When I wrote as a child, I gained insight. Every word that spilled out marked a little realization of things, a perspective I might not have seen had I not written. Words were welcome friends, who came in and sat down and helped me sort out things that didn't make sense. Of late, they are more like the relatives one must oblige with the occasional visit, or the friends who come over, uninvited, when you'd rather be alone. So I smile politely and accommodate them for a while, but they tire me, these meandering words that stop by to make small talk.
Perhaps it is that I spend too much time with them, now. But like a confused teenager who succumbs to peer pressure and tries to impress the cool kids, I come back to writing. It is, in so many ways, the only thing I really know, the way I define myself...- What do you do when the things you define yourself with begin to tire you and slowly drag you into the mundanity they used to help you avoid?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Of too few eyes
I find it hard to write a neutral article. An objective standpoint, a simple overview. Everything is personal, there's always a perspective I know I am missing. After events and analysis and summaries, it is still only my standpoint, my perception. It feels like too much self-awareness, too much internalization. Everything circles back to this handful of ideas- incredibly creative ones from some of the best minds on the planet, but the strings are still held only in the weave of my thoughts, the loom is still my mind and nothing more.
All that I write is a strange mixture of other voices, with my chiming in with a line or two to connect the dots. All that I write is my thoughts on the views of others. As an example, either I can write "Evolution, in Dawkins' words.." or "My understanding of evolution.." . But I am sick of both- I know what D. said, and if you wanted to, you could go read it yourself. I know whats in my head, how does it help for me to voice it?
The corollary to this is that I am often annoyed and bored by what I write- simply because there is too much of myself in it, and how long can anyone explore this limited little space inside the self? I'd like to step out, somehow, and leave the self behind. I want to look with other eyes, feel with a different heart.
Write with other words and other ideas, in another voice, from an angle I've never seen before. It feels, these days, like there is too much of 'I', and not enough vision.
Any ideas on how to get out of this?
All that I write is a strange mixture of other voices, with my chiming in with a line or two to connect the dots. All that I write is my thoughts on the views of others. As an example, either I can write "Evolution, in Dawkins' words.." or "My understanding of evolution.." . But I am sick of both- I know what D. said, and if you wanted to, you could go read it yourself. I know whats in my head, how does it help for me to voice it?
The corollary to this is that I am often annoyed and bored by what I write- simply because there is too much of myself in it, and how long can anyone explore this limited little space inside the self? I'd like to step out, somehow, and leave the self behind. I want to look with other eyes, feel with a different heart.
Write with other words and other ideas, in another voice, from an angle I've never seen before. It feels, these days, like there is too much of 'I', and not enough vision.
Any ideas on how to get out of this?
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Life on a song
Try it sometime. Take all your rage and fling it out into high melodramatic seas and ride the wave.
Live your life through fired up songs of angst and the deepest cuts. Believe that your professor not taking notice of your deadline really is the deepest cut.
Hold on to hope, like it really is the last thing holding you up. Hope that people will love your work as much as you do, accept it at first submission.
Laugh at the idiocy of the M.D, Ph.D, tenured professor who proclaims that it takes more than two points to draw a line. Despair for the survival of intelligence and the human race.
Sit down in a long darkening hallway like you did in high school, feel dusk breaking through you as you wonder whether you will ever walk out into the sunshine at the other end. Wonder whether you will ever get out of here as hopeful, as in love with the things that drew you in. If you will ever not feel disillusioned again.
Fling it all on the storm of a song, and live every word of it, for just five minutes. Reaching out with both hands, try to feel the kick inside.
Melodramatize life, because sometimes that is the only way it makes sense.
Live your life through fired up songs of angst and the deepest cuts. Believe that your professor not taking notice of your deadline really is the deepest cut.
Hold on to hope, like it really is the last thing holding you up. Hope that people will love your work as much as you do, accept it at first submission.
Laugh at the idiocy of the M.D, Ph.D, tenured professor who proclaims that it takes more than two points to draw a line. Despair for the survival of intelligence and the human race.
Sit down in a long darkening hallway like you did in high school, feel dusk breaking through you as you wonder whether you will ever walk out into the sunshine at the other end. Wonder whether you will ever get out of here as hopeful, as in love with the things that drew you in. If you will ever not feel disillusioned again.
Fling it all on the storm of a song, and live every word of it, for just five minutes. Reaching out with both hands, try to feel the kick inside.
Melodramatize life, because sometimes that is the only way it makes sense.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Spotting the rainbows
I know he isn't always right, he can be very judgmental and he's biased in his opinions of me. Nonetheless, the bond between us is stronger than most others in my life, and in the lives of others I know. And so I still ask his opinion, question myself over his critique. When the adult, logical woman knows he is wrong, the child in me craves approval, is a little afraid of losing this tie because of his opinions, and I want, more than necessary, to prove my point, convince him of the other side of things.
So when this person claimed to be younger at heart than I am, it turned into an instant competition in my head. For him, it is likely a conclusion that he has arrived at after many judgments over many instances that I brushed off as too casual, and the statement itself, cast off just as easily, is not even something worth arguing about, because there is nothing I could possibly say that would convince him otherwise.
Only time, I tell myself as I hold my tongue. Only time, and life's experiences, will convince him otherwise. The contest remains, though, in my head. And for the last two days, I have pondered the meaning of childhood, and being young at heart.
Does it mean not being careful with things like health and money? Eating badly because only boring old people fuss over healthy foods and exercise? Is it a refusal to move forward in life- avoiding romance, marriage, and adult conversations about life choices- is refusing the trappings of adulthood a sign of being young at heart?
To me, being an adult and a child have much in common. Both are about walking into dark mazes, sticky situations, jumping off giant walls- and finding your way out, testing your skills and knowing that you can, that there is always a happy ending when your mom yells out the door to come in, the day's play is over and its time for dinner with the family.
Being young at heart is the ability to see life as an endless game, and in the end everyone really does win. The playgrounds change as one grows older, but the games are the same. 'Adults' are only the people who have forgotten that at the end of the game, the cops and robbers, pirates and kidnapped princesses, all link arms and go home as friends. That the scary enemies surrounding your besieged fortress are only friends waving sticks in the dusk. The crocodile who will not let you cross the golden river unless you give him a certain color? He's a friend too, all he wants is that you have the right perspective, and spot the solutions hidden in the kaleidoscope of colors that can confuse you in times of stress.
The difference between an adult and a child is in perception. When the child sees the rainbow on the sidewalk, the adult only sees an oil leak from someone's car. The Real Adult admires the rainbow, feels a little thrill at knowing the physics of refraction and angles of light, remembers to tell their neighbor to check their car, and walks home.
=======================================================================
So who is younger at heart- him or I? It is no longer a contest, only a difference in perspective. I still don't understand the reason for his statement, nor the necessity of it. But I am, for now, more comfortable with who I am, the way I am growing up, growing older.)
So when this person claimed to be younger at heart than I am, it turned into an instant competition in my head. For him, it is likely a conclusion that he has arrived at after many judgments over many instances that I brushed off as too casual, and the statement itself, cast off just as easily, is not even something worth arguing about, because there is nothing I could possibly say that would convince him otherwise.
Only time, I tell myself as I hold my tongue. Only time, and life's experiences, will convince him otherwise. The contest remains, though, in my head. And for the last two days, I have pondered the meaning of childhood, and being young at heart.
Does it mean not being careful with things like health and money? Eating badly because only boring old people fuss over healthy foods and exercise? Is it a refusal to move forward in life- avoiding romance, marriage, and adult conversations about life choices- is refusing the trappings of adulthood a sign of being young at heart?
To me, being an adult and a child have much in common. Both are about walking into dark mazes, sticky situations, jumping off giant walls- and finding your way out, testing your skills and knowing that you can, that there is always a happy ending when your mom yells out the door to come in, the day's play is over and its time for dinner with the family.
Being young at heart is the ability to see life as an endless game, and in the end everyone really does win. The playgrounds change as one grows older, but the games are the same. 'Adults' are only the people who have forgotten that at the end of the game, the cops and robbers, pirates and kidnapped princesses, all link arms and go home as friends. That the scary enemies surrounding your besieged fortress are only friends waving sticks in the dusk. The crocodile who will not let you cross the golden river unless you give him a certain color? He's a friend too, all he wants is that you have the right perspective, and spot the solutions hidden in the kaleidoscope of colors that can confuse you in times of stress.
