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?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
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.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Incoherence, elaborated
There are an awful lot of metaphors that liken life to water. To live happily one must flow contented, one must always move, etc. etc. Fluidity is critical. So what of the rocks along the way, the stones that shatter calm surfaces to create ripples? What do you do when life casts pebbles at you and seems to enjoy it?
From a mass of incoherent ripples, I attempt to find flow again. Some interruptions are mild, a few ripples and the surface reforms. Others are even simpler, and flat stones skim off the top effortlessly.
And some days are like God/life is a kid with nothing better to do, and stone after stone after stone is cast in, shattering stillness hard and creating a mess of silt and froth that gets in my eyes and ears and mouth, making me lose all perspective. Calm stemming from insight is impossible, and I spew grit out of my mouth, shake my head and clench my eyes shut, just trying to clear things out so I can flow again.
One part physiology, one part ego. A huge chunk of petty annoyances. People acting up, atmospheric pressure lows. A friend's illness that none of us can control. Cast them in one after the other, all together... and the ripples clash and surge and I am lost. Where do I find the strength to pull myself together again, to flow contented and find purpose?
For now I flounder, from ripple to drop to splash, I attack each problem with no strength. What I need is to go deep, to find my footing on bedrock. Instead of flailing to create more confusion, I must perhaps let myself sink. Through cool calmness, soft filtered sunlight and the weightlessness of water. Sink lower still, until my feet touch the ripples on the sand beneath, and feel them give way, re-forming around whatever touches them.
Immersion in stillness, emotional and metaphoric, is the only way to not let the splashing on the surface reach the core.
From a mass of incoherent ripples, I attempt to find flow again. Some interruptions are mild, a few ripples and the surface reforms. Others are even simpler, and flat stones skim off the top effortlessly.
And some days are like God/life is a kid with nothing better to do, and stone after stone after stone is cast in, shattering stillness hard and creating a mess of silt and froth that gets in my eyes and ears and mouth, making me lose all perspective. Calm stemming from insight is impossible, and I spew grit out of my mouth, shake my head and clench my eyes shut, just trying to clear things out so I can flow again.
One part physiology, one part ego. A huge chunk of petty annoyances. People acting up, atmospheric pressure lows. A friend's illness that none of us can control. Cast them in one after the other, all together... and the ripples clash and surge and I am lost. Where do I find the strength to pull myself together again, to flow contented and find purpose?
For now I flounder, from ripple to drop to splash, I attack each problem with no strength. What I need is to go deep, to find my footing on bedrock. Instead of flailing to create more confusion, I must perhaps let myself sink. Through cool calmness, soft filtered sunlight and the weightlessness of water. Sink lower still, until my feet touch the ripples on the sand beneath, and feel them give way, re-forming around whatever touches them.
Immersion in stillness, emotional and metaphoric, is the only way to not let the splashing on the surface reach the core.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Butterflies in the brain
"Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain."
Words help, sometimes. Wise words by minds so great, sometimes they help with the understanding of the present. Of some questions. He tells me why there is pain, but I knew that already. I'm ready to understand- just not sure what the lesson I'm supposed to understand is. Isn't the master supposed to show up when the student is ready?
And now that I begin to write, the title of the chapter, atleast, is clear.
Living with uncertainty.
Drawing once more on better words - "And much of your pain is self-chosen"
"You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar."
So technically, the uncertainty should end when I've figured out how to deal with it.
When I can stop focusing so much of my energy on the problem, it will cease to exist. Just like vaporising a cloud. Or casting a Patronus charm.
* Random quotes and paraphrasing from multiple sources- I'm fairly sure anyone reading this will know what they are :)
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain."
Words help, sometimes. Wise words by minds so great, sometimes they help with the understanding of the present. Of some questions. He tells me why there is pain, but I knew that already. I'm ready to understand- just not sure what the lesson I'm supposed to understand is. Isn't the master supposed to show up when the student is ready?
And now that I begin to write, the title of the chapter, atleast, is clear.
Living with uncertainty.
Drawing once more on better words - "And much of your pain is self-chosen"
"You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar."
So technically, the uncertainty should end when I've figured out how to deal with it.
When I can stop focusing so much of my energy on the problem, it will cease to exist. Just like vaporising a cloud. Or casting a Patronus charm.
* Random quotes and paraphrasing from multiple sources- I'm fairly sure anyone reading this will know what they are :)
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Winter within
It's the holiday season, and everything is bright and cheery. Everywhere you look there are holiday lights and christmas spirit, and yesterday I was tempted to take pictures of all the neighbourhood houses that have been hit by christmas bombs, and put them up here. Today, however, is a different story. Today feels like a tree I saw this morning- just one bare scrawny thing with no leaves, but hung here and there with leftover christmas ornaments. In the dark, the lights twinkle and you cant see the bare bones of it. In morning light it's just sorry. Like a pathetic attempt to gloss over the bad bits, as if a few laughs could hide the fact that there is nothing beneath. The strange thing is that the tree itself would be quite lovely on its own- stark and bare against winter white. It is the cover-up that makes it sad.
Today, I am not even tempted to remind myself of favorite sayings, or inspire myself to be better. Sometimes, it must be okay to just be a caterpillar, curl up and sleep. Sometimes, when you spread your wings, you don't fly, you only open yourself to hurt. Sometimes, wounds are better left to air and dry, rather than fester under the fake brightness of a Mickey mouse bandage, or a smile.
So just for today, there is no cheer, no message of hope to myself. Only a reminder, that sometimes hurt is okay.
Today, I am not even tempted to remind myself of favorite sayings, or inspire myself to be better. Sometimes, it must be okay to just be a caterpillar, curl up and sleep. Sometimes, when you spread your wings, you don't fly, you only open yourself to hurt. Sometimes, wounds are better left to air and dry, rather than fester under the fake brightness of a Mickey mouse bandage, or a smile.
So just for today, there is no cheer, no message of hope to myself. Only a reminder, that sometimes hurt is okay.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Argh
Snood and Tetris- totally addictive, the perfect grad student TP. You match up the pieces, and when you get the pattern right, it all falls apart. And for some reason that makes you a winner.And when you win all it means is that the pieces come at you faster, and you have to figure out the patterns quicker.
Talk about crappy metaphors for life. And I play these to get away from my so-called work. I don't even want to think about what that makes me.
Talk about crappy metaphors for life. And I play these to get away from my so-called work. I don't even want to think about what that makes me.
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Sunscreen for the cynic
"Never take anything in life too seriously, including me and yourself."
In a completely (oxy)moronic way, I find myself drawn to that line over and over. Beyond all logic, I try to reason that sentence out. Like a lost key, I fit it into every single lock, trying to figure out where it fits. I'm not sure what I'll do if I find out. But I carry it around and test it on almost every situation, just to see how far the little cogs and wheels inside the lock spin, twisting into kaleidoscopic new perspective. So I hang on to those words, as what remains- after love and friendship, walking barefoot through night rain in Pune and conversations from Bombay to New York to Bangalore and beyond.. what remains of it all is these words. Like a real-life game of rock,paper and scissors- what survived is the one thing that defeated the rest.
In real-life terms,however, that doesn't make sense. Evolution craves balance, and one thing that shatters (or feeds on/ overpowers) the rest cannot indefinitely survive. So there must be a lock, somewhere, that is strong enough to withstand that key. I know for sure the statement must unlock something, and the day I find it, hopefully I will drop the key, as I have the rest of the memories.
In a completely (oxy)moronic way, I find myself drawn to that line over and over. Beyond all logic, I try to reason that sentence out. Like a lost key, I fit it into every single lock, trying to figure out where it fits. I'm not sure what I'll do if I find out. But I carry it around and test it on almost every situation, just to see how far the little cogs and wheels inside the lock spin, twisting into kaleidoscopic new perspective. So I hang on to those words, as what remains- after love and friendship, walking barefoot through night rain in Pune and conversations from Bombay to New York to Bangalore and beyond.. what remains of it all is these words. Like a real-life game of rock,paper and scissors- what survived is the one thing that defeated the rest.
In real-life terms,however, that doesn't make sense. Evolution craves balance, and one thing that shatters (or feeds on/ overpowers) the rest cannot indefinitely survive. So there must be a lock, somewhere, that is strong enough to withstand that key. I know for sure the statement must unlock something, and the day I find it, hopefully I will drop the key, as I have the rest of the memories.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
What holds together..
The last few weeks have been a bit of an emotional roller-coaster, making me question relationships I held dear for so many years.
Childhood friendships are sheer unquestioning acceptance- The neighbour's kid is my friend because we play together every day. The girl I sit next to in class soon becomes my best friend. My parents told me not to play with the rough kids, so they aren't my friends. Adult relationships tend to be similar- not unquestioning, but more accepting- I can play tennis with you even if you support the politicians I hate. You're a content mother, so I'll overlook the fact that you have no ambitions to a career like mine. The lines are clearer, yet fuzzier- I have learnt not to broach uncomfortable subjects, make small talk, and accept that someone who disagrees with me on some things may be the most passionate supporter of some of my other causes.
The big realizations come from adolescent friendships- the ones forged in fire, where passion and ideals and big dreams are the bedrock of the relationship, and they're held together by the mundane cement of life- We share the same dreams, so we drool over the same books at the book fair. Go to the same concerts, and like the same coffee shake at Barista. And then we grow up, grow apart, and real life happens.
