When I wrote as a child, I gained insight. Every word that spilled out marked a little realization of things, a perspective I might not have seen had I not written. Words were welcome friends, who came in and sat down and helped me sort out things that didn't make sense. Of late, they are more like the relatives one must oblige with the occasional visit, or the friends who come over, uninvited, when you'd rather be alone. So I smile politely and accommodate them for a while, but they tire me, these meandering words that stop by to make small talk.
Perhaps it is that I spend too much time with them, now. But like a confused teenager who succumbs to peer pressure and tries to impress the cool kids, I come back to writing. It is, in so many ways, the only thing I really know, the way I define myself...- What do you do when the things you define yourself with begin to tire you and slowly drag you into the mundanity they used to help you avoid?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Of too few eyes
I find it hard to write a neutral article. An objective standpoint, a simple overview. Everything is personal, there's always a perspective I know I am missing. After events and analysis and summaries, it is still only my standpoint, my perception. It feels like too much self-awareness, too much internalization. Everything circles back to this handful of ideas- incredibly creative ones from some of the best minds on the planet, but the strings are still held only in the weave of my thoughts, the loom is still my mind and nothing more.
All that I write is a strange mixture of other voices, with my chiming in with a line or two to connect the dots. All that I write is my thoughts on the views of others. As an example, either I can write "Evolution, in Dawkins' words.." or "My understanding of evolution.." . But I am sick of both- I know what D. said, and if you wanted to, you could go read it yourself. I know whats in my head, how does it help for me to voice it?
The corollary to this is that I am often annoyed and bored by what I write- simply because there is too much of myself in it, and how long can anyone explore this limited little space inside the self? I'd like to step out, somehow, and leave the self behind. I want to look with other eyes, feel with a different heart.
Write with other words and other ideas, in another voice, from an angle I've never seen before. It feels, these days, like there is too much of 'I', and not enough vision.
Any ideas on how to get out of this?
All that I write is a strange mixture of other voices, with my chiming in with a line or two to connect the dots. All that I write is my thoughts on the views of others. As an example, either I can write "Evolution, in Dawkins' words.." or "My understanding of evolution.." . But I am sick of both- I know what D. said, and if you wanted to, you could go read it yourself. I know whats in my head, how does it help for me to voice it?
The corollary to this is that I am often annoyed and bored by what I write- simply because there is too much of myself in it, and how long can anyone explore this limited little space inside the self? I'd like to step out, somehow, and leave the self behind. I want to look with other eyes, feel with a different heart.
Write with other words and other ideas, in another voice, from an angle I've never seen before. It feels, these days, like there is too much of 'I', and not enough vision.
Any ideas on how to get out of this?
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Life on a song
Try it sometime. Take all your rage and fling it out into high melodramatic seas and ride the wave.
Live your life through fired up songs of angst and the deepest cuts. Believe that your professor not taking notice of your deadline really is the deepest cut.
Hold on to hope, like it really is the last thing holding you up. Hope that people will love your work as much as you do, accept it at first submission.
Laugh at the idiocy of the M.D, Ph.D, tenured professor who proclaims that it takes more than two points to draw a line. Despair for the survival of intelligence and the human race.
Sit down in a long darkening hallway like you did in high school, feel dusk breaking through you as you wonder whether you will ever walk out into the sunshine at the other end. Wonder whether you will ever get out of here as hopeful, as in love with the things that drew you in. If you will ever not feel disillusioned again.
Fling it all on the storm of a song, and live every word of it, for just five minutes. Reaching out with both hands, try to feel the kick inside.
Melodramatize life, because sometimes that is the only way it makes sense.
Live your life through fired up songs of angst and the deepest cuts. Believe that your professor not taking notice of your deadline really is the deepest cut.
Hold on to hope, like it really is the last thing holding you up. Hope that people will love your work as much as you do, accept it at first submission.
Laugh at the idiocy of the M.D, Ph.D, tenured professor who proclaims that it takes more than two points to draw a line. Despair for the survival of intelligence and the human race.
Sit down in a long darkening hallway like you did in high school, feel dusk breaking through you as you wonder whether you will ever walk out into the sunshine at the other end. Wonder whether you will ever get out of here as hopeful, as in love with the things that drew you in. If you will ever not feel disillusioned again.
