The lovely young girl stared back at me from the front page of the newspaper. She is forever fourteen and unavenged. No one cares for her anymore. No one asks for justice for that forgotten piece of humanity who would be almost seventeen had she been alive. Only her parents are perennially haunted by her pleading eyes. How can such a brutal murder be so easily wiped from our collective memories?
Aarushi was found with her throat slit in her bedroom in May 2008. The domestic help was found dead on the terrace a day later. Her parents were asleep in the next room at the time of her murder. Three people were arrested and then released due to lack of evidence. The premier Indian investigative agency, the CBI, has announced that they cannot solve the case and that it would be closed. The level of incompetency is baffling – was there not even trace evidence left behind? Or is the CBI so technologically regressive that basic crime-solving aids are not in place?
The media did its part as well. First the character of the girl was called to question – she might have been found in a compromising state with the domestic help and therefore killed to protect the family ‘honour’. Then the character of the girl’s father was suspect – he was jailed and tormented with questions and baseless allegations. In what kind of a country is the victim’s family torn apart mercilessly in the media with no evidence? If her probable killers can walk away scot free because the CBI bungled the case, why are they not being investigated by the media?
There is simply no answer to any of these questions. There is not the least bit of humanity involved in the way the whole case was handled. Mysterious disappearances of swab results from the Noida hospital entrusted with the post mortem remain completely unexplained. It is not a simple oversight but a long list of compounded errors that led to the premature closure of this horrific case. Maybe we should just get rid of the CBI – an overly expensive institution that has more failures to its credit than can be justified. Meanwhile the case must be kept open. This cannot be a country where we fear to leave our children in their rooms at night. Whenever women are attacked on the streets, its always their morality or manner of dressing that is believed to be the cause – can the same be said of a girl sleeping at home?
What a happy and joyous new year for the Talwars! To be informed that the little line of hope that they had been clinging on to had disappeared – to be told that they must now forget that they had a daughter who was killed while sleeping in her own bed – to be reminded that they had failed to protect their own child and paid for it in the harshest way possible – these are the gifts with which they ring in the new year.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Place Value
What is it that keeps generations of people rooted in one particular place? Is it the love the parents feel for their land, the deeply held belief that their piece of the earth is the best ever or the inability to feel at home anywhere else? I do not have that rooted feeling – I think I need to be in my own country but beyond that I feel I would survive anywhere. I have no memories of being violently attached to any particular place and that is perhaps understandable given my background.
My father had lost his mother when he was around five years old. He was number nine in a family of twelve children, four of whom died in childhood due to causes unknown. There was literally no one to care for them as his father took care of his nieces and nephews as was the wont in a matriarchal system and so they went hungry more often than not. The local village weddings and temple festivals were possibly the only occasions when they had full bellies. Having a really difficult childhood made my father determined to be a good provider when he had his family. He was willing to do any sort of work and travel to any godforsaken place to earn enough for his family. Therefore there was no sense of belonging to a particular patch of earth that I inherited from his side. He loved his hometown but rarely returned and yet he married off my sister to a family from that very place – so perhaps there was some longing for a connection to his birthplace that I wasn’t very aware of.
My mother only wanted to leave her place of birth – she had no prospects of a better life there and was unable to realize her dreams of studying in a college. Since she had no means to study, the only other option was to agree to be married off and yet since my father was away on ships for ten years, she had to stay in the village of her birth far longer than she ever wanted. So her aversion to returning there for more than a few hours saw me unable develop a lifelong attachment either. The home my parents made together in Kasargod was home for me for a few years after which I went my own way – again no lasting ties to what I saw as a fleeting landing point. Perhaps eight years of living in hostels added to the detachment.
My husband was born and raised in the same place and had an idyllic village childhood. He remembers those times with nostalgia but has no desire to go back now. For him the place while appearing essentially the same has lost its soul and he feels like a stranger in his hometown. I find that very difficult to believe – that someone with such a fairytale childhood loaded with memories still feels no attachment to his hometown. His parents have very strong feeling of rootedness – so much so that they will never spend a night away from their own home – their land has a tangible presence, it is a living entity for them and my mother-in-law has feelings for her coconut palms that she seldom displays to her grandchildren.
My children will feel even less of a bond to their birthplaces. Perhaps the notion of the land as a delimiter will vanish completely with their generation and again perhaps in the perverse way of tendencies skipping a generation, they might have a stronger bond with their birthplace than their parents ever had. Does the strength of that bond influence the manner in which their personality develops? I don’t know really. All I know is that for me at least it makes me feel like a bit of an outsider just about anywhere ...
My father had lost his mother when he was around five years old. He was number nine in a family of twelve children, four of whom died in childhood due to causes unknown. There was literally no one to care for them as his father took care of his nieces and nephews as was the wont in a matriarchal system and so they went hungry more often than not. The local village weddings and temple festivals were possibly the only occasions when they had full bellies. Having a really difficult childhood made my father determined to be a good provider when he had his family. He was willing to do any sort of work and travel to any godforsaken place to earn enough for his family. Therefore there was no sense of belonging to a particular patch of earth that I inherited from his side. He loved his hometown but rarely returned and yet he married off my sister to a family from that very place – so perhaps there was some longing for a connection to his birthplace that I wasn’t very aware of.
My mother only wanted to leave her place of birth – she had no prospects of a better life there and was unable to realize her dreams of studying in a college. Since she had no means to study, the only other option was to agree to be married off and yet since my father was away on ships for ten years, she had to stay in the village of her birth far longer than she ever wanted. So her aversion to returning there for more than a few hours saw me unable develop a lifelong attachment either. The home my parents made together in Kasargod was home for me for a few years after which I went my own way – again no lasting ties to what I saw as a fleeting landing point. Perhaps eight years of living in hostels added to the detachment.
My husband was born and raised in the same place and had an idyllic village childhood. He remembers those times with nostalgia but has no desire to go back now. For him the place while appearing essentially the same has lost its soul and he feels like a stranger in his hometown. I find that very difficult to believe – that someone with such a fairytale childhood loaded with memories still feels no attachment to his hometown. His parents have very strong feeling of rootedness – so much so that they will never spend a night away from their own home – their land has a tangible presence, it is a living entity for them and my mother-in-law has feelings for her coconut palms that she seldom displays to her grandchildren.