Some relationships hold so strong over years of not talking, as if our minds grew in the same ways even without words or contact. Others fall apart- without the mundane to hold it together, the deepest dreams and highest passions crumble to extinction.
And I find myself aching for lost time. When love was unquestioning and absolute, when I took a silent stand to be there for a friend no matter what. My idea of "no matter what" accounted for bad decisions, tough times, and the other person waking up to the realization that they were wrong. I even accounted for the possibility that maybe I would reverse my opinion of what I thought was a bad decision, imagining myself gloriously open-minded and forgiving in my outlook. I considered geography and careers, time zones and lifestyles- the perfect plan for life. I could and would make this relationship work, no matter what.
Except the one thing I forgot. The other person. Perhaps we had already grown apart, or perhaps we were never together. The realization was mine- That sometimes a bad decision is merely the lack of decision, not a conscious choice at all.
I can account for everything in my "no matter what", but it takes two people to make a relationship work. And a conscious choice by both. Whether it is the child next door who chooses to come out and play with me, or the mother who overlooks my career choice as I do hers- it takes a conscious choice. A mindless, circumstantial drifting together of two people is not a friendship, it is a convenience.
And conveniences, like plastic grocery bags, are disposable, recyclable, and not worth a second thought.
(What do you know? Even at 27, I learn something new every day.. Maybe there's still some growing up to do, and life isn't as jaded as I thought it was! )
Childhood friendships are sheer unquestioning acceptance- The neighbour's kid is my friend because we play together every day. The girl I sit next to in class soon becomes my best friend. My parents told me not to play with the rough kids, so they aren't my friends. Adult relationships tend to be similar- not unquestioning, but more accepting- I can play tennis with you even if you support the politicians I hate. You're a content mother, so I'll overlook the fact that you have no ambitions to a career like mine. The lines are clearer, yet fuzzier- I have learnt not to broach uncomfortable subjects, make small talk, and accept that someone who disagrees with me on some things may be the most passionate supporter of some of my other causes.
The big realizations come from adolescent friendships- the ones forged in fire, where passion and ideals and big dreams are the bedrock of the relationship, and they're held together by the mundane cement of life- We share the same dreams, so we drool over the same books at the book fair. Go to the same concerts, and like the same coffee shake at Barista. And then we grow up, grow apart, and real life happens.
Some relationships hold so strong over years of not talking, as if our minds grew in the same ways even without words or contact. Others fall apart- without the mundane to hold it together, the deepest dreams and highest passions crumble to extinction.
And I find myself aching for lost time. When love was unquestioning and absolute, when I took a silent stand to be there for a friend no matter what. My idea of "no matter what" accounted for bad decisions, tough times, and the other person waking up to the realization that they were wrong. I even accounted for the possibility that maybe I would reverse my opinion of what I thought was a bad decision, imagining myself gloriously open-minded and forgiving in my outlook. I considered geography and careers, time zones and lifestyles- the perfect plan for life. I could and would make this relationship work, no matter what.
Except the one thing I forgot. The other person. Perhaps we had already grown apart, or perhaps we were never together. The realization was mine- That sometimes a bad decision is merely the lack of decision, not a conscious choice at all.
I can account for everything in my "no matter what", but it takes two people to make a relationship work. And a conscious choice by both. Whether it is the child next door who chooses to come out and play with me, or the mother who overlooks my career choice as I do hers- it takes a conscious choice. A mindless, circumstantial drifting together of two people is not a friendship, it is a convenience.
And conveniences, like plastic grocery bags, are disposable, recyclable, and not worth a second thought.
(What do you know? Even at 27, I learn something new every day.. Maybe there's still some growing up to do, and life isn't as jaded as I thought it was! )
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Come, tell me a story..
My earliest memory of a book would be from when I was about six or so. I'm not sure why, perhaps the lack of a babysitter, but I spent three hours after school everyday (atleast it felt like that much time) waiting for my mom to get done with her classes. I read before that, fairy tales and the brothers Grimm and the little match girl and little stories from the Panchatantra. But that book from the musty school corridor stands out.
It was the wizard of Oz, and sitting in a darkening corridor in an almost-empty school, it was so much more fun to be out in Kansas or Oz, both equally fantastic to a six year old in Bombay. Now that I think of it, I'm not really sure how I managed to read at that level- Did I understand everything I read? Who taught me the big words or told me that emeralds were green? I don't remember asking those questions, or any of the other details my mother does, but the book stayed with me like a little secret, three hours of childhood solitude expanding into an omnipresent cosmos of words swirling in the brain.
I don't remember a time, before or after that, when stories haven't been a constant presence, whether I'm looking for one or telling one or reading one. The only important part is sharing them- Few lasting stories live on memory alone, they need re-telling and re-thinking and constant life infused into them. Real stories grow with us and change as we do, as memory and experience meld together. Real stories hold us to our roots, reminding us of honor and doing the right thing when every brain cell screams with anger and a desire to hurt. Real stories warm and comfort, reminders that things can turn around overnight even when they are at their bleakest.
So come, tell me a story today.. Even a little one will do- just as long as it means something to you. It could be six words long to sum up your life, or an epic poem of your love. It could be a fairytale that you loved, or a tale about Cinderella slippers that you wore for a birthday long ago. Perhaps a memory, of schoolyard bullies. Or a wish unfulfilled. But tell me about something that touches your heart. An experience or a memory, fact or fiction... come, share a story today.
It was the wizard of Oz, and sitting in a darkening corridor in an almost-empty school, it was so much more fun to be out in Kansas or Oz, both equally fantastic to a six year old in Bombay. Now that I think of it, I'm not really sure how I managed to read at that level- Did I understand everything I read? Who taught me the big words or told me that emeralds were green? I don't remember asking those questions, or any of the other details my mother does, but the book stayed with me like a little secret, three hours of childhood solitude expanding into an omnipresent cosmos of words swirling in the brain.
I don't remember a time, before or after that, when stories haven't been a constant presence, whether I'm looking for one or telling one or reading one. The only important part is sharing them- Few lasting stories live on memory alone, they need re-telling and re-thinking and constant life infused into them. Real stories grow with us and change as we do, as memory and experience meld together. Real stories hold us to our roots, reminding us of honor and doing the right thing when every brain cell screams with anger and a desire to hurt. Real stories warm and comfort, reminders that things can turn around overnight even when they are at their bleakest.
So come, tell me a story today.. Even a little one will do- just as long as it means something to you. It could be six words long to sum up your life, or an epic poem of your love. It could be a fairytale that you loved, or a tale about Cinderella slippers that you wore for a birthday long ago. Perhaps a memory, of schoolyard bullies. Or a wish unfulfilled. But tell me about something that touches your heart. An experience or a memory, fact or fiction... come, share a story today.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Writing, writing
When the mood is right, words flow so freely, half unconsidered, drifting in the rhythms of what I last read or who was on my mind.
Other times, I spend days mulling over the ideas of other minds, weaving them together to form a coherent enough mesh to hold my own leap of faith, a list of references to justify every thread of the net that holds up the hypothesis. Sometimes the threads congeal to the perfect shape almost effortlessly- Three days of mulling things over, and writing from 3 am to 10 am produces the near-perfect hypothesis (for my needs of the moment), and the perfect language, and it is done.
And on yet other occasions I spend months on end sifting through things- papers, ideas, plagiarism in hope of inspiration, endless drafts, help from mentors- NOTHING.
There is no formula to writing, even after all these years. Outlines, schematics, moods and inspiration- they chase after each other in a dance I cannot put my finger on. All I know is that I run with them, no matter how tiring it gets, until we come together fingers entwined in one last inspired whirl of a finish. The roots of inspired writing that soars above the rest are simple perspiration- the mental kind.
Is it presumptuous to call myself a writer, or write about writing before I have actually written? To speak of inspired writing that soars, when almost no one else would agree? Perhaps.. But when I write like that, it lifts me above the ordinary, and that high is all that matters :)
Other times, I spend days mulling over the ideas of other minds, weaving them together to form a coherent enough mesh to hold my own leap of faith, a list of references to justify every thread of the net that holds up the hypothesis. Sometimes the threads congeal to the perfect shape almost effortlessly- Three days of mulling things over, and writing from 3 am to 10 am produces the near-perfect hypothesis (for my needs of the moment), and the perfect language, and it is done.
And on yet other occasions I spend months on end sifting through things- papers, ideas, plagiarism in hope of inspiration, endless drafts, help from mentors- NOTHING.
There is no formula to writing, even after all these years. Outlines, schematics, moods and inspiration- they chase after each other in a dance I cannot put my finger on. All I know is that I run with them, no matter how tiring it gets, until we come together fingers entwined in one last inspired whirl of a finish. The roots of inspired writing that soars above the rest are simple perspiration- the mental kind.
Is it presumptuous to call myself a writer, or write about writing before I have actually written? To speak of inspired writing that soars, when almost no one else would agree? Perhaps.. But when I write like that, it lifts me above the ordinary, and that high is all that matters :)
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
un-organising
Everywhere I look are signs to help me. Find time to exercise ! Unclutter your desk space! Thirty organising tips ! How to find time for everything you want to do NOW!