Fling it all on the storm of a song, and live every word of it, for just five minutes. Reaching out with both hands, try to feel the kick inside.
Melodramatize life, because sometimes that is the only way it makes sense.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Spotting the rainbows
I know he isn't always right, he can be very judgmental and he's biased in his opinions of me. Nonetheless, the bond between us is stronger than most others in my life, and in the lives of others I know. And so I still ask his opinion, question myself over his critique. When the adult, logical woman knows he is wrong, the child in me craves approval, is a little afraid of losing this tie because of his opinions, and I want, more than necessary, to prove my point, convince him of the other side of things.
So when this person claimed to be younger at heart than I am, it turned into an instant competition in my head. For him, it is likely a conclusion that he has arrived at after many judgments over many instances that I brushed off as too casual, and the statement itself, cast off just as easily, is not even something worth arguing about, because there is nothing I could possibly say that would convince him otherwise.
Only time, I tell myself as I hold my tongue. Only time, and life's experiences, will convince him otherwise. The contest remains, though, in my head. And for the last two days, I have pondered the meaning of childhood, and being young at heart.
Does it mean not being careful with things like health and money? Eating badly because only boring old people fuss over healthy foods and exercise? Is it a refusal to move forward in life- avoiding romance, marriage, and adult conversations about life choices- is refusing the trappings of adulthood a sign of being young at heart?
To me, being an adult and a child have much in common. Both are about walking into dark mazes, sticky situations, jumping off giant walls- and finding your way out, testing your skills and knowing that you can, that there is always a happy ending when your mom yells out the door to come in, the day's play is over and its time for dinner with the family.
Being young at heart is the ability to see life as an endless game, and in the end everyone really does win. The playgrounds change as one grows older, but the games are the same. 'Adults' are only the people who have forgotten that at the end of the game, the cops and robbers, pirates and kidnapped princesses, all link arms and go home as friends. That the scary enemies surrounding your besieged fortress are only friends waving sticks in the dusk. The crocodile who will not let you cross the golden river unless you give him a certain color? He's a friend too, all he wants is that you have the right perspective, and spot the solutions hidden in the kaleidoscope of colors that can confuse you in times of stress.
The difference between an adult and a child is in perception. When the child sees the rainbow on the sidewalk, the adult only sees an oil leak from someone's car. The Real Adult admires the rainbow, feels a little thrill at knowing the physics of refraction and angles of light, remembers to tell their neighbor to check their car, and walks home.
=======================================================================
So who is younger at heart- him or I? It is no longer a contest, only a difference in perspective. I still don't understand the reason for his statement, nor the necessity of it. But I am, for now, more comfortable with who I am, the way I am growing up, growing older.)
So when this person claimed to be younger at heart than I am, it turned into an instant competition in my head. For him, it is likely a conclusion that he has arrived at after many judgments over many instances that I brushed off as too casual, and the statement itself, cast off just as easily, is not even something worth arguing about, because there is nothing I could possibly say that would convince him otherwise.
Only time, I tell myself as I hold my tongue. Only time, and life's experiences, will convince him otherwise. The contest remains, though, in my head. And for the last two days, I have pondered the meaning of childhood, and being young at heart.
Does it mean not being careful with things like health and money? Eating badly because only boring old people fuss over healthy foods and exercise? Is it a refusal to move forward in life- avoiding romance, marriage, and adult conversations about life choices- is refusing the trappings of adulthood a sign of being young at heart?
To me, being an adult and a child have much in common. Both are about walking into dark mazes, sticky situations, jumping off giant walls- and finding your way out, testing your skills and knowing that you can, that there is always a happy ending when your mom yells out the door to come in, the day's play is over and its time for dinner with the family.
Being young at heart is the ability to see life as an endless game, and in the end everyone really does win. The playgrounds change as one grows older, but the games are the same. 'Adults' are only the people who have forgotten that at the end of the game, the cops and robbers, pirates and kidnapped princesses, all link arms and go home as friends. That the scary enemies surrounding your besieged fortress are only friends waving sticks in the dusk. The crocodile who will not let you cross the golden river unless you give him a certain color? He's a friend too, all he wants is that you have the right perspective, and spot the solutions hidden in the kaleidoscope of colors that can confuse you in times of stress.