My children will feel even less of a bond to their birthplaces. Perhaps the notion of the land as a delimiter will vanish completely with their generation and again perhaps in the perverse way of tendencies skipping a generation, they might have a stronger bond with their birthplace than their parents ever had. Does the strength of that bond influence the manner in which their personality develops? I don’t know really. All I know is that for me at least it makes me feel like a bit of an outsider just about anywhere ...
Friday, November 12, 2010
Integrity
I save the frivolous stuff for my columns and let loose on my blog . Perhaps its easier since there doesn’t seem to be many people reading my posts and I almost feel like I am thinking aloud. It lets me speak about things and feelings I would normally not put forth in public.
My latest point to ponder is that of integrity. I have doubts as to what it means – I know the literal meaning of course but how exactly can one explain it? Is it the adherence of an individual to consistently held beliefs and values? Or is it to be confused with morality? I cannot make it out. Is doing something which seems wrong to you a violation of your integrity? Is then one man’s integrity completely different from another’s? How can one answer these questions?
I do not lie, steal or maim but I do lose my temper more often than I should. Is my integrity comparable with that of say a serial killer who believes in the purity of his actions? So to define integrity as following consistently one inner system of principles or core values doesn’t really make sense. Apparently the word itself follows from ‘integer’ and is associated with wholeness. It is also considered to be the opposite of hypocrisy. And yet all these together still make it hard to define integrity the way I understand it.
I believe integrity can be defined as sticking to a higher standard and doing so consistently and not only when someone is watching. It means trying to go above ourselves to do what may be difficult but somehow right. Its no use saying my right is someone’s wrong – there are certainly some universal rights that have the same meaning the world over. If it is difficult for me to refrain from stealing (or violence or whatever), that cannot justify my indulging in it when I know I am wrong. So integrity has to be cultivated, it needs work – some of us may have grown up with the right attitude but have left that by the wayside in order to make our way forward in life just that little bit sooner. Some of us have never had anyone teach us right from wrong but know innately what feels right and follow that path no matter how onerous.
If you find yourself making inane excuses in order to follow a particular course of action, then it stands to reason that the action will violate your integrity as you perceive it. And that perhaps is the only way to measure one’s integrity level. Do you succumb or stand back and refuse to give in? It is ultimately the measure of one’s true worth.
My latest point to ponder is that of integrity. I have doubts as to what it means – I know the literal meaning of course but how exactly can one explain it? Is it the adherence of an individual to consistently held beliefs and values? Or is it to be confused with morality? I cannot make it out. Is doing something which seems wrong to you a violation of your integrity? Is then one man’s integrity completely different from another’s? How can one answer these questions?
I do not lie, steal or maim but I do lose my temper more often than I should. Is my integrity comparable with that of say a serial killer who believes in the purity of his actions? So to define integrity as following consistently one inner system of principles or core values doesn’t really make sense. Apparently the word itself follows from ‘integer’ and is associated with wholeness. It is also considered to be the opposite of hypocrisy. And yet all these together still make it hard to define integrity the way I understand it.
I believe integrity can be defined as sticking to a higher standard and doing so consistently and not only when someone is watching. It means trying to go above ourselves to do what may be difficult but somehow right. Its no use saying my right is someone’s wrong – there are certainly some universal rights that have the same meaning the world over. If it is difficult for me to refrain from stealing (or violence or whatever), that cannot justify my indulging in it when I know I am wrong. So integrity has to be cultivated, it needs work – some of us may have grown up with the right attitude but have left that by the wayside in order to make our way forward in life just that little bit sooner. Some of us have never had anyone teach us right from wrong but know innately what feels right and follow that path no matter how onerous.
If you find yourself making inane excuses in order to follow a particular course of action, then it stands to reason that the action will violate your integrity as you perceive it. And that perhaps is the only way to measure one’s integrity level. Do you succumb or stand back and refuse to give in? It is ultimately the measure of one’s true worth.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Alone
There are a few moments in life when one is well and truly alone. You are born alone. You die alone. In between, people come in and go out of your life. But whenever you are truly happy, can another be part of that pleasure in the same measure? And when you feel that gut-wrenching pain, can anyone else feel it the same way? Certainly not. And yet we crave the presence of others in our life not believing or perhaps not wanting to believe that loneliness is the truest part of our existence. Even when embarking on a journey to realize the true self, one must walk alone. You may have a guide for a while but you must go on alone if the ultimate is to be realized.
Somehow one tends to forget all that in the hustle and bustle of a daily existence. There is so much to do that is routine maintenance for a family, for children, for a marriage, for the house, for a career – it is endless and time-consuming. In the midst of it all we quite conveniently forget that the whole thing is merely an illusion and we are in fact alone. Entanglements are necessary for survival in a society but attachments bring with them their own misery.
For years I have lived with a spiritual atmosphere around me. I can safely say that I was born into it. It is a part of my being and though I have tried to fit in with my environment all those years I lived away from home, I find that a part of me is unalterably spiritual. I do not know whether that has made me more of a freak - I suspect so – in any case it has certainly made me different or rather given me a different view of most things.
Knowing all this I yet feel sadness, anger, misery, love, lust, excitement, contentment and whatever other emotion is capable of being felt. And yet a part of me sits aloof and wonders whether it is really me who feels all of it. Perhaps if I build on that, this terrible pain will not overcome me when I am faced with my worst fears. I do not know when I will have the answers but I do know one thing, my anger is never a solution…
Somehow one tends to forget all that in the hustle and bustle of a daily existence. There is so much to do that is routine maintenance for a family, for children, for a marriage, for the house, for a career – it is endless and time-consuming. In the midst of it all we quite conveniently forget that the whole thing is merely an illusion and we are in fact alone. Entanglements are necessary for survival in a society but attachments bring with them their own misery.
For years I have lived with a spiritual atmosphere around me. I can safely say that I was born into it. It is a part of my being and though I have tried to fit in with my environment all those years I lived away from home, I find that a part of me is unalterably spiritual. I do not know whether that has made me more of a freak - I suspect so – in any case it has certainly made me different or rather given me a different view of most things.
