At the balcony, smokers assemble for a break. Smoke-edged words hang heavy in the air, long after they leave. I head for the loo - my refuge where I piece my sanity together. Take it easy, I tell myself...Chill...It's only October..Too early to take stock of your life...To walk those roads again where you stumbled...To relive those moments when you walked on the clouds...To gleefully show Life the finger, saying with a wink: "Here I still am, sweetheart!" We are readying the last rites for 2007...Soon, I will find myself making resolutions for 2008...The first resolution should be to carry out all resolutions...Now, I'll hold the looking glass of narcissism and take a plunge into the dark depths of existentialism and emerge in one piece, hopefully...
Why the hell am I here? What's my aim in life? Yep...My brain's as addled as it was at 18...At 18, I wanted to hurry up Time...Fly fast, fly! Make me 27/28 quick so that I'd have achieved my aim safely by then and need not worry about it...Little did I know that as I steady myself on the quicksand of another year, I would still be puzzled about that evasive 'aim in life...' What exactly do I want? Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said there are only two tragedies - Not knowing what one wants and knowing what one wants. Perhaps, there are two kinds of people too - smart ones who know their destination and are armed with the requisite gear and hopeless ones like me who don't know where their own feet are taking but are grateful they have travelled so far without a guiding star or a map...It was all about following my instincts, though my instincts have not led me to a remarkable spot under the sun...
Wherever I am, I feel lucky right now am here...Though a lil lost on the highway of life, I can see the long, winding road ahead...Perhaps as I walk, I'll make my own discoveries...Not the ones that create history and earn you your fifteen minutes of fame (Among other things, I love Andy Warhol for predicting:"In the future, everyone will be famous for 15 minutes") but the ones that create a new geographical terrain, a wee bit smooth and a wee bit craggy, where I wander, meander or flop down as I discover myself somewhere outside my Self...
But I can see it's one helluva road...And I am not alone...As I walk, I meet fellow walkers...Some quicken their pace, leaving me behind...Sometimes, I race ahead while they trudge along...Sometimes, they look back to catch a glimpse of me...And at times, I look back to reassure myself they were indeed there once upon a time, walking side by side with me...They find new companions, I meet new ones...At times I am sad, when I walk and find them by the road, waiting for me...And I say, with a half-strangled guilt :"Sorry, I have moved on"...And I walk past them, while they wonder why they left me midway...And while they pause, I am glad they once had left me behind...
And for some, I wait...Hoping against hope they'll catch up with me soon...Or I walk back a bit, hoping to see them quick...Or run ahead a bit to keep pace with them...And somewhere down the road I realise, I must let go of people who want to go...And accept those who want to be with me, and with whom I want to be too...As I trace some faint outlines, I realise some have changed in a few seconds...The shock of recognition sinks, taking its own sweet time...And I bid adieu to friends who have become strangers, and meet strangers who become friends...
Some stay, blindly making their way with me on foggy nights...Some see me only in the bright, white light of a sunny day when I squint my eyes, staring at the fierce sun and my eyes hurt and despite the stupid tears, I stare defiantly at the sun like I did as a kid...Some get wet with me on a rainy night, despite the threats of a chill and a fever...And some get lost in the mists of time, never to reappear...
And I wonder, how long do I have to perform in this Theatre of the Absurd...Who cares whether I hear an applause or feel the brickbats hurled at me? All I know is that I don't wanna hear shouts of "Encore!" I simply will hope I gave it all my best...Hope, as Arthur Miller said, I finally manage to take life in my arms :-) After the performance, I want the lights to slowly fade out and the curtain to come down with a finality...Finis.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Sunday, October 21, 2007
How To Please Your Girl In 10 Easy Steps
Today is navami and I have nothing better to do now. I visit one pandal, and I feel I have visited 'em all. I am missing office. Seriously. So here I am again, killing time. A guy, the other day, was muttering how difficult it is to understand women. Like Freud, though not in his exact words, he wondered aloud: "What the hell does she want?" For him and all guys who are in the dark about what it takes to keep your GFs as pleased as punch, here's Mimi's quick fix for all your 'woman problems.' Just pay attention:
1. It was love at first sight...You saw us, your heart flipped and soon you experienced all the symptoms of a heart attack without knowing it. You recognised 'Her'! Chill. Count till 10. Or meditate. And then for Christ's sake, tell us what exactly drew you to us - the generous bustline or the expansive ass! Truth hurts; and we women can bear it. In fact, we can bear more than just babies. We are simply programmed that way. Reserve that 'love at first sight' story for strangers on a stormy night when all of you are trapped under a mobile phone outlet's awning and need to find ways to amuse each other...
2. Your past relationships are history. Absolutely! But not for us. We want to know about them as they would provide not-so-subtle clues about the kind of guy you really are. So just shut up and tell us what we want to hear, even at the risk of looking like a fool. You will probably feel like you have willfully exorcised the ghosts from the past for a few minutes and then for a few days, you will feel like you have extended them an open invitation to haunt you again. The sooner you lift the illusory veil, the fewer misunderstandings you create...
3. If you are curious about our past, just ask us. And if we talk about our ex-BF on our own, it's because perhaps something you said or did reminded us of him or we want you to know about our past. Stop hallucinating that we are trying to make you feel jealous or want you to emulate him. If we were in love with him, we wouldn't be here with you...
4. So your Mom's the best cook? We always knew it; just as we knew your Dad would never second that. So chill again. Perhaps there are certain - please note 'certain' - dishes she makes really well. Good. If we find them equally good, we will join the chorus and praise her too. And also borrow the recipes. Don't go overboard. Your Mom's as normal a being as we are with her normal share of follies and virtues, and your Dad must have had his fair share of burnt toast days. Relax. We don't intend to compete with her. We know the difference between being a lover and being a Mom. And no, all women don't think their Dads are perfect men and you need to be like them. Dads are just Dads; and you can only be you...