The difference between an adult and a child is in perception. When the child sees the rainbow on the sidewalk, the adult only sees an oil leak from someone's car. The Real Adult admires the rainbow, feels a little thrill at knowing the physics of refraction and angles of light, remembers to tell their neighbor to check their car, and walks home.
=======================================================================
So who is younger at heart- him or I? It is no longer a contest, only a difference in perspective. I still don't understand the reason for his statement, nor the necessity of it. But I am, for now, more comfortable with who I am, the way I am growing up, growing older.)
Monday, August 10, 2009
Here and there
I say,
There are other places words prefer,
Where they flow more freely, settle in more easily
Grow deeper roots, send up brighter blooms
Spaces fertile with events and ideas.
The other only whispers-
Stay, please stay.
Will the words of others keep you happy?
Would you care for new friends, Jincy Willett or the Age of Wonder?
Or old loves, we could visit them too, if you like.
Enid Blyton and Pablo Neruda?
As we argue, words hide in the crevices,
Out of the crossfire, or perhaps
They're only the shadows shifting,
And the words left long ago.
There are other places words prefer,
Where they flow more freely, settle in more easily
Grow deeper roots, send up brighter blooms
Spaces fertile with events and ideas.
The other only whispers-
Stay, please stay.
Will the words of others keep you happy?
Would you care for new friends, Jincy Willett or the Age of Wonder?
Or old loves, we could visit them too, if you like.
Enid Blyton and Pablo Neruda?
As we argue, words hide in the crevices,
Out of the crossfire, or perhaps
They're only the shadows shifting,
And the words left long ago.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Let's start at the very beginning..
After all, its a very good place to start- When you read you begin with ABC, so why not attack writers block with an ABC as well :). So here's my first meme:
Here are the "rules":
Link the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Share the ABCs of you.
Tag 3 people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let the 3 tagged people know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Do not tag the same person repeatedly but try to tag different people, so that there is a big network of bloggers doing this tag! (Very Important One!) - Ah, possibly the toughest clause of all !:)
And the meme:
A – Available/Single? - Single, no. Available- depends on what I'm expected to be available for.
B – Best friend? - Uh,me? Tying as top choices- me, my mom, certain books, a few cherished people..
C – Cake or Pie? - Cake :)
D – Drink of choice? - Hm, depends on the time and the mood. Coffee at midnight during deadlines, martinis for breakfast on certain occasions!
E – Essential item you use every day? – A smile, probably..
F – Favorite colour? - The sky- Sunrise pink, sunset orange, white and blue and gray and everything else!
G – Gummy Bears or Worms? - Neither.. but if you held a gun to my head to choose, I'd pick the worms, I think.
H – Hometown – 'vasudhaiva kutumbakam' !
I – Indulgence? – Haagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream, chick flicks and chinese food.. all in one evening.
J – January or February? - Wedding anniversary, my first trip to Paris..it's got to be February!
K – Kids & their names? - None so far. I'm toying with Priyangumanjari and Katyayani- if you have similarly dramatic suggestions for names, leave them in the comments please :)
L – Life is incomplete without? - Achieving what makes you deep-down happy.
M – Marriage date? - Those who ought to remember should manage it without the reminder here ;)
N – Name? Your real name!! - What do you think it is? :) One of my favorite 'quotes' on names is here..
O – Oranges or Apples? - Oranges
P – Phobias/Fears? - I can frighten myself with almost anything if I start imagining it, so the list probably spans the entire dictionary!
Q – Quote for today? - "What we have here is failure to communicate!"
R – Reason to smile? - Must I have a reason? After all, 'sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, and sometimes your smile is the source of your joy"
S – Season? - Fall
T – Tag 3 People? – Dew drops, Rain, and NV !
U – Unknown fact about me? - Uh, if I knew it wouldn't be unknown.
V – Vegetable you don’t like? - Not that I don't like them, but I've always wondered about the reason for artichokes..
W – Worst habit? – Hmm.. over-analysing things? A short temper and a sharp tongue? Needing to know the end of all stories, and it better be a satisfying one? Indecisiveness? Not knowing when to stop listing my faults?
X – X-rays? - Twice, and the dental ones were the worse of the two times.
Y – Your favorite food? - Street food in India- Pani puri, sev puri, chinese at the roadside laari.. and round it off with matka kulfi !
Z – Zodiac sign? - Leo
Here are the "rules":
Link the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Share the ABCs of you.
Tag 3 people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let the 3 tagged people know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Do not tag the same person repeatedly but try to tag different people, so that there is a big network of bloggers doing this tag! (Very Important One!) - Ah, possibly the toughest clause of all !:)
And the meme:
A – Available/Single? - Single, no. Available- depends on what I'm expected to be available for.
B – Best friend? - Uh,me? Tying as top choices- me, my mom, certain books, a few cherished people..
C – Cake or Pie? - Cake :)
D – Drink of choice? - Hm, depends on the time and the mood. Coffee at midnight during deadlines, martinis for breakfast on certain occasions!
E – Essential item you use every day? – A smile, probably..
F – Favorite colour? - The sky- Sunrise pink, sunset orange, white and blue and gray and everything else!
G – Gummy Bears or Worms? - Neither.. but if you held a gun to my head to choose, I'd pick the worms, I think.
H – Hometown – 'vasudhaiva kutumbakam' !
I – Indulgence? – Haagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream, chick flicks and chinese food.. all in one evening.
J – January or February? - Wedding anniversary, my first trip to Paris..it's got to be February!
K – Kids & their names? - None so far. I'm toying with Priyangumanjari and Katyayani- if you have similarly dramatic suggestions for names, leave them in the comments please :)
L – Life is incomplete without? - Achieving what makes you deep-down happy.
M – Marriage date? - Those who ought to remember should manage it without the reminder here ;)
N – Name? Your real name!! - What do you think it is? :) One of my favorite 'quotes' on names is here..
O – Oranges or Apples? - Oranges
P – Phobias/Fears? - I can frighten myself with almost anything if I start imagining it, so the list probably spans the entire dictionary!
Q – Quote for today? - "What we have here is failure to communicate!"
R – Reason to smile? - Must I have a reason? After all, 'sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, and sometimes your smile is the source of your joy"
S – Season? - Fall
T – Tag 3 People? – Dew drops, Rain, and NV !
U – Unknown fact about me? - Uh, if I knew it wouldn't be unknown.
V – Vegetable you don’t like? - Not that I don't like them, but I've always wondered about the reason for artichokes..
W – Worst habit? – Hmm.. over-analysing things? A short temper and a sharp tongue? Needing to know the end of all stories, and it better be a satisfying one? Indecisiveness? Not knowing when to stop listing my faults?
X – X-rays? - Twice, and the dental ones were the worse of the two times.
Y – Your favorite food? - Street food in India- Pani puri, sev puri, chinese at the roadside laari.. and round it off with matka kulfi !
Z – Zodiac sign? - Leo
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Questions
1. How many habits/ traits do I have to pick up from another person to stop being myself?
2. If I change to adapt to a new situation, do I stop being my 'self'?
3. How much of my 'self' can be defined only in the context of my environment, based on circumstance, and how much is me, regardless of whether I am isolated or with others? Which of these selves is more critical to my identity?
2. If I change to adapt to a new situation, do I stop being my 'self'?
3. How much of my 'self' can be defined only in the context of my environment, based on circumstance, and how much is me, regardless of whether I am isolated or with others? Which of these selves is more critical to my identity?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Looking for words?
I've been doing that, for a very long while. There are plenty of words- but to find just the right one, in the right place and time, and then realize that you don't really have anything that great to say in the first place, that you need these oh-so-perfect words for. I'm tired of "just writing". For once, I don't want to write. I want the words to mean what they did before. To pick me up and carry me out on field trips of consciousness, tripping over self-discovery as we walk together. To start walking and not know where we're going, yet reach the perfect finish together, words and me. Somewhere, they told me- "Sometimes if you stand still, the world comes to you." So I'll lay my tools down, and maybe take a nice nap. I'll wait for words to come wake me again, when they really mean it.
In the meantime, if you wended your way over here looking for something to read, try this. As always, he knows just what to do with the words that land up at his fingertips and ask to stay.
In the meantime, if you wended your way over here looking for something to read, try this. As always, he knows just what to do with the words that land up at his fingertips and ask to stay.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Understanding
What is this light that disturbs the peace?