Knowing all this I yet feel sadness, anger, misery, love, lust, excitement, contentment and whatever other emotion is capable of being felt. And yet a part of me sits aloof and wonders whether it is really me who feels all of it. Perhaps if I build on that, this terrible pain will not overcome me when I am faced with my worst fears. I do not know when I will have the answers but I do know one thing, my anger is never a solution…
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Unwanted
Life in Bangalore for techies and their families means mainly one thing – everything takes a back seat to careers. The hours that the software guys and gals keep are almost insanely ridiculous. No one has time to eat healthy, exercise, have a meaningful relationship, have kids or if they do have kids, even do more than make sure they are fed and paid for. The kind of incentives offered, the determination to elevate one’s standard of existence to match the gloss that is advertised, the chance to travel abroad and see new sights and make the family back home even more proud of one’s achievements are all factors that make a high-level software job irresistible. All fine and dandy – my only objection is the sad fate of the children of some of the more imbalanced of these marriages.
I have known families that make everything work together beautifully and I appreciate them for it takes a lot of effort to keep things sailing smoothly when careers and home life have to be balanced. I also know of a few where the children are so neglected that it makes me want to shake their parents and ask them why they chose to have these poor creatures at all. There is this little girl who lives nearby. She is a year older than my six-year old daughter and they are friends. She gets no attention from her busy father and her housewife mother is too preoccupied with jewellery and beautification to even walk with her to the gate and put her in the school bus. The child is so starved for affection that she is whiny and lies terribly – all in a vain attempt to get noticed. Sometimes she tells me “Mahi is so lucky Aunty – her dad is always home early!” Her mother never reads stories to her. She never walks out with her. She is left to her own devices and frequently left alone to sit with the guards at the gate in the security cubicle. What sort of mother would leave a pretty child like that alone at eight in the night with a bunch of men? Sometimes I feel that God is terribly unjust to inflict a child with a parent who does not deserve her.
I have attempted to speak to the mother only to be abused myself. Her thin sheen of politeness gives way to a market-stall manner when provoked. And I leave well enough alone knowing that I shall always feel guilty for not pushing more. I try to get my daughter to play with others too so that she doesn’t pay for my interference. And yet the image of the girl’s face full of yearning does not leave me.
Perhaps the neglect of some affluent children by indifferent parents has nothing to do with careers and everything to do with the single-mindedness with which they pursue increasing wealth or maybe just a good time. The only ones who really suffer are the children who are ignored and left unwanted.
I have known families that make everything work together beautifully and I appreciate them for it takes a lot of effort to keep things sailing smoothly when careers and home life have to be balanced. I also know of a few where the children are so neglected that it makes me want to shake their parents and ask them why they chose to have these poor creatures at all. There is this little girl who lives nearby. She is a year older than my six-year old daughter and they are friends. She gets no attention from her busy father and her housewife mother is too preoccupied with jewellery and beautification to even walk with her to the gate and put her in the school bus. The child is so starved for affection that she is whiny and lies terribly – all in a vain attempt to get noticed. Sometimes she tells me “Mahi is so lucky Aunty – her dad is always home early!” Her mother never reads stories to her. She never walks out with her. She is left to her own devices and frequently left alone to sit with the guards at the gate in the security cubicle. What sort of mother would leave a pretty child like that alone at eight in the night with a bunch of men? Sometimes I feel that God is terribly unjust to inflict a child with a parent who does not deserve her.
I have attempted to speak to the mother only to be abused myself. Her thin sheen of politeness gives way to a market-stall manner when provoked. And I leave well enough alone knowing that I shall always feel guilty for not pushing more. I try to get my daughter to play with others too so that she doesn’t pay for my interference. And yet the image of the girl’s face full of yearning does not leave me.
Perhaps the neglect of some affluent children by indifferent parents has nothing to do with careers and everything to do with the single-mindedness with which they pursue increasing wealth or maybe just a good time. The only ones who really suffer are the children who are ignored and left unwanted.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Creativity
There are only two things I do with any degree of creativity – one is writing and the other, cooking. I love both and I can technically do both every day though the result is far better if I feel inspired or am simply in the mood for it.
When I write, it is with a feeling of pleasure that I am among my friends, the words that are all about me. When I cook, it is with a feeling of anticipation that those I love would enjoy eating it and then their pleasure becomes mine. I would infinitely prefer to watch someone enjoy that which I have created than consume it myself. Both require a degree of skill in the sense that one cannot simply throw either words or ingredients together randomly and hope for a favourable result. Both are very sensual experiences for me. If the words are strung correctly, they fall in place like the pearls on a necklace – perfect and lacking nothing. If they are put in haphazardly, they look like the Lego blocks in my kids’ room after a riotous bout of playing.
When I cook, I know beforehand that I would not mix certain spices together but I never try to anticipate where the ingredients will take me. Each step should be done with love from the artful chopping of onions to their perfect saut̩ing to the addition of roasted and hand-ground spices and the final garnish. Friends and family look at me askance when I only serve dishes with colours that complement each other РI am no perfectionist by a long shot but I do long to be one. Of course there are days when I cook just to finish a chore but even then I refuse to compromise on the basics.
It can be very de-stressing to let oneself go and give free rein to the emotions and ideas within – the only problem with cooking like that is that I can never recreate a dish that I myself have prepared well since my moods vary. The words that I put down have a part of me in them forever. The food that I create also reflects the person that I am – a bit of zing, plenty of passion and lots of colour. Perhaps that is why I always choose to show my affection for my family by giving them their favourite foods when I know they are down and do not have the words to comfort them. Food is celebration, comfort and adventure all in one. Just like a well put-together piece of writing.
When I write, it is with a feeling of pleasure that I am among my friends, the words that are all about me. When I cook, it is with a feeling of anticipation that those I love would enjoy eating it and then their pleasure becomes mine. I would infinitely prefer to watch someone enjoy that which I have created than consume it myself. Both require a degree of skill in the sense that one cannot simply throw either words or ingredients together randomly and hope for a favourable result. Both are very sensual experiences for me. If the words are strung correctly, they fall in place like the pearls on a necklace – perfect and lacking nothing. If they are put in haphazardly, they look like the Lego blocks in my kids’ room after a riotous bout of playing.