5. If we bitch about our friends & workplace, just listen to us for all we want is a passive ear into which our smoothly, concocted woes can flow into endlessly. Your opinions? We will let you know if we badly need them in simple sentences like - "What do you think I should do?" or "Please say something." Until you hear these words, don't volunteer an answer or risk an opinion. When asked, just say something that soothes her already frayed nerves to show you care and are there for her. For practical and intelligent advice, she would simply turn to a pair of female ears. So don't fret. Just listen. Of course, there are a 100 better things to do. Or perhaps 1000. But when she talks, you listen. Just as when you malign your more successful colleagues and badmouth your gem of a boss, we listen...
6. Flowers, pets, cell phones, bags, shoes, dresses, movies, cappuccinos, black forests, toys, ice creams & chocolates solve everything. Wrong. Crap. Nonsense. Rubbish. We wish, like you, they would or could. But they don't. And never will. So stop fooling us. And stop fooling yourselves. Repeat 100 times or better still, write 10 times - 'Money doesn't buy relationships.' Period.
7. Her favourite actors and sports stars are just that - actors and sports stars. She doesn't expect you to look, act or earn like them. And even in her wildest dreams, you are never gonna look, act or earn like them. Just as you know Shahrukh's mutton dressed as lamb & hams like crazy and Salman's all brawn & no brains, she knows Pamela Anderson is all silicon & botox. So just indulge her fantasies - like she indulges your favourite Angelina Jolie ones...
8. Her looks are a dangerous ground to tread. We agree. Just be brutally honest about them - things you like, things that can be changed for the better, her dressing sense or the lack of it, make-up, spare tyres etc. At the end of it all, tell her even if she ends up looking like something your alley cat brought home, you still love her. A lot. If you still don't love her, then you better quit. And if she can't take the truth straight, you quit too. Love cannot and must not live on lies. And you must respect her individuality as that's where her uniqueness lies. Don't try to change everything about her; sometimes, it's important to accept people with all their idiosyncrasies and follies. That's love...
9. SMSes, phone calls and mails are just a means of communication. If she cribs about how such things are missing suddenly, it simply means you have to reassure her you are still there. That's it. Don't offer stupid explanations like you were busy blah-blah. No matter how busy you are, it takes barely 5 seconds to ring her up and say those magic words again! It simply shows you care, and more than anything, that's all she wants...
10. You only have to pay one thing, like I said before - attention. Not all the time. But yeah, most of the time. And trust me, with that, you have paid more than enough.
Keep her happy & stay happy :-)
I have a feeling that I dispense better tips than the silly guy who writes 'Craig's Corner' column which appears every Saturday in The Hindu and which probably many read to keep track how worse this guy can get! Why doesn't someone fire him & hire me????!!!!!!!
1. It was love at first sight...You saw us, your heart flipped and soon you experienced all the symptoms of a heart attack without knowing it. You recognised 'Her'! Chill. Count till 10. Or meditate. And then for Christ's sake, tell us what exactly drew you to us - the generous bustline or the expansive ass! Truth hurts; and we women can bear it. In fact, we can bear more than just babies. We are simply programmed that way. Reserve that 'love at first sight' story for strangers on a stormy night when all of you are trapped under a mobile phone outlet's awning and need to find ways to amuse each other...
2. Your past relationships are history. Absolutely! But not for us. We want to know about them as they would provide not-so-subtle clues about the kind of guy you really are. So just shut up and tell us what we want to hear, even at the risk of looking like a fool. You will probably feel like you have willfully exorcised the ghosts from the past for a few minutes and then for a few days, you will feel like you have extended them an open invitation to haunt you again. The sooner you lift the illusory veil, the fewer misunderstandings you create...
3. If you are curious about our past, just ask us. And if we talk about our ex-BF on our own, it's because perhaps something you said or did reminded us of him or we want you to know about our past. Stop hallucinating that we are trying to make you feel jealous or want you to emulate him. If we were in love with him, we wouldn't be here with you...
4. So your Mom's the best cook? We always knew it; just as we knew your Dad would never second that. So chill again. Perhaps there are certain - please note 'certain' - dishes she makes really well. Good. If we find them equally good, we will join the chorus and praise her too. And also borrow the recipes. Don't go overboard. Your Mom's as normal a being as we are with her normal share of follies and virtues, and your Dad must have had his fair share of burnt toast days. Relax. We don't intend to compete with her. We know the difference between being a lover and being a Mom. And no, all women don't think their Dads are perfect men and you need to be like them. Dads are just Dads; and you can only be you...
5. If we bitch about our friends & workplace, just listen to us for all we want is a passive ear into which our smoothly, concocted woes can flow into endlessly. Your opinions? We will let you know if we badly need them in simple sentences like - "What do you think I should do?" or "Please say something." Until you hear these words, don't volunteer an answer or risk an opinion. When asked, just say something that soothes her already frayed nerves to show you care and are there for her. For practical and intelligent advice, she would simply turn to a pair of female ears. So don't fret. Just listen. Of course, there are a 100 better things to do. Or perhaps 1000. But when she talks, you listen. Just as when you malign your more successful colleagues and badmouth your gem of a boss, we listen...
6. Flowers, pets, cell phones, bags, shoes, dresses, movies, cappuccinos, black forests, toys, ice creams & chocolates solve everything. Wrong. Crap. Nonsense. Rubbish. We wish, like you, they would or could. But they don't. And never will. So stop fooling us. And stop fooling yourselves. Repeat 100 times or better still, write 10 times - 'Money doesn't buy relationships.' Period.