The difference between an adult and a child is in perception. When the child sees the rainbow on the sidewalk, the adult only sees an oil leak from someone's car. The Real Adult admires the rainbow, feels a little thrill at knowing the physics of refraction and angles of light, remembers to tell their neighbor to check their car, and walks home.
=======================================================================
So who is younger at heart- him or I? It is no longer a contest, only a difference in perspective. I still don't understand the reason for his statement, nor the necessity of it. But I am, for now, more comfortable with who I am, the way I am growing up, growing older.)
Monday, August 10, 2009
Here and there
I say,
There are other places words prefer,
Where they flow more freely, settle in more easily
Grow deeper roots, send up brighter blooms
Spaces fertile with events and ideas.
The other only whispers-
Stay, please stay.
Will the words of others keep you happy?
Would you care for new friends, Jincy Willett or the Age of Wonder?
Or old loves, we could visit them too, if you like.
Enid Blyton and Pablo Neruda?
As we argue, words hide in the crevices,
Out of the crossfire, or perhaps
They're only the shadows shifting,
And the words left long ago.
There are other places words prefer,
Where they flow more freely, settle in more easily
Grow deeper roots, send up brighter blooms
Spaces fertile with events and ideas.
The other only whispers-
Stay, please stay.
Will the words of others keep you happy?
Would you care for new friends, Jincy Willett or the Age of Wonder?
Or old loves, we could visit them too, if you like.
Enid Blyton and Pablo Neruda?
As we argue, words hide in the crevices,
Out of the crossfire, or perhaps
They're only the shadows shifting,
And the words left long ago.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Let's start at the very beginning..
After all, its a very good place to start- When you read you begin with ABC, so why not attack writers block with an ABC as well :). So here's my first meme:
Here are the "rules":
Link the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Share the ABCs of you.
Tag 3 people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let the 3 tagged people know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Do not tag the same person repeatedly but try to tag different people, so that there is a big network of bloggers doing this tag! (Very Important One!) - Ah, possibly the toughest clause of all !:)
And the meme:
A – Available/Single? - Single, no. Available- depends on what I'm expected to be available for.
B – Best friend? - Uh,me? Tying as top choices- me, my mom, certain books, a few cherished people..
C – Cake or Pie? - Cake :)
D – Drink of choice? - Hm, depends on the time and the mood. Coffee at midnight during deadlines, martinis for breakfast on certain occasions!
E – Essential item you use every day? – A smile, probably..
F – Favorite colour? - The sky- Sunrise pink, sunset orange, white and blue and gray and everything else!
G – Gummy Bears or Worms? - Neither.. but if you held a gun to my head to choose, I'd pick the worms, I think.
H – Hometown – 'vasudhaiva kutumbakam' !
I – Indulgence? – Haagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream, chick flicks and chinese food.. all in one evening.
J – January or February? - Wedding anniversary, my first trip to Paris..it's got to be February!
K – Kids & their names? - None so far. I'm toying with Priyangumanjari and Katyayani- if you have similarly dramatic suggestions for names, leave them in the comments please :)
L – Life is incomplete without? - Achieving what makes you deep-down happy.
M – Marriage date? - Those who ought to remember should manage it without the reminder here ;)
N – Name? Your real name!! - What do you think it is? :) One of my favorite 'quotes' on names is here..
O – Oranges or Apples? - Oranges
P – Phobias/Fears? - I can frighten myself with almost anything if I start imagining it, so the list probably spans the entire dictionary!
Q – Quote for today? - "What we have here is failure to communicate!"
R – Reason to smile? - Must I have a reason? After all, 'sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, and sometimes your smile is the source of your joy"
S – Season? - Fall
T – Tag 3 People? – Dew drops, Rain, and NV !
U – Unknown fact about me? - Uh, if I knew it wouldn't be unknown.
V – Vegetable you don’t like? - Not that I don't like them, but I've always wondered about the reason for artichokes..
W – Worst habit? – Hmm.. over-analysing things? A short temper and a sharp tongue? Needing to know the end of all stories, and it better be a satisfying one? Indecisiveness? Not knowing when to stop listing my faults?
X – X-rays? - Twice, and the dental ones were the worse of the two times.
Y – Your favorite food? - Street food in India- Pani puri, sev puri, chinese at the roadside laari.. and round it off with matka kulfi !
Z – Zodiac sign? - Leo
Here are the "rules":
Link the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Share the ABCs of you.