When I cook, I know beforehand that I would not mix certain spices together but I never try to anticipate where the ingredients will take me. Each step should be done with love from the artful chopping of onions to their perfect saut̩ing to the addition of roasted and hand-ground spices and the final garnish. Friends and family look at me askance when I only serve dishes with colours that complement each other РI am no perfectionist by a long shot but I do long to be one. Of course there are days when I cook just to finish a chore but even then I refuse to compromise on the basics.
It can be very de-stressing to let oneself go and give free rein to the emotions and ideas within – the only problem with cooking like that is that I can never recreate a dish that I myself have prepared well since my moods vary. The words that I put down have a part of me in them forever. The food that I create also reflects the person that I am – a bit of zing, plenty of passion and lots of colour. Perhaps that is why I always choose to show my affection for my family by giving them their favourite foods when I know they are down and do not have the words to comfort them. Food is celebration, comfort and adventure all in one. Just like a well put-together piece of writing.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Pattern
I have often tried to figure out why certain people come into our lives. We have our parents, siblings, spouses, children and friends of course. Most of our friends we gather as we grow from child to adult solely on account of proximity – neighbours, fellow students or co-workers. Yet there are people who sometimes cross our paths briefly who may be neither former acquaintance nor current friend.
I believe that anyone who crosses our path does so for a reason that may or may not be clear eventually. It is hard to see the pattern of our relationships and the intricate crisscrossing of our lives with others and the eventual winding away on the road to fulfillment of destiny while we are right in the middle of the pattern. If we could lift ourselves above our mundane existence, we might be able to discern the meaning behind seemingly random choices or meetings. Since that is nearly impossible we are often left confused when the outcomes of meeting certain people lead us along unexpected paths.
I have the unenviable ability to attract weirdos. It is not a comforting thought. I mean, isn’t like supposed to attract like? Do I actually possess some sort of hitherto hidden weirdness that calls out to these kooks? Maybe, but I do hope fervently that it was to teach me valuable lessons and not a case of birds of a feather flocking together.
In the recent past, I have had a woman I thought was a friend harass me repeatedly with malicious mail and even stalk me. Then there was this ‘friend’ from college who tried to cloak hateful sentiments that she directed at me and displayed on a social networking site, as merely funny. There are more stories from school and college which are rather disheartening on re-examination.
Why was I the one to cross paths with these strange people? I have no idea. The larger pattern is not clear to me. I do know that sometimes when I am pondering a problem or longing for a mind to share a sentiment with, someone does come along and bring in a breath of sea-laden breeze with him/her. I know that when I am looking hardest for a way, someone comes and holds my hand to a point where the choice seems easier. I know that sometimes my most secret yearnings mirror another’s and then life seems that much more liveable. The pattern keeps building like an intricate pookalam where the masterplan is only in the creator’s mind and I, the tiny white thumba flower lost in a crowd of my companions am unable to see or discern the full glory of the design.
I believe that anyone who crosses our path does so for a reason that may or may not be clear eventually. It is hard to see the pattern of our relationships and the intricate crisscrossing of our lives with others and the eventual winding away on the road to fulfillment of destiny while we are right in the middle of the pattern. If we could lift ourselves above our mundane existence, we might be able to discern the meaning behind seemingly random choices or meetings. Since that is nearly impossible we are often left confused when the outcomes of meeting certain people lead us along unexpected paths.
I have the unenviable ability to attract weirdos. It is not a comforting thought. I mean, isn’t like supposed to attract like? Do I actually possess some sort of hitherto hidden weirdness that calls out to these kooks? Maybe, but I do hope fervently that it was to teach me valuable lessons and not a case of birds of a feather flocking together.
In the recent past, I have had a woman I thought was a friend harass me repeatedly with malicious mail and even stalk me. Then there was this ‘friend’ from college who tried to cloak hateful sentiments that she directed at me and displayed on a social networking site, as merely funny. There are more stories from school and college which are rather disheartening on re-examination.
Why was I the one to cross paths with these strange people? I have no idea. The larger pattern is not clear to me. I do know that sometimes when I am pondering a problem or longing for a mind to share a sentiment with, someone does come along and bring in a breath of sea-laden breeze with him/her. I know that when I am looking hardest for a way, someone comes and holds my hand to a point where the choice seems easier. I know that sometimes my most secret yearnings mirror another’s and then life seems that much more liveable. The pattern keeps building like an intricate pookalam where the masterplan is only in the creator’s mind and I, the tiny white thumba flower lost in a crowd of my companions am unable to see or discern the full glory of the design.
Monday, September 27, 2010
On stories
All stories do not start the same way. They also don’t have the same personality. Some are bold and sassy. Some are shy and retiring. Some are enthralling and enchanting. Some are pure fantasy. Some are passionately erotic while others are all soft romance. But they all do have a beginning. Endings are another matter entirely.
I love listening to and reading stories. From the time I could crawl into my father’s lap and listen to his wonderfully evocative rendering of the stories from the Ramayan and Mahabharath, I was hooked on to them. As I grew up I wanted to rewrite some of them because I didn’t like the endings or the treatment meted out to my beloved hero or heroine. Every attack on them, every insult, every painful experience pierced my heart and I wanted to erase all of that away. So Karna’s story absolutely had to be rewritten. I didn’t like it at all. How could life and God (Krishna was one sneaky God!) be so unfair? What happened to the ‘dharma would win’ bit? Karna was betrayed, insulted, abandoned, taken undue advantage of and even killed in a particularly cowardly fashion. I was incensed and completely full of righteous indignation when I first heard it as a tot. That emotion is still what I feel each time I read that story. Yet of all stories it is my favourite.
I have issues with the tale of Sita’s being thrown out of the kingdom because of aspersions cast on her chastity by some washer man. What is the moral of that particular story? How come no one asked what Rama did all the while Sita was in captivity? How many tests of fire must a woman pass before she is considered ‘pure’? Possibly the idea was to show that Ram was perfect and despite being a king was governed by the same rules as anyone else. That doesn’t make much sense either since there was nothing in the story to indicate that this was the routine punishment for wives under clouds of doubt. It could also be that Ram is shown to be a true yogi who cuts all ties with the object of his greatest affection in order to stand by the appearance of right. Sadly this becomes another story with the power to arouse very strong emotions which provides fodder for religious extremists who take all of the Ramayan as a literal treatise of how to live life in the twenty first century.
