When they did come back, the saint explained to the boy why he should ease up on the sweets and why too much sugar will turn out bad. The boy got the point. The parents didn’t. Why hadn’t he said the same thing the last time they were here?

Thiruvalluvar smiled and told them that he was a huge sweet-addict himself back then. He couldn’t have asked the boy to shun a habit he himself was guilty of nurturing.

Think about it.

I have fought rage and outrage like everyone else at many points in my life. But every single time, when the anger subsides, I realise I am turning into the object of my anger the moment I start hating him/her/it. No matter how righteous my anger or how deserving my cause.

I have not lived a clean life. In my time, I have been unreasonable, vindictive, deceptive and vicious. I have angered people and I have caused people pain.

The thing about such behaviour is that, it is inescapable. Knowingly or unknowingly, we can not help rubbing others the wrong way. Even just by being yourself, you become a threat to many around you. Anger comes naturally, but it never solves anything. How then, does one go about keeping everyone happy?

Perhaps we are trying to solve the wrong problem.

I discovered the liberating feeling that comes with realising that I have no right to get angry at anyone. No right at all. Not because of what they did. Not because of what they are. And certainly not because of what they did to ME!

The moment realise I am myself capable of every evil that may ever confront me, the other person starts looking like an extension of my person — someone who I might have been, or someone who might have been me.

I realise that every wrong I see in the world around me, is a reflection of what is inside me. The world is only a mirror. It is easy to make faces at a mirror if I don’t like what it shows me. But if I really want to change what I see in the mirror — what I get from the world — I need to change myself.

Because of this, throughout history, Djinn have been drawn to the needy and the passionately desirous. What may appear coincidental to humans is merely the way of the universe to the Djinn.

This story starts in the near past, somewhere around you. Eighteen-year-old Raghu was returning home from school and stopped to take a leak in the bushes. A modest car came that way. From inside it, a harried looking office-goer threw out a vial. It landed in the roadside dust and glittered as the light from the car’s receding rear lights bathed it red and white.

Raghu picked up the crystal vial. He thought it was probably perfume. Faint white smoke swirled inside it. He uncorked it and there was a soundless explosion of white light. When his eyes stopped showing him butterflies and rainbows, Raghu found a strange-looking man standing in front of him. His skin was flawless and he looked too prosperous to be honest.

“You… You’re a…” stuttered Raghu.

“Djinn. Yes. One moment please,” the man took the vial from Raghu’s limp hands. Then he tossed it as far out as he could.

“I am sorry,” he said. “Long story. Some people are so numb they wouldn’t know even if their destinies came and bit them in their behinds,” he breathed for a moment to calm himself and said, “I am sorry. Tell me.”

“Tell… Tell what?” Raghu’s mind was speed-scanning all genie stories he had ever heard, read, or seen. His father told him the scariest ghost stories. Genies were never up to any good. Anyone dealing with them was a goner. They were risky business.

“Tell me what you want.” the Djinn said. He noticed Raghu looked all folded up. “My name is Kahlil.”

“I don’t want anything,” said Raghu, deciding to not get into the mess at all.

“You are afraid. I can understand. But there is nothing to fear. No catch. You will get what you want. No questions asked,” said Kahlil.

Raghu was petrified now. “I want you to leave me alone,” he said.

“That does not count as a wish,” said Kahlil looking at the floor. “The Djinn directives clearly state that we should pay back a hundredfold any good deed done unto us, knowingly or unknowingly.”

Raghu kept his mouth shut.

“You must want something. You can’t be happy. No man ever is. There must be something in your life you want changed,” Kahlil challenged him.

“I am happy,” said Raghu. But the mention of his life had touched him somewhere. This was not all light and magic after all!

“But…?” Kahlil asked encouragingly.

“I wish my math tutor would go easier on me. I wish I get into a respectable college after I finish school. I wish I pass with decent marks. I wish I get a decent government job after my studies.”