7. Her favourite actors and sports stars are just that - actors and sports stars. She doesn't expect you to look, act or earn like them. And even in her wildest dreams, you are never gonna look, act or earn like them. Just as you know Shahrukh's mutton dressed as lamb & hams like crazy and Salman's all brawn & no brains, she knows Pamela Anderson is all silicon & botox. So just indulge her fantasies - like she indulges your favourite Angelina Jolie ones...
8. Her looks are a dangerous ground to tread. We agree. Just be brutally honest about them - things you like, things that can be changed for the better, her dressing sense or the lack of it, make-up, spare tyres etc. At the end of it all, tell her even if she ends up looking like something your alley cat brought home, you still love her. A lot. If you still don't love her, then you better quit. And if she can't take the truth straight, you quit too. Love cannot and must not live on lies. And you must respect her individuality as that's where her uniqueness lies. Don't try to change everything about her; sometimes, it's important to accept people with all their idiosyncrasies and follies. That's love...
9. SMSes, phone calls and mails are just a means of communication. If she cribs about how such things are missing suddenly, it simply means you have to reassure her you are still there. That's it. Don't offer stupid explanations like you were busy blah-blah. No matter how busy you are, it takes barely 5 seconds to ring her up and say those magic words again! It simply shows you care, and more than anything, that's all she wants...
10. You only have to pay one thing, like I said before - attention. Not all the time. But yeah, most of the time. And trust me, with that, you have paid more than enough.
Keep her happy & stay happy :-)
I have a feeling that I dispense better tips than the silly guy who writes 'Craig's Corner' column which appears every Saturday in The Hindu and which probably many read to keep track how worse this guy can get! Why doesn't someone fire him & hire me????!!!!!!!
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Point To Ponder :-)
Naguib Mahfouz, the Egyptian writer who was awarded the 1988 Nobel Prize in Literature, wrote Palace Walk, the first of his Cairo Trilogy, in 1956 in Arabic. The novel covers the tumultous period between 1917 & the Egyptian Revolution of 1919...And I am reading this 498-page novel, translated by Hutchins & Kenny, at the fag end of 2007...I have just reached the 339th page...Yasin, the libertine, is disturbed by the morality that threatens to strangle his desires and wonders:
"For me, being a husband who is faithful to his marriage would be death. One sight, one sound, one taste incessantly repeated and repeated until there's no difference between motion and inertia. Sound and silence become twins...No, certainly not, that's not why I got married...If she's said to have a fair complexion, then does that mean I have no desire for a brown-skinned woman or a black? If she's said to be pleasingly plump, what consolation will I have for skinny women or huge ones? If she's refined, from a noble and distinguished family, should I neglect the good qualities of girls whose fathers push carts around in the streets?... Forward...forward..." :)
"For me, being a husband who is faithful to his marriage would be death. One sight, one sound, one taste incessantly repeated and repeated until there's no difference between motion and inertia. Sound and silence become twins...No, certainly not, that's not why I got married...If she's said to have a fair complexion, then does that mean I have no desire for a brown-skinned woman or a black? If she's said to be pleasingly plump, what consolation will I have for skinny women or huge ones? If she's refined, from a noble and distinguished family, should I neglect the good qualities of girls whose fathers push carts around in the streets?... Forward...forward..." :)
Monday, October 8, 2007
Rain Cure
Angry Young Woman-I
XX, who's enjoying a break from her husband, and I watch the rain slantingly fall on the manicured lawn at City Centre. A PYT in a black spaghetti top and tight low-waist jeans screams into her shocking pink Motorola in a trilling voice: "What do you mean you are on your way? I have been waiting for you for more than an hour, looking like a fool! People are staring at me!"
XX & I exchange knowing glances.XX, who has had many a wild affair before her tame arranged marriage, smilingly says: "Haven't I been through all that?"
I nod sagely: "Yea...This too shall pass!"
XX seeks an explanation.
I offer: "Ah, I was referring to the girl. What I meant is that this agonized waiting will soon be over for that girl. This incident will find a pride of place along with others in the dustbin of her memory!"
She understands: "Hmm...Isn't it nice... Just sitting here...Silently?"
I agree: "Yea! It's nice...Watching life pass by..."And the drizzle continues...
..........................................................
Angry Young Woman-II
Wearing worn out sneakers, I set out in the rain at around 8 pm, with an old, solemn black brolly. Mom tries to stop me. Can't a soul venture out of the house without her questioning? Just because I have fever, a throbbing headache & sore throat, does it mean I have to stay cooped in that damned room for more than 48 hours? The cold biting wind freezes my feverish face and the rain mercilessly beats against my right arm, wetting the sleeve and slowly me. A chill runs down my spine. I feel weak; slightly dizzy and the head-splitting ache makes a stealthy comeback. Thunder splits my ear and a weird pain rings within my ears. Lightning streaks across the black sky and I feel lonely and vulnerable. Am sure any moment the lightning may strike me dead!
Once on the main street, I am astonished to see very few cars zooming past. A few street lights light up parts of the pavement; others are strangely covered in an eerie darkness.Most of the shops are shut, and there are hardly any pedestrians anywhere. The street's deserted and I curse my stubborness. As I walk, my head clears and something light and pleasant overpowers me. I am in raptures and a freshness tingles me from head to toe. I suppress an instinct to throw away the brolly and get wet to my heart's content. Reason tells me to chill; don't act crazy. I enter my own fantasy world and feeling elated, sing one of my favourite songs of innocence: "Bhanvra bada naadaan hai/ Bagiyan ka mehmaan hai/ Phir bhi jaane na/ Jaane na jaane na/Kaliyan ki muskaan hai..."
