The comfort of myth

What do you do, when faced with insurmountable obstacles? Over the last few years, I've had more than what I let on or calculated for. Some of them, I knew I was getting into a challenge- research, marriage, living with strangers. Others, I doubt anyone could have anticipated. The most trained researchers and doctors in the most scientifically advanced country have stood staring at numbers in charts, unable to resolve the contradictions between numbers and 'reality'. There are no explanations, except the ones I offer myself, trusting in the power of the mind to heal just as strongly as it can hurt.

And there are these, not quite as petty as the quotidien struggles of kitchen supplies, not as painful or requiring of faith as medical mysteries. Just this everyday struggle of incompetence and inefficiency, of poor work ethic and people so irresponsible and blind to their own insufficiencies as they blame the world for their problems, and I struggle, pulling every fiber of my being together to remind myself to stay in the present. Not dwell on the mistakes they made two years ago, not dwell on what should have been done or could have been done ten years ago. Live in the now, and deal with the current problem- Advice that I excel at applying to personal problems, and struggle so much with at work and elsewhere.

I always assumed objectivity and rational thought was easier outside the little bubble of the people closest to me. When logic and basic evolutionary principles that assume people would choose the best actions to ensure their survival fail, I fall back on myth. The stories of my childhood, of an egoistic, pompous man, who was granted a wish by the gods. (Why did the gods grant the wish of a demon? Who knows, but in an attempt to explain a world where bad people have power, let's assume they do.)

Once upon a time, there lived a man who prayed and prayed, and was granted a wish, that if he laid his hand on a person's head, they would be reduced to ashes. He traveled the world, creating havoc and pain and confusion, until the gods were forced to intervene. I take silly satisfaction in the fact that god chose the form of a woman to mete his judgement. The girl danced with the man, danced until he matched her skill, and then forced him to follow as she placed her hand on her head. And in following, he was forced to face his own malice, and lost power and self when he turned to a heap of ashes.

I am no beautiful dancer descended from the skies, nor are these people demons of limitless power, that I should dance to their tunes and beat them at their own games. But I wonder still, in moments of frustration, what would happen if I forced them to face their own contradictions. In the objective world, my mind plays these games, where myth and strategic manipulation dance this jubalbandi that brings me to a space where, if not resolution, at least there is solace.

Ebb and flow

Am I writing about dandelions a little too much? They are everywhere now, sprinkled through the mundane-ness of lawns like sudden smiles, like the simple blessings that so often make for a perfect day. Spilling over, unasked for. Like relationships that span fifteen years, stretching and snapping at the seams and rebounding to a grateful security, from dead leaf to blossom to seeds on the wind. Like our families blending, past age and geography and language, simply because once we picked flowers together for our botany projects. Picking up where we left off, peering at ferns and moss together, knowing our eyes are equally open to these littlenesses (like the smell of herbs in warm spring grass) and then swirling into the future as your daughter fills my lap with wildflowers. Blessings, like wildflowers it seems, just wait for us to look for them with innocence, with less expectation and more joyfulness in these simple blues and yellows.

Beloved

Over and over she comes up to me. My back is always to her. I am browsing in an airport bookstore, at home among my favorite authors. She is always pretty and coltish, sometimes awkward, other times cute. Her dark hair is always chopped short. Over and over, she calls my name. Not the name you know me by, not the name I call myself. She calls me Akka, or Maasi, or Chitti.. It is always soft and shy and tentative, and there is always music in her life. Sometimes she is a singer, other times a musician. Her name is always a variant of the word 'Beloved'. She is named for love, and she calls my name as if I would forget her. She is the haunted one, and yet I am the one who lies awake all night. Dreamless and dry-eyed and worrying, as I browse my little bookstore paradise, and she walks up to me and calls out my name from her memories.

She is always lost, and always hesitant. I never know where she has been, all these years. You see, I never knew her. Only her mother, who was someone I loved, who married and had this child, beloved and precious. And walked away with her, from her..into places that I can never see, cannot comprehend. And this child comes back to me, adult and questioning, big-eyed and innocent. And I never have the answers.

Where were you when my father hit my mother? Why was she so full of herself that she never saw me? Where were you when she walked away from him? Why could she never be happy? Didn't you love me, that you would keep in touch and look for me on trains and planes and the cities you knew my mother would run to and take me along?

And most of all, she asks me this - Why did you love her so much, when she was so flawed? And if you loved her, why didn't you stop her?