Illuminating shadow without clarity
Disturbing ideas half-understood
and a dark, unnamed thing slithers, uncoils
Uncomfortable in the sudden cold, in unfamiliar light.
No questions prod, no answers hurt
Just this strange glow that lights the comfortable dark.
The dark is simple, unchallenged and enfolding.
It welcomes strange silences, holds them unquestioned.
This light, though-
It creeps out from somewhere unknown
Unwanted, distasteful
A cold, watery, brittle light-
Stretching grasping fingers
Towards truths better left in the dark.
Illuminating shadow without clarity
Disturbing ideas half-understood
and a dark, unnamed thing slithers, uncoils
Uncomfortable in the sudden cold, in unfamiliar light.
No questions prod, no answers hurt
Just this strange glow that lights the comfortable dark.
The dark is simple, unchallenged and enfolding.
It welcomes strange silences, holds them unquestioned.
This light, though-
It creeps out from somewhere unknown
Unwanted, distasteful
A cold, watery, brittle light-
Stretching grasping fingers
Towards truths better left in the dark.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Connections
Tuesday morning, 2 a.m
14409735862 : We are at the ICU.
Through sleep, she registers this number that looks like home.
"Mom, I just got this text message. Are you guys okay?"
"We're fine, what message are you talking about?"
14409735862 : Please come, she doesn't have much time left. She's asking for you.
The phone rings and rings with no replies, her call ends in a text message and voicemail.
14409735862 : She didn't make it, why wouldn't you come see her?
When he calls, they talk. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Whoever you are, whatever she meant to you, I hope you find peace. I wish you'd seen my messages last night and called the right person instead of me."
14409735862 : We are at the ICU.
Through sleep, she registers this number that looks like home.
"Mom, I just got this text message. Are you guys okay?"
"We're fine, what message are you talking about?"
14409735862 : Please come, she doesn't have much time left. She's asking for you.
The phone rings and rings with no replies, her call ends in a text message and voicemail.
14409735862 : She didn't make it, why wouldn't you come see her?
When he calls, they talk. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Whoever you are, whatever she meant to you, I hope you find peace. I wish you'd seen my messages last night and called the right person instead of me."
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Faith (f)or science
Most of life's conundrums are usually covered by the blanket answers of bhakti - "Have faith, He solves all problems in his own time." "God sees the truth, but waits."
Simple answers, requiring nothing more from me than that I smile beatifically at an idol, and ask an inanimate object to fix all my troubles.
Don't get me wrong- I do believe in a higher spirit, a universal energy that can guide and protect and solve all problems. I believe in places of power, where eons of energy lie stored, and if the connections are strong enough, each of us can reach those stores. I just don't buy into the idea that a shiny sticker of a goddess on my computer will give me greater wisdom. So what would you do, if your mentor told you to have faith in God, for he solves all problems and will give you your due?
The situation is a simple one, something we've all faced to some extent since we started school. A copies the work that B did, and passes it off as his own. Not just that, he's quite nice about it, telling B- look, we can say we did this project together, and you can share the credit.
If it were only a question of A and B, I would wage righteous crusades and make sure B got his due. The realization that morality is so much easier in the third person makes me cringe.
But this is my work, three years of research. I fought tooth and nail to prove my hypothesis, worked on a single protocol for more than a year, spent endless nights writing it all up. Through qualifiers and exams and conferences I slaved over it, and came close to quitting my Ph.D over this project. This isn't a grade on a class project at stake, it's a lot of research money, the careers of several people, possible collaborations.
Should I stick up for myself, demand my due- "Our group did the work, we should get the credit and screw the others"? Or should I choose a middle road, share the credit and diminish the value of everything that we did? Doesn't that in some cosmic way condone the wrong, say that it's acceptable to copy and demand credit for it?
What would you do, if you were me?
Simple answers, requiring nothing more from me than that I smile beatifically at an idol, and ask an inanimate object to fix all my troubles.
Don't get me wrong- I do believe in a higher spirit, a universal energy that can guide and protect and solve all problems. I believe in places of power, where eons of energy lie stored, and if the connections are strong enough, each of us can reach those stores. I just don't buy into the idea that a shiny sticker of a goddess on my computer will give me greater wisdom. So what would you do, if your mentor told you to have faith in God, for he solves all problems and will give you your due?
The situation is a simple one, something we've all faced to some extent since we started school. A copies the work that B did, and passes it off as his own. Not just that, he's quite nice about it, telling B- look, we can say we did this project together, and you can share the credit.
If it were only a question of A and B, I would wage righteous crusades and make sure B got his due. The realization that morality is so much easier in the third person makes me cringe.
But this is my work, three years of research. I fought tooth and nail to prove my hypothesis, worked on a single protocol for more than a year, spent endless nights writing it all up. Through qualifiers and exams and conferences I slaved over it, and came close to quitting my Ph.D over this project. This isn't a grade on a class project at stake, it's a lot of research money, the careers of several people, possible collaborations.
Should I stick up for myself, demand my due- "Our group did the work, we should get the credit and screw the others"? Or should I choose a middle road, share the credit and diminish the value of everything that we did? Doesn't that in some cosmic way condone the wrong, say that it's acceptable to copy and demand credit for it?
What would you do, if you were me?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The substance of home
I don't remember why I was running that night, or what I tripped on and fell over. I remember only hitting the edge of this table, the cut on my chin and the bright blue of the wall I looked up at as I landed. My mother rushing to the doctor, and the faint scar on my chin that remains. Today, the table itself feels like something of a miracle. It's survived over twenty-five years, 10 moves across as many cities, two continents and an earthquake. I run my fingers over the edges and try to recollect being just that high, to land with my chin on that edge.
There are whole shelves everywhere, filled with the things I have gathered over the years. An old fishtank, overflowing with the toy ducks and penguins and snakes I collected. A rabbit, two interlinked bears once named Coffee and Toffee, and Maggie Ann perch on top, guarding the lot. High-school biology notes. French class books, old letters and birthday cards.. the list is endless. None of it is particularly aesthetic, most of it would be easy to classify as clutter.
That stuff that gets tossed out when you move house, sweep away dust bunnies. I, and most other 'intellectuals' I know, would like to think of ourselves as detached, these things as just material possessions- dispensable, and in some ways, deserving of disposal, as proof that nothing holds us back, ties us down to a place. When we leave, we pick up the 'essentials' and walk out. A few more aesthetic individuals would be so very disdainful of these shelves- There is one that seems to be exclusively dedicated to the extremely tasteless vases I once had a habit of gathering. A pointy shoe, a green face, a pink flowered vase, and a sheep. Ugh.
But the green face was bought for a laugh, the sheep was a gift from a friend when we were ten, and the vase, to six-year old eyes, was a thing of beauty, worth saving my pocket money and buying for my mother's birthday.
What strikes me is how my perspective has changed. Those things were preserved with sheer emotion, no thought of color schemes or price, of minimalism or theme or good design. As an adult, when I visualise my house, place my things, I want no part of the unaesthetic. If it doesn't fit, it must be tossed. Things that don't look lovely are left behind. As so many others do, I go out and buy things that fit color schemes and lighting plans, that are considered good design and reflect my personality.
Here, none of those matter. The only thing that holds this clutter together is love. The things on these shelves don't reflect my personality, just the events that shaped who I am. Pick any one of those ugly, mismatched, cheap objects, and there is a memory that justifies its persistence. More than my perfectly matched blue shelf, blue couch, and the array of hand bags that I never remember to coordinate after buying them, this is the substance of my life- the inexplicable love that sees what is important to me and holds it safe, waiting for me to come home and rediscover joy.
I'm re-thinking, now, what I want in my home, what I hold dispensable. If you had a choice, what material possessions, apart from photographs and heirlooms, would you consider essential?
There are whole shelves everywhere, filled with the things I have gathered over the years. An old fishtank, overflowing with the toy ducks and penguins and snakes I collected. A rabbit, two interlinked bears once named Coffee and Toffee, and Maggie Ann perch on top, guarding the lot. High-school biology notes. French class books, old letters and birthday cards.. the list is endless. None of it is particularly aesthetic, most of it would be easy to classify as clutter.
