FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

Musings from a Journal.

2025 is soo over.

1. Fair and Unfair

   For one of the modules in my literature major, we have a paper on popular fiction. The day I attended the first class for this module was also the day I visited a book fair in the city. TOMBS, STACKS, HEAPS, PILES, all of these individual words have different connotations when used for books; you use the wrong one for your collection, and the value attached to pieces of paper can come tumbling down quicker than a crashing stock market. Such is the power of words, and yet, irrespective of whether I enter a strategically lit Crossword store or a roadside stall of cheap pirated copies, my empathy for the publishing industry is made ever so alive. There are so many voices out there, and so little interest in hearing what they have to say.

   Back in school, for the inculcation of public speaking skills among each of us, we were sometimes forced into giving a speech during the morning assembly. When my turn came, I spoke about the importance of an audience. I had read somewhere that a good speaker engages their audience in a story, the only decent didactic story that I truly believed in among the ones I found on the internet at the time was the one talking about the joy of participating as an audience. I wasn’t a fan of the topic I chose or the speech I gave at the time, but that speech has really grown on me with time, mostly because it is testimony to the fact that consciously or subconsciously, I am still the same girl with the same value systems at my core.

   Popular fiction is what sustains the publishing industry; it brings in audiences that would not have qualified as an audience had it not been for a specific book release. Popular fiction is the daily bread of the industry. Literary fiction, on the other hand, is supposed to transcend time and space, have the same relevance to life and art across centuries, make you feel the unexpected, examine the human condition, perhaps even suggest the possibility of a cure to it for the more gullible readers. Sometimes, a popular book begins to be categorised as literary fiction if it stands the test of time. This is possible because ultimately, canons are built on top of perceptions, and perceptions change with a change in the number of eyeballs involved. More eyeballs? Yes, like the brown ones of the girl standing in front of me in the modern fiction section of the book fair, holding her first Kafka in her hand, calling out to her friends, claiming she had heard a lot about this author. Or the black shiny ones, perhaps, of the boy who looked startled at the pile the girl he had come with had collected in the time it took him to take a stroll around the various sections.

   More than critics, the industry needs an audience, an audience that chooses to linger for longer than they should have and ends up finding things they did not come looking for.

   

   you don’t get campus placements with a lit degree; at the very least, you can enjoy some niche memes.

2. A space on the wall

   My parents keep asking me to select one good picture out of the lot so that they can remain fair. New frames have been ordered from Amazon; everyone got a spot, the theatrics of it all, this is our home, and we shall prove it. The solo picture gets a frame, the family picture gets a frame, the first step gets a frame, the better days get a frame, the achievements get a frame, for they are rare to come by; what’s ours is also holding a part of us within itself. There is shared energy if not shared atoms. Hurt one block, and the whole picture will distort, for even though it might seem like these pictures have no connection with each other, they are actually built on top of each other; the tower of Babel can come down any day we forget how language works.

   As each year passes, a little devil inside my head begins to hope, and I end up hoping we left out some frames, as what I have accomplished so far might be nothing in comparison with the years to come. Who knows, what if there shall be better light for pictures next year, sharper angles to capture my features, maybe even some chance stroke of happiness?

   But I am not my naive little self anymore. I have lived long enough with myself now to have a clear idea of the quantity of luck I am offered each year. I am not counting on an unfair increase in rations this year, after all, there are plenty of mouths to feed, and some of them have been starving for much longer than I. The devil can continue to plot away as it wishes; frames are reusable after all.

   

3. Only God Knows

   My relationship with God is slowly losing all ground. I was raised in a religious family, and God is a very important member of our family. God is perhaps not given the same democratic rights enjoyed by those who are physically present on the dining table each evening, but the values promoted by God’s party are always seen as a guiding light. We make sure God knows we are always ready to show our undying support; our vote bank can always be banked on. God’s presence is alluded to at the beginning of all things auspicious. There is a very popular term used for religious people, ‘‘God-fearing people”. I do not know the etymology behind the phrase, but I am pretty sure even God would take offence at the word, because what do you mean you are supposed to fear the wrath of an entity that represents all that is good, kind and beautiful in the world. Shouldn’t we be more focused on being ‘‘God loving people”?