Our mythology is full of such stories which can strongly affect minds. A story, whatever may be its genre must ultimately have something to say. The message can be good or bad but it must exist. Maybe that is why a lot of the stories I read now seem pallid in comparison with the old tales. They seem confused as if the author himself has no idea of what he says or why he’s saying it. The complexity of a Mahabharat or Kathasarithasagar with their manifold levels and layers is something that cannot be replicated but even if you ignore all of that, the fact still remains that each of those myriad stories is beautifully told. For sheer enjoyment, even now nothing beats a story well narrated.
I love listening to and reading stories. From the time I could crawl into my father’s lap and listen to his wonderfully evocative rendering of the stories from the Ramayan and Mahabharath, I was hooked on to them. As I grew up I wanted to rewrite some of them because I didn’t like the endings or the treatment meted out to my beloved hero or heroine. Every attack on them, every insult, every painful experience pierced my heart and I wanted to erase all of that away. So Karna’s story absolutely had to be rewritten. I didn’t like it at all. How could life and God (Krishna was one sneaky God!) be so unfair? What happened to the ‘dharma would win’ bit? Karna was betrayed, insulted, abandoned, taken undue advantage of and even killed in a particularly cowardly fashion. I was incensed and completely full of righteous indignation when I first heard it as a tot. That emotion is still what I feel each time I read that story. Yet of all stories it is my favourite.
I have issues with the tale of Sita’s being thrown out of the kingdom because of aspersions cast on her chastity by some washer man. What is the moral of that particular story? How come no one asked what Rama did all the while Sita was in captivity? How many tests of fire must a woman pass before she is considered ‘pure’? Possibly the idea was to show that Ram was perfect and despite being a king was governed by the same rules as anyone else. That doesn’t make much sense either since there was nothing in the story to indicate that this was the routine punishment for wives under clouds of doubt. It could also be that Ram is shown to be a true yogi who cuts all ties with the object of his greatest affection in order to stand by the appearance of right. Sadly this becomes another story with the power to arouse very strong emotions which provides fodder for religious extremists who take all of the Ramayan as a literal treatise of how to live life in the twenty first century.
Our mythology is full of such stories which can strongly affect minds. A story, whatever may be its genre must ultimately have something to say. The message can be good or bad but it must exist. Maybe that is why a lot of the stories I read now seem pallid in comparison with the old tales. They seem confused as if the author himself has no idea of what he says or why he’s saying it. The complexity of a Mahabharat or Kathasarithasagar with their manifold levels and layers is something that cannot be replicated but even if you ignore all of that, the fact still remains that each of those myriad stories is beautifully told. For sheer enjoyment, even now nothing beats a story well narrated.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Noisy neighbours
Hearing the incessant pounding next door, combined with the tile cutting and the drilling has given me a headache. I can’t think straight and seem to be in a bad mood constantly. Since there don’t seem to be any rules at all in our housing complex, I have no way of countering this except maybe earplugs. Not a good last two months. I may actually have to get myself a job to escape this horrible din :-)
Why someone wants to buy a ready-to-move-in house and then break down walls is a mystery to me. After all it would’ve been a lot cheaper to just build your own house the way you want it than demolish parts of a row house endangering the neighbouring structures on nothing more than a whim. I tried going through all the proper channels. I notified our complex manager and the association which comprises volunteers from the residents here. A bit of a noise ensued but nothing actually happened. I wrote a mail to all the residents and got a bit of support but there was no way to enforce any of our written down rules without support from an active association. I talked to the owner who apologized but said she would obviously continue. I asked her why she didn’t feel it necessary to inform the neighbours beforehand – especially since we have a common wall and I can feel every vibration from the ceaseless pounding. She said she forgot.
I can do nothing but put up with the awful inconvenience. I cannot write because I cannot focus. I sleep poorly at nights and can’t take my afternoon naps because of the noise. There is no corner of my house that is sacred. There is noise everywhere and I am losing it. The only way I do get relief is fantasizing on the most satisfying revenge options. I have managed to jot down a few of the milder ones:
1. I record the din and play it back as soon as they move in – maybe in surround sound from the outside.
2. I make a room upstairs just for the heck of it – after all if a rank newcomer can get away with forbidden facade changes, as one of the earliest owners here, I can build anything I want on my terrace and make their bedrooms a dusty nightmare.
3. I play Carnatic music loudly all the time – no rule against that.
4. I learn to play the drums and the electric guitar – since my neighbour on the other side has a tone deaf son blaring away even at 11 in the night, I already know the basics.
5. I make really smelly food. Bring on the fermented shrimp paste and stinky tofu. Or I could just fry dry fish from my backyard – I do have that extra stove.
6. I go for a vacation and get someone to sit in my backyard and cut ceramic tiles for two days – right next to their rear veranda.
7. I don’t sleep all that well anyway – I could leave my hair loose, wear a white sari and peer through their windows at 2 a.m with eerie music playing in the background.
That’s most of what I got so far – considering that the neighbours from hell still have their furniture to make (haven’t they heard of ready-made stuff?), I will probably come up with more creative ways to torture them by the time they are done. Meanwhile the thumping goes on...
Why someone wants to buy a ready-to-move-in house and then break down walls is a mystery to me. After all it would’ve been a lot cheaper to just build your own house the way you want it than demolish parts of a row house endangering the neighbouring structures on nothing more than a whim. I tried going through all the proper channels. I notified our complex manager and the association which comprises volunteers from the residents here. A bit of a noise ensued but nothing actually happened. I wrote a mail to all the residents and got a bit of support but there was no way to enforce any of our written down rules without support from an active association. I talked to the owner who apologized but said she would obviously continue. I asked her why she didn’t feel it necessary to inform the neighbours beforehand – especially since we have a common wall and I can feel every vibration from the ceaseless pounding. She said she forgot.
