.. flit through the heart, like the prickle of pain on old scars stretching.
"Hope is home, and the heart is free."
Words held like a rosary through many long nights, faithless words, empty words, words that fought to live across years and years. Strong words, resonating with wisdom I could not comprehend, words that I cling to, with faith not quite blind but not quite seeing either. Because seeing is believing, after all.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Linkage disequilibrium
Non-random. Two forms of a gene, not necessarily identical, nor in the same place. Sometimes, even on different pieces of DNA altogether. For many, many reasons, they should not link. Should not move together in evolutionary space-time without obvious reason. Yet they do.
Insomnia. The internet. Too much coffee, too much work. Too little time. Two continents and a 12 hour time difference should equal less connection.
But through your nights and my days, we write together. Through my days and your nights, we still share- Music. Work. Ideas. Coffee.
Plugged in to conversations with my mother, still. Remember birthdays from another lifetime.
Tuned out of randomness. Workplace small talk. Who used the last of the cells Who stuffed tips last Send out those emails asap. On the same plane, meaningless.
I move like an allele linked to another place, another time. In happy disequilibrium.
Insomnia. The internet. Too much coffee, too much work. Too little time. Two continents and a 12 hour time difference should equal less connection.
But through your nights and my days, we write together. Through my days and your nights, we still share- Music. Work. Ideas. Coffee.
Plugged in to conversations with my mother, still. Remember birthdays from another lifetime.
Tuned out of randomness. Workplace small talk. Who used the last of the cells Who stuffed tips last Send out those emails asap. On the same plane, meaningless.
I move like an allele linked to another place, another time. In happy disequilibrium.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Middle ground
Once upon a time, in sunset hues in a distant land, my father held Lehninger's Biochemistry on his lap and explained glycolysis and enantiomers, the cycles within cycles of breathing and respiration. In that same golden light, my mother's voice beckoned, the rhythm of Tennyson's Brook exacted to scientific precision, each word clear as the molten glass alchemists shaped once.
Now words flounder and stand bunched up in the spotlight, refugees fleeing clarity and fearing shadow. At work, I must write to simplify. The rhythms of oxidative phosphorylation and voltage-gated ion channels must be broken down, glued together with what's popular and catchy to appeal to the masses.'Science' must not be speculative. 'Interesting' is sacrificed and turned into the accurate, as if the two must necessarily be mutually exclusive.
To my eye, sunlight bouncing off chlorophyll and phytopigments is still poetry, still worth lyrics set to metered rhyme as precise as the electrons dancing. But I am told poetry must not be scientific or lucid, poetry may only be in abstract terms that complicate the most basic human emotions. Are emotions less meaningful because they have scientific explanations, or beauty lost because there is an explanation to it?
I teeter on the scales, searching for the middle ground where both sides of my childhood can still exist in that same equal, golden light.
Now words flounder and stand bunched up in the spotlight, refugees fleeing clarity and fearing shadow. At work, I must write to simplify. The rhythms of oxidative phosphorylation and voltage-gated ion channels must be broken down, glued together with what's popular and catchy to appeal to the masses.'Science' must not be speculative. 'Interesting' is sacrificed and turned into the accurate, as if the two must necessarily be mutually exclusive.
To my eye, sunlight bouncing off chlorophyll and phytopigments is still poetry, still worth lyrics set to metered rhyme as precise as the electrons dancing. But I am told poetry must not be scientific or lucid, poetry may only be in abstract terms that complicate the most basic human emotions. Are emotions less meaningful because they have scientific explanations, or beauty lost because there is an explanation to it?
I teeter on the scales, searching for the middle ground where both sides of my childhood can still exist in that same equal, golden light.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Grass
It is everywhere, underfoot in everyone's life. Nowhere of consequence, and still everywhere. In the end, everything returns to the earth and turns to grass. And it is nothing, of no importance, really. Even at the end, who thinks of grass as their next destination?
When I am sad, I turn to the grass. It is everywhere, and I can turn to it through crowded streets and rainy windows. Unnoticed, I slip into it, anywhere and everywhere. Like grass, I can be nowhere and nobody, anywhere. Un-peopled, a grassy world is a happy place. It is people that make me unhappy.
When I am sad, I turn to the grass. It is everywhere, and I can turn to it through crowded streets and rainy windows. Unnoticed, I slip into it, anywhere and everywhere. Like grass, I can be nowhere and nobody, anywhere. Un-peopled, a grassy world is a happy place. It is people that make me unhappy.
Being judgemental
When asked for an opinion, you wrap it up in words like these- Might be, perhaps, "to them it's the right thing, and who am I to judge?"