In dreams, over and over.. I say I'm sorry, and I wish I had been there. Awake, I remind myself that I am here, and I am sorry, and I still do nothing.

What a difference..

I've always had this not-so-secret fascination with makeover shows. Homes, wardrobes, people- Just a difference in fabric, posture, lighting, a slightly different tint of blush or yellow on a wall or face, and there's the fairy-tale transformation of the ugly duckling to the swan. According to the people on these shows, the right dress can make all the difference in finding the perfect job, true love, self-confidence, and anything else you might be looking for.

He first caught my eye at the copier machine in the office yesterday- Blond, bespectacled, and incredibly cute. He caught my eye, but fairly sure he'd pay no attention to me, I gave him a polite half-smile and turned away to wage my daily battle with the monster machine that refuses to yield my printouts without several slams and kicks (Yes, this is why I work out.) When I turned around again, he was still there, staring at me, gape-jawed and fascinated. Wow. Him, looking at me? Who would've thought? I'm pretty sure he doesn't talk to strange nerdy girls.
But a tentative, smiling 'Hi' later, he walked across the room to me.

"Hi, are you a real doctor? Can I have one of those?" (pointing to the surgical glove dangling from my pocket).
Apparently my white lab coat and the right accessories (blue glove, anyone?) can transform me from a stranger that one never talks to, to an object of absolute fascination to a six year old.

Into dandelions

On the bus, through a windowpane, I slip
Into the grass.
Up these small sunbursts of yellow, I rise
On birdsong,
A single note held up to the clouds.
Slide down branches held up to the light
Through petals, into the strength of tree root and earth
And back into myself, replenished, complete.

'I' write, and is it the voice of grass, or clouds, or the parched self that slipped into them? It seems I only find myself when I can learn to move into a greater consciousness of self.

Choosing my confessions

There are words, and there are words. I pick and choose, gleaning and matching words to thought. I could write, I think, a poem about becoming the wind and ruffling the beautiful uncut hair of the earth as I walked across the parking lot last night. Or perhaps a symphony of the heart and muscle as they dance together on a long run, paced to the rhythm of racing blood and air. Wrap words around the way I hold silence like a precious secret in time slipped carelessly through the weave of inane chatter. If I could choose the words to wrap them, I would gift these to you- These silences of power and calm and contentment, a spell against all the dark magic the world chooses to throw our way. A spell to hold you calm as you ride out the winds that fling you wildly through these times. I wish I could take you into this realization of oneness that gives me so much faith, this infallible sense of security in the universe. But there are words that can be spoken, and words I cannot find, and so I choose my confessions and my silences, the writing and the living.

In silence, I work and run and talk and laugh and live. There is a time for words, and a time to wrap myself in silence and drift on spring breezes into summer, hoping you catch the wind and drift with me.

Homecoming

I have lived in this city for 4 years and six months to the day. I've walked and run and driven all over these streets, shopped the stores and know the interesting places in the area. Planted flowers and pulled weeds through summer,watched bulbs I planted come up in the spring. Shoveled snow, built snowmen, thrown snow balls and made angels. Baked cookies and decorated Christmas trees, lit lamps for Diwali and eaten pongal with friends. Lived with friends and family, fallen out of love and in it, gotten married and played house. I've grown up here, in many ways.

And still, at the end of the day, I want to go home. Home to dusty streets and a pani-puri wala, home to noise and confusion and screaming contests with my mother, the maid, the furniture delivery guy, and the kid across the street. Just home. Home to the smell of rain and my mother's cooking, home to harsh white tube lights and laughing with my father. Where for some reason, I lose weight even as I eat my fill, where my skin stops reacting to the sun even when I spend the entire day outdoors. Where life flows seamlessly from the world around into me and back again.

It's not like I didn't try. Love, work, friends, traditions, fun- I listed the ingredients and captured them all, but it still wasn't home, until the sun rose this morning.

As I drove to work, the winter sun-that-might-have-been moon played through bare branches and wimpy clouds, pretending, trying, to warm the earth. And for the first time, I felt the season change. Something elemental, for there is nothing to suggest spring yet. Something instinctive, as the physical memory plugged in at last, connecting me to the pace of the seasons and whispering of things that are and things to come. The gentleness of snow, the depth of springtime, the strength of flowers and the warmth of the earth shielded by winter.

Once again, I feel the slant of the sun in my veins, as it changes from a blazing sunset on a Delhi terrace to this moon-sun that plays through trees and roofs and dances to a rhythm that I have only just begun to sense. I am learning, at last, the feel of the earth beneath my feet, the wind and the sun and the subtler, softer words they speak in this air. At last, we're on the home stretch. I touch the earth, and the earth touches me.