Yes, my days overflow into one another, last week's to-do lists often spilling over into next month. I look them over, re-evaluate and promise to attack the neglected tasks with more vigor. I tell myself I can do more if only I'm more organised, more focused, more efficient.. a little more of everything. One of my favorite magazines has a little footer at the bottom of each page, which goes "If you have ten minutes.. do this!" "If you have 20 minutes, do that!" "If you have an hour, you can take in the latest CD/ book/ movie/ inspiring cancer survivor story!"
The latest article I read along these lines was about meal planning- How, if I only plan out the meals for the week ahead beforehand, I can order the ingredients online, pick them up at my local supermarket, and save myself so much time every single day. Of late, my culinary interests have ebbed and waned, but overall I've cared more about what I eat than I ever did before. Conscious choices- Strawberries without the sugar, just pure fruit. Lets try steaming an artichoke today, shall we? Chocolate-orange noodles.. why not? Hands wander over strange vegetables at the store (Ghost pumpkins, anyone?), and new flavors fuse with the familiar to create comfort and excitement in my kitchen.
Why would I want to trade in a lazy Saturday morning of wandering around the stores for meal plans and ten minutes more every day? And by the same token, I could be more organised, so I'd have more time to relax and spend time with people and things I care about- but thats what I usually waste my time on anyway- Lounging around on the sofa watching old movies with A, or rummaging at garage sales for silly funny treasured finds, long after-dinner walks... If I have time enough for these, why be more organised?
Yes, my days overflow into one another, last week's to-do lists often spilling over into next month. I look them over, re-evaluate and promise to attack the neglected tasks with more vigor. I tell myself I can do more if only I'm more organised, more focused, more efficient.. a little more of everything. One of my favorite magazines has a little footer at the bottom of each page, which goes "If you have ten minutes.. do this!" "If you have 20 minutes, do that!" "If you have an hour, you can take in the latest CD/ book/ movie/ inspiring cancer survivor story!"
The latest article I read along these lines was about meal planning- How, if I only plan out the meals for the week ahead beforehand, I can order the ingredients online, pick them up at my local supermarket, and save myself so much time every single day. Of late, my culinary interests have ebbed and waned, but overall I've cared more about what I eat than I ever did before. Conscious choices- Strawberries without the sugar, just pure fruit. Lets try steaming an artichoke today, shall we? Chocolate-orange noodles.. why not? Hands wander over strange vegetables at the store (Ghost pumpkins, anyone?), and new flavors fuse with the familiar to create comfort and excitement in my kitchen.
Why would I want to trade in a lazy Saturday morning of wandering around the stores for meal plans and ten minutes more every day? And by the same token, I could be more organised, so I'd have more time to relax and spend time with people and things I care about- but thats what I usually waste my time on anyway- Lounging around on the sofa watching old movies with A, or rummaging at garage sales for silly funny treasured finds, long after-dinner walks... If I have time enough for these, why be more organised?
Monday, September 22, 2008
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Work
To be praised simply for what you are is a strange feeling. Like praising water for liquidity, or fire for burning.
To touch fully that innate quality is the only thing we are taught to strive for- a point where there are no lines between the doer, the object and the observer.
To touch fully that innate quality is the only thing we are taught to strive for- a point where there are no lines between the doer, the object and the observer.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Why would I want to do a thing like that?
Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed- interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing sprit- crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing you last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that?
- John Hodge, Trainspotting
....
Some quotes slide through peripheral thought the first time they go by. And then they come back and stick in my head, nagging until I look them up, and read them ten times over on an idle Saturday morning.
- John Hodge, Trainspotting
....
Some quotes slide through peripheral thought the first time they go by. And then they come back and stick in my head, nagging until I look them up, and read them ten times over on an idle Saturday morning.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Saturday, December 22, 2007
In a world going wrong..
A sixteen-year old is pregnant, and is all over the news- How will you explain this to your children? Will her wacko elder sister be a good influence on the child (which presses the question- the 16 year old child, or the 16 year old's child?)
A fourteen year old girl kills her seven year old sister in a "game" mimicking Mortal Kombat moves. Her slightly older boyfriend claims to be uninvolved, since he was "drinking and watching a movie downstairs".
India's first school shooting- Whoopee.
The news about kids gone bad has been coming in in a steady stream over the past week- It makes me glad I am not a child, old enough to be untroubled by these influences. No matter how good an upbringing one has, the world creeps into a child's mind, and if that mind is innocent and inquisitive, the questions it asks are only more hard-hitting, and the answers more elusive.
So I'm spending this weekend with a five year-old. She chases her elder brother around, and hates being called a "girl" - someone who is less capable of things than he is. She's less concerned with femininity and body image, and more with being seen as an equal by her big brother. She's creative enough to make a snowman with an inch of rapidly melting snow, and not afraid to question her father's authority when he sides with her nanny.
She asks questions- Why is that man always inside his house? Why do I have to fit in with my first grade class and pretend to be unable to read? Why can't I stay home and study like you did?
She is wise and innocent, daring and funny and silly, and the kind of child I ache to meet once more. She does not question the absence of her mother, and trusts her elder brother when she follows him into a neighbour's yard in the middle of the night. Knows he will not hit her or rape her, knows that she can listen to him and things will be fine, mostly.
A rare find- Even the most well-brought up kids today lack that complete innocence and freedom of thought. Street-smart, confident, computer-savvy. But where did the innocence go? Who is telling these children that courage is not having a gun in your hand, but knowing when to use it? That teenage sex is not acceptable unless it is a conscious choice and not peer pressure?
That peer pressure is not a substitute for a brain and a conscience.
Not knowing the answers to those, I chose to spend time with a child who still has those traits. So what if she's a fictional eight-year old who lived in Alabama decades ago? Scout Finch is still far better company than most children (and adults) I've read about lately.
A fourteen year old girl kills her seven year old sister in a "game" mimicking Mortal Kombat moves. Her slightly older boyfriend claims to be uninvolved, since he was "drinking and watching a movie downstairs".
India's first school shooting- Whoopee.
The news about kids gone bad has been coming in in a steady stream over the past week- It makes me glad I am not a child, old enough to be untroubled by these influences. No matter how good an upbringing one has, the world creeps into a child's mind, and if that mind is innocent and inquisitive, the questions it asks are only more hard-hitting, and the answers more elusive.
So I'm spending this weekend with a five year-old. She chases her elder brother around, and hates being called a "girl" - someone who is less capable of things than he is. She's less concerned with femininity and body image, and more with being seen as an equal by her big brother. She's creative enough to make a snowman with an inch of rapidly melting snow, and not afraid to question her father's authority when he sides with her nanny.
She asks questions- Why is that man always inside his house? Why do I have to fit in with my first grade class and pretend to be unable to read? Why can't I stay home and study like you did?
She is wise and innocent, daring and funny and silly, and the kind of child I ache to meet once more. She does not question the absence of her mother, and trusts her elder brother when she follows him into a neighbour's yard in the middle of the night. Knows he will not hit her or rape her, knows that she can listen to him and things will be fine, mostly.
A rare find- Even the most well-brought up kids today lack that complete innocence and freedom of thought. Street-smart, confident, computer-savvy. But where did the innocence go? Who is telling these children that courage is not having a gun in your hand, but knowing when to use it? That teenage sex is not acceptable unless it is a conscious choice and not peer pressure?
That peer pressure is not a substitute for a brain and a conscience.
Not knowing the answers to those, I chose to spend time with a child who still has those traits. So what if she's a fictional eight-year old who lived in Alabama decades ago? Scout Finch is still far better company than most children (and adults) I've read about lately.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Nothing ventured..
More often than not, we "land up" in bad situations- not a choice, but a circumstance.
I didn't ask for this to happen to me.
I don't deserve this.
Life sucks- I hate grad school.
What did I ever do wrong that things had to come to this point?
How much longer must I put up with this before things go back to being normal again?
This is depressing.
After a not-so-great day, I stumbled across this guy- the Coconuter-
http://coconuter.blogspot.com/2004/12/introduction-about.html
To take your life in your hands and toss it to the winds, out of your own choice, your own free will- Immensely courageous, though some might (and probably did) say it's ridiculous. He probably gets more hits off Blogs of Note, but David the Coconuter definitely deserves more than a passing glance.
And another person, in some ways just as courageous-
http://www.usatoday.com/news/offbeat/2005-01-24-robbery-call_x.htm
Both of them left me tonight with the same questions-
What was he thinking?
What pushed him to walk away from his life/ make that phone call?
Did he not know he would need money for his wife and child?/ Did he not know he would get caught?
What did he think was going to happen when he got there/ when he asked her out?
What keeps you going, when life sucks, and you hate grad school? And whatever it is-is it strong enough as the urges of these two men- for a date, for a meaningful life?
I didn't ask for this to happen to me.
I don't deserve this.
Life sucks- I hate grad school.
What did I ever do wrong that things had to come to this point?
How much longer must I put up with this before things go back to being normal again?
This is depressing.
After a not-so-great day, I stumbled across this guy- the Coconuter-
http://coconuter.blogspot.com/2004/12/introduction-about.html
To take your life in your hands and toss it to the winds, out of your own choice, your own free will- Immensely courageous, though some might (and probably did) say it's ridiculous. He probably gets more hits off Blogs of Note, but David the Coconuter definitely deserves more than a passing glance.
And another person, in some ways just as courageous-
http://www.usatoday.com/news/offbeat/2005-01-24-robbery-call_x.htm
Both of them left me tonight with the same questions-
What was he thinking?