Tag 3 people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
Let the 3 tagged people know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their website.
Do not tag the same person repeatedly but try to tag different people, so that there is a big network of bloggers doing this tag! (Very Important One!) - Ah, possibly the toughest clause of all !:)
And the meme:
A – Available/Single? - Single, no. Available- depends on what I'm expected to be available for.
B – Best friend? - Uh,me? Tying as top choices- me, my mom, certain books, a few cherished people..
C – Cake or Pie? - Cake :)
D – Drink of choice? - Hm, depends on the time and the mood. Coffee at midnight during deadlines, martinis for breakfast on certain occasions!
E – Essential item you use every day? – A smile, probably..
F – Favorite colour? - The sky- Sunrise pink, sunset orange, white and blue and gray and everything else!
G – Gummy Bears or Worms? - Neither.. but if you held a gun to my head to choose, I'd pick the worms, I think.
H – Hometown – 'vasudhaiva kutumbakam' !
I – Indulgence? – Haagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream, chick flicks and chinese food.. all in one evening.
J – January or February? - Wedding anniversary, my first trip to Paris..it's got to be February!
K – Kids & their names? - None so far. I'm toying with Priyangumanjari and Katyayani- if you have similarly dramatic suggestions for names, leave them in the comments please :)
L – Life is incomplete without? - Achieving what makes you deep-down happy.
M – Marriage date? - Those who ought to remember should manage it without the reminder here ;)
N – Name? Your real name!! - What do you think it is? :) One of my favorite 'quotes' on names is here..
O – Oranges or Apples? - Oranges
P – Phobias/Fears? - I can frighten myself with almost anything if I start imagining it, so the list probably spans the entire dictionary!
Q – Quote for today? - "What we have here is failure to communicate!"
R – Reason to smile? - Must I have a reason? After all, 'sometimes your joy is the source of your smile, and sometimes your smile is the source of your joy"
S – Season? - Fall
T – Tag 3 People? – Dew drops, Rain, and NV !
U – Unknown fact about me? - Uh, if I knew it wouldn't be unknown.
V – Vegetable you don’t like? - Not that I don't like them, but I've always wondered about the reason for artichokes..
W – Worst habit? – Hmm.. over-analysing things? A short temper and a sharp tongue? Needing to know the end of all stories, and it better be a satisfying one? Indecisiveness? Not knowing when to stop listing my faults?
X – X-rays? - Twice, and the dental ones were the worse of the two times.
Y – Your favorite food? - Street food in India- Pani puri, sev puri, chinese at the roadside laari.. and round it off with matka kulfi !
Z – Zodiac sign? - Leo
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Questions
1. How many habits/ traits do I have to pick up from another person to stop being myself?
2. If I change to adapt to a new situation, do I stop being my 'self'?
3. How much of my 'self' can be defined only in the context of my environment, based on circumstance, and how much is me, regardless of whether I am isolated or with others? Which of these selves is more critical to my identity?
2. If I change to adapt to a new situation, do I stop being my 'self'?
3. How much of my 'self' can be defined only in the context of my environment, based on circumstance, and how much is me, regardless of whether I am isolated or with others? Which of these selves is more critical to my identity?
Friday, July 10, 2009
Looking for words?
I've been doing that, for a very long while. There are plenty of words- but to find just the right one, in the right place and time, and then realize that you don't really have anything that great to say in the first place, that you need these oh-so-perfect words for. I'm tired of "just writing". For once, I don't want to write. I want the words to mean what they did before. To pick me up and carry me out on field trips of consciousness, tripping over self-discovery as we walk together. To start walking and not know where we're going, yet reach the perfect finish together, words and me. Somewhere, they told me- "Sometimes if you stand still, the world comes to you." So I'll lay my tools down, and maybe take a nice nap. I'll wait for words to come wake me again, when they really mean it.
In the meantime, if you wended your way over here looking for something to read, try this. As always, he knows just what to do with the words that land up at his fingertips and ask to stay.
In the meantime, if you wended your way over here looking for something to read, try this. As always, he knows just what to do with the words that land up at his fingertips and ask to stay.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Understanding
What is this light that disturbs the peace?
Illuminating shadow without clarity
Disturbing ideas half-understood
and a dark, unnamed thing slithers, uncoils
Uncomfortable in the sudden cold, in unfamiliar light.