   The invisible thread that seemed to linger between God and me when I was younger is getting weaker and weaker by each passing day. Blaise Pascal, a famous French mathematician, physicist, inventor and philosopher, in his Pensées said, “Kneel down, move your lips in prayer, and you will believe," suggesting that external religious acts (like kneeling and praying) can lead to internal faith, even for the sceptical.

   Each day, before leaving the house, I join my hands in prayer. This is a family ritual I was handed down as an inheritance. For the time being, I am taking Pascal’s word literally, waiting and hoping that one day, my belief will not have to be reverse-engineered in order to reach me in time.

4. Cosplay

   I have been dressing chic tomboy these days, which is not necessarily who I am, making it all the more fun, it’s almost like I am cosplaying the role of a Tomboy. I still choose to pair these fits with my floral shoes; my best friend hates them, he claims they look like they have been sewn out of a curtain, and I love getting on his nerves. I guess, however much you try to cosplay into being someone or something you are not, there will always remain these little clues for a good detective to pick up on.

   

5. There, there

   I was driving, and on my daily commute, I noticed a banner for an event I had gone to in January. That is the precise moment when it hit me, they had already started putting up these banners for January 2026, a whole year had already passed, and I had been living the same life that I was living in January 2025. Absolutely no sign of change.

   “There are decades where nothing happens, and there are weeks where nothing happens too.”

   - Lenin being alluded to in a meme I forgot to screenshot, forgive me, father, for I have plagiarised.

   I have been told, looking at a year in terms of material progress is a risky business, for it shall turn me hollow inside. What other metrics do I have?

   Let’s see, I started reading a lot of books this year and left most of them mid-way, life got in the way, and ultimately I lost track of what’s important to the story. Movies, oh yess, movies. I saw this reel the other day that talked about ‘lists’, the voice running through the entire thing talked about all the various kinds of lists they and people they know keep, the core idea being, you make lists of things that genuinely matter to you. I turn to my notes app, and for sure, there is only one list on there that runs with the longest number of entries, a list of the movies I have seen so far in life. I saw 30 movies this year. Could have done better in that department, too, for a girl who claims that consumption of good art is the most important thing to her, I have let way too many things and people run over my peace this year.

6. Got introduced to a lot of good music, caught up on all the genres I was missing out on, I am well aware how the credit for this is for a numbered few to take; nevertheless, pretty good year for music.

7. I will not talk about my writing on Substack in a post on Substack, but writing on Substack has encouraged a few personal projects that had become a long-lost love for me. I am still unsure whether being reunited with this old flame will do me any good, and I do not have any valid precedents in favour of old flames either. Across various periods of my life, whenever I think of a point in time at which I was peaceful and truly at ease with myself, I was either thoroughly consumed by a work of art or busy creating one. My definition of art isn’t limited to my writing; heaven knows my midterm accounts paper in eleventh standard was a work of art too. Living in the present is the best accommodation arrangement; there has never been a better property investment. Being thoroughly consumed by a work of art allows me to rent this accommodation for a few lovely moments. I do not have the best landlord, though, as I am constantly forced to prove my worth and a strong credit score each waking minute during this stay. I hope and wish that the landlord develops a fancy for me in 2026, holds me hostage, while I can develop Stockholm syndrome and decide to never leave the premises.

   

8. As I edit out parts of this piece for the millionth time, I can’t help but think about why this piece exists in the first place. Why can I not write my thoughts down in a bulky personalised journal and move on with my days? Why would I wish to publish these up on the internet for a group of strangers to read? Where did I get my audacity from, the same element that enables me to believe my ramblings make for good content? Is it attention that I am looking for? I am sure there are several better ways to get your attention; so why must I rely on the most personal, the most intimate, the most up close? The answer is obvious, but it only becomes obvious once it is served on a platter and presented in front of you. It goes back to my very first essay in this newsletter- I wish to find my voice. If I lose my voice to the never-ending chatter of unanimous opinions, I have nothing.

   Sharing parts of what helps build this voice on a platform open to everyone forces some accountability into the system; without this accountability, all I am is a bunch of unfinished drafts on my notes app.

   I want to build towards a complete story. I want at least one thing in my life that is not half finished.

   As for what life is going to throw at me next year and how I’ll choose to deal with it-

   

   You actually read through all of that? You adorable chestnut.