What pushed him to walk away from his life/ make that phone call?
Did he not know he would need money for his wife and child?/ Did he not know he would get caught?
What did he think was going to happen when he got there/ when he asked her out?
What keeps you going, when life sucks, and you hate grad school? And whatever it is-is it strong enough as the urges of these two men- for a date, for a meaningful life?
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Debate
If you push me too far into my irritation, I will usually land up too far from whatever insight you are hoping to provide me.
The two of us stand facing each other, and we have come from diametrically opposite directions to this crossroads. If you push me so far back along the road I walked all this while, how am I to see the road you want me to take ahead?
I can only look so far beyond my own feet, so don't drag me to your point of view. I am blind there. I cannot stand in your shoes and see what you see.
They are your shoes, they have walked different roads to come to this point where we stand together. The dust on them is from different memories, different impulses. My heart and mind cannot respond to them.
So speak to me from here, from now. From what we share, what we know together. And maybe we can both walk a few steps forward in the same direction- In our own shoes, you understand, but just for this one understanding, we can share the same path.
And for a few years, we could maybe share this- And someday years from now we will speak from the same place, and share a common point of view.
The two of us stand facing each other, and we have come from diametrically opposite directions to this crossroads. If you push me so far back along the road I walked all this while, how am I to see the road you want me to take ahead?
I can only look so far beyond my own feet, so don't drag me to your point of view. I am blind there. I cannot stand in your shoes and see what you see.
They are your shoes, they have walked different roads to come to this point where we stand together. The dust on them is from different memories, different impulses. My heart and mind cannot respond to them.
So speak to me from here, from now. From what we share, what we know together. And maybe we can both walk a few steps forward in the same direction- In our own shoes, you understand, but just for this one understanding, we can share the same path.
And for a few years, we could maybe share this- And someday years from now we will speak from the same place, and share a common point of view.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Boiling eggs the Nike way
How many ways can you think of to boil an egg? And why would you want to do it in each of those different ways, if your only purpose was to get the egg boiled?
Sometimes, the journey is NOT the destination. If it is, I can understand taking the long scenic route and stopping to admire the sights. But if you're sprinting to a finish line, and hte prize is a grant that covers your next three years of research, DO NOT tell me the scenic route matters. The destination matters.
The most pathetic journey is when you don't know where you're going or why you want to go there, or even how to get there. All you know is that there's cool stuff along the way. Oh, and if you're not at your destination in a month you might as well be dead.
The same goes with science- Find the answer, and it doesn't matter how you got there- whether it was the coolest new method of sequencing DNA off a single bacterium, or you grew 10 liters of culture.
Boil the egg, and your breakfast-eater is happy. Get to the destination, and it doesn't matter what road you take. Do the experiment, and you get your paper published.
Bottom line- Just do it. It doesn't matter how.
Knowing that the means is not the end, if you still choose to think of the coolest means of getting there, what kind of scientist does that make you?
Sometimes, the journey is NOT the destination. If it is, I can understand taking the long scenic route and stopping to admire the sights. But if you're sprinting to a finish line, and hte prize is a grant that covers your next three years of research, DO NOT tell me the scenic route matters. The destination matters.
The most pathetic journey is when you don't know where you're going or why you want to go there, or even how to get there. All you know is that there's cool stuff along the way. Oh, and if you're not at your destination in a month you might as well be dead.
The same goes with science- Find the answer, and it doesn't matter how you got there- whether it was the coolest new method of sequencing DNA off a single bacterium, or you grew 10 liters of culture.
Boil the egg, and your breakfast-eater is happy. Get to the destination, and it doesn't matter what road you take. Do the experiment, and you get your paper published.
Bottom line- Just do it. It doesn't matter how.
Knowing that the means is not the end, if you still choose to think of the coolest means of getting there, what kind of scientist does that make you?
Monday, October 15, 2007
A dream deferred
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
(Langston Hughes)
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
(Langston Hughes)
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Finding grace
Life, at its heart, is most like dancing-
A sense of balance is critical- through all the leaps in the air and the pirouettes, hold your center still and let that core be the source of every dip and bend.
Listen- Move with the music; it might not always be the song you wanted to dance to, but keep moving with the flow, the next track is just a few minutes away.
Feel. Let your every movement stem from the deepest emotion, and never waste a movement, not one finger out of place that was not MEANT to be there.
Smile. Sometimes the smile stems from the simple joy of the movements, and at others, you smile through the pain in every screaming muscle- but smile anyway.
And somewhere at the end of years of practice, you find grace- the center and source of every movement, and the destination of any good dancer. It begins with a sense of balance, and that sureness of movement that comes from extreme self-awareness. Move past the childish flinging of limbs in mindless motion- listen and feel every pulse of the music, even when it is not what you wanted to hear, and still hold yourself in perfect posture.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Today, for a change..
Candles
by Carl Dennis
If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle
To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra
To honor the memory of someone who never met her,
A man who may have come to the town she lived in
Looking for work and never found it.
Picture him taking a stroll one morning,
After a month of grief with the want ads,
To refresh himself in the park before moving on.
Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards
Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,
Then still a girl, will be destined to step on
When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic
If he doesn't stoop down and scoop the mess up
With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can.
For you to burn a candle for him
You needn't suppose the cut would be a deep one,
Just deep enough to keep her at home
The night of the hay ride when she meets Helen,
Who is soon to become her dearest friend,
Whose brother George, thirty years later,
Helps your grandfather with a loan so his shoe store
Doesn't go under in the Great Depression
And his son, your father, is able to stay in school
Where his love of learning is fanned into flames,
A love he labors, later, to kindle in you.
How grateful you are for your father's efforts
Is shown by the candles you've burned for him.
But today, for a change, why not a candle
For the man whose name is unknown to you?
Take a moment to wonder whether he died at home
With friends and family or alone on the road,
On the look-out for no one to sit at his bedside
And hold his hand, the very hand
It's time for you to imagine holding.
by Carl Dennis
If on your grandmother's birthday you burn a candle
To honor her memory, you might think of burning an extra
To honor the memory of someone who never met her,
A man who may have come to the town she lived in
Looking for work and never found it.
Picture him taking a stroll one morning,
After a month of grief with the want ads,
To refresh himself in the park before moving on.
Suppose he notices on the gravel path the shards
Of a green glass bottle that your grandmother,
Then still a girl, will be destined to step on
When she wanders barefoot away from her school picnic
If he doesn't stoop down and scoop the mess up
With the want-ad section and carry it to a trash can.
For you to burn a candle for him
You needn't suppose the cut would be a deep one,
Just deep enough to keep her at home
The night of the hay ride when she meets Helen,
Who is soon to become her dearest friend,
Whose brother George, thirty years later,
Helps your grandfather with a loan so his shoe store
Doesn't go under in the Great Depression
And his son, your father, is able to stay in school
Where his love of learning is fanned into flames,
A love he labors, later, to kindle in you.
How grateful you are for your father's efforts
Is shown by the candles you've burned for him.
But today, for a change, why not a candle
For the man whose name is unknown to you?
Take a moment to wonder whether he died at home
With friends and family or alone on the road,
On the look-out for no one to sit at his bedside
And hold his hand, the very hand
It's time for you to imagine holding.
Today, for a change.. II
http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/08/30/twins.stabbed.ap/index.html?iref=mpstoryview
If you read that story, light a candle in your mind for the child that lives. For the grandfather that held him as he bled, and the little sister that will not understand where all her brothers went.
If you read that story, light a candle in your mind for the child that lives. For the grandfather that held him as he bled, and the little sister that will not understand where all her brothers went.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Thanks to G.
Lately I've felt an increased sense of urgency about everything in life. Perhaps it has something to do with my ageing-related anxiety- this constant sense of running out of time, "How will I get it all done?" - so sacrifice the sleep, the sense of fun, the simple pleasure of a late night conversation. Get the work done, clean the house, do the laundry, work out, and after it there's a long list of 'important' things that need doing- Strangely (sadly?), a large part of that list is what would once have been FUN. When did I need to start making lists of movies and books to catch up on? When did I need to "find the time" for a long phone call?
Of course, I could attribute it to the current state of my work, or the many deadlines we've had lately. Or just the world in general- This life is so full of care, the standing and staring isn't appreciated anymore. The things I'd like to stare at are usually moving too fast anyway. And if you stand long enough, eventually you'd get run over/ arrested/ shot at/ have chunks torn off your limbs by a giant bird-eating spider. The horrible fate mostly depends on where you stand, but ultimately a horrible fate befalls those that stand anywhere.
Moving targets are usually harder to run over, arrest, etc.
Somewhere in this almost-perpetual rush, I came across a blog post by G., about how patience and complacence are probably equivalent, and are the scariest thing in the world. Once you're complacent, you're old. He LIKES the perpetual rush, the constant burning to see and do the big things- travel and read the "good" books and write things of deep impact, and hopes to be able to live like this all his life.
If you'd asked me ten minutes ago, I might have said the same things. However, G. is someone I choose to disagree with- I dislike him, his views, and most things about him, and will disagree with him just because its him.(I know, I'm a small, petty, intolerant person, but I like it that way!)
