Lucky number 13

Awaiting destiny’s arrival

The 15th of August is here. The day of independence for a ‘newish’ country that will always be my home. It is also the day when I left that country on for another country that I chose to chase my dreams in. And I have used that coincidence for the last thirteen years to paint a poetic significance of many sorts.

I sound like such a broken record. I have wrung dry any significance of that coincidence. Yes, the day still marks the independence of a nation and my time away from home. But each year, it feels less of a celebration and more of a count-down timer. Another year gone by where the sacrifices I have made don’t really add up to anything substantial…

India and I have do a lot in common. We both are relatively young but aging quickly. We were both born with the promise of tremendous potential. We have both generously used inertia as an excuse. We find ways to celebrate our temporal insanity. We work extremely hard, piling up the hours, but our lack of critical focus and mistimed laziness has led us to an acceptable level of mediocrity.

This mediocrity I speak of is a secret and it is for me to keep. My Facebook stream and the party conversations exhibit a full life, one that is well lived. But between those posts and Saturday evenings, lie weeknights and the painful process of falling asleep. It is becoming increasingly hard to lie to myself and convince myself with the worth of my achievements. Although I have plenty to be happy about and grateful for, why don’t I find it enough?

Will I constantly be morose about not being with her (as yet)? Will a magical car really solve these existential questions? Will I ever leave behind a meaningful legacy? Being a husband to my magical wife who is asking similar questions, between my career objectives and 10,000 steps a day is exhausting me. It is, however, not putting me to sleep.

After thirteen years, on this day of conjoined independence, a realization of something so apparent is slowly settling in me. I know now that we all have incredible freedom of choice but very few of us have actually figured out the choice of freedom.

I am anything but free. I am trapped in a race that offers no gold medal at the end. I am gutless in my choices. I am not trained for this life event. I am like all others, secretly but objectively, mostly harmless.

The last thirteen years have been a string of choices that I didn’t really make. I rather just let them happen. They were sometimes directed by people who didn’t matter. There were chosen by paths that offered least resistance. I was reacting to an event rather than anticipating it. I ensured that all choices were well reasoned after the fact but none were well thought out.

On numerous occasions, I analyzed this carefully. I have the potential. I was lucky to have a successful upbringing. I had all the brushes in my repertoire. My foundation wasn’t shaky. With two legs, two arms, average IQ brain and a strong heart, I should have been further along. Could it be that my desperation was primarily meant only for populating narcissistic and unread blogs like these? If I wanted it so bad, why did I hold back? Do I dare for greatness only in amateur prose? What is exactly stopping me from getting what I think will make me happy?

And so, on this day, where I already mark multiple anniversaries, I rather just try and sleep early. Through the tossing and the turning, I hope to wake up each day with the awareness of the freedom that I choose. It sounds like an easy goal but the honesty of it makes it daunting for me. Just daunting enough for it to qualify for a turnaround of sorts. Like it was back in 1947 for India. And for me in 2003