Perhaps you are right, and I might be wrong, in forming opinions in complete sentences. To them it may be the right thing to do, but I am asking about you. Who aren't you, that you would deny yourself the right to an opinion, a thought, conviction in your own beliefs? In this limited space-time, why not frame your personality in words that express your self with conviction, your views punctuated clearly in the light of your own reasoning?
It is a contradiction to think that one of my firmest beliefs is in being individualistic- to 'let' others do what they want without forcing them to change, give people the space and time they need for self-realization. But I have this need to evaluate, weigh the actions of one against the other and in the difference frame another facet of my understanding. After the balancing, they may step off my mental scales and go back to being themselves, but I seem unable to let go off this process. You, on the other hand, have no problems with never considering, never balancing and accepting unconditionally. They are what they are, and I am what I am. Why must we weigh and measure that as greater or this as lesser?
I find myself in the tilt of those scales, in the balancing act that helps me decide how to live my life as myself. And I ask you now- where do you find yourself, in this unconditional sea of unthinking acceptance? How, in the million ways of living a life and being happy, do you decide which one you want?
Perhaps you are right, and I might be wrong, in forming opinions in complete sentences. To them it may be the right thing to do, but I am asking about you. Who aren't you, that you would deny yourself the right to an opinion, a thought, conviction in your own beliefs? In this limited space-time, why not frame your personality in words that express your self with conviction, your views punctuated clearly in the light of your own reasoning?
It is a contradiction to think that one of my firmest beliefs is in being individualistic- to 'let' others do what they want without forcing them to change, give people the space and time they need for self-realization. But I have this need to evaluate, weigh the actions of one against the other and in the difference frame another facet of my understanding. After the balancing, they may step off my mental scales and go back to being themselves, but I seem unable to let go off this process. You, on the other hand, have no problems with never considering, never balancing and accepting unconditionally. They are what they are, and I am what I am. Why must we weigh and measure that as greater or this as lesser?
I find myself in the tilt of those scales, in the balancing act that helps me decide how to live my life as myself. And I ask you now- where do you find yourself, in this unconditional sea of unthinking acceptance? How, in the million ways of living a life and being happy, do you decide which one you want?
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Strength training
There has always been this refrain, in the background.
Lose ten pounds.
Pretty. Dark. Big. Graceful.
Lose ten pounds.
Wide hips. Bad skin. Great hair. Big feet.
Lose ten pounds.
Through years and phases, swinging through all my memory of childhood and beyond, are these words. Physical descriptors, half-pleasant, half-unpleasant. The day I overheard my PT instructor pass a comment about my giant hips, and the same evening that the ladies in the temple gushed over me, asking if I was the dancer scheduled for the evening's performance. The day I was supposed to be sleeping, when a despairing maiden aunt asked my mother- "She's so dark and fat, make sure she loses weight or you will never find a groom." I was twelve. Being told, through acne and awards, top marks and good writing and terrible physics, to lose ten pounds to look good. As if they were all that stood between me and confidence, success and true love.
Confused, I chose to lose the body, in dreams that left me single, and preferably invisible. And when the refrain changed, it only confused me more. Suddenly, it is acceptable to be unhealthily obese and still consider oneself lovely. There are opinions and clothes and people and places that have expanded to fit these sizes, and I am still confused, unsure whether to stand when they call for the petites or the large-framed women, the tall or the average or the perfectly-toned. I am lost in many descriptors- It is only one body, and I don't know where to place it.
I see-saw in self images, the woman's compliments struggling to outweigh the child's hurt, all over an image and size that has remained largely unchanged. I've asked, over and over- Am I beautiful? And never believed the answer yes, because beauty itself was so hard to define, it seemed. Of late, this is my answer- Lift the weight, don't obsess over losing it. Don't avoid the comments, just outrun them.
And I forget them all, in the hardest, most comforting way I have found. Beauty is in strength, in knowing my possibilities and reaching past my toes, and resilience is in beauty, expanding my limits as my arm arches overhead, weights in hand. And beauty and strength come together in the most perfect way possible when I run, in the feel of road and wind and sun.
And to all those words that I questioned myself with, I have an answer that pleases both the child and the woman within.
"Oh you're so pretty!"
Perhaps, but I can run 20 miles.
"You'll never get those jeans past those hips."
Perhaps, but I can still run 20 miles.
In strength and health, in the light of my clear, fatigued mind after a run, my body becomes visible to me, slowly. Just as it is, and it fits me perfectly, regardless of the perceptions its sometimes squeezed into.
