Being Poetic about Failure, Food, and a Reason to Strive
“Don’t you think you need to know a little bit more about food if you really want to join the food industry?” — he sounded more like a bold disqualifying stamp mark thumped in red ink on my application from the other end of the Skype video call.
It was mid of March and the temperature outside was already 37 degree Celsius. I could feel the atmospheric pressure inside my room taking its toll as the air circulation around me suddenly grew still. The cutting edge of the fan blades that once promised hair fluttering sweet breeze from the shop’s showcase no longer seemed to keep its words. My face was getting moisty all over. The lower part of my lips puckered up into an inverted sieve-like pattern. I did not have a spontaneous answer to his question but I was absolutely sure from within — I have lost my chance. I could not qualify the interview round.
Failure is the Key to Success
I hear that phrase chanting like the temple bells through the ear drums of my consciousness almost 365 days in a year. Like “Hare Krishna, Hare Rama”. I am used to hearing it ever since my school days, when I had flipped through the pages of my Moral Science text book, when I joined my palms like my other class mates to seek divine blessing at the morning assembly, when we failed as a team on our annual sports day.
Nine years down the timeline ever since walking out of my school gates, I still bear it like a cross across my shoulder. But the day when my much awaited rendezvous (sorry interview) with the Editor of a reputed organization went all wrong, I did not find it as pleasing as the first shower of blessing sprinkling on my head. Rather, it felt like the untimely blast of a nuclear bomb plunged down or a cannon ball dropped from mid-air.
“All in all it’s just another brick in the wall”, echoed Pink Floyd from somewhere distant across the polar ends of my stream of consciousness. And then something happened — a lump in my throat, my heart turned cold, the inner veins around my neck gland became dry and strained. This is definitely not the sweet taste of failure. This is something bitter raw.
Have you ever felt being Poetic about Failure?
Just like you do when you fall head over heels in love? I am not poetic by nature. But when I am sad I grow eccentrically poetic. Ever since the interview, I became very poetic. Poetic about failure. About sadness. About depression. The latter two come as complementaries, ‘buy one, get one free’!
I don’t like being poetic, because it only happens when I am sad.
I long to Shrug it off and get Back on Track
But how? The only way I can drain myself off this sorrow is by writing the sorrow out. Write about what?
I could write about SEO optimization, content writing, a new app, ALM, SDLC. Will these help drain out the sorrow from within? I don’t think so. I wish I could have turned the clock back in time and make amends to what I could not at the time of the interview. I needed to find a way out. So I did what I think was best to do.
I decided to be Poetic about What I could have said and What I did Not
I am not much of a foodie by nature. But there’s a lot of food talk about me for which I would have to go back to the roots, starting from the tip of my tongue — the origin of an individual’s fine dining delicacy,
I am sweet-tooth by birth,
Hailing from the land of ‘mishti doi’, ‘roshogolla’, ‘lady gini’, ‘cham-cham’!
Where football and fish can stir up huge debates,
Over hot chai and cigarettes rolled up between fingers.
I am allergic to lemons!
Office colleagues call me lemon-pervert.
Gol-gappas flatter me,
When served with mashed plain potatoes, cut onions, green chilies, red spices, minus the tamarind water.
I love street rolls, served fried and crispy,
With no lemon juice drooling inside,
But the smell of undercooked egg batter lingering,
And the messy spill of ketchup sauce at every mouthwatering bite.
I am neither an introvert, nor an extrovert,
But an amalgamation of both.
Just like the outer crust of a Ferrero Rocher chocolate ball,
Only had the chocolate oozed out like molten lava from inside.
I am a tea person before 6:30 am,
And become caffeine drunk by 6:30 pm.
I like my staple rice served on plate at home,
While craving for dosa outside is a mandatory affair.
I like taking risks,
And exploring new areas at work,
Just like munching on roasted nuts carelessly,
Even when the weighing machine gives out signs of alert.
I like doing little things in life that create memories to talk about in later life,
Stealing spoonful scoops of peanut butter at night out of mother’s sight,
Fighting over the last bit of Jim Jam cookie with sister,
Shamelessly gorging over friend’s lunch box.
As I sit here typing away,
Draining out the sorrow in me,
I sip into a hot cup of tea,
To find the rhythm of life back in me.
I wish I could have answered you back then,
But then again,
Being poetic about failure and food here,
I found a reason to strive in life!