Spare me spring-time, this year.
Saturated color, perfect pastels
Arrangements of adequate proportion and number
A continuous striving for harmony in monotonous buzzing spaces
Counted, shaped, pruned and prosperous
Spare me rhythmic repetition and those horrendous bursts-
Of obviously unexpected fake cheer and inane contrived mystery.

Clutch instead at words retrieved from dusty clarity,
Hold them from slipping into this anonymity of spring.
Give me hungry words, intense as dust choking my breath.
Words that lie parched in the sun,
then swell with the rain and flood the spirit.
Give me words that fight to live.

There are these words of power, that escape as whiffs
From traffic jams and haggling vendors and pollution and hunger-
In little puffs, there are genuine smiles, real anger
Catch those crests and weave them into words for me again.
Give me words that ooze and crack and bleed
Spare me the flowers, this year.

If you're Indian (or India-aware), you're likely to be familiar with the name 'IIT', and what it might mean to someone in Class 12 studying science. In case you're neither of those, suffice it to say that a while ago, about ten or twenty ambitious, intelligent 16 year olds in the country killed themselves because they couldn't get into the IITs to study engineering. A handful of others would die after getting into this prestigious institute, and it usually had nothing to do with the academic pressure, which was, and is, legendary.

But what I'm about to tell you today has nothing to do with those many suicides. It's about a fish tank in a cafeteria in one of the oldest IIT campuses. It's an extremely well-kept, large tank, out in the open where sunlight filters through trees and glistens off a dozen large white fish. Try and take a look at it sometime, even perhaps as you rush into the cafeteria to ask directions to the railway station, desperately trying to beat traffic and get on the train home. With my need to notice and admire them even as we rushed on our way, and your annoyance with my lack of focus on flagging an auto down. Really, did you think I would forget how to wave my fingers to get the driver's attention if I did not focus all my energies on my arm ?

In a rambling walk over the hills of thought, with perhaps a little dabbling in streams of consciousness on the way home, my point has to do with those fish, and our differing reactions to them. The point itself is a simple one, and short too-

Happiness is peripheral.

If I could offer only piece of advice to you and get you to accept it, that would be it. Life is ridiculously hard, and ignoring peripheral joy doesn't make it simpler. The big issues are and always will be the big issues.

Work.
Food.
Health.
Money.
Relationships.

There will never be enough of the first few, and there will always be one too many inconvenient relationships. But happiness weaves itself in and out of it all, and keeps you company through all the striving, if you only pay a little attention.

Instead, we walk these long difficult roads, with me stopping to pick dandelions and watch butterflies and fish, and you dragging me back to keep my eyes on some far-off, as yet invisible grand prize that we are all endlessly striving for. When I show you the dandelions, you only say, "That's not important right now." "Let's stay focused here." You remind me- the road is long, it will soon be night, we are running out of food and must make for the next town for resources, or wolves might fall on us in the night. We must hurry, and hurry now. Don't lose sight of the big picture. The dandelions can wait.

For what, I wonder? And why?

Of (oxy)morons..

Voice your opinion.
VOTE NOW.
Express your feelings.
Follow your innermost dreams to the point of idiocy. Not insanity, which would be far more acceptable, at least to me.

Self-expression is often over-rated. Why is the constant casting forth of the self so important? So much more fun to sit back and watch people act like morons in an attempt to convince the world they're right and interesting and their opinions on furniture design, hangovers and good restaurants are of greater significance to the world than most other things.

Suddenly, so few people seem worth engaging in conversation with. Am I talking to the wrong people, or talking about the wrong things?
(Yes, I realize this post makes me sound like a conceited, opinionated jerk too.If you don't like it, please excuse yourself while I finish growing up here.)

Even my silence is filled with these opinions- foolish, conceited opinions that leave me unsatisfied and disgusted, yet unable to move past them into things more meaningful and permanent.

Metaphors for words

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?

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?

Baadalon ka naam na ho, ambar ke gaon mein
Jalta ho jungle jab, apni chaaon mein
Yahi to hai mausam
Aao, tum aur hum
Baarish ke nagme gungunae
Thoda sa roomani ho jaaye


(From the movie Thoda sa roomani..)

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.

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.)

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.

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

“What would there be in a story of happiness? Only what prepares it, only what destroys it can be told.”

-Andre Gide

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?

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.