That stuff that gets tossed out when you move house, sweep away dust bunnies. I, and most other 'intellectuals' I know, would like to think of ourselves as detached, these things as just material possessions- dispensable, and in some ways, deserving of disposal, as proof that nothing holds us back, ties us down to a place. When we leave, we pick up the 'essentials' and walk out. A few more aesthetic individuals would be so very disdainful of these shelves- There is one that seems to be exclusively dedicated to the extremely tasteless vases I once had a habit of gathering. A pointy shoe, a green face, a pink flowered vase, and a sheep. Ugh.
But the green face was bought for a laugh, the sheep was a gift from a friend when we were ten, and the vase, to six-year old eyes, was a thing of beauty, worth saving my pocket money and buying for my mother's birthday.
What strikes me is how my perspective has changed. Those things were preserved with sheer emotion, no thought of color schemes or price, of minimalism or theme or good design. As an adult, when I visualise my house, place my things, I want no part of the unaesthetic. If it doesn't fit, it must be tossed. Things that don't look lovely are left behind. As so many others do, I go out and buy things that fit color schemes and lighting plans, that are considered good design and reflect my personality.
Here, none of those matter. The only thing that holds this clutter together is love. The things on these shelves don't reflect my personality, just the events that shaped who I am. Pick any one of those ugly, mismatched, cheap objects, and there is a memory that justifies its persistence. More than my perfectly matched blue shelf, blue couch, and the array of hand bags that I never remember to coordinate after buying them, this is the substance of my life- the inexplicable love that sees what is important to me and holds it safe, waiting for me to come home and rediscover joy.
I'm re-thinking, now, what I want in my home, what I hold dispensable. If you had a choice, what material possessions, apart from photographs and heirlooms, would you consider essential?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
As if..
As if the universe cast these lines in the same mould- religion and region (You're Muslim? But I thought you were Bengali?), country and culture (We don't do that in this country), name and location (Michelle? I wouldn't have thought you were Indian!), language and identity (You don't speak your mother tongue?)
As if self-realisation were not difficult enough, that it must be compounded with these confused, imaginary boundaries of geography and religion.
As if self-realisation were not difficult enough, that it must be compounded with these confused, imaginary boundaries of geography and religion.
Monday, May 11, 2009
In lieu of..
A real post, this round-up shall have to suffice- News of two weddings, a baby and a trip home in two weeks !
(Yes, I know that's cheating. But in the interest of internet conservation, it's probably best.)
(Yes, I know that's cheating. But in the interest of internet conservation, it's probably best.)
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Spell-casting, part 1
Begin with an unhappy cut. The cut must be sharp, and deep enough that emotion flows out as words on paper. The source can be anything, but the cut should be neither long-drawn nor shallow- just short and sharp. A product, perhaps, of a summer afternoon, blinding headache, and too many inane conversations when you would rather be quiet. The words must be written, not remembered.
Toss them in the back of a notebook and forget about them. Remember only that a writer you admired was impressed with what you wrote.
Take a long summer night, a year later. Find an almost-stranger, whom you trust for their smile, and something more you will never be able to put into words. Preferably, live with this person for a short while. Enough to keep you close over a lifetime. In a room far from home, toss in some brightly-colored sheets, poster boards, and the iron beds and tables that are the trappings of most hostels in India. Remember the sounds of a girls' hostel settling in for the night. When the almost-stranger asks to see something you've written, one of the things you reach for is the back of that notebook. Forget this.
A few years later, tell her all that happened over the last few weeks. Why you no longer speak with someone you loved. Why you no longer trust as easily. Feel her anger rise, revel in her love for you. And over the conversation, she tells you she still has what you wrote all those years ago, and she still enjoys it. She sends it back to you, and says she feels wonderful doing it.
The charm requires several years to cast to perfection, but it never fails to buffer you with love on a bad day.
Toss them in the back of a notebook and forget about them. Remember only that a writer you admired was impressed with what you wrote.
Take a long summer night, a year later. Find an almost-stranger, whom you trust for their smile, and something more you will never be able to put into words. Preferably, live with this person for a short while. Enough to keep you close over a lifetime. In a room far from home, toss in some brightly-colored sheets, poster boards, and the iron beds and tables that are the trappings of most hostels in India. Remember the sounds of a girls' hostel settling in for the night. When the almost-stranger asks to see something you've written, one of the things you reach for is the back of that notebook. Forget this.
A few years later, tell her all that happened over the last few weeks. Why you no longer speak with someone you loved. Why you no longer trust as easily. Feel her anger rise, revel in her love for you. And over the conversation, she tells you she still has what you wrote all those years ago, and she still enjoys it. She sends it back to you, and says she feels wonderful doing it.
The charm requires several years to cast to perfection, but it never fails to buffer you with love on a bad day.
Voices
Like hands-
probing solitude
pawing their way through quiet
Voices-
suffocating thought
stifle emotions in words
Like insects-
whining, buzzing
swarms around my brain
Like claws-
plucking at skin
flinging webs of inanity
Voices-
smothering screams
in polite ‘yes’ and ‘no’.
probing solitude
pawing their way through quiet
Voices-
suffocating thought
stifle emotions in words
Like insects-
whining, buzzing
swarms around my brain
Like claws-
plucking at skin
flinging webs of inanity
Voices-
smothering screams
in polite ‘yes’ and ‘no’.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Not words nor silence
Poetry, like good coffee, is best served dark, strong and sweet. Preferably with a touch of some undefined spice that jogs memories of things half-forgotten, lingers on the tip of your tongue and leaves you half-satisfied, longing for more and trying, for the rest of your life, to re-create that taste, remember the forgotten.
"And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and
flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky. "
(Poetry, Pablo Neruda)
"And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and
flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky. "
(Poetry, Pablo Neruda)
Thursday, May 07, 2009
The dew of little things
This lovely post raised, once again, the idea of simple pleasures- "For in the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed." So here's a list of seven, culled for not costing a thing, not requiring too much by way of material goods (well, shoes are helpful :)), and being available anywhere, geographically.
1. Real conversations. I have proof that there is magic in friendship, magic that sprinkles fairy dust through bad days and keeps you protected from hurt. Real conversations are part of that charm.
2. Opening my eyes to life around- Birds, trees, dandelions, a potted plant in a dingy lab- A glimpse of a perfect sky is enough to lift my spirits.
3. Running. I don't go too fast or far, but it's still one of my favorite things ways to get happy.
4. Falling sick. Really :). Listening to 'real adults' gives me the impression that as we get older, taking time for the body to heal becomes a luxury. When children hurt themselves, they avoid the hurting limb, limp around, tell parents. 'Real adults' tell their limbs to stop bothering them, pop a painkiller (The equivalent of telling your body, "Shut up! I don't care what you have to say!") and get on with all-important things to do. Most mothers I know don't have the time to stay sick. Me, I'm miserable with it, but glad to be able to take the time, laze around in a robe and fuzzy socks.
5. Getting better :) - Yes, I know that's the equivalent of saying I like banging my head on the wall 'cos it feels so good when I stop. But seriously, after being sick, it feels so good to get through a day without the fatigue! Why take wellness for granted when good health can be so enjoyable?
6. Babies and small animals. Obvious, but cuteness never fails to satisfy :)
7. Fantasies. They don't cost a thing, can be conjured up anywhere, and the idea of a red-green house-sized dragon named Fitzgerald walking down Main Street demanding cookies never hurt anyone, did it?
1. Real conversations. I have proof that there is magic in friendship, magic that sprinkles fairy dust through bad days and keeps you protected from hurt. Real conversations are part of that charm.
2. Opening my eyes to life around- Birds, trees, dandelions, a potted plant in a dingy lab- A glimpse of a perfect sky is enough to lift my spirits.
3. Running. I don't go too fast or far, but it's still one of my favorite things ways to get happy.
4. Falling sick. Really :). Listening to 'real adults' gives me the impression that as we get older, taking time for the body to heal becomes a luxury. When children hurt themselves, they avoid the hurting limb, limp around, tell parents. 'Real adults' tell their limbs to stop bothering them, pop a painkiller (The equivalent of telling your body, "Shut up! I don't care what you have to say!") and get on with all-important things to do. Most mothers I know don't have the time to stay sick. Me, I'm miserable with it, but glad to be able to take the time, laze around in a robe and fuzzy socks.
5. Getting better :) - Yes, I know that's the equivalent of saying I like banging my head on the wall 'cos it feels so good when I stop. But seriously, after being sick, it feels so good to get through a day without the fatigue! Why take wellness for granted when good health can be so enjoyable?