I began contradicting, just on principle (The principle being: "I hate him, everything he says is wrong"), and ended up with this-
The difference between patience and complacence- Choice. Patience is caring enough to stand back and wait, complacence is not giving a damn in the first place.
Somehow, a random thought intended to annoy ended up making me respect all the patient people around me so much more. Just the capacity to stand back and hold on- To run fast and hard for something, then stand back and wait for it to get away and come back on its own. Patience needs more courage, more grit and more will than the burning ambition that asks to travel the world and live the good life.
Thanks to G., I understand patience a little better. And the fact that in writing this, I have not been able to think of a single synonym that truly empathises with the meaning of the word only rubs it in deeper, somehow.
No one word to describe that unique combination of deep strength and silent hope that makes up patience- A rare trait, worth holding on to where I find it- and hope some of it rubs off on me :)
Of course, I could attribute it to the current state of my work, or the many deadlines we've had lately. Or just the world in general- This life is so full of care, the standing and staring isn't appreciated anymore. The things I'd like to stare at are usually moving too fast anyway. And if you stand long enough, eventually you'd get run over/ arrested/ shot at/ have chunks torn off your limbs by a giant bird-eating spider. The horrible fate mostly depends on where you stand, but ultimately a horrible fate befalls those that stand anywhere.
Moving targets are usually harder to run over, arrest, etc.
Somewhere in this almost-perpetual rush, I came across a blog post by G., about how patience and complacence are probably equivalent, and are the scariest thing in the world. Once you're complacent, you're old. He LIKES the perpetual rush, the constant burning to see and do the big things- travel and read the "good" books and write things of deep impact, and hopes to be able to live like this all his life.
If you'd asked me ten minutes ago, I might have said the same things. However, G. is someone I choose to disagree with- I dislike him, his views, and most things about him, and will disagree with him just because its him.(I know, I'm a small, petty, intolerant person, but I like it that way!)
I began contradicting, just on principle (The principle being: "I hate him, everything he says is wrong"), and ended up with this-
The difference between patience and complacence- Choice. Patience is caring enough to stand back and wait, complacence is not giving a damn in the first place.
Somehow, a random thought intended to annoy ended up making me respect all the patient people around me so much more. Just the capacity to stand back and hold on- To run fast and hard for something, then stand back and wait for it to get away and come back on its own. Patience needs more courage, more grit and more will than the burning ambition that asks to travel the world and live the good life.
Thanks to G., I understand patience a little better. And the fact that in writing this, I have not been able to think of a single synonym that truly empathises with the meaning of the word only rubs it in deeper, somehow.
No one word to describe that unique combination of deep strength and silent hope that makes up patience- A rare trait, worth holding on to where I find it- and hope some of it rubs off on me :)
Monday, August 13, 2007
Life sucks, and then...?
Beginning on the (supposedly) typical third-year blues of a PhD, I've heard several stories of how to deal with things, and what comes next. Here's a listing, for whoever's interested.
(I guess it goes without saying that I'm sitting in the lab waiting for another experiment to not work.)
1. Alcohol- Works to precipitate RNA and drown your sorrows, both. However, neither of these effects is particularly long-lasting. The RNA will degrade, and you will wake up with a hangover.
2. Keep your head down, mouth shut, and plough through the work. D-uh, I work, the work doesn't. And if it worked, I wouldn't be blue in the first place (I think, since I am no longer sure of anything about my work anymore).
3. Pretend its not happening (PITH). I do this by pretending to be working on the less important aspects of my so-called life, such as looking at jobs for if/when I graduate, paying bills I should never have generated in the first place, and frowning at my computer periodically so it looks like I'm working.
4. PITH-II. Take a vacation- This works, I know. Except that the places I can afford I dont want to go/ have already gone, and I still can't afford the places I couldn't afford when I took vacations to the places I could afford. Oh, and reality just hits harder when I get back from the break.
5. ??????????? This one would definitely work. If only I knew what it was.
As to the "What comes after third year blues/ Does it get better" question, I've had two responses so far-
1. "Oh, don't worry, the third year really is the worst. You know, it feels like you work and work and nothing happens. Then all of a sudden everything falls into place, and its wonderful!"
2. "Third year blues give way to fourth year blues, which give way to fifth year blues. And then (hopefully), unlike me, you'll graduate."
Those were both fifth-year students speaking. After those responses, I didn't bother asking anyone who'd been around longer than that.
(I guess it goes without saying that I'm sitting in the lab waiting for another experiment to not work.)
1. Alcohol- Works to precipitate RNA and drown your sorrows, both. However, neither of these effects is particularly long-lasting. The RNA will degrade, and you will wake up with a hangover.
2. Keep your head down, mouth shut, and plough through the work. D-uh, I work, the work doesn't. And if it worked, I wouldn't be blue in the first place (I think, since I am no longer sure of anything about my work anymore).
3. Pretend its not happening (PITH). I do this by pretending to be working on the less important aspects of my so-called life, such as looking at jobs for if/when I graduate, paying bills I should never have generated in the first place, and frowning at my computer periodically so it looks like I'm working.
4. PITH-II. Take a vacation- This works, I know. Except that the places I can afford I dont want to go/ have already gone, and I still can't afford the places I couldn't afford when I took vacations to the places I could afford. Oh, and reality just hits harder when I get back from the break.
5. ??????????? This one would definitely work. If only I knew what it was.
As to the "What comes after third year blues/ Does it get better" question, I've had two responses so far-
1. "Oh, don't worry, the third year really is the worst. You know, it feels like you work and work and nothing happens. Then all of a sudden everything falls into place, and its wonderful!"
2. "Third year blues give way to fourth year blues, which give way to fifth year blues. And then (hopefully), unlike me, you'll graduate."
Those were both fifth-year students speaking. After those responses, I didn't bother asking anyone who'd been around longer than that.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Thank god for girlfriends:)
There are some things that are just so purely woman that NO man can ever do. Regardless of how much he cares- He may be the man that changed your diapers and held you when you puked, or he may be the guy friend you hung out at the college canteen with, or the person who wants to spend his life with you. None of those things matter at some points- they just don't get it.
Having gone through the fights and the explanations and the wiles it takes to get them to understand, I've come to the conclusion that its not worth it. It takes a woman to do some things, and that's the bottom line.
So thank god for girlfriends- the people I can wake up at 6 am on Sunday morning with the panicked phone call- "What was I thinking?! I'm not ready to get married!!", and get a suitably satisfying reaction. If that same phone call had been made to a guy, he would probably have rolled over and gone back to sleep, knowing that I would return to my senses in an hour or so. A girlfriend will talk you through it, sympathise and worry and agonise with you, until you both decide you were being silly and nothing's wrong.
Girlfriends to shop with- NO man, no matter how much he loves you, will spend four hours walking through a store with you, admiring things you have no intention or money to buy.
And most of all, the point was driven home by the long contradictory conversation I had with R last night- Swimsuits and holidays, and her stories about frustration with a two year old baby and flinging chairs at walls, which in some way was supposed to convince me that marriage and motherhood are wonderful, desirable things every single person in the world should get into.
To quote her," No really, it can be so frustrating. You spend your entire morning scrubbing the house and cooking up things so that your baby gets used to new foods and gets a balanced meal. Then she refuses to eat everything you cooked, and when she finally does, she pukes it all over the floor you scrubbed an hour ago. And you spend every single day like that, no breaks since S is working so hard right now he doesn't even take Sundays off."
And according to her, is the most beautiful thing in the world, worth giving up all your dreams of exotic vacations and high-flying careers for.
Huh ?! It probably takes a mother to understand that one.
Having gone through the fights and the explanations and the wiles it takes to get them to understand, I've come to the conclusion that its not worth it. It takes a woman to do some things, and that's the bottom line.
So thank god for girlfriends- the people I can wake up at 6 am on Sunday morning with the panicked phone call- "What was I thinking?! I'm not ready to get married!!", and get a suitably satisfying reaction. If that same phone call had been made to a guy, he would probably have rolled over and gone back to sleep, knowing that I would return to my senses in an hour or so. A girlfriend will talk you through it, sympathise and worry and agonise with you, until you both decide you were being silly and nothing's wrong.
Girlfriends to shop with- NO man, no matter how much he loves you, will spend four hours walking through a store with you, admiring things you have no intention or money to buy.
And most of all, the point was driven home by the long contradictory conversation I had with R last night- Swimsuits and holidays, and her stories about frustration with a two year old baby and flinging chairs at walls, which in some way was supposed to convince me that marriage and motherhood are wonderful, desirable things every single person in the world should get into.
To quote her," No really, it can be so frustrating. You spend your entire morning scrubbing the house and cooking up things so that your baby gets used to new foods and gets a balanced meal. Then she refuses to eat everything you cooked, and when she finally does, she pukes it all over the floor you scrubbed an hour ago. And you spend every single day like that, no breaks since S is working so hard right now he doesn't even take Sundays off."
And according to her, is the most beautiful thing in the world, worth giving up all your dreams of exotic vacations and high-flying careers for.
Huh ?! It probably takes a mother to understand that one.
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Home and the world
"Not my daughter, you bitch!" (Molly Weasley, defending Ginny against Bellatrix, HP7)
"Therefore I shall devote myself, my time, my energy, my talents, to the service of South Africa. I shall no longer ask myself if this or that is expedient, but only if it is right. I shall do this, not because I am noble or unselfish, but because life slips away, and because I need for the rest of my journey a star that will not play false to me, a compass that will not lie."