Suddenly, I feel something hard hit against my left leg from behind. I scream out in pain and turn back to see I have been hit by a goddamn bike. I fling the word "STYUPID!" at the motorcyclist and continue walking, despite the pain. I hear a creepy voice from behind say: "Did I hurt you?" I turn back scared; it's that young cyclist fella trying to chat up with me on a Bollywood-style stormy night. Four-letter words freely swim within my head.
Half-angry and half-scared, I turn around and walk ahead, quickening my pace, choosing to ignore this opportunist. I want to cross over to the other side; but barricades have been put up. So, left with no choice, I continue walking determined not to allow this cad spoil my lone evening out. He repeats the question all the while, following me and walking his bike. And I wonder how when the road's so empty, how he could sneak up behind me and hit me enough to hurt me, without maiming me for life!
Tired of taking it lying down, I decide attack is the best form of defence. I turn around, sweetly smile and then, I point my middle finger at him, saying: "Why dont you f*** off?" And he rides away, looking stunned and scared! Among friends we use the middle finger sign to show them we don't care about something for fun; it was for the first time in my life that I had actually used the sign as a form of aggression :) I surprised myself that night! I continued my walk, and decided not to venture out on a rainy night after 7 pm ever. And of course, not a soul knows about this incident!
XX, who's enjoying a break from her husband, and I watch the rain slantingly fall on the manicured lawn at City Centre. A PYT in a black spaghetti top and tight low-waist jeans screams into her shocking pink Motorola in a trilling voice: "What do you mean you are on your way? I have been waiting for you for more than an hour, looking like a fool! People are staring at me!"
XX & I exchange knowing glances.XX, who has had many a wild affair before her tame arranged marriage, smilingly says: "Haven't I been through all that?"
I nod sagely: "Yea...This too shall pass!"
XX seeks an explanation.
I offer: "Ah, I was referring to the girl. What I meant is that this agonized waiting will soon be over for that girl. This incident will find a pride of place along with others in the dustbin of her memory!"
She understands: "Hmm...Isn't it nice... Just sitting here...Silently?"
I agree: "Yea! It's nice...Watching life pass by..."And the drizzle continues...
..........................................................
Angry Young Woman-II
Wearing worn out sneakers, I set out in the rain at around 8 pm, with an old, solemn black brolly. Mom tries to stop me. Can't a soul venture out of the house without her questioning? Just because I have fever, a throbbing headache & sore throat, does it mean I have to stay cooped in that damned room for more than 48 hours? The cold biting wind freezes my feverish face and the rain mercilessly beats against my right arm, wetting the sleeve and slowly me. A chill runs down my spine. I feel weak; slightly dizzy and the head-splitting ache makes a stealthy comeback. Thunder splits my ear and a weird pain rings within my ears. Lightning streaks across the black sky and I feel lonely and vulnerable. Am sure any moment the lightning may strike me dead!
Once on the main street, I am astonished to see very few cars zooming past. A few street lights light up parts of the pavement; others are strangely covered in an eerie darkness.Most of the shops are shut, and there are hardly any pedestrians anywhere. The street's deserted and I curse my stubborness. As I walk, my head clears and something light and pleasant overpowers me. I am in raptures and a freshness tingles me from head to toe. I suppress an instinct to throw away the brolly and get wet to my heart's content. Reason tells me to chill; don't act crazy. I enter my own fantasy world and feeling elated, sing one of my favourite songs of innocence: "Bhanvra bada naadaan hai/ Bagiyan ka mehmaan hai/ Phir bhi jaane na/ Jaane na jaane na/Kaliyan ki muskaan hai..."
Suddenly, I feel something hard hit against my left leg from behind. I scream out in pain and turn back to see I have been hit by a goddamn bike. I fling the word "STYUPID!" at the motorcyclist and continue walking, despite the pain. I hear a creepy voice from behind say: "Did I hurt you?" I turn back scared; it's that young cyclist fella trying to chat up with me on a Bollywood-style stormy night. Four-letter words freely swim within my head.
Half-angry and half-scared, I turn around and walk ahead, quickening my pace, choosing to ignore this opportunist. I want to cross over to the other side; but barricades have been put up. So, left with no choice, I continue walking determined not to allow this cad spoil my lone evening out. He repeats the question all the while, following me and walking his bike. And I wonder how when the road's so empty, how he could sneak up behind me and hit me enough to hurt me, without maiming me for life!
Tired of taking it lying down, I decide attack is the best form of defence. I turn around, sweetly smile and then, I point my middle finger at him, saying: "Why dont you f*** off?" And he rides away, looking stunned and scared! Among friends we use the middle finger sign to show them we don't care about something for fun; it was for the first time in my life that I had actually used the sign as a form of aggression :) I surprised myself that night! I continued my walk, and decided not to venture out on a rainy night after 7 pm ever. And of course, not a soul knows about this incident!
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Sudden Death!
I am republishing this entry from my pevious blog as idleness partly defines me. It was written sometime between May & August. If there are days when I live with an extraordinary zeal, there are days when I die a sudden death too :) This is an ode to my actively lazy self...They say morning shows the day. But this particular morning was determined to prove human assumptions about Nature wrong. The sun was up and I, as usual, was glowing with an energetic optimism. But before I could wish myself 'Good Morning', a delicious languor stole over me. My body went slack and all basic activities and rituals that fill our days seemed like they would require an Herculean effort from me today. The rooms, the furniture and Mom & Dad inspired me...They inspired me to do one effortless act - yawn! How predictable and supremely useless life seemed! The things we do, day after day, seemed meaningless, trivial and trite. Let's chase 'nothingness' today, my body decides and my mind quickly accepts the suggestion. And me being my body and mind's slave...