6. Babies and small animals. Obvious, but cuteness never fails to satisfy :)
7. Fantasies. They don't cost a thing, can be conjured up anywhere, and the idea of a red-green house-sized dragon named Fitzgerald walking down Main Street demanding cookies never hurt anyone, did it?
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
The light shines through..
There's this rather famous blog I stop by occasionally. Written by someone my own age, living a life as different from mine as possible, I think. Even in the same city, we would be in different worlds. Her blog is light-hearted entertainment, a quick gurgle of delight, a slight glug of despair.. and she moves on. It's fun, but not something I'd think twice about- or even once, really. In the same room, we might not have much to say to each other. I might dismiss her as the chick, she might dismiss me as the nerd. Her latest post, however, skews perspective.
It takes courage to walk out of a bad marriage, to stand up to abuse and heal yourself, body and mind and soul. It takes especial courage if you come from a society that is sometimes too quick to voice its opinion, and not quick enough to send out a helping hand. And it takes courage to stand up and say you were being trite and never thought about things, acknowledge the person who pointed it out, and give her a space to lean forward into and speak her voice. Is one greater than the other? Quite possibly. For me, I am grateful for the reminder to judge more slowly, the sign that chicks can have hearts and good sense, and be willing to share them.
In older words...
Was it like this the last time we looked?
Were the colors so clear, laughter as sweet
And simple things- hot chai, the smell of marigolds
life in black and white
So precious in childhood?
Sweet innocence and calm it was, I know
But washed by tears
Starved by images of broken homes and broken people,
Isn't the heart a little deeper,
And beauty more sweet?
It takes courage to walk out of a bad marriage, to stand up to abuse and heal yourself, body and mind and soul. It takes especial courage if you come from a society that is sometimes too quick to voice its opinion, and not quick enough to send out a helping hand. And it takes courage to stand up and say you were being trite and never thought about things, acknowledge the person who pointed it out, and give her a space to lean forward into and speak her voice. Is one greater than the other? Quite possibly. For me, I am grateful for the reminder to judge more slowly, the sign that chicks can have hearts and good sense, and be willing to share them.
In older words...
Was it like this the last time we looked?
Were the colors so clear, laughter as sweet
And simple things- hot chai, the smell of marigolds
life in black and white
So precious in childhood?
Sweet innocence and calm it was, I know
But washed by tears
Starved by images of broken homes and broken people,
Isn't the heart a little deeper,
And beauty more sweet?
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Irresistible!
In lieu of New Year's resolutions, this has been beckoning since January. Like all good intentions, it's been easily cast aside- with a really valid excuse, of course. In April, I peeked at the theme for May and said a little "Yay! I can do that for a month, easily!" May flowers, gestures from friends, baking adventures, random good things.. there's more than enough sweetness to write about for a month, certainly.
And May hit harder than I thought, with papers to write (and nasty deception! More as the mystery unravels! But not this month ;)), hospitals, conferences, illnesses, an un expected trip home... So, I figured I'd wait. Let those posts pile up and weave them into the theme for another month, maybe. But like deadlines and illness and everything bad, the good things refuse to wait either (Thank goodness!:)). And so it begins, my attempt that's doomed to failure- When I'm supposed to be working furiously to finish up this paper, I'm writing instead- a rather silly blog post, about Nutella. The sweet satisfaction of finding the last clean spoon in the tray (If there's Nutella at home, this is quite a challenge), and grabbing the perfect fix of 2 a.m chocolate and hazelnut with my coffee. Irresistible, inevitable, like the sweetness of May and all the good things in life.. What could be better? :)
(Yes, I know the correct answer to that last question would be- a LOT.Nonetheless, the rhetoric stands :)).
And May hit harder than I thought, with papers to write (and nasty deception! More as the mystery unravels! But not this month ;)), hospitals, conferences, illnesses, an un expected trip home... So, I figured I'd wait. Let those posts pile up and weave them into the theme for another month, maybe. But like deadlines and illness and everything bad, the good things refuse to wait either (Thank goodness!:)). And so it begins, my attempt that's doomed to failure- When I'm supposed to be working furiously to finish up this paper, I'm writing instead- a rather silly blog post, about Nutella. The sweet satisfaction of finding the last clean spoon in the tray (If there's Nutella at home, this is quite a challenge), and grabbing the perfect fix of 2 a.m chocolate and hazelnut with my coffee. Irresistible, inevitable, like the sweetness of May and all the good things in life.. What could be better? :)
(Yes, I know the correct answer to that last question would be- a LOT.Nonetheless, the rhetoric stands :)).
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Recycled euphoria
When it's raining out, and the world is a little gloomier than it should be, the past can be a nice place to hang out, and so, this post is just a list of random things I put together a while back, as I crossed that dreaded quarter-life mark, and it wasn't as terrible as I thought it would be.. Things that almost make being an adult worth it! :)
=====================================================================================
1. Money- however little/ much it is, or how generous my parents were and are, nothing beats earning my own!
2. Understanding my own needs- The clarity that comes from having tasted several flavors (icecream/ people/ emotions/ professions), and knowing which one I prefer.
3. Dark chocolate- Find me the child that favors dark chocolate over milk chocolate and caramel, and I will show you a person with truly evolved taste.
4. Walking away from unpleasantness, no longer forced to be a victim of someone else's bad behavior.
5. The self-righteousness that comes from having behaved well when the other person behaved badly ;)- (No childish heel-kicking tantrum comes close!
6. Late night drives with the windows down and the moon-roof open. And my choice of music, because I'm the only one in the car.
7. Self-discovery- The depths of teenage angst are fantastic, but they don't come close to the thrill of discovering something new about myself, however tiny the realization.
8. No fixed bedtimes !! I can blog when I like and sleep when I choose.
9. COFFEE- Why, why are small children denied this wonderful pleasure?
10. Cellphones.
11. Any phone, just for me!
12. Roadtripping with friends, and my favorite allies ;)
13. No-one stopping me from eating all the ice-cream, straight out of the carton.
14. Having an icecream container to myself, rum-raisin flavored !
15. The look on my dad's face when I drive my own car:)
16. Knowing there can be two rights and no wrong- Knowing that I know this slaps growing-up in my face harder than most other things, yet its a good feeling.
17. Making sense of books I first read when I was too young to understand them.
18. Laughing at silly 22-year old kids, with others as wise and mature as myself :)
19. Not ALWAYS fighting with my brother. Most of the time is not the same as always,
no matter what it looks like to my parents.
20. OLD friends. The kind who understand both where I'm coming from and where I'm headed to- and won't hesitate to tell me if its a blind alley I will bash my non-existent brains into.
21. Realising that age really is just a number. Most days I'm too busy to even remember which side of 25 I'm on!
22. Ranting, as opposed to throwing a tantrum. Knowing when to rant, when to stand and fight, and when to just ignore idiocy. (Atleast some of the time!).
23. Work- Enjoying what I do, and having the freedom to procrastinate when I like!
24. The option of utter and complete laziness- To lie on the couch with a book all day, munching junk food and tuning out every other demand on my time.
25. No homework!
26. Enjoying being a geek- at long last I have a cooler life than the gossipy popular girls who now crib about tending babies!
27. Taking off from work to blog- Not something I'd have managed in school ;)
=====================================================================================
1. Money- however little/ much it is, or how generous my parents were and are, nothing beats earning my own!
2. Understanding my own needs- The clarity that comes from having tasted several flavors (icecream/ people/ emotions/ professions), and knowing which one I prefer.
3. Dark chocolate- Find me the child that favors dark chocolate over milk chocolate and caramel, and I will show you a person with truly evolved taste.
4. Walking away from unpleasantness, no longer forced to be a victim of someone else's bad behavior.
5. The self-righteousness that comes from having behaved well when the other person behaved badly ;)- (No childish heel-kicking tantrum comes close!
6. Late night drives with the windows down and the moon-roof open. And my choice of music, because I'm the only one in the car.
7. Self-discovery- The depths of teenage angst are fantastic, but they don't come close to the thrill of discovering something new about myself, however tiny the realization.
8. No fixed bedtimes !! I can blog when I like and sleep when I choose.
9. COFFEE- Why, why are small children denied this wonderful pleasure?
10. Cellphones.
11. Any phone, just for me!
12. Roadtripping with friends, and my favorite allies ;)
13. No-one stopping me from eating all the ice-cream, straight out of the carton.
14. Having an icecream container to myself, rum-raisin flavored !
15. The look on my dad's face when I drive my own car:)
16. Knowing there can be two rights and no wrong- Knowing that I know this slaps growing-up in my face harder than most other things, yet its a good feeling.