“That is… decent enough,” said Kahlil politely, and quickly added, “It will be done. Like I said - no tricks. Anything else?”

“No that is it. One should not ask a lot of life,” said Raghu.

“That… Umm… up to you,” said Kahlil. “To each his own. I will need to restart you for your wishes to take effect.”

“What does that mean?” Raghu asked, suspicious again.

“Your wishes depend on your own belief system. A thought-level shift can only take effect while you are inert,” Kahlil snapped his fingers.

Raghu dreamt of being a famous businessman till he woke up in bed, in his house, half an hour later.

* * *

Kahlil caught up with Raghu seven years later. He was outside his office, smoking.

“All well?”

Raghu nodded. All was well. He had a job. What more could he ask for?

“This is what you wanted?” Kahlil asked.

Raghu laughed. “You ARE for real. When I woke up that day, “I thought I had dreamt you up.”

“You wouldn’t be the first one,” said Kahlil. “Many people have trouble accepting the fact that wishes can come true.”

Raghu inhaled what must have been a gallon of smoke. It numbed him to his reality.

“All over the world, people are raking in obscene amounts of money. My neighbour bought a car yesterday. I will never make it. The world keeps crushing my will,” Raghu said and exhaled a cloud.

“You dreamt mediocre dreams Raghu,” Kahlil said. “You asked for just enough to get by. You got everything you wished for.

“We Djinn have to be careful about what we wish for, because our will is always done. You folk were not so different once. You people asked us for kingdoms and palaces. You used to ask for princesses hand in marriage.”

Raghu gave Kahlil a sour look. But he was not sour at the Djinn. He was just… sour.

“What went wrong?” Kahlil asked. There was no answer. Soon the Djinn melted into the smoke.

His fame grew as he travelled far and wide and performed in palaces, royal courts, and town halls. Because he made juggling look like the easiest thing to do, many tried their hand at the craft. They gave up when they were bored or became too acutely aware of their limitations. Funnily enough, no one had ever asked the juggler to teach them.

One day a boy came to the juggler after he had finished a show. He was putting the tenpins, balls, chainsaws and other assorted things into their respective bags and boxes.

“Teach me to juggle,” said the boy.

The juggler remembered the boy from his audience the day before, and the day before that, and before that. He remembered the boy because he never clapped or shouted during the shows. He never laughed and he never whistled his approval. To less experienced eyes, the boy might have appeared unappreciative or stuck-up. But the juggler had been expecting him to show up.

“You have tried juggling before?” asked the juggler.

“Yes,” said the boy. There was a note of sad longing in his voice.

The juggler gave the boy three balls. People were still leaving the place. Dust swirled gently in the orange light of the setting sun. He stretched himself and a part-lazy-part-tired smile broke across his face.

“Show me what you can do,” he said to the boy.

The boy juggled. He kept the balls going for a good while before he misjudged and dropped one. He looked at the fallen ball for a while and then his eyes met the juggler’s gaze.

“You need some work, but you are not bad,” said the juggler.

“I make mistakes,” said the boy.

“You will always make mistakes,” the juggler said.

“Yes,” said the boy. “But one day when I have practiced enough and learnt everything you know, I will be perfect. Then I will make no mistakes.”

“You will always make mistakes,” the juggler said again. “There is nothing wrong with making mistakes. I make mistakes all the times. Sometimes even with three balls.”

“But you never make mistakes,” the boy protested weakly.

“Says who?” the juggler asked — a little annoyed, a little amused. Then without waiting for an answer, he continued, “I am glad I make mistakes.”

The boy picked up the third ball from the ground. The juggler took the balls from him and put them back in the bag.

“When I drop a ball,” said the juggler as he tied the bag close, “I pick it up and start juggling again.”

“It doesn’t bother you that you are not perfect?”

“I AM perfect,” the juggler smiled widely. “So are you. Dropping balls is part of juggling.”

“But they say you never make a mistake,” if the boy sounded disillusioned, the juggler didn’t seem to care.