...I succumb to lassitude, languor, indolence, lethargy - ornate words for plain old 'laziness'. A sluggishness numbed me, and 'inactivity' became my credo for the day. I am gonna laze, loaf, lounge, while/fritter/idle away the tyrant called Time and let the grass (and whatever life forms it can support) grow under my feet. I want to gather moss and other forms of vegetation. So I lie on my bed with 4 books as a pillow (The real pillows are basking in the sunshine- 'being aired'- Mom wishes she could do something similar to me), languishing in this lethargy with a curious pleasure. Calls become missed calls, SMSes remain unanswered, mail unchecked, Mom's queries are met with a studied indifference, magazines unread and papers, I realise and countless others will affirm, are really best suited for swatting li'l insects which lose their way into your room.
There's a pleasure in nothingness which one must indulge in, occasionally though. My body, apart from carrying its normal metabolic activities, is in a state of rest. Am in inertia. Am a living example of inertia of rest. And am determined not to let inertia of motion disturb it at any cost. To change from inertia of rest to inertia of motion, force is required. And who the hell is gonna force me to do things against my wish?. I am pleased with myself. My mind is thinking - but this doesn't call for much labour from me. It's thinking about this indolence that cocoons me. I am in love with this shroud of lethargy that clings to me. I feel drowsy and yet no sleep invades my being.
Umm...I am enjoying every second of this...Now I know how that fat, white, smug tomcat feels when it basks in the sun, tosses and turns languidly on the corrugated tin roof, stretches its paws langurously, takes one look at its surroundings and then deciding it's not worth more than a fraction of a second's glance, yawns, shuts its eyes and surrenders to laziness. The awful song Tum dil ki dhadkan mein rehte ho rehte ho (it's from the movie Dhadkan, right?) from some FM station playing at a neighbour's jars my senses and Sunil Shetty's pathetic apology for a face looms before my eyes. But I am too lazy to lift myself off this luxurious bed and shut the window. I shut my eyes quickly to get rid of this nightmarish Bollywood image that threatens to spoil my pleasurable existence.
I open my eyes and feel good. At peace with the world. Now I feel like a Hedonist! I celebrate Hedonism. I aggressively pursue the pleasure principle for a few hours, lying in total rest. Right now, it's the pleasure one derives out of doing nothing 'constructive'. Other pleasures can wait. Thankfully, breathing doesn't require much effort on our part. Else, I would have been six feet under the ground now. In that picture I have drawn, the X coordinate is the bed and the Y coordinate is the wall and am tightly bound willingly by the yellow strands of laziness and the purple strands of pleasure...And no, there's no relation between the two axes. Nothing's being proved! Except that indulging in a luxurious Lethargy is...umm...good!
Life's Longing For Itself
Kahlil Gibran, in The Prophet, writes about children: "They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself..."
In the womb-like darkness at the edge of the Marina Beach, sand particles tickle my bare feet. The night breeze flirts with my amorous dense, dark, wavy hair while the sea-song caresses my soul. A monstrous wave, now and then, threatens to drag me deep into the sea and am thrilled. But all it does is drench me till my waist, leaving me and my jeans all wet and cold. It was April, 2006. Or perhaps March.
Satiated, as I drag my leaden feet towards the wet-dry shore, the same breeze carries Tamil words with it, along with a stinking smell of fried fish. I see a lil girl, probably six years old, asking questions about me, and her father answering as if he knew me well. Reality and imagination vie to provide answers. The girl whispers: "What language is she speaking?" Her father says: "Hindi. She's not Tamil." And I smile at the wrong answer. When the girl asks: " Won't her parents scold her for being alone here?", he says: "But she has already told them. Didn't you see her talking on the phone now?" Another question: "Appa, don't you think she will catch cold. Her jeans are wet..." is answered by her father: "No, she won't. She's not a kid like you to fall ill frequently. She's strong. As you grow up, you know what's right and wrong...If she were to catch a cold and fall sick, she wouldn't be wetting herself in the waters..." Am still interesting to the kid as she asks: " Can't I go out into the sea alone like her?" Her father smiles: "Of course..When you are old like that elder sister, I will let you walk into the waters and you can stay as long as you like..."
The girl's eyes caught mine and I smiled. She stood before me, staring. I asked in English: "Hello! What's your name?" She ran to her father who asked her to reveal her name. She shyly refused. Her father turned to me and murmured a name which I soon forgot, along with their faces. Perhaps, if I had asked her in Tamil, she would have warmed up to me and prattled merrily. But I didn't want to embarrass the father by revealing I knew Tamil as he would realise I had eavesdropped on their conversation. And besides, as I sat staring at the dark forms ahead, I wanted to hear the father-daughter dialogue :) A part of me wanted to converse with her. I wondered about the missing mother - may be she was dead or only temporarily absent from their lives. To me, the family seemed incomplete without the mother and I hoped all was well. It seemed cruel of life to allow a young man carry the burden of bringing up a daughter alone...
The sea, the night, the sky, the moon, the sea shells on the beach - all of them came under her intense scrutiny. Her father indulged her curiosity with a patience and understanding that was charming. Her questions were not dismissed as being inane or childish; at least, if he thought so, he never betrayed it. When a question failed him, he invented the answer. She asked about the use of a sea thorn to which her father said it was used by mermaids as hair pins. I smiled.
