22:
Deeptesh instantly dazzled me with his poetry blog. Reading them made me think he was much older than I, but as it turns out, he isn’t even 20 yet! Deeptesh has the unique perspective of being an English poet in Kolkata, India. Born and raised there, his command of the English language and literature is simply brilliant! He deserves all of the accolades and future accolades that he receives. Written in story form, here is Deeptesh’s romantic take on his identity:
Two Worlds in a Mirror
There was an extra-ordinary lull in Oxford Street as I walked forward with measured steps. The neon-lit shop windows and the traffic flickered past in a trance almost as if it were a dream sequence. Lila stood in the doorway softly reclining against the advertisement boards in the corner. Her short hair rustled against her blue dress and her face shaded from the gaslight was a perfect interplay of light and shadows. Our eyes met across the street and at once the peaceful composition of her facade changed into a smile. Her eyes were shinning as she held my hand….her touch was magic. She could see me shivering in the cold….”It always snows here in December” she said. Her sentence hung loosely in the silence like a quiet reflection. It had been a long time and through the derelict tunnel of memories the dusty door of which has been suddenly opened by her fragmented words, I found myself travelling back to those sultry evenings in Kolkata.
* * * *
The monster in Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein had demanded a female for the gratification of his sexual desires. Victor, the scientist however aborted the female monster as he was scared of giving sexual freedom to a female in this male dominated society. The mad honking of cars outside forced me to put aside the book….the motorbus had been stuck in a traffic jam at Park Street for almost over half an hour. “Damn it!” I exclaimed, “I’ll be late for classes again!” Some political party which apparently didn’t have anything better to do early in the morning was in a procession demonstrating against hiked up prices of goods. The peddlers ferried their wares up to the windows of stagnant vehicles and were making easy money. A huge Bollywood poster of actress Kareena Kapoor was on the hoardings ~there was a big hole in the place of her left eye. I remembered seeing such a poster right next to my school gate. I would scowl at the picture everyday when I walked in…..that beautiful archway with a statue of the Christ above…all that seemed a long time now.
In the summer of 2008 when I had just entered high school after my board exams, I was a shy, hesitant teenager and was known by very few of my juniors even after twelve years of school life. In my academic circle, I wasn’t doing too well in the science stream. The forces that govern this Newtonian universe or the titrate value of NaCl were not my cup of tea. Ever since I had an open heart surgery when I was two and a half years old, my parents had loved me more than a normal child. My performance was also enviable as I was often among the prize winners for general proficiency. But all that had changed as I found myself plummeting to the bottom in high school….I was somewhere near the bottom in my form and considering my decision of having not gone for the Arts Stream a serious mistake. Of course I was still very much the topper when it came to English and Lila was still somewhat ‘more than just a friend’ to me.
It was back in the seventh standard~ when I was in middle school~ as rumor spread that I love Lila. The situation, needless to describe, became too embarrassing for words as the entire class started talking about it. What made things worse was that the so-called rumor wasn’t a rumor after all ~ it was the truth. It was the ultimate truth in my life from which I kept running away as I knew Lila would never love me and we’re so much better off being at least ‘friends’. Even Lila asked me the truth a few times but I blankly denied it.
But we were still “friends” in high school even though I secretly wept everyday when she would not talk to me. Those were the days….I would wait for everyone to leave the class to go to the lab for experiments and wait to be one on one with Lila to speak a little~ after the scandal we seldom talked in public as we were scared of further ramifications~ and she would walk out with her friends leaving me alone. I would cry my heart out in class and then run to the wash-basin to throw up. “Life sucks and I’m going fucking crazy. It’s total shit”, I thought. Ours wasn’t a normal friendship. We would avoid each other for days and then talk a lot again. We would often exchange words ‘friends’ didn’t talk about. And recently my love poems had led her to nag me about the ‘girl’ I wrote about. “Who is the girl? Tell me”..this soon became her obsession.
