commitment to make someone a p-art of our own. We don't succeed when the hard work lacks sm-art work. We don't move up the career when we don't know how to read that ch-art. We don't win the war if we don't thw-art (or outsm-art) the enemy. There's art in everything that the life has to offer. So much that if we are art-ful enough to touch others' lives and be touched, even the death won't erase the art that we lived.

Awesome. Isn't life worth practising? So when I seem to lose it, I revive myself by shouting at the top of my silence. I say "i," then pause; "am," then pause; "fannan," then pause never.

Love O'clock

As a kid when I was taught how to read time, I considered it as one of the greatest pieces of knowledge in my possession. Watching a watch not only made me feel in control of my time, it also forced me to understand different kinds of times. Happy times. Sad times. Far times. Close times. Together times. Alone times. Favorable times. Hard times. Laughter times. Tear times. That's when I realized why people attribute different names to the time: a teacher, a healer, a leveler, a blah blah blah. The only thing nobody taught me was - when, where and how to tell if it's love o'clock.

The curiosity to uncover this new type of time must have started from my pre-school days. That playground-girl, seeing me with lots of chocolates, came up to me and asked for one. I generously obliged. She smiled and ran away. She refused to recognize me the next time I tried to wave at her. I figured that was just a kidding o'clock. In school I always wondered why the girl students paid more attention to me during exam days. I assumed it must be by-mistake o'clock. High school was where I started noticing how cute the girls looked compared to boys. It was clearly a curious o'clock. All the girls looked different but equally beautiful in college general year. I dismissed it as attraction o'clock. Some of the girls turned out to be prettier than the lot and demanded more of my attention (read glances) in special year. It turned out to be crush o'clock. One of the queens of the college became center of my thoughts in the final year. She must belong to me, I silently demanded. Later when I found out everybody else had the same demand, I gathered I was going through an infatuation o'clock. At the same time, like others, I learned the film actresses needed more of my time. Confusion o'clock prevailed, as it was tough to balance between the duties of college and cinema.

Post graduation era called for more maturity as I discovered all the dudes had a concept of some dream girl. I pledged more sincerity and to actionize it I also started dreaming. It resulted into nothing but poor sleep. Dream o'clock was the fuzzy time indeed. The first job landed me into the world of smart and career-oriented girls who had their future lives all planned out. And when I managed to make some good friends out of this category, I was convinced this must be the time I was groping for. But to my disappointment it wasn't the right o'clock. I was entering welcome-to-real-world o'clock. The second job saw change in priorities and preferences. The focus shifted to understanding what women want. I encountered some of the novel words never heard in this journey - romance, passion, intimacy, commitment. The love gurus the world around chanted these words and nothing else. I was yet to get comfortable with them. The only things I knew were what love is not and some poor gifting ideas which didn't help at all. I guessed it was still learning o'clock.

By now the world around me had made it clear to me that if I were to reach love o'clock, I had to have a great love story. Keeping a low profile, being myself, shying away from social gatherings, freaking out at any romantic approach by any girl, camping in dream world - were surely not going to make any such story. So I started to investigate how love stories are made. What I found was amazing. It put an end to my race to finding my love o'clock. Because I was not going to find it. It was going to find me. That's what happens with everybody, I learned. And when it happened, it would solve my story problem too. Because I was going to realize - that the greatest love story ever told, is your own. Almost.

Changeover

I'm aware of you (eagerly) waiting for your yearly dose of new year wishes from me; like that classified-wish, or that ear-wish, or that dear-wish. But this time you'll have to take some pain touring through my past Gregorian year, before I start dispensing my free wishes. Now that 2010 has officially kicked 2009 out of the present, I think we can get started. 


Like the last year, januworry started with the struggle for winning a meagre amount of India vacation. It was eventually won and was well worth it. All the excitement and special memories were part of the package. Getting back to work was like being exposed to a hard februtality; pretending to be working was not so hard though. After the splurging vacation the focus had shifted to balancing my financial boat. But it was unbearably shameful not to spend when the world economy was marching down the south pole. Then it was spring, the buds opened and flowers appeared. Notwithstanding my poor sense of romance, I apriled like a consenting fool. Then there was that memory loss, precisely when I turned 22 again. It was like my may day, a holiday from mental labor. Summer showed up early, making fun of the borders of my calendar. Air conditioner was about to become a juniversal appliance.

I grew suspicious of my normally juliable instincts when things seemed to be just fine but I knew it was temporary. Like that longest solar eclipse that lasted six minutes and 38 seconds. Health concerns started taking over soon and 4-days a week gymming was undertaken in the wake of augusting enthusiasm. It was short lived, of course. Ramazan came along as a savior. Uplifting as it was, I reconciled with the God and made peace with septemper. Knocktober mood was back when I realized the year was approaching an end and I hadn't taken care of its resolutions, whatever they were. As if an apple a year wasn't enough, I made way for both iPhone and MacBook Pro marking the end of knowember. Knowledge anywhere was the intention, seriously. Without any apparent reason I grew impatient to end the year. No wonder I started endecembering by cutting corners everywhere. Versifying, guessuming, eggxaggerating, harmoneying, dreamnunicating, delazying, alienating were some of the other ingredients that contributed to my life's khichdi throughout the year.

Now your favorite part. But (sorry,) I won't serve you a long list of wishes this time. I'll rely on you to get my drift. New year is just a convenient boundary; it could have been any day we wanted. That explains to me why for some it's just another reason for hangover. And why, for some, it's a handy excuse for changeover. Almost.