No questions prod, no answers hurt
Just this strange glow that lights the comfortable dark.
The dark is simple, unchallenged and enfolding.
It welcomes strange silences, holds them unquestioned.
This light, though-
It creeps out from somewhere unknown
Unwanted, distasteful
A cold, watery, brittle light-
Stretching grasping fingers
Towards truths better left in the dark.
Illuminating shadow without clarity
Disturbing ideas half-understood
and a dark, unnamed thing slithers, uncoils
Uncomfortable in the sudden cold, in unfamiliar light.
No questions prod, no answers hurt
Just this strange glow that lights the comfortable dark.
The dark is simple, unchallenged and enfolding.
It welcomes strange silences, holds them unquestioned.
This light, though-
It creeps out from somewhere unknown
Unwanted, distasteful
A cold, watery, brittle light-
Stretching grasping fingers
Towards truths better left in the dark.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Connections
Tuesday morning, 2 a.m
14409735862 : We are at the ICU.
Through sleep, she registers this number that looks like home.
"Mom, I just got this text message. Are you guys okay?"
"We're fine, what message are you talking about?"
14409735862 : Please come, she doesn't have much time left. She's asking for you.
The phone rings and rings with no replies, her call ends in a text message and voicemail.
14409735862 : She didn't make it, why wouldn't you come see her?
When he calls, they talk. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Whoever you are, whatever she meant to you, I hope you find peace. I wish you'd seen my messages last night and called the right person instead of me."
14409735862 : We are at the ICU.
Through sleep, she registers this number that looks like home.
"Mom, I just got this text message. Are you guys okay?"
"We're fine, what message are you talking about?"
14409735862 : Please come, she doesn't have much time left. She's asking for you.
The phone rings and rings with no replies, her call ends in a text message and voicemail.
14409735862 : She didn't make it, why wouldn't you come see her?
When he calls, they talk. "I'm so sorry for your loss. Whoever you are, whatever she meant to you, I hope you find peace. I wish you'd seen my messages last night and called the right person instead of me."
Thursday, June 04, 2009
Faith (f)or science
Most of life's conundrums are usually covered by the blanket answers of bhakti - "Have faith, He solves all problems in his own time." "God sees the truth, but waits."
Simple answers, requiring nothing more from me than that I smile beatifically at an idol, and ask an inanimate object to fix all my troubles.
Don't get me wrong- I do believe in a higher spirit, a universal energy that can guide and protect and solve all problems. I believe in places of power, where eons of energy lie stored, and if the connections are strong enough, each of us can reach those stores. I just don't buy into the idea that a shiny sticker of a goddess on my computer will give me greater wisdom. So what would you do, if your mentor told you to have faith in God, for he solves all problems and will give you your due?
The situation is a simple one, something we've all faced to some extent since we started school. A copies the work that B did, and passes it off as his own. Not just that, he's quite nice about it, telling B- look, we can say we did this project together, and you can share the credit.
If it were only a question of A and B, I would wage righteous crusades and make sure B got his due. The realization that morality is so much easier in the third person makes me cringe.
But this is my work, three years of research. I fought tooth and nail to prove my hypothesis, worked on a single protocol for more than a year, spent endless nights writing it all up. Through qualifiers and exams and conferences I slaved over it, and came close to quitting my Ph.D over this project. This isn't a grade on a class project at stake, it's a lot of research money, the careers of several people, possible collaborations.
Should I stick up for myself, demand my due- "Our group did the work, we should get the credit and screw the others"? Or should I choose a middle road, share the credit and diminish the value of everything that we did? Doesn't that in some cosmic way condone the wrong, say that it's acceptable to copy and demand credit for it?
What would you do, if you were me?
Simple answers, requiring nothing more from me than that I smile beatifically at an idol, and ask an inanimate object to fix all my troubles.
Don't get me wrong- I do believe in a higher spirit, a universal energy that can guide and protect and solve all problems. I believe in places of power, where eons of energy lie stored, and if the connections are strong enough, each of us can reach those stores. I just don't buy into the idea that a shiny sticker of a goddess on my computer will give me greater wisdom. So what would you do, if your mentor told you to have faith in God, for he solves all problems and will give you your due?