“I don’t juggle to convince people that I am perfect. I don’t juggle to uphold their ideas about me,” said the juggler. “Even if the world thought I sucked at juggling and even if there was no one at my shows but me, I would still juggle all day. I juggle because it gives me joy.”

The boy’s face was unfathomable. Even after a long time, he didn’t speak.

The juggler moved closer to him and said, “Don’t get me wrong. I do enjoy showing off before crowds. The cheers always give me a boost. They are all very useful side benefits. But that is all they are — side benefits.”

The boy was looking up at the juggler’s bright and cheerful face. He still wanted to learn juggling. But he had learnt a far greater lesson already. He now knew why he wanted to juggle.

“Teach me to juggle,” the boy said.

“You will make mistakes,” said the juggler.

“Yes,” the boy said.

Later that day, one chews on the movie for long and is thankful for his childhood. His tinkering and doodling was tolerated.

Day 2: One makes mother and aunt watch the movie. Much to one’s relief, mother cries and they hug each other as Shankar Mahadevan sings, ‘kya itna bura hoon main ma?’

One is told that the first time his vegetarian mother actually killed a mosquito was to protect him.

Day 3: One fiercely recommends the movie to three friends and five acquaintances. The birthday is spent humming, ‘tujhe sab hai pata, hai na ma?’ until Manoj and Pratap arrive in the evening. On the way to Barabati stadium for Biryani, one is threatened that he will be thrown off the rickshaw if he doesn’t stop singing, ‘teri parwah karta hoon main ma’. One is surprised. One thinks he sings well.

Day 4: One is delirious. Fanboyish enthusiasm oozes out of one’s ears. Mobile phone and computer alike have TZP wallpaper. One starts cracking jokes like:

What did the bank robber shout as soon as he entered the bank?
“Saare Zameen Par!”

One is told his sense of humour sucks. One is used to it.

Day 5: One remembers being a bully once in school to a boy he now suspects of being dyslexic. He spends the day in remorse.

One buys the soundtrack to get the humming in his head over with. It doesn’t work. It is past midnight and he is still listening to ‘…andhere se darta hoon main ma‘. Mother went to sleep an hour ago. He decides to write his head out.

There have been several little joys that stick to my memory to this day and will very probably go to my funeral with me. Regardless of grander changes later in my life, these little shifts in my growth were never overshadowed. I thought I would share some of them with you, on this first day of 2008.

The first major achievement came early in school. I discovered that going to school wasn’t really all that it was cracked up to be. It also didn’t help that the kid who sat beside me was the most notorious farter in class. I was good at memorising things. That was all school demanded. The achievement in school manifested itself when I moved up to standard two. I still remembered coming home and happily telling my mother that someone had called me bhaiyya. Being the youngest in the extended family, I had craved seniority all my life. That one word from an underling opened up bold new vistas for me.

Happiness struck next when I first put on full-pants in school. In a world populated by knickers and shorts, a fully clothed pair of legs made someone a man. I don’t remember when this first happened. But I remember what it felt like.

And then I started shaving. It was in the ninth standard. Classmates were so jealous that nobody even mentioned it. But I knew what they were thinking about. Some tried to hide their disappointment by trying to sympathise with me (another chore! tch tch). I also remember many who tried to accelerate the process in vain by shaving bare cheeks. [It doesn’t work that way really]

Lastly, there is that rite of passage – tea. I never really got it from the authorities to be sure. But during my year in Chennai, I started drinking tea. To this day, it remains a mark of rebelliousness. I go to the shop around the corner and buy myself a cup of tea when I need to remind myself I am an adult (it’s hard to do at home).

There are more things that I am thankful for. They may not mark turnabouts in my education or my professional life, but they affect the whole of my worldview in small but important ways. I need them for perspective and I remain ever thankful for them.