And suddenly, I remembered how a few years ago, my lil cousin shot questions one after the other at me when she came to visit us in Cal : "Maini, who is that?" "Maini, why does..?" "Maini, where did it..?" 'Maini' in Tamil means father's sister's daughter; she was my uncle's only daughter. I answered a few with an arrogant indulgence as if I was doing a favour. Soon, my nerves reached their breaking point and I snapped at her in English : "Why the hell do you ask so many stupid questions? Why don't you go and play by yourself or annoy someone else? Leave me alone, Lil Miss Pesky!" Hurt and shock marred her sweet face as she quietly left the room. I felt bad but never said sorry.
Minutes later, I saw her sitting on Dad's lap asking questions like crazy and he was laughing and playfully answering them. They were also playing a game with the remote. Suddenly, he would press the mute button and say: "When I press mute, you become mute!" So when he pressed the button, my cousin would stop midway - the question would die a silent death and she would be staring at him with her lil mouth open :) He would then press the button and tell her to continue. The question would be revived and he would answer and suddenly, my cousin would snatch the remote from him, press the button and scream: "Mute!" and Dad would stop midway! Everyone was laughing and I smiled.
As waves rose and fell, as the chill became more pronounced, I thought how Dad has always suffered me gladly :) Mom knew only one way of handling my troublesome questions - "Why dont you sit quietly and read a book? Can't you see what I am doing?!" At that instant, something struck me. I saw everything clearly in the night. I decided that the next time a kid asks questions, no matter how silly they are, I will answer each one of them. If I didn't know the answer, I would invent one. What's Imagination for? :)
I see the girl and her father, rubbing off the sand that clings to them. They walk away, the girl still inquisitive and I decide I must return to the hostel too. For that girl, the universe is rich with mysteries and questions are her way of making sense of the confusion that clouds her nascent understanding. In her, life is born once again as she goes through the agony and ecstasy of existence. Another parent-child relationship is taking root; another father-daughter bond is flowering; another soul is taking its first cautious steps on the ladder of life; another generation is being initiated into the ways of living. And I walk into the city lights, richer...
In the womb-like darkness at the edge of the Marina Beach, sand particles tickle my bare feet. The night breeze flirts with my amorous dense, dark, wavy hair while the sea-song caresses my soul. A monstrous wave, now and then, threatens to drag me deep into the sea and am thrilled. But all it does is drench me till my waist, leaving me and my jeans all wet and cold. It was April, 2006. Or perhaps March.
Satiated, as I drag my leaden feet towards the wet-dry shore, the same breeze carries Tamil words with it, along with a stinking smell of fried fish. I see a lil girl, probably six years old, asking questions about me, and her father answering as if he knew me well. Reality and imagination vie to provide answers. The girl whispers: "What language is she speaking?" Her father says: "Hindi. She's not Tamil." And I smile at the wrong answer. When the girl asks: " Won't her parents scold her for being alone here?", he says: "But she has already told them. Didn't you see her talking on the phone now?" Another question: "Appa, don't you think she will catch cold. Her jeans are wet..." is answered by her father: "No, she won't. She's not a kid like you to fall ill frequently. She's strong. As you grow up, you know what's right and wrong...If she were to catch a cold and fall sick, she wouldn't be wetting herself in the waters..." Am still interesting to the kid as she asks: " Can't I go out into the sea alone like her?" Her father smiles: "Of course..When you are old like that elder sister, I will let you walk into the waters and you can stay as long as you like..."
The girl's eyes caught mine and I smiled. She stood before me, staring. I asked in English: "Hello! What's your name?" She ran to her father who asked her to reveal her name. She shyly refused. Her father turned to me and murmured a name which I soon forgot, along with their faces. Perhaps, if I had asked her in Tamil, she would have warmed up to me and prattled merrily. But I didn't want to embarrass the father by revealing I knew Tamil as he would realise I had eavesdropped on their conversation. And besides, as I sat staring at the dark forms ahead, I wanted to hear the father-daughter dialogue :) A part of me wanted to converse with her. I wondered about the missing mother - may be she was dead or only temporarily absent from their lives. To me, the family seemed incomplete without the mother and I hoped all was well. It seemed cruel of life to allow a young man carry the burden of bringing up a daughter alone...
The sea, the night, the sky, the moon, the sea shells on the beach - all of them came under her intense scrutiny. Her father indulged her curiosity with a patience and understanding that was charming. Her questions were not dismissed as being inane or childish; at least, if he thought so, he never betrayed it. When a question failed him, he invented the answer. She asked about the use of a sea thorn to which her father said it was used by mermaids as hair pins. I smiled.
And suddenly, I remembered how a few years ago, my lil cousin shot questions one after the other at me when she came to visit us in Cal : "Maini, who is that?" "Maini, why does..?" "Maini, where did it..?" 'Maini' in Tamil means father's sister's daughter; she was my uncle's only daughter. I answered a few with an arrogant indulgence as if I was doing a favour. Soon, my nerves reached their breaking point and I snapped at her in English : "Why the hell do you ask so many stupid questions? Why don't you go and play by yourself or annoy someone else? Leave me alone, Lil Miss Pesky!" Hurt and shock marred her sweet face as she quietly left the room. I felt bad but never said sorry.
Minutes later, I saw her sitting on Dad's lap asking questions like crazy and he was laughing and playfully answering them. They were also playing a game with the remote. Suddenly, he would press the mute button and say: "When I press mute, you become mute!" So when he pressed the button, my cousin would stop midway - the question would die a silent death and she would be staring at him with her lil mouth open :) He would then press the button and tell her to continue. The question would be revived and he would answer and suddenly, my cousin would snatch the remote from him, press the button and scream: "Mute!" and Dad would stop midway! Everyone was laughing and I smiled.