I can do nothing but put up with the awful inconvenience. I cannot write because I cannot focus. I sleep poorly at nights and can’t take my afternoon naps because of the noise. There is no corner of my house that is sacred. There is noise everywhere and I am losing it. The only way I do get relief is fantasizing on the most satisfying revenge options. I have managed to jot down a few of the milder ones:
1. I record the din and play it back as soon as they move in – maybe in surround sound from the outside.
2. I make a room upstairs just for the heck of it – after all if a rank newcomer can get away with forbidden facade changes, as one of the earliest owners here, I can build anything I want on my terrace and make their bedrooms a dusty nightmare.
3. I play Carnatic music loudly all the time – no rule against that.
4. I learn to play the drums and the electric guitar – since my neighbour on the other side has a tone deaf son blaring away even at 11 in the night, I already know the basics.
5. I make really smelly food. Bring on the fermented shrimp paste and stinky tofu. Or I could just fry dry fish from my backyard – I do have that extra stove.
6. I go for a vacation and get someone to sit in my backyard and cut ceramic tiles for two days – right next to their rear veranda.
7. I don’t sleep all that well anyway – I could leave my hair loose, wear a white sari and peer through their windows at 2 a.m with eerie music playing in the background.
That’s most of what I got so far – considering that the neighbours from hell still have their furniture to make (haven’t they heard of ready-made stuff?), I will probably come up with more creative ways to torture them by the time they are done. Meanwhile the thumping goes on...
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Evening tea
My evening cup of tea is a ritual. I don’t like being hurried. I don’t like interruptions and I don’t like doing anything else during those few minutes. My morning tea is rarely savoured as I never have the time to relax in the mornings. I am lazy and would rather spend an extra ten minutes in bed than get up precisely on the dot and start my day. So morning tea is usually gulped down while having breakfast which in turn is consumed in haste so that the children can be woken up and readied for school.
In the evenings or rather afternoons before the kids come home, I have the time to have my little tea ritual. I love watching the colour of the boiling water turn a deep reddish brown as I scoop in the tea leaves and then the loss of that colour when I add the milk. Depending on my moods I add flavour. On days when I feel a little tired or I have a sore throat, I add some grated ginger. When I feel in need of a lift, I add cloves. When I want to relax after a stressful morning, I add cardamom. Different tastes for different days. My tea always reflects my moods.
I cannot abide the insipid taste of tea made with teabags. It has no zing and no excitement at all. I also am not one of those “only steep never boil” connoisseurs who use Darjeeling or some other equally pricey and delicate tea. Mine is an old-fashioned robust tea. The kind that is not found in any restaurant or coffee shop anywhere in the world - only at home – the kind that cannot be replicated.
Having made my tea, I sit down in a comfortable nook with my legs folded under me to sip it slowly. I need to have it very hot – not tepid. The very first sip caresses the inside of my throat and slides down leaving a trail of warmth all the way to my belly. The aroma of the spice of choice adds to the pleasure. Every subsequent sip warms me up more till I am cocooned in a feeling of comfort and well-being. Such an ordinary ritual but for me, it is one I simply cannot do without.
In the evenings or rather afternoons before the kids come home, I have the time to have my little tea ritual. I love watching the colour of the boiling water turn a deep reddish brown as I scoop in the tea leaves and then the loss of that colour when I add the milk. Depending on my moods I add flavour. On days when I feel a little tired or I have a sore throat, I add some grated ginger. When I feel in need of a lift, I add cloves. When I want to relax after a stressful morning, I add cardamom. Different tastes for different days. My tea always reflects my moods.
I cannot abide the insipid taste of tea made with teabags. It has no zing and no excitement at all. I also am not one of those “only steep never boil” connoisseurs who use Darjeeling or some other equally pricey and delicate tea. Mine is an old-fashioned robust tea. The kind that is not found in any restaurant or coffee shop anywhere in the world - only at home – the kind that cannot be replicated.
Having made my tea, I sit down in a comfortable nook with my legs folded under me to sip it slowly. I need to have it very hot – not tepid. The very first sip caresses the inside of my throat and slides down leaving a trail of warmth all the way to my belly. The aroma of the spice of choice adds to the pleasure. Every subsequent sip warms me up more till I am cocooned in a feeling of comfort and well-being. Such an ordinary ritual but for me, it is one I simply cannot do without.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
My Books
A day without reading some book or another is, for me, unthinkable. I need the comfort of the printed word before I can go to bed or I simply won’t unwind and sleep right. No matter how tired I am or irritable even, a good book soothes me so I feel relaxed. Obviously, the wrong choice of book doesn’t help at all although because I am an inveterate book-lover, I will still read an admittedly bad book simply because I respect the fact that the author took the trouble to write it!
I haven’t had a chance to read a good book in a while now and the need is almost a tangible void in my being. I am a little wary of new authors and don’t like to take much of a risk. I love my old favourites but sometimes even those authors disappoint. I used to love Marquez at one point till I had collected every work of his including a collection of his interviews and then I simply got tired of him. I loved “Chronicles of a Death foretold”, “Love in the time of Cholera” and “One hundred years of solitude” but didn’t like “In Evil Hour” or “Autumn of a Patriarch” much and that’s when I stopped reading Marquez – at least his newer releases. I love zany stories, non-mushy love stories and fantasy as well. I can read anything as long as it is engaging. I love Wodehouse but not too much of a dose at a time. I love Asimov’s Foundation series. I love Terry Pratchett for his humour. I love George R R Martin for writing excellent fantasy – way better than Jordan and almost as good as Tolkien. I love one of a kind books like “To kill a mockingbird”. I love sweeping sagas like “Gone with the wind” (no, I would never read its so-called sequel!). I love classics like “War and Peace”, “Pride and Prejudice”, “A tale of two cities” and “Treasure Island”. I love books that I can go back to time and again and learn anew at each reading.
I can read almost anything just to pass the time but the books I keep are the ones that are my friends. They are the ones that take me out of myself and far away on the wings of imagination. They linger in the mind long after the last word has been read. They subtly infuse my thoughts with their delicate flavour. It would be wonderful to write such words myself but I have a long way to go. Till then I shall be the eternal reader.
