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

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-

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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?

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.

"How does one become a butterfly?" she asked pensively.
"You must want to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar."

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?

Do I write for myself or you?
When I smile, is it a reflection of you or is just my joy?

Does it matter, either way?:)

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?

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 New York is the dhol and the tabla, not the rap that fills the air of the streets. I have spelt my name a million times, as she did over the phone. I am sometimes Gogol, my American friends impressed with my knowledge of rock music, fast food, and American customs like hot dogs at the ball game, and still, I choose to come home to good home-cooked Indian food.

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 India really buy vegetables like that, what answer is there? When I am asked about wedding customs, how hard it is to separate the layers of religion and region, past and present… And of course, my own- a voice that shakes in nervousness with Ashima as she learns to drive, and laughs with Maushumi over the silliness of frying samosas with your mother-in-law every Thursday.

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.

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 :)

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.

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.

Thought

"Analysis makes you aware. It doesn't stop you being self-destructive."

(Erich Segal, Doctors)

Across

Across these miles I wish you well,
May nothing haunt your heart but sleep.
May you not sense what I dont tell,
May you not dream, or doubt, or weep.

May what my pen this peaceless day
writes on this page not reach your soul
Till its deferred print lets you say,
It speaks to someone else than you.

-Vikram Seth

I could use this as a dedication for almost anything I write, so figured I'd put it in here :)
The words of my favorite poet, describing almost everything I write (and I like to imagine he'd say the same of his own work :) )

Blind

Arms outstretched we stand,
Fingertips spanning unity to infinity,
We move all there is.
Yet we stand, afraid to look
beyond our feet and our selves-
Why are we so scared?
Blindness brings fearlessness.

Old lessons, renewed

We walk down the roads of life with old friends and enemies, always hand in hand with both. Demons to be conquered are not distant windmills looming terror, a la Don Quixote- the worst demons are the small shadows that cling to our feet- weightless little things that we'd never observe, yet strong enough to pull us down. Strip them off and loose their grip, then we look up to find that the windmills were only their reflections in the pools of our fear.

This song I brought home today-
Did you like it?
It walked a long way
through heat and dust,
Watered by saltwater tears and little else,
Fed only dreams, and thoughts and whispered prayer-
A stranger to rest and quiet it is.
This song I brought home today-
Did you like it?



Let it rest a little here,
it will soon move on-
To greener pastures and fuller thoughts
Soon, it will go.

Invisible

In your rejection of me, I am once again the child that wasn’t wanted in the game. The odd one out- a little slower to race, a little more observant, a little easier to hurt; Maybe I was naïve in believing, like a child, that love solves all these issues. Will eight year old feelings never be assuaged by twenty-five’s accomplishments? Does love mean I will never feel unloved again?

Un-anchored by the ties of love, my spirit floats weightless, a little harder to touch, to understand. I am the wind, leaves dance night-time whirls within me. I linger over a lover’s soul, weighing it down with all my childhood grief. I see her pause and wonder over the sudden rush of tears my favorite poet inspired, but, unasked, I offer no explanation. Love might demand why I cry over these words, but tonight there are no questions, no reasons for my being. And so I am not, and I walk invisible through all my days and all my nights. Invisible, intangible, transparent- Soft, subtle, quiet, yet strong and bold, is what you call me. Always and mostly alone is what I call myself.

Second sight, first :)

I don't believe in love at first sight. To tell the truth, I don't believe in love at all. The world is a logical, reasonable place, and love is just a rush of hormones. True love, as science has proved, lasts only eighteen months.
If the first sight comes from the heart, the second must come from the brain, must it not? And how much happier we might all be, if we realised that and just waited for second sight to come first.

Poets believe that the heart has its reasons, that reason knows nothing of.. A contradiction in words and in belief. I choose to deny the reasons of the heart. Except once.

Late one night, you asked me a question, and I said, "Yes". And true to intellect, I have questioned it a million times hence. Was it necessary? Were we not happier apart? Did we have to dance this stage together- through regret and anger, cutting our feet and bleeding over the shards of unrealistic expectations, slipping on tear-stained patches- Sometimes graceful, others clumsy. Standing still, leaping weightless through the air.. the whole rigmarole of the dance. For what?

What reasons did my heart have, to make me choose this life? As love stands questioned, what defends it?
A snowflake. Well, a few of them, really. Falling on a bright winter evening, as we walk in a garden by a sorcerer's felled tree (Even his strong magic could not hold against the October storm, and now his birds are wintered in other places.)
It has been a long, hard day- Only one person believes in my work, the others have all trashed it. Not caring to read it through, it is easier for them to invoke terms like "not enough effort" and "vague", and ask me to re-write until they can understand it without reading a word. In the face of their critique, I am a child once more, questioning my abilities, exhausted with the effort of justification.
And then we go for a walk in the park. You speak of the tree, and the ducks, and the snow. We throw snowballs, I fall in the snow and you help me up. Walk across fallen tree trunks, make snow angels. Find a quaint coffee shop, and you sit and wait until I am ready to tell you my worries. Buy me chocolate cake, and hot chocolate, and we sit on an overstuffed couch and dissect the mural on the wall.
And somewhere in the evening, the world spirals back into normality.

I was told once that the love of a good man can save your life. A gentle spirit to lift my own, a strong heart to lean back on, peace to come home to... What more reason is needed, to justify each step of that painful dance?

Sometimes, second sight and first come together, and the only word in response to their question is- "Yes."

???

Huh ? I just jumped on the bandwagon and got this thing... someone hand me an instruction manual please.