As waves rose and fell, as the chill became more pronounced, I thought how Dad has always suffered me gladly :) Mom knew only one way of handling my troublesome questions - "Why dont you sit quietly and read a book? Can't you see what I am doing?!" At that instant, something struck me. I saw everything clearly in the night. I decided that the next time a kid asks questions, no matter how silly they are, I will answer each one of them. If I didn't know the answer, I would invent one. What's Imagination for? :)
I see the girl and her father, rubbing off the sand that clings to them. They walk away, the girl still inquisitive and I decide I must return to the hostel too. For that girl, the universe is rich with mysteries and questions are her way of making sense of the confusion that clouds her nascent understanding. In her, life is born once again as she goes through the agony and ecstasy of existence. Another parent-child relationship is taking root; another father-daughter bond is flowering; another soul is taking its first cautious steps on the ladder of life; another generation is being initiated into the ways of living. And I walk into the city lights, richer...
Friday, October 5, 2007
The Curtain
Ever heard of a word called 'agelast?' It's a neologism coined by Rabelais from the Greek, used to describe people who do not laugh and are not 'at peace with the comical.' The concept is explained in Milan Kundera's The Curtain, a seven-part essay on the art of the novel. The names of the chapters (like Getting Into the Soul of Things; The Torn Curtain) and the subheads (sample The Beauty of a Sudden Density of Life, The Soft Gleam of the Comical, And If the Tragic Has Deserted Us? Going Down Into the Dark Depths of a Joke, The Theatre of Memory) mesmerised me. I bought it, hoping to read it on a rainy night with ginger tea for company. But I read the first page and all thoughts of a rainy night faded. I liked the way the book began [something we all must have thought of at some point] - he asks whether in these times, it is possible to produce a work of art that may become a real 'classic' in the future.
Kundera later talks about the origins of the novel, the novels that gave birth to the genre and how the 20th century novel acquired new dimensions, thanks to surrealism and existentialism (All part of undergrad syllabus - the giant called literary criticism that every literature student had to conquer!). But it's those nooks and crannies, where he shines his brilliant torch to reveal dazzling thoughts about concepts and incidents in novels, that unveil a new world.
He quotes Julian Gracq: "A history of literature, unlike history as such, ought to list only the names of victories, for its defeats are no victories for anyone." This is because unlike ordinary history, which is a chain of events, the history of art is about the history of timeless, universal values. Also startling are his readings of Anna's death in Anna Karenin - he reveals one more reason for Tolstoy's framing the love story by the double death motif in a railway station. He defines 'provincialism' as the inability or refusal to see one's own culture in the 'larger context' and dicusses how Europe moulded the novel according to its requirements and sensibility. Homer, Euripedes, Sterne, Smollett, Defoe, Flaubert, Balzac, Baudelaire, Proust, Tostoy, Dostoyevsky, Camus, Kafka, Joyce, who freely borrowed elements from each other, find their way into this 168-page slim volume
Kundera reflects upon Hegel's definition of tragedy to arrive at the conclusion that in modern life, tragedy has deserted us. Nothing's tragic anymore. Hegel had defined tragedy as a situation in which two antagonists fight each other for a partial, justified truth (here I think of the blind men and elephant tale) that's correct and end up destroying the other. Both are right and guilty. Such great conflicts cannot be simplistically reduced to a fight between Good and Evil. Since wars (Doesn't the US call the war against Iraq a fight for good, justice, bla-bla?), rebellions and uprisings are now seen as battles waged between good and evil, the tragic has deserted us.
For Kundera, the novelist is no 'valet to historians.' His job is to 'concentrate on the essential.'For him, the identifying art of the novel consists of 'tearing through the curtain of pre-interpretation,' an act that was first carried out by Cervantes through his Don Quixote (Who isn't in love with this book?) He ends his book with these beautiful lines - "For the history of art is perishable. But the babble of art is eternal."
Kundera later talks about the origins of the novel, the novels that gave birth to the genre and how the 20th century novel acquired new dimensions, thanks to surrealism and existentialism (All part of undergrad syllabus - the giant called literary criticism that every literature student had to conquer!). But it's those nooks and crannies, where he shines his brilliant torch to reveal dazzling thoughts about concepts and incidents in novels, that unveil a new world.
He quotes Julian Gracq: "A history of literature, unlike history as such, ought to list only the names of victories, for its defeats are no victories for anyone." This is because unlike ordinary history, which is a chain of events, the history of art is about the history of timeless, universal values. Also startling are his readings of Anna's death in Anna Karenin - he reveals one more reason for Tolstoy's framing the love story by the double death motif in a railway station. He defines 'provincialism' as the inability or refusal to see one's own culture in the 'larger context' and dicusses how Europe moulded the novel according to its requirements and sensibility. Homer, Euripedes, Sterne, Smollett, Defoe, Flaubert, Balzac, Baudelaire, Proust, Tostoy, Dostoyevsky, Camus, Kafka, Joyce, who freely borrowed elements from each other, find their way into this 168-page slim volume
Kundera reflects upon Hegel's definition of tragedy to arrive at the conclusion that in modern life, tragedy has deserted us. Nothing's tragic anymore. Hegel had defined tragedy as a situation in which two antagonists fight each other for a partial, justified truth (here I think of the blind men and elephant tale) that's correct and end up destroying the other. Both are right and guilty. Such great conflicts cannot be simplistically reduced to a fight between Good and Evil. Since wars (Doesn't the US call the war against Iraq a fight for good, justice, bla-bla?), rebellions and uprisings are now seen as battles waged between good and evil, the tragic has deserted us.