(Arthur Jarvis, in Cry the beloved country)
=====================================================================================
From (not-so-)children's literature to books on apartheid, the question remains the same. Where do you draw the lines, between home and the world? When do you choose to cast your voice or raise your wand for what you believe in? Each of us has a breaking point, where we stand up and say "Enough!" - and it's usually when we perceive a threat to 'home'.
...
"For some, home is the world. For others, the world is their home"
(JKB, in Sindhu Bhairavi)
"Therefore I shall devote myself, my time, my energy, my talents, to the service of South Africa. I shall no longer ask myself if this or that is expedient, but only if it is right. I shall do this, not because I am noble or unselfish, but because life slips away, and because I need for the rest of my journey a star that will not play false to me, a compass that will not lie."
(Arthur Jarvis, in Cry the beloved country)
=====================================================================================
From (not-so-)children's literature to books on apartheid, the question remains the same. Where do you draw the lines, between home and the world? When do you choose to cast your voice or raise your wand for what you believe in? Each of us has a breaking point, where we stand up and say "Enough!" - and it's usually when we perceive a threat to 'home'.
...
"For some, home is the world. For others, the world is their home"
(JKB, in Sindhu Bhairavi)
Of words and silences
"Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you, boy?" she yelled. "You need to mean them Potter! You need to really want to cause pain.."
-Bellatrix Lestrange (or JKR :) )
"It can’t be any new note. When you look at the keyboard, all the notes are there already. But if you mean a note enough, it will sound different. You got to pick the notes you really mean!"
-Thelonius Monk, pianist
And that is the meaning, perhaps, of why some silences can be so unifying, while others linger like the undead between the people that share them. What you mean with the silence is what makes the difference.
-Bellatrix Lestrange (or JKR :) )
"It can’t be any new note. When you look at the keyboard, all the notes are there already. But if you mean a note enough, it will sound different. You got to pick the notes you really mean!"
-Thelonius Monk, pianist
And that is the meaning, perhaps, of why some silences can be so unifying, while others linger like the undead between the people that share them. What you mean with the silence is what makes the difference.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
How terribly strange to be..
Seventy? Nah, not yet- just 26, which seems almost as bad.
I'm approaching the wrong side of 25, and have begun thinking deep dark thoughts on the subjects of age, crows feet, retirement plans, and such-like. People already on the other side are amused by my sudden paranoia about growing "old" (26? You're a BABY !!), but the reassurance of that is quickly nullified by the looks I get from 23 year old friends. More often, its nullified by my horror at the 'stupid' things 23 year olds do, and the knowledge that I once did them and thought I was being really intelligent.
Interestingly, as I discuss this idea with friends at similar stages,I realise that it isn't mortality itself that scares us. None of us are actually concerned with the "End of Things as We Know Them" (aka "I will die"). It's the idea that we are turning into the "old" people- that one day we might be the ones discussing anti-ageing creams and crows feet and ways to keep our energy levels high, by means other than protein bars and caffeine.
When did we start growing old, anyway? It feels like yesterday we were hanging out at the football field in high school, yet I also feel the rigidity of age creeping up in certain ways-
-I'm not fond of sleepovers anymore. I want my own bed, and I want to wake up to my own coffee in my own kitchen, not to be shared with random people who crashed on my couch last night.
-I no longer see a reason to force myself to like things. I dont like eating meat, period. Same goes for horror movies, loud rap, parties with people I barely know, and gossip about people I dont care about- They're not worth the time it takes to like them.
-I dress to suit myself, and I will buy three pairs of jeans when I like them, even if they're not the latest style. Life is too short to force myself into clothes I'm not comfortable in.
While I could probably go on with the list, I'm reminded of something a musician once had to say about his capacity to create- He held out his cupped hands and said, "You have to be able to let go of yourself. If your hands are so full of yourself, how will you ever have the space to pick up something new?"
And that, perhaps, is the essence of growing old- The mental arthritis that makes me so rigid that there is nothing more to add to life, nothing that I want to experience, no arena left where I'd like to stretch my limits a little.
Twenty-six is old, certainly- old enough to know what I want, and have the capacity to get it. And twenty-six is young too- young enough to make lists of things I'd like to do, young enough to foolishly believe I can do it all. (And it's probably just right for some chocolate, too :) )
=====================================================================================
P.S: On the list of things-to-do, the latest addition was to check out the Chocolate Buffet at the Ritz, Washington DC- 35 bucks, and the entire buffet is pure chocolate, in every possible form !!:)
http://www.ritzcarlton.com/en/Properties/WashingtonDC/Dining/TheLobbyLounge/Default.htm
I'm approaching the wrong side of 25, and have begun thinking deep dark thoughts on the subjects of age, crows feet, retirement plans, and such-like. People already on the other side are amused by my sudden paranoia about growing "old" (26? You're a BABY !!), but the reassurance of that is quickly nullified by the looks I get from 23 year old friends. More often, its nullified by my horror at the 'stupid' things 23 year olds do, and the knowledge that I once did them and thought I was being really intelligent.
Interestingly, as I discuss this idea with friends at similar stages,I realise that it isn't mortality itself that scares us. None of us are actually concerned with the "End of Things as We Know Them" (aka "I will die"). It's the idea that we are turning into the "old" people- that one day we might be the ones discussing anti-ageing creams and crows feet and ways to keep our energy levels high, by means other than protein bars and caffeine.
When did we start growing old, anyway? It feels like yesterday we were hanging out at the football field in high school, yet I also feel the rigidity of age creeping up in certain ways-
-I'm not fond of sleepovers anymore. I want my own bed, and I want to wake up to my own coffee in my own kitchen, not to be shared with random people who crashed on my couch last night.
-I no longer see a reason to force myself to like things. I dont like eating meat, period. Same goes for horror movies, loud rap, parties with people I barely know, and gossip about people I dont care about- They're not worth the time it takes to like them.
-I dress to suit myself, and I will buy three pairs of jeans when I like them, even if they're not the latest style. Life is too short to force myself into clothes I'm not comfortable in.
While I could probably go on with the list, I'm reminded of something a musician once had to say about his capacity to create- He held out his cupped hands and said, "You have to be able to let go of yourself. If your hands are so full of yourself, how will you ever have the space to pick up something new?"
And that, perhaps, is the essence of growing old- The mental arthritis that makes me so rigid that there is nothing more to add to life, nothing that I want to experience, no arena left where I'd like to stretch my limits a little.
Twenty-six is old, certainly- old enough to know what I want, and have the capacity to get it. And twenty-six is young too- young enough to make lists of things I'd like to do, young enough to foolishly believe I can do it all. (And it's probably just right for some chocolate, too :) )
=====================================================================================
P.S: On the list of things-to-do, the latest addition was to check out the Chocolate Buffet at the Ritz, Washington DC- 35 bucks, and the entire buffet is pure chocolate, in every possible form !!:)
http://www.ritzcarlton.com/en/Properties/WashingtonDC/Dining/TheLobbyLounge/Default.htm
Friday, July 20, 2007
Culture
"Anything that can distinguish your group from the others could work to keep hatreds high and resist merger. Other groups, conveniently, are similarly disposed.These non-hereditary differences between one group and another- even arbitrary differences, only distantly connected with any adaptive advantage, but serving to preserve group independence and coherence- are called, collectively, culture."
(From Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan)
(From Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan)
Friday, July 06, 2007
A good marriage
Four of us in the department have defended our qualifiers this summer- Listening to a non-native English speaker defend a proposal has been an eye opener. I've always been a little biased about this- coming from a state in India where English comprehension can be quite sorry, I have always maintained that I would not trust a doctor who did not speak good English- after all, if they didnt understand the language their textbooks were in, how could I trust their diagnosis?
Yet listening to E. and Y. defend their proposals, I have to do more than just change that stand. Remarkably intelligent, both of them speak heavily accented, sometimes incomprehensible English. Yet, shrouded in an unfamiliar language, their science and the clarity of thought behind it was crystal-sharp. Their understanding wrapped itself around words and gave them new meaning, in subtle ways that no native English speaker could have managed.
So, the "gene of interest" became "interesting gene" - intimate, as opposed to something laid out to be examined on a dissecting table. A personal preference, as opposed to a vague 'of interest to the scientific community'.
And a little later, Y. had a problem explaining how he would create his lines of transgenic mice. After drawing all his genes and promoters on the board, he could not explain what he would do with them. Instead of faltering for words, he simply held up his fingers, intertwined them, and said "marriage", with the cutest of grins.
He couldn't have put it better- The cross of an old culture and a new idea, his country's manners and the ideas of this one, an understanding that is more innate than learnt from a textbook- what more is required for the perfect 'marriage', to make the best scientist?
Yet listening to E. and Y. defend their proposals, I have to do more than just change that stand. Remarkably intelligent, both of them speak heavily accented, sometimes incomprehensible English. Yet, shrouded in an unfamiliar language, their science and the clarity of thought behind it was crystal-sharp. Their understanding wrapped itself around words and gave them new meaning, in subtle ways that no native English speaker could have managed.
So, the "gene of interest" became "interesting gene" - intimate, as opposed to something laid out to be examined on a dissecting table. A personal preference, as opposed to a vague 'of interest to the scientific community'.