One sultry afternoon when I was busy with my lab experiment, I received word that our school principal had sent for me. Terrified and not knowing what to expect, I walked into his office through the doors I had always dreaded as a child. In middle school, I often fantasized about that door and what lay beyond~ as if it were an entrance to some other hallucinatory world. It was the house of the jury that gave orders against high school miscreants. Walking in, I was relieved to find the bulky man in his cosy armchair beaming at me. On his table lay ‘The Teachers’ day lyrics’ I had written and he was all praise about it. The next day he took my notebook home and read all my recent poems. He was elated to read them but also added “You have some secret pain in your heart…psychic striptease for therapeutic purpose may be?” I only knew too well what that “secret pain” was but nevertheless I was happy to have entered the principal’s room and gotten his praise…it was to me like transcending the ultimate physical boundary within my narrow insular world of existence. The lyrics was composed by our school band and after the performance on Teachers’ Day, our principal congratulated me declaring me as a ‘poet’ in front of the entire school.
For the last couple of years of my school life, the spotlight never shifted for me as the school poet. That was a personal re-definition of myself and I was still beginning to tackle the escalating fame. For the next three inter-school fests that year I won prizes for creative writings competing against other schools in Kolkata and my script on a satirized version of modern eastern mythology won the Best Script Award in The Vibes organized by The Statesman (Indian paper). And my personal life was taking care of itself in its strange mysterious way. When Lila’s nagging got unbearable one day, I wrote down her name in a piece of paper saying “This is whom I love”. Strangely she seemed happy to read it but called me a ‘coward’ for having lied to her. A month later, I asked her at last, “Lila, do u consider me to be anything more than a friend?” It was anything but a proposal but her reply was simple. “I love you”. I froze in tears as she pleaded with me, “Oh Deeptesh, why didn’t you propose before? I always loved you since I first saw you in the fifth standard. Do you know how much I cried when u denied me? A girl will never tell…I waited for you to tell me all these years”. That was like a flash in a dream…those ephemeral moments of eternity we all hold onto as long as we live even when despair had sucked the heart dry.
In the last year of my school life I started my own poetry blog deepteshpoetry which has been a success and got a few of my poems published outside. Lila’s love was a huge turning point in my life and had re-shaped my identity. It was sad to leave school after fourteen years of school life and the expectations were high when we sat for our board exams. But my result was quite poor in science~ I had already decided to pursue a career in English literature~ but it was difficult to get admitted anywhere as all the colleges were demanding a colossal overall percentage. I knew Jadavpur University in Kolkata had the best English department in Asia but then again, I had to crack a difficult admission test to get in for a BA in English . There were 38 seats against 2500 candidates. Imagine my joy when I came 3rd in the test and got in!!
My cellphone beeped to interrupt my train of thoughts. I was dazed to find a text from our school interact club inviting me to be the judge of an extempore event in the inter-school fest. The bus meanwhile was taking the turn at Golpark beside RKM. What stretched in front of us was the long span of Dhakuria bridge. It was like the pathway to my career. Discussions on romantics like Wordsworth…..TS Eliot’s treatment of time in ‘The Wasteland’… guest lectures by Oxford professors… seminars on Renaissance…heated discussions on cold winter mornings……it was the world of words I had delved into. Our university had a great environment and I was not ‘studying’ anymore…I was living life, researching in the world of literature. “What do u wanna be when u grow up?” irks me at times. I’m an escapist….living in this tapestry of words, ideologies, and ‘isms’. I would smile, “ I want to do a Phd from Oxford”.
* * * *
Lila hugged me tightly…”It’s been a long time”..I felt her body softly against mine. The neon-lit boards screamed “Happy New Year 2019”. Cloistered in the walls of a kiss, I felt the those tiny snippets coming back to me in reverie~ the scandal in seventh standard, the day when our principal appreciated me, the day I proposed her….my getting into the University…idle evenings at the Victoria or a whispered confession at a coffee house…or are those reveries the real reality? How real is what we see….is there real meaning to be found somewhere out there in the frozen moment of a guitar string, a single poetic imagery, the orgasmic moment of sexual union or snow frozen on clock hands…..I didn’t know if the kiss was real or my snippets in this looking-glass world……but I knew this was my personal identity, this was my life, this was ME. Lila let go and softly said “No…not here my luv. Let’s go.” And hand in hand, (like in Milton’s “Paradise Lost”), we walked down Oxford Street.