I haven’t had a chance to read a good book in a while now and the need is almost a tangible void in my being. I am a little wary of new authors and don’t like to take much of a risk. I love my old favourites but sometimes even those authors disappoint. I used to love Marquez at one point till I had collected every work of his including a collection of his interviews and then I simply got tired of him. I loved “Chronicles of a Death foretold”, “Love in the time of Cholera” and “One hundred years of solitude” but didn’t like “In Evil Hour” or “Autumn of a Patriarch” much and that’s when I stopped reading Marquez – at least his newer releases. I love zany stories, non-mushy love stories and fantasy as well. I can read anything as long as it is engaging. I love Wodehouse but not too much of a dose at a time. I love Asimov’s Foundation series. I love Terry Pratchett for his humour. I love George R R Martin for writing excellent fantasy – way better than Jordan and almost as good as Tolkien. I love one of a kind books like “To kill a mockingbird”. I love sweeping sagas like “Gone with the wind” (no, I would never read its so-called sequel!). I love classics like “War and Peace”, “Pride and Prejudice”, “A tale of two cities” and “Treasure Island”. I love books that I can go back to time and again and learn anew at each reading.
I can read almost anything just to pass the time but the books I keep are the ones that are my friends. They are the ones that take me out of myself and far away on the wings of imagination. They linger in the mind long after the last word has been read. They subtly infuse my thoughts with their delicate flavour. It would be wonderful to write such words myself but I have a long way to go. Till then I shall be the eternal reader.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Dilemma
I have a curious dilemma before me. I have no idea how to resolve it and I am afraid that either choice will have repercussions that may lead to regret later. I cannot run away from making a decision however as the time is nearing where a choice is inevitable. How do I choose between making one child happier than the other? This then is the difficulty.
My little girl who is six is a bundle of energy, curiosity and unending chatter. Her feet never touch the ground and she floats through life like a little lily on a pond. She is extremely intelligent and loves challenges. My son who is ten is quieter and doesn’t float. He is always happy but hates to learn anything that requires effort. So they have different needs. I had put them in the same school for two reasons. The first is that I did not want to separate brother and sister – the second was that though almost everyone I knew told me she deserved better, I didn’t want my son to think that he was being discriminated against by being left behind when she changed schools. I knew that as he grew older, he would have to face a lot more isolation and derision. He would need his sister’s help and support to survive. If I split them up, would I not be giving the impression that they were indeed not the same to me? Would she make new friends who would make her feel her brother was an embarrassment? Would she start treating him with condescension? Shouldn’t my son have fair treatment at least from his sibling? And yet the current school is not enough for her. She needs to be exposed to more sports and a tougher level of academics because she revels in it. Wouldn’t she resent me for holding her back in order to support her brother?
There isn’t an easy answer. I know that each child is unique and has unique needs that need to be met but to maintain the fine balance between being fair and being practical is not easy. I want to be partial to the child who has a tougher time on a daily basis but that is innately unjust. It also meant that I did not have full faith in his ability which was demeaning to him as well. My children will have different paths in life inevitably but I simply did not want their paths to diverge so early.
In the end I come to a decision. He will stay back and she will move on. He will be happier in a place where there is more acceptance than anywhere else in Bangalore. She will go to another school that will improve her confidence and meet her need for challenges. I can only sit back and let them find their separate ways in the hopes that in the end, separate need not necessarily mean apart.
My little girl who is six is a bundle of energy, curiosity and unending chatter. Her feet never touch the ground and she floats through life like a little lily on a pond. She is extremely intelligent and loves challenges. My son who is ten is quieter and doesn’t float. He is always happy but hates to learn anything that requires effort. So they have different needs. I had put them in the same school for two reasons. The first is that I did not want to separate brother and sister – the second was that though almost everyone I knew told me she deserved better, I didn’t want my son to think that he was being discriminated against by being left behind when she changed schools. I knew that as he grew older, he would have to face a lot more isolation and derision. He would need his sister’s help and support to survive. If I split them up, would I not be giving the impression that they were indeed not the same to me? Would she make new friends who would make her feel her brother was an embarrassment? Would she start treating him with condescension? Shouldn’t my son have fair treatment at least from his sibling? And yet the current school is not enough for her. She needs to be exposed to more sports and a tougher level of academics because she revels in it. Wouldn’t she resent me for holding her back in order to support her brother?
There isn’t an easy answer. I know that each child is unique and has unique needs that need to be met but to maintain the fine balance between being fair and being practical is not easy. I want to be partial to the child who has a tougher time on a daily basis but that is innately unjust. It also meant that I did not have full faith in his ability which was demeaning to him as well. My children will have different paths in life inevitably but I simply did not want their paths to diverge so early.
In the end I come to a decision. He will stay back and she will move on. He will be happier in a place where there is more acceptance than anywhere else in Bangalore. She will go to another school that will improve her confidence and meet her need for challenges. I can only sit back and let them find their separate ways in the hopes that in the end, separate need not necessarily mean apart.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Road
I couldn’t believe it was 10:30 in the morning as we drove along the winding roads from Baghmandala towards Pannathur. It was all a forest area and I had passed through the same road during different times and different seasons but never in the morning and never on an unusually rainy day in September. The road was hardly visible except for about eight feet ahead because of almost fog-like conditions and it was winding along in a decidedly curvaceous manner. I was craning my neck trying to spot any possible vehicles speeding from the opposite side in an attempt to aid Sushant but was failing miserably because I was so enchanted by the surroundings.
The road was narrow and a steep drop marked the left side. Tiny little cataracts had magically transformed into beautiful waterfalls cascading from the mountainous side to the right. Greens of every hue that beggared description greeted the eye from all sides. Bamboos formed shady archways. Impossibly tall trees broke the skyline. Mist hung in the air and a fine drizzle showered on us throughout. Mountains were visible in the distance shrouded in mystery and the very sights that I had gotten used to after innumerable trips looked like they had been magically transformed.
The air was so invigorating after the stale air-conditioned stuff we normally inhale that my fastidious husband actually let the windows be rolled down despite the mild showers. The children were enjoying the scenery in a way I have never seen before and they were so pleased at seeing the mini-waterfalls that we had to stop and try to take pictures. But no picture can capture that moment of hushed awe at beauty so sublime it just takes your breath away. I can’t find the words to explain how blessed we all felt at that moment – one of those precious moments you can lock away in memory and take out to relive over and over again ...