A close friend of mine fits the description. Let’s call him Pratap (since that is his name). We agreed to disagree a long time ago. Yet, certain days find us at each other’s throats, throwing opinions and ideas at each other and dodging cruel blows to our egos.

Last evening, in Bhubaneswar, the two of us fought over snacks in the presence of Manoj, a wise Piscean. I thought it would be a good idea to share the experience with you. Brace yourself. This is surreal.

We were discussing sex education in schools. He is against exposing children to ‘such ideas’ (he avoids using the S-word). That wouldn’t have mattered a lot if his definition of a child was not so inclusive. Anyone younger than him is innocent and therefore needs protection from corrupting influences.

“If you are going to allow ‘that’ in schools,” said Pratap, “…then be prepared to open an abortion centre in every school too.”

“I am not talking about encouraging children to have wanton sex,” I said. “But they need to know things. If the school or the parents won’t tell them, they will seek answers elsewhere.”

“But why can’t the school teach them yoga instead?” argued Pratap. “…so that they can control such urges.”

I closed my open mouth and asked, “Why should they? What is wrong with those urges? They are natural.”

I could also have mentioned that using yoga (which is essentially about harmony of body of mind) to ‘control’ parts of one’s natural growth is unhealthy. But I didn’t.

“But encouraging those urges causes so many crimes. There are so many rapes. People are engaging in extramarital activities. There are broken families and there is degeneration in society.” Pratap said.

I said, “I feel such crimes take place because of lack of communication. A kid’s curiosity about sex is met with no response, or worse, dire warnings like, ‘Don’t talk about things like that,’ he will naturally seek to find things out on his own. He may end up misguided and on the wrong path. A marriage may be saved if the partners are open to talking about sex and their respective needs with each other.”

Manoj mentioned that a recent survey showed that cases of AIDS and unplanned pregnancies as well as sex crimes were higher in numbers in villages than in the so called promiscuous towns.

Needless to say, he didn’t buy it. I told him there are no guarantees in life. I can’t promise that an open attitude will help crime rates. But nor can he if he thinks burying sex-talk will help. Wise men accept life for the gray place it is. Taliban look for blacks and whites.

I never did manage to convince him of anything. Never have. That was not my intention in any case. Pratap is not a unique man. There are many like him. Politicians target his kind for votes when they demolish temples, mosques and cyber-cafes.

Strange and otherworldly as Pratap’s views might seem to many of us, they are nevertheless the views of a significant majority of our countrymen. The sort that don’t want to hear you out. The sort that don’t take responsibility.

But they are not my concern. Nor are politicians. Do you know why I never leave Pratap to himself? Why I feel compelled to bombard him with things he really doesn’t want to be exposed to? Have you any idea why?

Pratap is going to be a teacher. That’s right. He is training to be a teacher. He has lofty ideas about bringing up the next generation of Indians on high ideals of morality and national culture.

I will make Pratap read this. Let him know what you think. Mince no words.

I saw the Transformers movie yesterday night again (for the seventh time), and was struck by yet another midnightly insight. What is it exactly that differentiates a Transformer from a human being?

I know they are actually giant alien robots who can turn themselves into machines of their choice and there really is no comparison here. But then again, they feel pain and anger just like we do. Also they seem to like certain things about us.

The merciless Starscream for example, chose the form of an F-22 Raptor jet because he considered it the peak of human achievement. Optimus Prime, the leader of the heroic autobots, says humans are a young race and there is goodness in them.

What is it about benevolent aliens that makes them so motherly towards earthlings? I would like to think it is more than space-faring expertise or sheer science. It must be something akin to emotional maturity.

The Transformers in the movie battle each other for power. They actually look as bad as we are, only more dangerous. If we are to get any idea about what it must be like to be an Autobot or a Decepticon, we must take them out of the current frame of reference and look at the bigger picture.

What we have here is a race of aliens whose home world was lost to war aeons ago. They have spent millennia traveling in space and have seen many worlds. They have encountered a great variety of life forms. They have altered their appearances to suit the worlds they have made their temporary homes.