The situation is a simple one, something we've all faced to some extent since we started school. A copies the work that B did, and passes it off as his own. Not just that, he's quite nice about it, telling B- look, we can say we did this project together, and you can share the credit.
If it were only a question of A and B, I would wage righteous crusades and make sure B got his due. The realization that morality is so much easier in the third person makes me cringe.
But this is my work, three years of research. I fought tooth and nail to prove my hypothesis, worked on a single protocol for more than a year, spent endless nights writing it all up. Through qualifiers and exams and conferences I slaved over it, and came close to quitting my Ph.D over this project. This isn't a grade on a class project at stake, it's a lot of research money, the careers of several people, possible collaborations.
Should I stick up for myself, demand my due- "Our group did the work, we should get the credit and screw the others"? Or should I choose a middle road, share the credit and diminish the value of everything that we did? Doesn't that in some cosmic way condone the wrong, say that it's acceptable to copy and demand credit for it?
What would you do, if you were me?
Sunday, May 24, 2009
The substance of home
I don't remember why I was running that night, or what I tripped on and fell over. I remember only hitting the edge of this table, the cut on my chin and the bright blue of the wall I looked up at as I landed. My mother rushing to the doctor, and the faint scar on my chin that remains. Today, the table itself feels like something of a miracle. It's survived over twenty-five years, 10 moves across as many cities, two continents and an earthquake. I run my fingers over the edges and try to recollect being just that high, to land with my chin on that edge.
There are whole shelves everywhere, filled with the things I have gathered over the years. An old fishtank, overflowing with the toy ducks and penguins and snakes I collected. A rabbit, two interlinked bears once named Coffee and Toffee, and Maggie Ann perch on top, guarding the lot. High-school biology notes. French class books, old letters and birthday cards.. the list is endless. None of it is particularly aesthetic, most of it would be easy to classify as clutter.
That stuff that gets tossed out when you move house, sweep away dust bunnies. I, and most other 'intellectuals' I know, would like to think of ourselves as detached, these things as just material possessions- dispensable, and in some ways, deserving of disposal, as proof that nothing holds us back, ties us down to a place. When we leave, we pick up the 'essentials' and walk out. A few more aesthetic individuals would be so very disdainful of these shelves- There is one that seems to be exclusively dedicated to the extremely tasteless vases I once had a habit of gathering. A pointy shoe, a green face, a pink flowered vase, and a sheep. Ugh.
But the green face was bought for a laugh, the sheep was a gift from a friend when we were ten, and the vase, to six-year old eyes, was a thing of beauty, worth saving my pocket money and buying for my mother's birthday.
What strikes me is how my perspective has changed. Those things were preserved with sheer emotion, no thought of color schemes or price, of minimalism or theme or good design. As an adult, when I visualise my house, place my things, I want no part of the unaesthetic. If it doesn't fit, it must be tossed. Things that don't look lovely are left behind. As so many others do, I go out and buy things that fit color schemes and lighting plans, that are considered good design and reflect my personality.
Here, none of those matter. The only thing that holds this clutter together is love. The things on these shelves don't reflect my personality, just the events that shaped who I am. Pick any one of those ugly, mismatched, cheap objects, and there is a memory that justifies its persistence. More than my perfectly matched blue shelf, blue couch, and the array of hand bags that I never remember to coordinate after buying them, this is the substance of my life- the inexplicable love that sees what is important to me and holds it safe, waiting for me to come home and rediscover joy.
I'm re-thinking, now, what I want in my home, what I hold dispensable. If you had a choice, what material possessions, apart from photographs and heirlooms, would you consider essential?
There are whole shelves everywhere, filled with the things I have gathered over the years. An old fishtank, overflowing with the toy ducks and penguins and snakes I collected. A rabbit, two interlinked bears once named Coffee and Toffee, and Maggie Ann perch on top, guarding the lot. High-school biology notes. French class books, old letters and birthday cards.. the list is endless. None of it is particularly aesthetic, most of it would be easy to classify as clutter.
That stuff that gets tossed out when you move house, sweep away dust bunnies. I, and most other 'intellectuals' I know, would like to think of ourselves as detached, these things as just material possessions- dispensable, and in some ways, deserving of disposal, as proof that nothing holds us back, ties us down to a place. When we leave, we pick up the 'essentials' and walk out. A few more aesthetic individuals would be so very disdainful of these shelves- There is one that seems to be exclusively dedicated to the extremely tasteless vases I once had a habit of gathering. A pointy shoe, a green face, a pink flowered vase, and a sheep. Ugh.