17. Making sense of books I first read when I was too young to understand them.
18. Laughing at silly 22-year old kids, with others as wise and mature as myself :)
19. Not ALWAYS fighting with my brother. Most of the time is not the same as always,
no matter what it looks like to my parents.
20. OLD friends. The kind who understand both where I'm coming from and where I'm headed to- and won't hesitate to tell me if its a blind alley I will bash my non-existent brains into.
21. Realising that age really is just a number. Most days I'm too busy to even remember which side of 25 I'm on!
22. Ranting, as opposed to throwing a tantrum. Knowing when to rant, when to stand and fight, and when to just ignore idiocy. (Atleast some of the time!).
23. Work- Enjoying what I do, and having the freedom to procrastinate when I like!
24. The option of utter and complete laziness- To lie on the couch with a book all day, munching junk food and tuning out every other demand on my time.
25. No homework!
26. Enjoying being a geek- at long last I have a cooler life than the gossipy popular girls who now crib about tending babies!
27. Taking off from work to blog- Not something I'd have managed in school ;)
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Flying/ falling
The only difference between flying and falling is learning not to hit the ground. Sometimes, though, the wind that carries you to soaring can hurt more than turning into a wet squishy mass on the ground. For who's to say where the wind will take you, and how do you know that it isn't carrying you towards a giant brick wall in the sky, only to make a bigger, uglier SPLAT!- Higher up, for more people to see and point at, and no earth to sink into.
Do you always trust the wind that carries you? What do you do, when you are so carried away by your ideas/beliefs, that you no longer see the ground you once stood firm on, or the destination you thought you were heading towards? What holds you up, when you no longer trust the wind?
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Advising the present
There's a popular question that goes, "If you could give your teenage self one piece of advice,based on what you have learned since then, what would it be?"
Too much of my time of late has been spent in impatience, anger at the slowness of medical reports, the inefficiency of research, and so much else. When this typically gets expressed in a rant to Mom, I'm reminded to be patient, not push people too much, and so on. I never quite got why- WHY couldn't people just get the damn job done ??
A friend shared this song today, and I couldn't have asked for a better explanation, I think.. And thus, a piece of advice to the present me -
Dheere jalna, dheere jalna
Zindagi ki lau pe jalna
Kaanch ka sapna gal hi na jaye
Soch samajh ke aanch rakhna
Dheere jalna..
(Gulzar, from Paheli)
Too much of my time of late has been spent in impatience, anger at the slowness of medical reports, the inefficiency of research, and so much else. When this typically gets expressed in a rant to Mom, I'm reminded to be patient, not push people too much, and so on. I never quite got why- WHY couldn't people just get the damn job done ??
A friend shared this song today, and I couldn't have asked for a better explanation, I think.. And thus, a piece of advice to the present me -
Dheere jalna, dheere jalna
Zindagi ki lau pe jalna
Kaanch ka sapna gal hi na jaye
Soch samajh ke aanch rakhna
Dheere jalna..
(Gulzar, from Paheli)
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Writing conundrums and cooler stuff
I've been meaning not to write, these last several days. One of my closest-held writing notions is to only write what I feel, what I hold dear- If I don't mean it, it will not sound right. So I've written, a lot really- but why would I want to bore you with the rants and the moping and the whining that ensued? There has been a little too much of it on this blog lately, and I'm sick of it. So here, instead of all that, is a random list of things that have made me happy in these times of much ranting and not enough laughter.
1. Supercool moms- My own, a blog I visit, and a sweet little sight I saw yesterday afternoon. A mom on a bicycle, with one of those little toddler cars trailing behind. Matching helmets, and parent and child enjoying their afternoon sunshine. The beginning of spring, and a firm reminder that the whiny, sad little creatures who hide behind children as an excuse for not having a life of their own are not the only kind of mom there is. My mom- requires a long, separate post all of her own, which she'll get, someday soon :)
2. Pineapple cake ! Here's a GREAT recipe, please try it out, everyone! :)
* 1 1/2 cups oil
* 2 cups sugar
* 4 eggs
* 2 1/4 cups cake flour
* 1 teaspoon baking soda
* 1 teaspoon baking powder
* 1 cup nuts
* 1 teaspoon cinnamon
* 1/2 teaspoon salt
* 1 teaspoon vanilla/ orange extract
* 1 cup carrots
* 2 cups crushed pineapple
Bake at 350 F for about 45 mins. (Be warned, this is huge, so either halve the quantities or prepare to share )
3. Early morning walks- Right after I am woken up with coffee in bed, a fantastic-weather-tulips-poking-out-of-soil walk with the husband. When the rest of the day goes downhill, its nice to think that some things stay perfect- No failed experiments or deadlines or health issues can change the coming of spring, and the fact of coffee!
4. Funny blogs- Perfect afternoon pick-me-ups, for those slow days at work. Try this one !
5. Perspective- Sometimes, all the screw-ups in the world are just plain funny. Just squint at them, or top them off with a purple hat with an ostrich plume and a few assorted fruits on it. Or a dinosaur.
1. Supercool moms- My own, a blog I visit, and a sweet little sight I saw yesterday afternoon. A mom on a bicycle, with one of those little toddler cars trailing behind. Matching helmets, and parent and child enjoying their afternoon sunshine. The beginning of spring, and a firm reminder that the whiny, sad little creatures who hide behind children as an excuse for not having a life of their own are not the only kind of mom there is. My mom- requires a long, separate post all of her own, which she'll get, someday soon :)
2. Pineapple cake ! Here's a GREAT recipe, please try it out, everyone! :)
* 1 1/2 cups oil
* 2 cups sugar
* 4 eggs
* 2 1/4 cups cake flour
* 1 teaspoon baking soda
* 1 teaspoon baking powder
* 1 cup nuts
* 1 teaspoon cinnamon
* 1/2 teaspoon salt
* 1 teaspoon vanilla/ orange extract
* 1 cup carrots
* 2 cups crushed pineapple
Bake at 350 F for about 45 mins. (Be warned, this is huge, so either halve the quantities or prepare to share )
3. Early morning walks- Right after I am woken up with coffee in bed, a fantastic-weather-tulips-poking-out-of-soil walk with the husband. When the rest of the day goes downhill, its nice to think that some things stay perfect- No failed experiments or deadlines or health issues can change the coming of spring, and the fact of coffee!
4. Funny blogs- Perfect afternoon pick-me-ups, for those slow days at work. Try this one !
5. Perspective- Sometimes, all the screw-ups in the world are just plain funny. Just squint at them, or top them off with a purple hat with an ostrich plume and a few assorted fruits on it. Or a dinosaur.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Introduction to Poetry
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
-Billy Collins
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
-Billy Collins
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Promises like shoes
“Next time I will …”
“From now on I will never …”
What makes me think I am wiser today than I will be tomorrow?
-From Notes to myself, by Hugh Prather
.. Two days ago I was going on about words that hold me up, and today I'm kicking myself for having forgotten them. Why should I hold myself to old promises of friendship, when the grown-up me knows better than the child who sealed the deal?
How do you move on, when you're still walking around in too-old, too-tight shoes from long ago? Do you drag your feet and walk in misery, or do you squinch up your toes for so long that you lose all feeling in them, and then the shoes feel fine? After a while you might even think you enjoy not having toes anymore, and think those who do are freaks to want to keep them.
Or are you strong enough to rip outgrown, worn shoes off your feet, and walk with the blisters for a while? Do you slip your injured feet right back into another pair, just to hide the ugly wounds, or do you let yourself heal before you slip into a pair you'd like to try?
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Like no-one's watching
I'm not sure what to write here. Having spent the greater part of time not sharing words, I'm not sure what it involves to use them as a medium of communication.
Words are understanding, words are fun. Words wrap around and make sense when the world doesn't. They can mean so much or nothing at all. I can stare at a word, fall so deep into it that the alphabets lose meaning. Then re-surface and smile with renewed understanding. Try it with AREA. That was one of my favorites in Math class. Write it down, over and over, mouth the letters, exaggerated. Take it apart- why those four letters, why so many vowels? Where did this word 'area' come from? Imagine Egypt as you calculate the area of a pyramid. What did they call it? What would we call it if we were talking to them? AREA. Fall into it. If it doesn't work with this one, try your favorite word. Tell me what happens :)
Words have power, beyond reckoning. In any language, as long as it touches the heart. My current favorite is a line from Gulzar, "Gin gin taare maine ungli jalayi hai.." - I have burnt my fingers counting the stars. I don't understand what it means, but the words sink in and take hold, and they will let go when I have understood. None of it is my doing, it is their power, their magic. Fall back on words, and see which ones hold you up.
