Why I talk like a Bullet Train: the guide to understanding the Navya mind.

22.12.2019

A tongue-in-cheek portrayal of me. Just putting this out there, so that those of you who read this don’t dread an encounter with me. This really isn’t me.

Another warning: the title is misleading. The question is never answered.

(In dialogue, like a real interview, because I like to flatter myself that somebody would really want to interview me)

.        .        .

Show title: How People Talk

Today’s guest on the show: Navya Iyer Kannan

Unsuspecting interviewer: So Navya, please tell us, what is your talking style?

Me: (already liking where this is going) I’d say I don’t have a particular style. It just adjusts itself according to the situation I am in. You know what I mean; when you are in a formal setting, you tend to wait for at least half the crowd to talk before you do, but when it is a one on one, you are a lot more talkative. Of course, again, it really depends on whom you are talking to, right? I mean, if it’s someone you know very well, it’s fine but if you don’t know the person, have never met him or her before; then you have to go a little easy on them, I guess? You wouldn’t want to scare them away, if you know what I mean.

Interviewer: (sweats, already regretting the interview) Yes, I sure do.

Me: Yes, well, you know how it is when you’re really into what you are saying, whether you are passionate about it or not; as long as you have an opinion- informed or otherwise- you can get extremely vehement and loud. This could really put people off you know, especially when you start talking so fast that it sounds like you are some kind of human bullet train. (picks up speed) People can’t understand you anymore, and they’ve also lost track of what you are saying because you’ve been going on for so long that they’ve forgotten the beginning.

Interviewer: Uh, so, coming to my next question-

Me: (totally oblivious) Undoubtedly the worst conversational insult would be to talk right over somebody, and not let them finish what they are saying. Now, that’s one thing that would definitely put someone off. (increases volume) That, and when you talk so loudly that they cannot even hear the thoughts in their own head. It’s like shooting arrows at someone, you know. Really loud, vehement arrows.  Awful. I’d never ever do that to anyone!”

Interviewer: Really? (very quickly) My next question is, do you think talkative people are-

Me: I disagree. I think talkative people are merely very enthusiastic and friendly, and are often misunderstood. They really mean no harm, you know. They never mean to be rude. What’s the harm in being talkative anyway? I mean, it’s not like you don’t let people finish their questions or anything. Now that would be rude.

Interviewer: Yes, and-

Me: Did you know some people think of me as a quiet, timid person?

Interviewer: (falls off his chair in shock) Really!

Me: I know. (nods) But I don’t mind, because I am not that much of a talkative person. I mean, I could really go on and on given the chance, but I really do think everyone should be allowed to express their opinions. That’s why I think you’re such a good interviewer. You ask all the right questions and make them open-ended so that one can really talk, you know. I think this is a great conversation.  Don’t you?

Interviewer: (splutters)

Me: (looking at him pityingly) You don’t talk much, do you?

                                               .

A couple of hours later…… after I (finally) leave

Some bewildered intern: Who was that?

Interviewer: (collapses on chair) Oh, you don’t want to know. (fans himself with shaking hand) I might need a stiff drink.

Me: (pops my head into the room) One other thing I forgot to mention-

Interviewer: (faints)

.        .        .

The End

In Response

21.12.2019

Lift my eyelids to reveal 
Me reflected in my own eyes. 
The black orbs that some call brown,
The hidden thoughts some ungown, 
The soul within that some call expression.

Lift my eyelids to reveal 
My words reflected in my eyes. 
Things I've said, some have praised;
My weaknesses, others embraced, 
The impulse that they called reason. 

Lift my eyelids to reveal 
My dreams reflected in my eyes. 
Soul, mind, and heart complete,
Contentment beneath my feet, 
A peace they will call repression.

.   .   .
Oftentimes I have found that with all the intricacies and joys of human nature, comes a very involuntary tendency to give a name to something, to give it a quick identity, and this tendency  limits the scope of that emotion or action. And when, an action or emotion is wrongly labeled, it causes friction. By friction, I mean unhappiness and feelings of self doubt and worthlessness in the recipient of the label. 
For example, I have found people telling me I am repressing my feelings when all I'm doing is being quiet and feeling calm inside. And when this happened I found myself feeling confused and vaguely dissatisfied with myself and my ability to express. 
This poem is an eventual conclusion that I have come to after much soul searching and seeking to understand myself, putting aside rough ideas gleaned from previous opinions or comments. 

Oh Inspiration, Thou Art A Perverse Being!

20.12.2019


When most in need, it is scarce. When present, however it is fleeting. One is able to feel it slipping away and finds that one's own fingers are rendered numb, too powerless to stop it. 

It is elusive, stays away often too long. 
Sometimes one wonders if it ever existed at all. It flees when sought after, and when ignored, it tempts. And sometimes one sits up and takes notice, and feels realization dawn, only to find that what one thought it was wasn't it at all.

One's memory of it cannot be relied upon as the sensations are always brief but enormous. Like a pebble dropped in the centre of a pond, casting ripples everywhere. The intensity of each ripple is a wonder of nature; so tangible yet so profound that the pebble is forgotten. Similarly, one is so caught up with the ideas that are thrown up that one forgets the beginning sensations of inspiration. 

When walking on well known roads, you often pause to glance at the people nearby, feeling a stirring sense of recognition even if you haven't seen them before. It's the ambience you are in. The knowledge that you are in one of your favourite haunts, a familiar place. Then you look around, expecting to encounter someone you know. 
This is what you hope to feel when searching for inspiration. 

Reality, of course, couldn't be more different. The quest for inspiration is demanding to say the least. It is an insatiable desire to conquer a land for the rogue and unmanageable words that play havoc in your head. It is a visceral need to prepare a ground for the seething, volcanic flow of words and  emotions that are alternatively fuming and crackling in the too- small crevice of your brain. 

And quite like the unattainable lady of yore, this formless, faithless phenomenon is more often admired and aspired to, rather than attained. It is the misfortune of the human mind to want to try again. And again. And again. To tread those familiar paths of misplaced confidence, to consort with impatience and absentmindedness, to seek solace in the desperate haze of sleeplessness; only to crash creatively drained in front of a dead end. And don't forget that the perpetual words are still unborn, still waging wars inside your throbbing head. One certainly must be mad to go through this arduous process once, I think. But to go through it again and again? Sheer insanity. 

And yet I do it. And those times I don't, or am between quests, I float in an idyllic fantasy where I am perched on a table, pen and paper in hand; and Inspiration comes bearing Creative Expression and Inexhaustible Penmanship on each shoulder, and all my words walk meekly out of my head in single file and press themselves down on my paper. And voila! Creatively Inspired Pieces of Writing! 

But like real inspiration, these dreams too are short lived. I wake up with a burst of energy, all to ready to hunt for and conquer the elusive Inspiration, armed with foolish pride and idealistic hope, having already thrown away common sense like a piece of uninspired writing. And there the cycle begins again.

Therefore to conclude, I shall address directly, the cause of this fruitless search and my subsequent despondent state: Inspiration, thou art a perverse being. I hereby state that I wash my hands of you and if you think all this is a game, then you are one player short, from today. Farewell, my old tormentor and onetime friend. 

.      .      .
(Now that I've said all this: all but stated right out that I've given up; maybe just maybe, will Inspiration come at last?)