But the green face was bought for a laugh, the sheep was a gift from a friend when we were ten, and the vase, to six-year old eyes, was a thing of beauty, worth saving my pocket money and buying for my mother's birthday.
What strikes me is how my perspective has changed. Those things were preserved with sheer emotion, no thought of color schemes or price, of minimalism or theme or good design. As an adult, when I visualise my house, place my things, I want no part of the unaesthetic. If it doesn't fit, it must be tossed. Things that don't look lovely are left behind. As so many others do, I go out and buy things that fit color schemes and lighting plans, that are considered good design and reflect my personality.
Here, none of those matter. The only thing that holds this clutter together is love. The things on these shelves don't reflect my personality, just the events that shaped who I am. Pick any one of those ugly, mismatched, cheap objects, and there is a memory that justifies its persistence. More than my perfectly matched blue shelf, blue couch, and the array of hand bags that I never remember to coordinate after buying them, this is the substance of my life- the inexplicable love that sees what is important to me and holds it safe, waiting for me to come home and rediscover joy.
I'm re-thinking, now, what I want in my home, what I hold dispensable. If you had a choice, what material possessions, apart from photographs and heirlooms, would you consider essential?
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
As if..
As if the universe cast these lines in the same mould- religion and region (You're Muslim? But I thought you were Bengali?), country and culture (We don't do that in this country), name and location (Michelle? I wouldn't have thought you were Indian!), language and identity (You don't speak your mother tongue?)
As if self-realisation were not difficult enough, that it must be compounded with these confused, imaginary boundaries of geography and religion.
As if self-realisation were not difficult enough, that it must be compounded with these confused, imaginary boundaries of geography and religion.
Monday, May 11, 2009
In lieu of..
A real post, this round-up shall have to suffice- News of two weddings, a baby and a trip home in two weeks !
(Yes, I know that's cheating. But in the interest of internet conservation, it's probably best.)
(Yes, I know that's cheating. But in the interest of internet conservation, it's probably best.)
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Spell-casting, part 1
Begin with an unhappy cut. The cut must be sharp, and deep enough that emotion flows out as words on paper. The source can be anything, but the cut should be neither long-drawn nor shallow- just short and sharp. A product, perhaps, of a summer afternoon, blinding headache, and too many inane conversations when you would rather be quiet. The words must be written, not remembered.
Toss them in the back of a notebook and forget about them. Remember only that a writer you admired was impressed with what you wrote.
Take a long summer night, a year later. Find an almost-stranger, whom you trust for their smile, and something more you will never be able to put into words. Preferably, live with this person for a short while. Enough to keep you close over a lifetime. In a room far from home, toss in some brightly-colored sheets, poster boards, and the iron beds and tables that are the trappings of most hostels in India. Remember the sounds of a girls' hostel settling in for the night. When the almost-stranger asks to see something you've written, one of the things you reach for is the back of that notebook. Forget this.
A few years later, tell her all that happened over the last few weeks. Why you no longer speak with someone you loved. Why you no longer trust as easily. Feel her anger rise, revel in her love for you. And over the conversation, she tells you she still has what you wrote all those years ago, and she still enjoys it. She sends it back to you, and says she feels wonderful doing it.
The charm requires several years to cast to perfection, but it never fails to buffer you with love on a bad day.
Toss them in the back of a notebook and forget about them. Remember only that a writer you admired was impressed with what you wrote.
Take a long summer night, a year later. Find an almost-stranger, whom you trust for their smile, and something more you will never be able to put into words. Preferably, live with this person for a short while. Enough to keep you close over a lifetime. In a room far from home, toss in some brightly-colored sheets, poster boards, and the iron beds and tables that are the trappings of most hostels in India. Remember the sounds of a girls' hostel settling in for the night. When the almost-stranger asks to see something you've written, one of the things you reach for is the back of that notebook. Forget this.
A few years later, tell her all that happened over the last few weeks. Why you no longer speak with someone you loved. Why you no longer trust as easily. Feel her anger rise, revel in her love for you. And over the conversation, she tells you she still has what you wrote all those years ago, and she still enjoys it. She sends it back to you, and says she feels wonderful doing it.