But to get to the point of this post- I'm still fumbling here, trying to communicate with words, through words. And I'm fumbling with a few awards- surprised and touched, that people I like read this blog and even enjoy it! This makes me aware that somewhere, someone might actually read what I write, and I think I have stage(blog?) fright now!:) So, uhm, thank you, you and you !
I think I'll pass this right back to both of you, Neeraja and Perception - for the fantastic writing, lovely ideas, and perfect capacity to always entertain :)
..To Nish, who got me into blogging, with hopes that the lady will write again,
soon ;) And Nidhi- it's such a pleasure to reconnect after the years, even though it's only online for now :)
(The image is shamelessly borrowed from Perception's blog, I didn't know how else to get it on here!)
Would it be against blogger protocol to turn this into a tag and demand a new post from everyone I passed it to? That way there's more to read ;)
Friday, February 13, 2009
The things we do for love!
In my experience, most people in relationships are confused, to a greater or lesser extent. We're brought up for 20 odd years with the idea that we must develop our personalities, be independent, free-thinking individuals, and then somehow we find ourselves in this mess of hormones and expectations of other people and obligations and everything else. If you work your way out, you end up crying over your break-up, single and miserable while everyone around is in happily-ever-after land.
The alternative, of course, is to be brave (or foolish) enough to fight your way through the mess, emerging on the other side with the tag of 'committed/ married'.
Working the kinks out of relationships, dealing with relatives and familial obligations, figuring out how this person you live with can manage to unfailingly forget at least one out of every four items on the grocery list (Feel free to substitute personal annoyance here- I'm sure each of us, man or woman, has our own)
- As if all this weren't crazy enough, we now step into the month of February, with grocery stores covered in pink and red balloons and everywhere you look you see hearts and doves and all the rest of it. When did picking up salad and potatoes begin to necessitate such festivity? I can understand card stores and gift shops, but the produce section?
This year promises to be especially amusing in India- with pink underwear and pink saris battling it out, and the grand proclamation that "India is the land of Lord Krishna and nobody should compete with him in terms of love and relationship."
(I'm already wondering how this man arrived on the planet, or is he claiming to be a direct descendant of the Lord?) To add to the confusion, there is the Pub bharo andolan- which leads to the rather interesting image of the streets of Bombay and Delhi teeming with women of all shapes and sizes, clad in pink saris, clutching images of Lord Krishna to prove that their love is unsurpassed by anyone. I'm waiting for all the pictures to be uploaded as promised here.
Considering that all of this is for a 'festival' that has nothing to do with Indian culture in the first place, I get the feeling poor St. Valentine is probably feeling a little left out right now.
The alternative, of course, is to be brave (or foolish) enough to fight your way through the mess, emerging on the other side with the tag of 'committed/ married'.
Working the kinks out of relationships, dealing with relatives and familial obligations, figuring out how this person you live with can manage to unfailingly forget at least one out of every four items on the grocery list (Feel free to substitute personal annoyance here- I'm sure each of us, man or woman, has our own)
- As if all this weren't crazy enough, we now step into the month of February, with grocery stores covered in pink and red balloons and everywhere you look you see hearts and doves and all the rest of it. When did picking up salad and potatoes begin to necessitate such festivity? I can understand card stores and gift shops, but the produce section?
This year promises to be especially amusing in India- with pink underwear and pink saris battling it out, and the grand proclamation that "India is the land of Lord Krishna and nobody should compete with him in terms of love and relationship."
(I'm already wondering how this man arrived on the planet, or is he claiming to be a direct descendant of the Lord?) To add to the confusion, there is the Pub bharo andolan- which leads to the rather interesting image of the streets of Bombay and Delhi teeming with women of all shapes and sizes, clad in pink saris, clutching images of Lord Krishna to prove that their love is unsurpassed by anyone. I'm waiting for all the pictures to be uploaded as promised here.
Considering that all of this is for a 'festival' that has nothing to do with Indian culture in the first place, I get the feeling poor St. Valentine is probably feeling a little left out right now.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Something like love
A simple time, in a complex country. Where words like love come not as strings attached to relationships, but in a soft unyielding weave of time, tradition, religion, and so much else. Where teenagers fumble with this cloth, and fret, wondering whether this is fabric to be worn with pride, or ripped apart to find that one constant thread that is love.
So lets go back to this simple time. A classroom, like most others in India. February is a pleasant time of the year, in most places. Far from home, twenty or so single boys and girls plan a Valentine's party for themselves. Who needs a boyfriend/ girlfriend, when all this friendly love abounds? A cell phone rings, and one person steps out to answer it.
On to a terrace, sun-warmed cement and brick under bare feet. The smell of dusty earth and neem trees. The conversation is quite typical- how was your day, did you talk to your advisor about that last set of experiments? Yes, and did you get your reports in on time? What plans for the evening? They talk, the boy and the girl, for a little while. Across the warp and weft that separate them, they find the threads that hold them together for the span of this conversation, a few minutes in a late winter evening.
He isn't sure whether to wish her. Will she take it to mean he assumes she's his girlfriend? Should he have sent flowers, or would she get angry if he did? Why hasn't he wished her? Does this mean that he assumes her answer is no? But she really isn't sure. If she wishes him, will he assume its a yes? If you say Happy Valentine's on the phone, isnt that like saying- go enjoy yourself even though you're half a world away from me? So they talk for a while, and hang up. Satisfied with the idea of romance, without the tangles of love.
.. While that's probably not a love story of any kind, it amuses and reassures me to think of it now- A time when love, or something like it, was just as simple as a phone call. No strings attached. And that we were once people like that, who could find and hold the one strand we liked out of that vast, intricate tapestry, even if it was just for a few minutes of a lifetime.
So lets go back to this simple time. A classroom, like most others in India. February is a pleasant time of the year, in most places. Far from home, twenty or so single boys and girls plan a Valentine's party for themselves. Who needs a boyfriend/ girlfriend, when all this friendly love abounds? A cell phone rings, and one person steps out to answer it.
On to a terrace, sun-warmed cement and brick under bare feet. The smell of dusty earth and neem trees. The conversation is quite typical- how was your day, did you talk to your advisor about that last set of experiments? Yes, and did you get your reports in on time? What plans for the evening? They talk, the boy and the girl, for a little while. Across the warp and weft that separate them, they find the threads that hold them together for the span of this conversation, a few minutes in a late winter evening.
He isn't sure whether to wish her. Will she take it to mean he assumes she's his girlfriend? Should he have sent flowers, or would she get angry if he did? Why hasn't he wished her? Does this mean that he assumes her answer is no? But she really isn't sure. If she wishes him, will he assume its a yes? If you say Happy Valentine's on the phone, isnt that like saying- go enjoy yourself even though you're half a world away from me? So they talk for a while, and hang up. Satisfied with the idea of romance, without the tangles of love.
.. While that's probably not a love story of any kind, it amuses and reassures me to think of it now- A time when love, or something like it, was just as simple as a phone call. No strings attached. And that we were once people like that, who could find and hold the one strand we liked out of that vast, intricate tapestry, even if it was just for a few minutes of a lifetime.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Keeping it simple
Big words are scary and hard to understand. When you explain the world, already big and scary enough, with big words, I get confused. So don't explain to me some wondrous thing you saw with magical technology, and then ask me to fit it into my comprehension.
The mind is a little thing, and can only stretch so far and wrap itself around so much. So tell me of the simple things, in words I can understand. Don't explain things I dont understand with terms I understand even less. Spare me the prokaryotic apoptosis communism sociobiology determinism in development cell fate dualism altruism.. Spare me all of that. The world is confusing enough without them.
Explain to me instead the simple things.
Don't speak of long-term potentiation and how it affects love in mice. Tell me why I can break my heart over someone I don't care about. Everything in the universe may be a fractal, but tell me how your equations explain why people smile over flowers.
Tell me why the right rhythm in my earphones is all that is needed for the perfect three-mile run. Tell me why some days I just need a hug.