It seems logical that a race of beings much older than us and wiser in the ways of the universe would understand the illusions of physical existence. Any Transformer would tell you that it really doesn’t matter what you look like.

What perhaps defines a Transformer is an awareness. A Decepticon or an Autobot realises that it is not what it looks like or what it is called, but something beyond all that. A Transformer is not attached to appearances.

This does not mean they don’t love appearances. The Autobots not only choose to look like vehicles that suit their moods and personalities, they also ‘learn Earth’s languages from the World Wide Web’. They master accents and mannerisms that appeal to them and integrate them so well that they appear native to the Transformers’ natural behaviour.

I don’t know if you noticed, but the Decepticon called Bonecrusher says a furious and patently Earthly, ‘Bloody Hell!’ moments before Optimus Prime yanks his head out. [Scene]

Trans means beyond. Form means appearance. As Optimus Prime says in his message in the end of the story, “Like us, there is more to them than meets the eye.” He was talking about you and me. But that was just his opinion.

In school, most of my classmates had problems squeezing ideas into a given limit of 200 words. When it was not about ideas and sheer data was what needed accommodation, they struggled with the squeeze again. There is only so much you can do to elucidate chapters of world history without giving in to the seductive bulk of it.

Even in college, I found word limits greeted with expressions of frustration and annoyance. For many people, being brief and simple actually requires more of an effort than being elaborate does.

Me? I had a slightly different problem.

My long answers were actually shorter than most people’s short answers. And my short answers escaped most examiners’ eyes unless they were looking for them with a microscope. It wasn’t because I was lazy or retarded. I am just slow. And that isn’t the best of talents when you are faced with a time-bound written test.

The sad bit is, the history teacher in my school used to weigh answer sheets and based his assessment of a student’s merit on that reading. I still remember parts of the answers that one of the highest scoring kids wrote when asked to describe the life and times of Akbar the Great.

It went, “Akbar had two brothers — Amar and Anthony…“. We used to gather at his desk after tests to read what audacious alterations he had made to our country’s glorious past this time. Once he even made Bhagat Singh escape the British and hide in a prostitute’s place. There were gunfights and filmy dialogues too!

The teacher never figured it out — didn’t even care. He liked his history his way. And far be it from noble souls like us to rat a fellow student out.

My handicap came in handy during my BA in English Literature. You would think hardcore literature oldies would be even stickier about being elaborate. But I found they were sick and tired of having to read eighteen-page-long answers. One professor even came to us one afternoon and begged everyone in general to please cut the crap out!

Can you imagine the size of the grin that brought me? I don’t think you can.

In time, my answers were made models for others to follow. What my natural lack of speed had forced me to master, became known as my skill. I became an expert at telling people what they can leave out.

I began to prize my brevity, something I had never done before. I started seeing the advantage my handicap naturally endowed me with. It became clearer when compared to the plight of people so used to the ancient ways that they could not, even after their best efforts, keep it to the point.

One man I know (a journalism aspirant) wrote an introductory passage of nearly 2000 words to a long answer question once. That is one of the memories I will take with me to my grave.

And then I started blogging. The minimum word limit is one (otherwise it’s not quite a post). The medium was a godsend. Freedom from formats at last! Goodbye twelve-inch answer sheets!

Turns out I write blog posts of above average length these days. My average on this blog is 500 words. I invest hours into posts longer than most bloggers bother with. This post, for example, took over two hours to write. I am a sucker for editing. Never satisfied.

Incidentally, I recently discovered that my brand of super short stories has a genre of its own. I am not such a misfit after all!

All manner of wondrous creatures ran loose in the island. They shared the gifts of the island in peace.

Then God made people in his own image. He loved them very much, so he threw them into the water, far from the island.

God’s people thrashed about in the water. Nobody knew how to swim and everyone wanted to live. Having never really known land, except in a faraway dream sort of way, all life remained to them was thrashing about.