(The girl’s name has been changed. The last part was futuristic but in reality she is now doing a BSc in Physics and I’m doing a BA in English. Thanks to Floreta for allowing me to guest blog for The Solitary Panda. I’ve always had a tremendous respect for her blog and writings and we remain great friends.)
Deeptesh Sen
BA English,
Under-graduate-I
Jadavpur University, Kolkata, India
deepteshpoetry.blogspot.com
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
20:
Sean and I first got in touch through the Oregon bloggers group on 20sb. He is a talented writer and is working on writing his first book, which his blog, The Anarchist Project, is inspired by. I have no doubts that he can make this happen! Before I left for Asia, I had the pleasure of meeting up with Sean in Old Town. Good conversation, good exchange of ideas, and an all around sweet guy! I’m glad to present to you Sean’s story:
***
Somewhere along the line I realized that I was finished with college. I hadn’t quite graduated, I hadn’t been kicked out, but I decided enough was enough. Or rather, I’d had enough, and it was time to move on. So move on I did, off to the factory, off the work force, off to blue collar and the overnight shift and The Union. Maybe it’s the Irish in me, but I’ve always admired the blue collar worker. The men in the factories, the boys on the docks, the workers in the mill. Worker’s Songs, and Solidarity, and Labor Day picnics in Detroit. I always thought there was something noble, though perhaps somewhat desperate about the whole thing.
So when a job opened up at the labs in the factory where I spent my summers loading trucks, I jumped on it. Finally a real blue collar job, and on the overnight no less. I’d learn a new perspective on life through misery, through struggle, honest pay for honest work; in retrospect, I was way too happy about it.
I found out that life on the overnight shift is not glamorous. It takes a certain twisted sort of mind to truly enjoy it. Outsiders, loners, those who-do-not-play-well-with-others are at home here. Which makes interaction with coworkers often strained if not outright hostile. It’s tough to sleep during the day, tough to stay awake at night, tough to interact with others as a normal human being. There are a lot of drugs floating around. It’s also tough to explain or understand except to those who’ve experienced it for themselves. There is a certain camaraderie amongst those who’s shared the overnight shift. A common understanding based on shared suffering. The shared bags under our eyes, the pale complexion, and the short tempers attributed to a horrible sleep schedule.
In the back of my head, I knew this wasn’t for me either. On breaks and free time, my coworkers slept or watched television or gambled, while I read and studied and wrote. They called me college boy, but looked out for me as well. And as much as I tried, I knew I didn’t fit in.
One night, two of the older, and more universally respected workers sat me down to talk. These were hard men, both with thirty years on the overnights as well as often working day jobs, old school; they didn’t seem to need sleep. They’d both raised families and bought houses, they’d used the overnight to get by, just as the overnight had used them up.
“What’s your plan kid?” They’d asked, “You’ve been on nights for three years now, its time for you to move on.”
I protested that I was one of them, but they’d have none of it. They’d taken the overnight shift in the factory out of desperation. Bills to pay with babies on the way, they needed the money and the benefits to support their families. They were not after misguided romantic gestures. The Union was dead, they told me. It’s no kind of life for a young kid these days, no matter how hard he works. It was time for me to move on.
And they were right. I had no wife. I had no kids. I had no major payments or debts. The only thing I was getting from the overnight in the factory was a chip on my shoulder and a growing disillusionment with life. The money was nice, but the life was not even remotely fulfilling. I was growing old in that factory, middle aged at 25.