And a little later, Y. had a problem explaining how he would create his lines of transgenic mice. After drawing all his genes and promoters on the board, he could not explain what he would do with them. Instead of faltering for words, he simply held up his fingers, intertwined them, and said "marriage", with the cutest of grins.
He couldn't have put it better- The cross of an old culture and a new idea, his country's manners and the ideas of this one, an understanding that is more innate than learnt from a textbook- what more is required for the perfect 'marriage', to make the best scientist?
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Almost like any country..
The Long Voyage
Not that the pines were darker there,
nor mid-May dogwood brighter there,
nor swifts more swift in summer air;
it was my own country,
having its thunderclap of spring,
its long midsummer ripening,
its corn hoar-stiff at harvesting,
almost like any country,
yet being mine; its face, its speech,
its hills bent low within my reach,
its river birch and upland beech
were mine, of my own country.
Now the dark waters at the bow
fold back, like earth against the plow;
foam brightens like the dogwood now
at home, in my own country.
-Malcolm Cowley
Not that the pines were darker there,
nor mid-May dogwood brighter there,
nor swifts more swift in summer air;
it was my own country,
having its thunderclap of spring,
its long midsummer ripening,
its corn hoar-stiff at harvesting,
almost like any country,
yet being mine; its face, its speech,
its hills bent low within my reach,
its river birch and upland beech
were mine, of my own country.
Now the dark waters at the bow
fold back, like earth against the plow;
foam brightens like the dogwood now
at home, in my own country.
-Malcolm Cowley
Cry, the beloved country
Fiction is sometimes so much more true than reality. A non-existent white man in South Africa can sometimes hit closer to home than any real person ever has.
This is probably true of all complex, deep-rooted cultures, but most of what is said about South Africa in the following quote could probably apply to my own country-
=====================================================================================
"It is hard to be born a South African. One can be born an Afrikaner, or an English-speaking South African, or a colored man, or a Zulu. One can ride, as I rode when I was a boy, over green hills and into great valleys, One can see, as I saw when I was a boy, the reserves of the Bantu people and see nothing of what was happening there at all. One can hear, as I heard when I was a boy, that there are more Afrikaners than English-speaking people in South Africa, and yet know nothing, see nothing, of them at all. One can read, as I read when I was a boy, the brochures about lovely South Africa, that land of sun and beauty sheltered from the storms of the world, and feel pride in it and love for it, and yet know nothing about it at all. It is only as one grows up that one learns that there are other things here than sun and gold and oranges. It is only then that one learns of the hates and fears of our country. It is only then that one's love grows deep and passionate, as a man may love a woman who is true, false, cold, loving, cruel and afraid. I was born on a farm, brought up by honourable parents, given all that a child could need or desire. They were upright and kind and law-abiding; they taught me my prayers and took me regularly to church; they had no trouble with servants and my father was never short of labour. From them I learned all that a child should learn of honour and charity and generosity. But of South Africa I learned nothing at all.
Therefore I shall devote myself, my time, my energy, my talents, to the service of South Africa. I shall no longer ask myself if this or that is expedient, but only if it is right. I shall do this, not because I am noble or unselfish, but because life slips away, and because I need for the rest of my journey a star that will not play false to me, a compass that will not lie."
This is probably true of all complex, deep-rooted cultures, but most of what is said about South Africa in the following quote could probably apply to my own country-
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"It is hard to be born a South African. One can be born an Afrikaner, or an English-speaking South African, or a colored man, or a Zulu. One can ride, as I rode when I was a boy, over green hills and into great valleys, One can see, as I saw when I was a boy, the reserves of the Bantu people and see nothing of what was happening there at all. One can hear, as I heard when I was a boy, that there are more Afrikaners than English-speaking people in South Africa, and yet know nothing, see nothing, of them at all. One can read, as I read when I was a boy, the brochures about lovely South Africa, that land of sun and beauty sheltered from the storms of the world, and feel pride in it and love for it, and yet know nothing about it at all. It is only as one grows up that one learns that there are other things here than sun and gold and oranges. It is only then that one learns of the hates and fears of our country. It is only then that one's love grows deep and passionate, as a man may love a woman who is true, false, cold, loving, cruel and afraid. I was born on a farm, brought up by honourable parents, given all that a child could need or desire. They were upright and kind and law-abiding; they taught me my prayers and took me regularly to church; they had no trouble with servants and my father was never short of labour. From them I learned all that a child should learn of honour and charity and generosity. But of South Africa I learned nothing at all.
Therefore I shall devote myself, my time, my energy, my talents, to the service of South Africa. I shall no longer ask myself if this or that is expedient, but only if it is right. I shall do this, not because I am noble or unselfish, but because life slips away, and because I need for the rest of my journey a star that will not play false to me, a compass that will not lie."
The 'right' shade of grey
Think black. The pitch dark of crows' wings descending upon you, pressing against your eyelids until black is the only reality there is. The black of your loved one's pupils, depthless, boundless- Drown in black.
Think white. Pearl-white, blinding sunlight like the light is enough to scorch your eyelids through. White so clear so opaque that you will never see anything but white again.
Is grey the equal presence of those two intensities, or is it the absence of both?
Both might give you the same shade of grey, and how would you decide then? Is there a 'right' shade of grey, or is that a self-disproving hypothesis?
Think white. Pearl-white, blinding sunlight like the light is enough to scorch your eyelids through. White so clear so opaque that you will never see anything but white again.
Is grey the equal presence of those two intensities, or is it the absence of both?
Both might give you the same shade of grey, and how would you decide then? Is there a 'right' shade of grey, or is that a self-disproving hypothesis?
Saturday, June 09, 2007
Theme songs
There's a common theme to several stories of art- Right from Shakespeare to a cheesy Bollywood movie, there's this climax where the protagonist has one recurring song from childhood that they perform at the peak of their careers- Right from Twelfth night to Que sera sera to Meri jung, there's always a theme song. Listening to one of those today, I started wondering what mine might possibly be. One song or event that shaped my career, the person I am, held me up in times of trouble, etc etc. You get the picture, I'm sure.
Should the absence of a theme like this make me feel liberated ("Look at me, I don't need no silly Ally McBeal theme song to make things okay"), or should I be feeling like I missed out on an integral part of my formative years ("Ohmygod, what am I going to say when I go up to collect my Oscar?") Both, and neither? Does the fact that I can always find a theme make me shallow and too-easily pleased, or should I feel grateful that I can find solace in the smallest of things?
If a theme song is all the things that have shaped me, that touch my soul and lift my spirits, then this must be it, or atleast, some of it-
Sunsets
The deer resting in the grass by the creek, as we walked last night
The two rabbits I saw in yards
Sunlight filtering through springtime green overhead
Flowers spilling color through streets that were bleak all winter.
So its a song thats easily found- Maybe that makes me shallow, but what the heck, if I must have a song running through my head, it might as well be one that runs all around me, a constant reminder of joy.
Should the absence of a theme like this make me feel liberated ("Look at me, I don't need no silly Ally McBeal theme song to make things okay"), or should I be feeling like I missed out on an integral part of my formative years ("Ohmygod, what am I going to say when I go up to collect my Oscar?") Both, and neither? Does the fact that I can always find a theme make me shallow and too-easily pleased, or should I feel grateful that I can find solace in the smallest of things?
If a theme song is all the things that have shaped me, that touch my soul and lift my spirits, then this must be it, or atleast, some of it-
Sunsets
The deer resting in the grass by the creek, as we walked last night
The two rabbits I saw in yards
Sunlight filtering through springtime green overhead
Flowers spilling color through streets that were bleak all winter.
So its a song thats easily found- Maybe that makes me shallow, but what the heck, if I must have a song running through my head, it might as well be one that runs all around me, a constant reminder of joy.
Saturday, June 02, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
The same song
How many roads have I wandered?
None and each my own
Behind me the bridges have crumbled
No question of return
Autumn leaves like discarded dreams
Trampled underneath a tide of callous feet
It's the same song playing everywhere I go
It's like an army marching right through me
Nowhere to go but the horizon
Where then will I call my home?
Nowhere to go but the horizon
Where then will I call my home?
Summers spent in the high grass
Are just fragments, ransacked memories
Dark river snakes across this smoky heart
Boatman sings his downstream melody
Nowhere to go but the horizon
Where then will I call my home?
How many roads have I wandered?
None and each my own
Behind me the bridges have crumbled
No question of return
Nowhere to go but the horizon
Where then will I call my home?
None and each my own
Behind me the bridges have crumbled
No question of return
Autumn leaves like discarded dreams
Trampled underneath a tide of callous feet
It's the same song playing everywhere I go
It's like an army marching right through me
Nowhere to go but the horizon
Where then will I call my home?
Nowhere to go but the horizon
Where then will I call my home?
Summers spent in the high grass
Are just fragments, ransacked memories
Dark river snakes across this smoky heart
Boatman sings his downstream melody
Nowhere to go but the horizon
Where then will I call my home?
How many roads have I wandered?
None and each my own
Behind me the bridges have crumbled
No question of return
Nowhere to go but the horizon
Where then will I call my home?
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Identity
Stand in this moment, when the door just clicks shut,
Before you reach for the light switch.
Dusk's shadows lengthen across your familiar living room,
And no one's home but you.
The shades are drawn, the lights are off
No music, no warm touch to welcome you home.
In that moment- who are you?
What do you do when the lights are off?