The charm requires several years to cast to perfection, but it never fails to buffer you with love on a bad day.
Voices
Like hands-
probing solitude
pawing their way through quiet
Voices-
suffocating thought
stifle emotions in words
Like insects-
whining, buzzing
swarms around my brain
Like claws-
plucking at skin
flinging webs of inanity
Voices-
smothering screams
in polite ‘yes’ and ‘no’.
probing solitude
pawing their way through quiet
Voices-
suffocating thought
stifle emotions in words
Like insects-
whining, buzzing
swarms around my brain
Like claws-
plucking at skin
flinging webs of inanity
Voices-
smothering screams
in polite ‘yes’ and ‘no’.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Not words nor silence
Poetry, like good coffee, is best served dark, strong and sweet. Preferably with a touch of some undefined spice that jogs memories of things half-forgotten, lingers on the tip of your tongue and leaves you half-satisfied, longing for more and trying, for the rest of your life, to re-create that taste, remember the forgotten.
"And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and
flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky. "
(Poetry, Pablo Neruda)
"And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and
flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky. "
(Poetry, Pablo Neruda)
Thursday, May 07, 2009
The dew of little things
This lovely post raised, once again, the idea of simple pleasures- "For in the dew of little things, the heart finds its morning and is refreshed." So here's a list of seven, culled for not costing a thing, not requiring too much by way of material goods (well, shoes are helpful :)), and being available anywhere, geographically.
1. Real conversations. I have proof that there is magic in friendship, magic that sprinkles fairy dust through bad days and keeps you protected from hurt. Real conversations are part of that charm.
2. Opening my eyes to life around- Birds, trees, dandelions, a potted plant in a dingy lab- A glimpse of a perfect sky is enough to lift my spirits.
3. Running. I don't go too fast or far, but it's still one of my favorite things ways to get happy.
4. Falling sick. Really :). Listening to 'real adults' gives me the impression that as we get older, taking time for the body to heal becomes a luxury. When children hurt themselves, they avoid the hurting limb, limp around, tell parents. 'Real adults' tell their limbs to stop bothering them, pop a painkiller (The equivalent of telling your body, "Shut up! I don't care what you have to say!") and get on with all-important things to do. Most mothers I know don't have the time to stay sick. Me, I'm miserable with it, but glad to be able to take the time, laze around in a robe and fuzzy socks.
5. Getting better :) - Yes, I know that's the equivalent of saying I like banging my head on the wall 'cos it feels so good when I stop. But seriously, after being sick, it feels so good to get through a day without the fatigue! Why take wellness for granted when good health can be so enjoyable?
6. Babies and small animals. Obvious, but cuteness never fails to satisfy :)
7. Fantasies. They don't cost a thing, can be conjured up anywhere, and the idea of a red-green house-sized dragon named Fitzgerald walking down Main Street demanding cookies never hurt anyone, did it?
1. Real conversations. I have proof that there is magic in friendship, magic that sprinkles fairy dust through bad days and keeps you protected from hurt. Real conversations are part of that charm.
2. Opening my eyes to life around- Birds, trees, dandelions, a potted plant in a dingy lab- A glimpse of a perfect sky is enough to lift my spirits.
3. Running. I don't go too fast or far, but it's still one of my favorite things ways to get happy.
4. Falling sick. Really :). Listening to 'real adults' gives me the impression that as we get older, taking time for the body to heal becomes a luxury. When children hurt themselves, they avoid the hurting limb, limp around, tell parents. 'Real adults' tell their limbs to stop bothering them, pop a painkiller (The equivalent of telling your body, "Shut up! I don't care what you have to say!") and get on with all-important things to do. Most mothers I know don't have the time to stay sick. Me, I'm miserable with it, but glad to be able to take the time, laze around in a robe and fuzzy socks.
5. Getting better :) - Yes, I know that's the equivalent of saying I like banging my head on the wall 'cos it feels so good when I stop. But seriously, after being sick, it feels so good to get through a day without the fatigue! Why take wellness for granted when good health can be so enjoyable?
6. Babies and small animals. Obvious, but cuteness never fails to satisfy :)
7. Fantasies. They don't cost a thing, can be conjured up anywhere, and the idea of a red-green house-sized dragon named Fitzgerald walking down Main Street demanding cookies never hurt anyone, did it?
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