One among them was a boy called Blue. Blue thrashed about the same as everyone else he knew. Many around him grew tired and drowned. They went down complaining, “There was nothing to hold on to.”

Blue grew tired as well. But he thought about what was to come and realised that sooner or later, they would all drown. As he watched the thrashing all around him, he saw people trying to prolong their surface time by any means possible. Some had found logs to sit on (which won’t be much help once they fell asleep), and refused to share them for fear of drowning. Others were holding on to corpses and floating with them.

One floater passed Blue by. He was clutching a dead woman. His face was white with anger and fear and frustration. Yet he snarled at him with energy, “Don’t wait boy! Kill someone! That is the only way you will live!”

Blue pushed him away, sweating. But the floater was not alone. Blue saw plenty of people wrestling with their neighbours. Then he saw what he had been looking for. Nobody was going anywhere!

He swam this way and that inside the thrashing and saw that except involuntarily drifting this way and that, none of the people were moving in any direction at all.

“Who knows what might await us beyond the thrashing?” thought Blue. He called out to everyone in general and asked them to follow him towards the sunset (it seemed as good a direction as any) but nobody could hear him over the splashing and the screams.

So Blue decided to go all by himself. With luck, he would find something everyone could hold on to.

He swam as hard as he could towards the sunset. As the lights dimmed and eventually disappeared, he feared he would lose his way.

But then, there was no way. All he had to guide him was a belief. So he imagined himself standing on something solid. He thought what it would feel like to walk. He pictured everyone around him, standing and talking to each other.

His legs pedalled harder and his arms sliced through the water with renewed vigour. He hardly felt the cold pressing in on him. The darkness that threatened to devour him appeared no threat at all.

When dawn came at long last, Blue found his arms had gone limp and his legs were dead. He lifted his face and spat out sand. He rubbed his eyes on his sleeve and saw a deer (or something) near the edge of the forest. He saw people too, on the beach, milling around huts and boats. Children, men, and women in beach clothes.

After resting a while, he started walking towards them and was greeted with cheers as they noticed him. Someone sat him down and he was offered a cold drink. A small crowd assembled around him, but did not press in. There was a lot of space.

“You are the third one today,” he heard someone say. Blue looked around but didn’t see anyone he knew.

“There were others?” he asked. Maybe some people did follow him.

“Oh yes, of course! People come in all the time from all over the sea. We all weren’t born here you know!” said a woman as she took the empty mug from him. Everyone was smiling at him.

“All over?” Blue was confused. Then he braced himself for his task.

“I need one of those,” he said to no one in particular as he pointed towards the boats lined some distance away.

“Sure thing. Take two if you want. But where do you want to go?” asked an islander.

“To my people. They have had it bad. They are killing each other. I must bring them here as soon as I can.”

A few islanders followed him as he ran breathlessly to the boats. They helped him push it into the water. They kept talking to him though.

“You know, your people are not killing each other because they have it bad,” said an old man.

“Yep. It usually works the other way around,” the woman said. “They are all doing what they want. We all do what we want. That’s the way it works.”

Blue took it all in without making much sense of it. He jumped on to the boat and breathlessly thanked the islanders, promising to return. Soon the island disappeared from view.

By noon, Blue realised that he didn’t really know where his people were, having swum the previous evening in utter darkness. But he kept going. Towards sunset, by sheer luck, he found the thrashing. It was enveloped in a thick fog and he could hardly make out the people inside it. This is how it must look from outside, he figured.

As his boat moved in closer, he found the clamour had never died. People were still screaming. When Blue called out to them to swim towards him, nobody could hear him. He raised his voice as loud as he could but to no avail. No one had ears for him. Blue wondered if he should jump into the water to try and get people out but thought he would lose track of the boat in the fog. Besides, there was a good chance someone would kill him before he could get his point across.

Just as he was losing heart, Blue felt a tug from behind. There was someone. A young girl, and an old man with a child on his shoulders. Blue helped them all on to the boat.

