I have aged 10 years in two weeks and

I wish this kind of slow horror stops. My sister tells me part of the reason for things spiralling out of control on the personal and domestic front (I hope I sound as vague as any astrologer) is that I am no longer normal. In her words, “Akka, because of this PhD tension, and the workplace tension you are not yourself. So you better stop thinking about other things okay.” Sane, dangerously sane words.

Either, sitting with research books and papers all day long gives me a kind of scary clarity (and I see things in a different light) , or, I am venting out the pressures of this work on innocent people. Trust, right now, is the most difficult emotion that I will be able to come up with.

I just keep praying that all this confusion, bitterness and pain goes away. A few years down the lane, I think none of this should matter. May be it’s just plain wishful thinking.

And I also realized, part of the reason why a PhD has to be such an “unforgettable” (in every negative sense of the word) experience has to do with the fact that it is less of writing and research, than it is of people-pleasing. From simply filling in forms, to keeping clerks in good humour, to searching for all those photocopies of fee receipts (I have paid the university more than half-a-lakh in fees), I feel so defeated. It is not a process that will ever encourage creativity. Or ideas. Or even outspokenness. Well, well, I will get back to work (not writing, but some or other clerical crap).