So I split. Jumped on a westbound train at midnight to start a new life. To start over as a writer, in a new city, a new life. So far, it’s been a huge fantastic struggle. I live in a sketchy neighborhood complete with shady characters, and dreamers, and junkies. I’m much poorer than I’ve ever been before. I still don’t sleep much, though this time it’s because I’m writing, and working, and hustling. The factory showed me the value of hard work and perseverance, loyalty and respect. It also helped me to realize that while we can be anything we want, there are some better suited for different things. And I’m way too young to be that old. The fear of going back to that factory drives me.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
18:
I first found Colin on an interview I read which was linked on Brazen Careerist. I found out that he owns a multidisciplinary design studio based in Los Angeles and is living the location independent lifestyle by keeping his business up while traveling to different foreign countries and blogging about it at exilelifestyle.com. I silently stalked read and admired his blog from afar, but it wasn’t until I posted my first comment that a prompt appeared to send him a personal message, reach out and say “Hi”, and I decided to formally introduce myself. What resulted was back and forth emails and his willingness to guest blog for me. I am deeply honored to have him here.
* * *
The Origin
Growing up, I had all kinds of super powers.
Some days I could travel through time. Other days I could start fires with my mind. There were some days when I could even climb up walls, shoot webs from my wrists and had the strength, speed and agility of a spider (okay, so I wasn’t always the most original or copyright-respecting tyke).
The point is that as a kid I was gaga for comic books.
I had a pile of the little tomes a mile high in my closet, each one telling the story of characters who, though luck, coincidence or the application of massive amounts of effort were able to achieve extraordinary things; beating the bad guy, saving the world, and inspiring others to do the same. These costumed heroes brought people together and made them think, even though they weren’t always popular.
For the longest time I intended to be a comic book illustrator for a living. I checked out schools (Minnesota, I believe, has a really good school for this particular occupational path) and did the math. It wasn’t super-expensive to go to school to learn how to make comic books, but it didn’t pay much once you got into the real world, either.
The Turning Point
By the time I was done with high school, my plans had changed somewhat and I prepared myself to attend the Art Institute in Chicago. Unfortunately, it costs a ridiculous amount of money to attend an AI school, so I decided to take my first year at a regional college, Southwest Missouri State, to save money while completing my core classes.
It was at this school that I discovered an entirely new set of super powers that I never knew existed when I was a kid.
I went to SMSU to be an art student. I had a vague notion that I would become a sketch artist and painter, drawing people on the streets of Paris for ramen money and living the life of a social underling, vying for scraps among the other vagabonds and art school graduates.
But then I found out about an entirely different field; one in which I could create art without being poor. Design, they called it, and I was just intrigued enough by the concept to switch departments and see what it was all about.
And it was at this moment that my life changed. I had a real flair for design from the beginning, and while learning the software and getting acquainted with the terminology and history of design, I felt like a concert pianist running his hands along the ivories of a grand piano after a lifetime of using a Casio keyboard. This was ME. How did I not know about this?
The Return
In a lot of ways, discovering design brought my life full-circle. When I was a child I had hoped to be like the comic book heroes I admired so much, and here was the means to do so.
As a designer, I built my studio through luck, coincidence and a lot of hard work. Communication is my business, and by conveying the right idea, one can change the world for the better, take down those who would oppress and inspire others to take up their own campaigns against injustice.
I may not be able to start fires with my mind, but I can light sparks in the minds of others, opening up new worlds and spreading knowledge with a flick of my wrist or a click of my mouse.
THIS is what I wanted: to have the power to make change and inspire others to be remarkable.
Now all I need to do is find some spandex that matches my cape.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
16:
I didn’t have time to write a proper “goodbye” but I am not a proper girl. I don’t like going away parties or hoorah. I like to leave quietly. I am leaving on a jet plane to India, so I have kindly invited an awesome line of guest bloggers to occupy my space until I arrive to the Philippines on February 7th, at which time I shall conclude on my own take of the prompt.
Today’s guest is Justin. He’s an excellent writer with an artistic and creative spark and a self-proclaimed “mad scientist”. I first found him on the popular social network, 20sb. Being one of a few active male members got my attention and I was impressed with his writing style. I’d suggest reading his prose at The Freshest Oat; you won’t be disappointed.