Lose ten pounds.
Pretty. Dark. Big. Graceful.
Lose ten pounds.
Wide hips. Bad skin. Great hair. Big feet.
Lose ten pounds.
Through years and phases, swinging through all my memory of childhood and beyond, are these words. Physical descriptors, half-pleasant, half-unpleasant. The day I overheard my PT instructor pass a comment about my giant hips, and the same evening that the ladies in the temple gushed over me, asking if I was the dancer scheduled for the evening's performance. The day I was supposed to be sleeping, when a despairing maiden aunt asked my mother- "She's so dark and fat, make sure she loses weight or you will never find a groom." I was twelve. Being told, through acne and awards, top marks and good writing and terrible physics, to lose ten pounds to look good. As if they were all that stood between me and confidence, success and true love.
Confused, I chose to lose the body, in dreams that left me single, and preferably invisible. And when the refrain changed, it only confused me more. Suddenly, it is acceptable to be unhealthily obese and still consider oneself lovely. There are opinions and clothes and people and places that have expanded to fit these sizes, and I am still confused, unsure whether to stand when they call for the petites or the large-framed women, the tall or the average or the perfectly-toned. I am lost in many descriptors- It is only one body, and I don't know where to place it.
I see-saw in self images, the woman's compliments struggling to outweigh the child's hurt, all over an image and size that has remained largely unchanged. I've asked, over and over- Am I beautiful? And never believed the answer yes, because beauty itself was so hard to define, it seemed. Of late, this is my answer- Lift the weight, don't obsess over losing it. Don't avoid the comments, just outrun them.
And I forget them all, in the hardest, most comforting way I have found. Beauty is in strength, in knowing my possibilities and reaching past my toes, and resilience is in beauty, expanding my limits as my arm arches overhead, weights in hand. And beauty and strength come together in the most perfect way possible when I run, in the feel of road and wind and sun.
And to all those words that I questioned myself with, I have an answer that pleases both the child and the woman within.
"Oh you're so pretty!"
Perhaps, but I can run 20 miles.
"You'll never get those jeans past those hips."
Perhaps, but I can still run 20 miles.
In strength and health, in the light of my clear, fatigued mind after a run, my body becomes visible to me, slowly. Just as it is, and it fits me perfectly, regardless of the perceptions its sometimes squeezed into.
Monday, May 03, 2010
Middle ground-1
Once upon a time, in sunset hues in a distant land, my father held Lehninger's Biochemistry on his lap and explained glycolysis and enantiomers, the cycles within cycles of breathing and respiration. In that same golden light, my mother's voice beckoned, the rhythm of Tennyson's Brook exacted to scientific precision, each word clear as the molten glass alchemists shaped once.
Now words flounder and stand bunched up in the spotlight, refugees fleeing clarity and fearing shadow. At work, I must write to simplify. The rhythms of oxidative phosphorylation and voltage-gated ion channels must be broken down, glued together with what's popular and catchy to appeal to the masses.'Science' must not be speculative. 'Interesting' is sacrificed and turned into the accurate, as if the two must necessarily be mutually exclusive.
To my eye, sunlight bouncing off chlorophyll and phytopigments is still poetry, still worth lyrics set to metered rhyme as precise as the electrons dancing. Poetry must not be scientific or lucid, poetry may only be in abstract terms that complicate the most basic human emotions. Are emotions less meaningful because they have scientific explanations, or beauty lost because there is an explanation to it?
I teeter on the scales, searching for the middle ground where both sides of my childhood can still exist in that same equal, golden light.
Now words flounder and stand bunched up in the spotlight, refugees fleeing clarity and fearing shadow. At work, I must write to simplify. The rhythms of oxidative phosphorylation and voltage-gated ion channels must be broken down, glued together with what's popular and catchy to appeal to the masses.'Science' must not be speculative. 'Interesting' is sacrificed and turned into the accurate, as if the two must necessarily be mutually exclusive.
To my eye, sunlight bouncing off chlorophyll and phytopigments is still poetry, still worth lyrics set to metered rhyme as precise as the electrons dancing. Poetry must not be scientific or lucid, poetry may only be in abstract terms that complicate the most basic human emotions. Are emotions less meaningful because they have scientific explanations, or beauty lost because there is an explanation to it?
I teeter on the scales, searching for the middle ground where both sides of my childhood can still exist in that same equal, golden light.
Friday, April 30, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
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.
Monday, April 26, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, April 19, 2010
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.
Monday, April 12, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
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?
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?
Monday, January 04, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
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?
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?
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?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)