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?

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.

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.)

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.

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’.

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)

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?

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?

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 :)).