* * *
REDEFINING THE VOLATILE ME
Where did it all begin? In my eclectic collection of early memories, one could never forget the nickname my dad had given me: Justin Combustion. It may have been my explosive personality as a child, or maybe he just so happened to work in an HVAC design facility and the first thing to come to mind that rhymed with Justin was combustion. I would later in life take this name again, only flipped to Combustion Justin while working with children for Mad Science as a mad scientist! I loved when the kids would ask what combustion meant, and then watching as their eyes lit up, some of the boys usually saying “coool”.
A polaroid was taken. Me standing there bashful with my math hair wearing a lab coat behind test-tubes filled with green water. As a fourth grader, my career of choice was to be a nuclear physicist. I already knew about subatomic particles, fission and fusion. I knew what a reactor was and I also knew that nuclear warfare looked cool. Most of the people around me couldn’t even pronounce nuclear, mistaking it with the atrocious nucular.
I was never pushed into law or medicine or music. But one year I decided I was tired of not being able to play the piano like the other kids, so I got a Yamaha 24-key and started taking piano lessons. A few weeks later my teacher had to have “the talk” with my parents about purchasing a real piano. It is a Kimball upright. Out of tune because I tried to tune it after many years of neglect and the strings keep readjusting.
By the end of high school I was in AP physics, president of National Honors Society, president of Band, I ran cross country, performed in the school musical, and volunteered over 100 logged hours. It was time to make a choice though. Would I pursue a career in music, or would I pursue a career in science.
I flipped a coin.
I graduated from Illinois Wesleyan University in 2003 with a special interdisciplinary major in Biology and Physics. I took trumpet lessons, played in the jazz band, and took piano lessons on the side. It was time to move on through to my aspirations I decided upon in high school – to become a biomedical engineer. I applied to all the top schools in Biomed including Berkeley, Georgia Tech, MIT, Washington University… My first choice was by far Georgia Tech, and when I went to visit I wanted to go there even more. It was March and it was beautiful outside. And the program sounded awesome with a dual degree from Emory University.
So I went on to grad school in a top 5 ranking program, excelling in advanced differential equations, fluid mechanics, physiological systems, etc. But through my coursework and research, the stress, the hours late at night in the lab… During my fourth year I went in for help and within six months wound up in a mental institution. Needless to say, after that my grad school career came to an end. I wrote my thesis back in Illinois and defended for my Master’s the next spring.
I re-identified as Combustion Justin in an odd-job I picked up while job-hunting called Mad Science where I paraded around as a mad scientist and did demonstrations including one that lit the floor of a gymnasium on fire. I did this for a year before I got a job offer as a research technician at Rosalind Franklin University – better known as the Chicago Medical School.
But what’s funny, is that now I’m questioning all the decisions I have made. Am I doing what I really want to be doing, or am I following a silly childhood dream? What is my purpose?
I’ve gone across many floors clad in a lab coat; the person with answers. The smart guy. The guy who will read just to read, experiment with household things, reconstruct home appliances. It’s obvious that that is who I am, so why do I feel so detached?
I look back at my life and can see the bipolar smeared all over it; volatile moods, mania-driven battle-force problem-solving late-night, hell, multiple all-nighters from high school through grad school. I’m just tired. I feel like I have lost the drive within me.
So I journey now forward into the unknown trying to figure out what it is that I am good at. Trying to find the me in me. I have a great list of dislikes but nothing on my list of possibilities. I am completely lost. I am the amnesiac trying to find his car (without a fob). I know it’s out there, I just have to keep looking. It’s just so frustrating to look back at 15 years of preparation for one giant let-down.
But then again, this is who I’ve always been. Justin Combustion, the mad scientist. Destined for greatness… destined for something.
In the polaroid, what radiates the most is the smile. The desire to learn more than anyone else will ever know ever. I walk back with my lab coat dragging on the floor to my seat thinking this will be me in 20 years. And here I am sitting in said lab coat wondering where I’ll be in 20 years.
This post is part of a series on personal development, career and identity. It’s not about who you want to be when you grow up, but being who you ARE. The key is to find out your true calling and passions and then figuring out how to live it. We all have stories to share, and I want to hear yours. If you’d like to guest blog for the Panda, please submit to floreta@solitarypanda.com.