For Kundera, the novelist is no 'valet to historians.' His job is to 'concentrate on the essential.'For him, the identifying art of the novel consists of 'tearing through the curtain of pre-interpretation,' an act that was first carried out by Cervantes through his Don Quixote (Who isn't in love with this book?) He ends his book with these beautiful lines - "For the history of art is perishable. But the babble of art is eternal."
Zendagi Migzara
Under the calm night sky, we murmur calmly Lorca's lines from City That Never Sleeps: "In the sky there is nobody asleep. Nobody, nobody. Nobody is asleep..." and together we express our wish to read the Spanish poet's works again as we recollected how we had to struggle to understand the meaning of WH Auden's famous poem on art, suffering and indifference - Musee des Beaux Arts (1938). We thought of Pieter Brueghel the Senior's painting Landscape with the Fall of Icarus (1558) that inspired the poem and a friend said she had no clue about it. The painting had been inspired by the Greek myth of Icarus and the poem was inspired by the painting. Next day at office, I showed her the pic from Google images (thank God for Google!), where Icarus' flailing legs may be seen at the far right corner. He is the subject of the painting; Brueghel deliberately relegates him to the corner to bring out the theme of his painting.I said a silent prayer of thanks to ICD for painfully trying to make our young and restless ears comprehend and appreciate the beauty of the lines during my final year at Brabourne. The poem was difficult and not having ever seen the famous painting, we could only imagine it. Yet, the words and ideas were so poignant and novel to me that I remember having memorised every word of it. I analysed the poem as best I could, determined to answer any question that may be asked on it - the poem as a representative of Auden's work, the meaning and inherent symbolism in it, how it could be an example of a modern poet's idea of modernism, the role of myths in literature and the significance of myths for modernists, word usage/figures of speech/imagery in it etc. Imagine my joy when a question was indeed asked and I set about answering in a way I felt about it (Why cant one be a college student forever - forever young and happy!!!).
I am copy-pasting the poem in its entirety. The French title refers to the famous museum in Brussels where the painting is displayed and means Museum of Fine Arts. Auden talks about how suffering is an individual feat that goes often unnoticed by others; we suffer alone and our tragedies are our own. Our fall, like Icarus', is only a splash in the vast sea of life that someone may or may not have heard. Even if you survive the biggest tragedies, life will continue for you and if you succumb to them, the sun will still shine on others. As Khaled Hosseini says in his novel The Kite Runner - Zendagi Migzara (we say zindagi and they say zendagi!)...It's Afghan for that endearingly stupid cliche - Life goes on...!!!!
Musée des Beaux Arts by WH Auden
About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.
What's For Dinner?
Was reading The New Yorker online when I came upon essays on family meals. More than food, they were about sharing meals with families and the pleasures or disappointments one experienced during such times.The best was I think Anthony Lane's Choke, about an artichoke which, according to him, is defined by OED thus: "Its eatable parts are the fleshy base of the involucral leaves or scales of the gigantic thistle-like flower, and its receptacle or 'bottom,' when freed from the bristles and seed-down or 'choke' "! Like Lane asks - "Can you imagine a sentence more likely to damn the salivary glands?" His heroic struggles with this vegetable have been recorded with a touch of humour; you simply have to smile sympathetically as you read about his plight. To get to the fleshy part which you eat, you first have to fight valiantly through the dense foliage that surrounds it; hence the line - "Like the Prince in 'Sleeping Beauty,' I once hacked a path through thorn and briar to reach the enchanted castle."Real Food by the Nigerian author Adichie was pleasant. I have finished reading her second novel Half of A Yellow Sun and am now reading her first one, Purple Hibiscus. She uses Igbo terms for food - some of which are translated. In this essay, I finally learnt what jollof rice ('rice, soft-cooked in an oily tomato sauce') and egusi soup ('made of ground melon seeds and vegetables') are! Adichie, in her childhood, disliked her native food because of which one of her aunts called her a foreigner. I can relate to that; once at Grandma's, when I refused to have a vegetable dish since it was too bland, my Aunt had indignantly remarked: "Oh! Madame's a Bengali now! Will have only spicy dishes!"
Rationed by Aleksandar Hemon was about his years when he was conscripted into the Yugoslav People's Army & craved for home-cooked food. Slightly touching ('Perpetually hungry, I often recalled my family dinners before I went to sleep, constructing elaborate menus that featured roast lamb or ham-and-cheese crepes or my mother's spinach pie') and slightly mawkish at the end - "The first bite of spinach pie - that sublime blend of spinach and eggs and phyllo pastry - brought tears to my eyes."
Sixty-Nine Cents by Gary Shteyngart is about the Russian immigrant experience in the US, about rejoicing in new-found American delights. He is horrified when his family refuses to buy food at McDonald's and his parents and their friends eat the home-made food they have brought inside the restaurant. He has been dreaming about the 69-cent hamburger and though he can afford to spend his pocket money on one lil burger & a Coke, he too clings on to the few dimes like his parents since life is hard. Though he understands his family's travails, he refuses to participate - "Disgruntled, he watches them have an authentic Russian meal inside McDonald's from afar, refusing to blend into that togetherness, while American families have the 'happiest of meals.' "
A Man in the Kitchen by Donald Antrim was touching too. The worst piece was Grandmother's House by Nell Freudenberger which describes a meal in Bangladesh; perhaps it was chosen to give an ethnic flavour to the collection since neither the subject nor the writing deserved to be selected! Another bad one was Tasteless by David Sedaris; am still wondering what the editors saw in this sad piece of writing! But yeah...I could identify with one thing that he has written. Like on him, good restaurants are wasted on me too!
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