Tell me how a virus killing some bacteria and not others can explain why we do things for the greater common good. At the end of the day, remember that science and philosophy share the same roots- A love of wisdom, a desire for knowledge. And if your science and philosophy cannot increase the wisdom or knowledge of the audience you hope to impress, how does it help?
The mind is a little thing, and can only stretch so far and wrap itself around so much. So tell me of the simple things, in words I can understand. Don't explain things I dont understand with terms I understand even less. Spare me the prokaryotic apoptosis communism sociobiology determinism in development cell fate dualism altruism.. Spare me all of that. The world is confusing enough without them.
Explain to me instead the simple things.
Don't speak of long-term potentiation and how it affects love in mice. Tell me why I can break my heart over someone I don't care about. Everything in the universe may be a fractal, but tell me how your equations explain why people smile over flowers.
Tell me why the right rhythm in my earphones is all that is needed for the perfect three-mile run. Tell me why some days I just need a hug.
Tell me how a virus killing some bacteria and not others can explain why we do things for the greater common good. At the end of the day, remember that science and philosophy share the same roots- A love of wisdom, a desire for knowledge. And if your science and philosophy cannot increase the wisdom or knowledge of the audience you hope to impress, how does it help?
Friday, January 16, 2009
Clueless!
I'm beginning to think the clueless undergrad doing research is an essential part of any grad student's learning process. Like the Sarah Palins of academia, they teach you to laugh at the things that should technically fill you with the most despair.
Most importantly, they are good reminders of exactly how stupid people can be, and why warnings like " May contain peanuts" are to be found on a pack of peanuts.
I've only encountered two specimens so far, and until now they have given me NO hope for the future of science. Or geography, for that matter. (All this enlightenment apart from completely messing up my work, of course.)
A few snippets -
"Sooo... Singapore... isnt that like a city in Thailand?" (This from a person whose greatest claim to fame is having seen the ACTUAL Mona Lisa. Don't ask her who the artist was.)
"The bottles of solutions in the autoclave? I put them in the drying oven... isn't that where you put things after sterilizing them?"
(Yes, exactly. I spent two hours making these solutions up and adjusting pH just so that you could dry them down to salt-encrusted films at the end of my ridiculously long Friday.)
Argh. I don't remember my generation ever being so collectively dumb, even in our teens. I'm as confused about these kids as they're clueless about common-sensical things- What happened to them?
Most importantly, they are good reminders of exactly how stupid people can be, and why warnings like " May contain peanuts" are to be found on a pack of peanuts.
I've only encountered two specimens so far, and until now they have given me NO hope for the future of science. Or geography, for that matter. (All this enlightenment apart from completely messing up my work, of course.)
A few snippets -
"Sooo... Singapore... isnt that like a city in Thailand?" (This from a person whose greatest claim to fame is having seen the ACTUAL Mona Lisa. Don't ask her who the artist was.)
"The bottles of solutions in the autoclave? I put them in the drying oven... isn't that where you put things after sterilizing them?"
(Yes, exactly. I spent two hours making these solutions up and adjusting pH just so that you could dry them down to salt-encrusted films at the end of my ridiculously long Friday.)
Argh. I don't remember my generation ever being so collectively dumb, even in our teens. I'm as confused about these kids as they're clueless about common-sensical things- What happened to them?
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Fly like paper, get high like planes
Like India, it is a heady mix of color and big dreams and the dusty, filthy heart-breaking things one must do to achieve them. A simple enough story, that could happen in any country- Of a young boy who wants to win a pot of money, and hopes that his love will watch him on live television and come back to him.
It could be any boy, in any country. But like India, the film is the color of dusty streets and dhobi ghat, of clothes of many colors that fly with the wind like street children playing cricket on a runway. He takes off from the slums, running from righteous fire and a dying mother, selling trinkets on trains and having the time of his life.
Every tourist spot has people trying to make a fast buck, and the boy is no different. But Jamal is Indian, and his story wraps an emperor from a few centuries ago into a luxury hotel with a swimming pool, ties it all up into an elaborate, child-like scam, and presents it to you with an endearing smile. You could smile and give him a hundred bucks for the act, or you could rage at the inefficiency of the system that forces street children to steal the tires of a car.
A rare perspective- the 'foreign' viewpoint is obvious in the juxtaposition that runs throughout the film- insecticide sprayed at the railway stations as a boy runs through the poisonous mist to find the girl he left behind, and the people too poor to afford a television who crowd on the pavement to watch one man win a million. India runs through the story, as much a character to reckon with as Javedbhai and Manan.
The film pulses with unrelenting power in a city that really never sleeps, in a country that can ride on the dreams of one man and put bullets into a dozen others on its journey to the top. Unapologetic for its inadequacies, unmindful of the heartbreak it takes to make a dream happen - Like India, the film goes deeper than I can put into words, and every frame made me ache for home even as it transported me there. And I'm still high from Slumdog Millionaire.
It could be any boy, in any country. But like India, the film is the color of dusty streets and dhobi ghat, of clothes of many colors that fly with the wind like street children playing cricket on a runway. He takes off from the slums, running from righteous fire and a dying mother, selling trinkets on trains and having the time of his life.
Every tourist spot has people trying to make a fast buck, and the boy is no different. But Jamal is Indian, and his story wraps an emperor from a few centuries ago into a luxury hotel with a swimming pool, ties it all up into an elaborate, child-like scam, and presents it to you with an endearing smile. You could smile and give him a hundred bucks for the act, or you could rage at the inefficiency of the system that forces street children to steal the tires of a car.
A rare perspective- the 'foreign' viewpoint is obvious in the juxtaposition that runs throughout the film- insecticide sprayed at the railway stations as a boy runs through the poisonous mist to find the girl he left behind, and the people too poor to afford a television who crowd on the pavement to watch one man win a million. India runs through the story, as much a character to reckon with as Javedbhai and Manan.
The film pulses with unrelenting power in a city that really never sleeps, in a country that can ride on the dreams of one man and put bullets into a dozen others on its journey to the top. Unapologetic for its inadequacies, unmindful of the heartbreak it takes to make a dream happen - Like India, the film goes deeper than I can put into words, and every frame made me ache for home even as it transported me there. And I'm still high from Slumdog Millionaire.
Friday, January 09, 2009
Lunch-time mystery
I am currently reading a book with no context. A strange thing- I picked it up in the basement of a friend's house, he himself was unaware of how it got there. A simple green leather-bound book, with a title in gold letters. I've never heard of the book or the author, no biographical flap, no picture on the cover. The pages are a little yellowed, and its a second-hand book, but whether it was written in the 1980s or the turning of the previous century, I would not be able to tell.
The insides are equally strange- A story that tells of two borders to a country, and a war, and an excessively beautiful woman and a wounded soldier. An anonymous country, and I can find no obvious parallels to any of the historical wars that the story might be an allegory for. It's just some country, with some war. Unfamiliar terms in an old french are the only thing that have given the story any placement in time, and even those are uncertain holds on history.
The lack of context, geographic and temporal, is both in the story itself and in the way it ended up in my hands.
I could probably google the author and the book, and have all the answers in a few minutes. When faced with unfamiliar facts, thats usually where I begin (and several people would agree that I'm good at fishing out the obscure ;) ). But somehow, this book feels a little different. I carry it with me to the lab and read it at lunchtime,and every time I pick it up it is a little contact with the unknown.
A reminder in the middle of research and writing and constant analysis and the finding out of things, that we all need breaks to venture into the unknown, and not all questions need firm answers.
The insides are equally strange- A story that tells of two borders to a country, and a war, and an excessively beautiful woman and a wounded soldier. An anonymous country, and I can find no obvious parallels to any of the historical wars that the story might be an allegory for. It's just some country, with some war. Unfamiliar terms in an old french are the only thing that have given the story any placement in time, and even those are uncertain holds on history.
The lack of context, geographic and temporal, is both in the story itself and in the way it ended up in my hands.
I could probably google the author and the book, and have all the answers in a few minutes. When faced with unfamiliar facts, thats usually where I begin (and several people would agree that I'm good at fishing out the obscure ;) ). But somehow, this book feels a little different. I carry it with me to the lab and read it at lunchtime,and every time I pick it up it is a little contact with the unknown.
A reminder in the middle of research and writing and constant analysis and the finding out of things, that we all need breaks to venture into the unknown, and not all questions need firm answers.
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