“You could hear me?” asked Blue.

“I saw you actually,” said the man. “I was holding on to a plank of wood with this child on it.”

“I heard you,” said the girl. “I just wanted to get out of here so bad. I guess I was looking for a boat.”

They kept trying to get people’s attention for some time and got two more on board. As the sun went down, Blue looked around at his crew, “Let’s come back tomorrow.”

“Yes. Let’s get more boats,” said the man.

Towards the end of my time in college, I began working on a story about an alien orphan on a backward and under-developed planet. My hero discovers that he is the last of a race of super-psychics who ruled the galaxy long ago. The story stayed with me for a month or so. I spared little effort in capturing it in its awesome brilliance, blaming my tight college schedule and my general inability to write long stories due to impatience. To my relief, it eventually left me.

A few months after that, I found elements of my story in an extremely cool Indian fantasy novel. The levels of similarity in some details to my idea blew me away. And the novel had actually been written (in a much better way than I could even hope to) before my idea ever came to me. I have learnt since that the only thing that makes me creative is my willingness to be so.

Ideas don’t care a fig about my talents. They are choosy, but they don’t make a show of choosing a worthy vessel as far as capacity is concerned. It is up to the person who gets an idea to prove himself/herself worthy of the honour. One’s chances of getting an idea go up phenomenally if one is willing.

Some time ago, someone told me I was fortunate to be creative and that he never gets any ideas. I told him he was complaining about bad reception without even trying to get a cable connection.

How then, does one go about getting ideas?

Start by letting the universe know you are ready to become creative. Although it is more a state-of-mind thing than anything else, you can actively help by reading up, listening and generally exposing yourself to emotions and states that are conducive to the kind of ideas you are seeking. Think of it as furnishing your mind-space so that ideas are comfortable there.

Secondly, be prepared to indulge ideas. They require a lot of loving. You may be fortunate to get a nagging idea – the sort that won’t leave you, no matter what. But for the most part, ideas are fickle and moody. They can take you to wonderful places and open your eyes to beautiful worlds, but if you ask them to wait five minutes so you can finish up your business at the bank, they will walk out of your head and won’t come back. This is why carrying a notepad is so important. You can take notes while on the trip and jot them down later. You will notice however, that if you write as and when an idea strikes you, you will always be happy with your work.

Ideas require space. Make sure your worries and problems don’t crowd into the room you have so graciously provided your ideas. This will piss them off and they will leave. If at all you let your worries into the presence of ideas, teach them to be civil. Tell them to communicate. With luck, you will see something new arising out of the friendship.

More often than not, your idea-room will play host to more than one idea. It may even have a well-behaved worry or two in it. Sooner or later, they will mingle and reproduce. Let them. There have been times when I have stepped into such intercourses and declared that sci-fi must not have any feelings for poetry, or that my nightmares must never meet my brand new trophy character. My policing has invariably always caused them to rise in indignation and walk out.

When I play cool, they let me watch their orgies. It is highly entertaining. Sometimes, I end up an uncle to a brand new baby idea. It is the best feeling ever. Try and encourage such interaction. After ideas leave, they will tell others about how cool a host you are and you will get more of them. Don’t forget to be nice to them as well.

I can not overemphasise the point about ideas being finicky. You may feel the occasional urge to dress up an idea in something else. These suggestions will mostly come from your worldly-wise self. I think it is safe to say that such attempts don’t work very well. An idea has all the clothes it needs. That which it needs, it finds by itself inside the room. Forcing your idea into a suit even when you know it is more of a t-shirt person, will kill your end product.

When it is finally time to part ways with your ideas (regardless of whether your association bore any fruit or not), do it on nice terms. Don’t shove them out of your life. Take notes and keep a record of the details. Most good ideas will return.

Philosopher J Krishnamurti said it is the thought that is primary, not the thinker. So no matter what, through all this, remember always to feel fortunate.