Do you dance, or sit with a book
Air guitar, or lip sync silently?
What do you say when no one's listening?
Swear words or intelligent critique?
When nobody's watching, who are you?
Stand by yourself and be comfortable-
Do you care whether anyone's watching?
Uh-hunh, not asking if you say you care-
It's easy enough to toss your head and tell me-
"What do I care what people think of me?"
But when the spotlight fades, when no-one's looking-
Do you care then?
Can you stand by the lake on your own?
Watch the stars and sip your wine, believing in a higher power
Or do you stand and curse that no one sees your greatness?
Speak with yourself, since I'm not here, there's no one here but you.
When there's nothing to drown yourself in, nothing to drown you out
In that moment- who are you?
Before you reach for the light switch.
Dusk's shadows lengthen across your familiar living room,
And no one's home but you.
The shades are drawn, the lights are off
No music, no warm touch to welcome you home.
In that moment- who are you?
What do you do when the lights are off?
Do you dance, or sit with a book
Air guitar, or lip sync silently?
What do you say when no one's listening?
Swear words or intelligent critique?
When nobody's watching, who are you?
Stand by yourself and be comfortable-
Do you care whether anyone's watching?
Uh-hunh, not asking if you say you care-
It's easy enough to toss your head and tell me-
"What do I care what people think of me?"
But when the spotlight fades, when no-one's looking-
Do you care then?
Can you stand by the lake on your own?
Watch the stars and sip your wine, believing in a higher power
Or do you stand and curse that no one sees your greatness?
Speak with yourself, since I'm not here, there's no one here but you.
When there's nothing to drown yourself in, nothing to drown you out
In that moment- who are you?
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Double vision
Watching The Namesake felt somewhat like being in an alternate reality, if it can be called that- Imagine being in a glass case that is your life, looking out on a blurred reality, which is just as much your life as the case itself, only a little more out of your grasp than the present. In a darkened movie hall filled with ‘strange foreign voices’, I felt so much like reaching out and explaining, when I heard whispers and laughs over “those foreign customs”. I felt like asking- Do I seem foreign to you, in my Aeropostale sweatshirt and Nikes? I speak your language, with your accent when I need to, and you see no foreign-ness to me then.
Yet I understand the need to wear sindoor, the ululating to cast off evil eyes at a wedding, the mother who expects her son to call her when he gets home, even though he is 35. I see no strangeness in an adult who feels a sense of responsibility towards their parents.
Yes, I hold my boyfriend’s hand in public here, but in that darkened theater, I cringed with Gogol as Maxine reached out to hold his hand in front of his parents.
Too many facets of life can get confusing, sometimes, refusing to blend into one coherent reality. I have been Ashoke, traveling in a second-class railway compartment, reading of English children and their nursery teas and apple trees where pixies lived. I am Ashima, held by the melodies of my land in strange foreign places. The rhythm in my feet when I walk in
And through the length of the film, I could hear in my head parallel voices. Firstly, my mother, who once lived Ashima’s life, or something fairly close to it, I imagine. Secondly, my friends, wonderfully open Americans- one read the book before watching the film, and another who so wants to visit India, to come for my wedding. Yet neither of them would understand the depths and the reach of the little things in the movie- When R. asks me if people in
I rarely think about my roots- it would be almost as silly as remembering each step in the Krebs cycle each time I take a breath. (For the uninitiated/ non-biologists, the Krebs cycle is the biochemistry of what your body does with oxygen). While it would be foolish to recite the cycle each time I breathe, it would be foolish also to deny its importance.
Yet random conversations in the lab, and a movie like this one, can call it all into question- And I am left fumbling for my own reality, my own voice, and somewhere, my own country.
Monday, May 07, 2007
Un-slumping myself
Not easily done, but try I must-
Get off my feet and shake up the dust
I can go ride a bike, or become a cook
That should be easy- just out of a book?
But un-slumping myself is not easily done,
The only way to do it is at a good fast run
Though sleeping looks slumpy, sometimes its not
A good long sleep, can even prevent brain-rot..
...
Okay, maybe that was a pathetic attempt at unblocking the words.. but what the heck :)
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Another sunset on a Delhi terrace
What bridges this hour? And what marks the boundaries between light and dark? Suspended between day and night this hour stands- part of both worlds and neither. Apart from all else, it hangs like a snatch of music confined forever to this space and hour, yet flowing wild and free within it. Waiting like a song to be plucked out of the sky- if only my hands could reach, if only my words would hold. But I don't even try, and the hour wraps itself around softly around me.
This is no place to dream of beauty- An ancient terrace, a crowded neighbourhood in a crowded city. The view- Broken tile and glass, piles of cement and an ancient commode. Just below are a neighbour's kitchen and bedrooms- All the sounds and smells of a family coming home to dinner fill this space. Yet something holds me up here-disconnected, restless and troubled, trying to put words to my thoughts.
And I don't look down at all. Across the street are a few trees clothed in grey, settling under their covers of birds for the night. Further away- a whole world of green turned grey-tinged-with-red. And in the distance, the cries of a peacock and a pair of lapwings.
Twilight. Day flying out on the dark wings of crows, pigeons crying hoarse farewells, and night stepping softly in, soundless except for the flutter of a stray bat.
All colours fade to black. All light turns dark. And long after sunset I stand here, with the sky screaming night, and my mother screaming dinner. And now, hours later, this-
Maybe there never was a need for a bridge. The span of a bird's wing closing day, and the flutter of the bat unfurling the night are all that the hour needed. My mind wants to label it and hold it and girdle it with a ring of words, but the hour still stands free.
As I do, when I stop chaining thoughts and feeling with words and labels. Complete and whole, all spirits blend if I let them- the one that soars with the birds, and the one that comes in to dinner with the family.
This is no place to dream of beauty- An ancient terrace, a crowded neighbourhood in a crowded city. The view- Broken tile and glass, piles of cement and an ancient commode. Just below are a neighbour's kitchen and bedrooms- All the sounds and smells of a family coming home to dinner fill this space. Yet something holds me up here-disconnected, restless and troubled, trying to put words to my thoughts.
And I don't look down at all. Across the street are a few trees clothed in grey, settling under their covers of birds for the night. Further away- a whole world of green turned grey-tinged-with-red. And in the distance, the cries of a peacock and a pair of lapwings.
Twilight. Day flying out on the dark wings of crows, pigeons crying hoarse farewells, and night stepping softly in, soundless except for the flutter of a stray bat.
All colours fade to black. All light turns dark. And long after sunset I stand here, with the sky screaming night, and my mother screaming dinner. And now, hours later, this-
Maybe there never was a need for a bridge. The span of a bird's wing closing day, and the flutter of the bat unfurling the night are all that the hour needed. My mind wants to label it and hold it and girdle it with a ring of words, but the hour still stands free.
As I do, when I stop chaining thoughts and feeling with words and labels. Complete and whole, all spirits blend if I let them- the one that soars with the birds, and the one that comes in to dinner with the family.
Godhuli
I breathe this light in, revel in it- and it feels so real, the desire to become this light. "The magic hour", most flattering of all lights- "godhuli", the light in which a bride- to- be was 'shown' to suitors for the first time. A wondrous mingling of the elements- dust on the wind at sunset, and it will come down with a night shower in a little while. But for now it is here, and I am a part of it.
It stands like a blushing, shy child, half-touching ugly buildings, beautifying them in its own image, then lingering, as if unsure whether to leave the moment the sun sets.
And now it is gone, and I stand here, wishing it hadn't. Wishing it had stayed just one moment more- one hour- one lifetime.. A light in which everything is glorified in mellow sunset brilliance.. which leaves no blacks or whites behind, just shades of pearl and grey..in which everything is just one tone more lovely- a light worth holding, for a lifetime and more.
But it fades, as all light will, leaving just a memory of colour, and I sleep to the sound of rain on dusty leaves, dusty roads and dusty minds and hearts.
And a new day is here- clear-washed blue skies, and gold light on emerald leaves shines on, not heeding loud traffic and harsh voices. A new day, and it brings with it new colour, tinting my world with all its sparkle- and it is a beautiful world- everything in it. A shade lovelier than my memory of it..
The light is always just right. Just my eyes that sometimes get a little dusty, and need a night shower to put things right.
It stands like a blushing, shy child, half-touching ugly buildings, beautifying them in its own image, then lingering, as if unsure whether to leave the moment the sun sets.
And now it is gone, and I stand here, wishing it hadn't. Wishing it had stayed just one moment more- one hour- one lifetime.. A light in which everything is glorified in mellow sunset brilliance.. which leaves no blacks or whites behind, just shades of pearl and grey..in which everything is just one tone more lovely- a light worth holding, for a lifetime and more.
But it fades, as all light will, leaving just a memory of colour, and I sleep to the sound of rain on dusty leaves, dusty roads and dusty minds and hearts.
And a new day is here- clear-washed blue skies, and gold light on emerald leaves shines on, not heeding loud traffic and harsh voices. A new day, and it brings with it new colour, tinting my world with all its sparkle- and it is a beautiful world- everything in it. A shade lovelier than my memory of it..
The light is always just right. Just my eyes that sometimes get a little dusty, and need a night shower to put things right.
Thought
"Analysis makes you aware. It doesn't stop you being self-destructive."
(Erich Segal, Doctors)
(Erich Segal, Doctors)
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