The road was narrow and a steep drop marked the left side. Tiny little cataracts had magically transformed into beautiful waterfalls cascading from the mountainous side to the right. Greens of every hue that beggared description greeted the eye from all sides. Bamboos formed shady archways. Impossibly tall trees broke the skyline. Mist hung in the air and a fine drizzle showered on us throughout. Mountains were visible in the distance shrouded in mystery and the very sights that I had gotten used to after innumerable trips looked like they had been magically transformed.
The air was so invigorating after the stale air-conditioned stuff we normally inhale that my fastidious husband actually let the windows be rolled down despite the mild showers. The children were enjoying the scenery in a way I have never seen before and they were so pleased at seeing the mini-waterfalls that we had to stop and try to take pictures. But no picture can capture that moment of hushed awe at beauty so sublime it just takes your breath away. I can’t find the words to explain how blessed we all felt at that moment – one of those precious moments you can lock away in memory and take out to relive over and over again ...
Saturday, August 28, 2010
My rains...
The rain is most insistent. It will be heard. I sit by my window listening to the raindrops fall where they would. I have varied reactions to the rain – some days I cannot get enough of it and I can dream away watching the rain. Some days, however my spirit is bogged down by the sound of continual downpours. Today is one such day. I need to see the sun out after a period. I need to get out and go for long walks in the evening. I need to see the newly washed greens and smell the delicate perfume of the soil. Having to sit out the evenings at home makes me rather cranky.
I recall my childhood in Kerala (well, part of it anyway) when the monsoons would herald what seemed like endless dreary days. We would have a tough time getting clothes dry or going to school, for the first day of school always marked the first day of the monsoon as well. I remember squelching through muddy roads to get on to overcrowded buses where we were prey to any wandering and probing fingers. I remember being schooled by my more experienced friends about how to use my elbows and rolled-up umbrella or as a last resort, a safety pin in order to deflect the single-minded hands. The last phase of our school commute involved walking beside a busy road and occasionally getting splashed with dirty water sent spurting by over-speeding buses. I did so hate the monsoons.
In college I stayed in a hostel and so the rainy season was less of a bother – we would get wet inevitably on our way to the mess hall and back to class (despite the umbrellas) but we could always find ways to manage. During my engineering college days, the hostel and the college were a lot farther apart and it was also a co-ed institution and getting wet did have a lot more repercussions than I bargained for :-). Looking back on the endless monsoon days I truly wonder how it was that all of us adjusted so easily. We would even get out on the terrace in the pouring rain and dance just for the sheer joy of being young and together. Now I am so picky that a drizzle will send me scurrying back indoors. I feel that the change is not merely due to an increase in inflexibility – rather its more to do with the loss of a carefree spirit. One day I might yet feel young enough to dance in the rain again ...
I recall my childhood in Kerala (well, part of it anyway) when the monsoons would herald what seemed like endless dreary days. We would have a tough time getting clothes dry or going to school, for the first day of school always marked the first day of the monsoon as well. I remember squelching through muddy roads to get on to overcrowded buses where we were prey to any wandering and probing fingers. I remember being schooled by my more experienced friends about how to use my elbows and rolled-up umbrella or as a last resort, a safety pin in order to deflect the single-minded hands. The last phase of our school commute involved walking beside a busy road and occasionally getting splashed with dirty water sent spurting by over-speeding buses. I did so hate the monsoons.
In college I stayed in a hostel and so the rainy season was less of a bother – we would get wet inevitably on our way to the mess hall and back to class (despite the umbrellas) but we could always find ways to manage. During my engineering college days, the hostel and the college were a lot farther apart and it was also a co-ed institution and getting wet did have a lot more repercussions than I bargained for :-). Looking back on the endless monsoon days I truly wonder how it was that all of us adjusted so easily. We would even get out on the terrace in the pouring rain and dance just for the sheer joy of being young and together. Now I am so picky that a drizzle will send me scurrying back indoors. I feel that the change is not merely due to an increase in inflexibility – rather its more to do with the loss of a carefree spirit. One day I might yet feel young enough to dance in the rain again ...
Friday, August 27, 2010
Elusive sleep ...
The hours pass slowly but then the hours of pre-dawn pass slowly for anyone who cannot sleep. I lie on my side trying to close my eyes and shut down my chattering mind. All that I do during the day to avoid thinking really doesn’t work in the dark. But then I am used to this lack of sleep – what I find difficult to cope with is the fact that the number of worries that plague me seem to be growing and not diminishing.
I am not a passive acceptor of this entire scenario though I am guilty of worrying more than can be good for me. I have embarked on a process of self-discovery in the hopes that some inner core will give me the strength to simply get through some days. I have often wondered whether having an escape valve of sorts would help. If I had but two days to be just about anything, to do just about anything with no lines drawn and no one to look over my shoulder even metaphorically, would I feel free? What would I do given the freedom to simply be? Knowing my routine-bound self, I would probably read a book and not go over to the wild side but the idea that absolute freedom, at least for a little while, now and again, might be in my power opens up possibilities I have never considered.
The problems ahead do not faze me as much as the feeling of being tied down permanently by responsibilities that no other can share. I have wonderful friends who sympathize – some even have a considerable degree of empathy. I have siblings who are ever ready to reassure. I have a spouse who is wholly involved with the family. Despite this, there are days when no one else can do what I must or even feel what I do – it is a universal truth no doubt and not something that is exclusive to me. Everyone has problems and mine are as ordinary to others as theirs are to me – all I want is the power to distance myself from them once in a while so that the pain can ebb and flow instead of throb heavily every moment. That is not too much to dream of I think. When I was a little girl, I had lofty dreams and plenty of sleep – now even my dreams do not have the power to fly and sleep is as elusive as a good cup of tea in Bangalore ;-)
I am not a passive acceptor of this entire scenario though I am guilty of worrying more than can be good for me. I have embarked on a process of self-discovery in the hopes that some inner core will give me the strength to simply get through some days. I have often wondered whether having an escape valve of sorts would help. If I had but two days to be just about anything, to do just about anything with no lines drawn and no one to look over my shoulder even metaphorically, would I feel free? What would I do given the freedom to simply be? Knowing my routine-bound self, I would probably read a book and not go over to the wild side but the idea that absolute freedom, at least for a little while, now and again, might be in my power opens up possibilities I have never considered.
The problems ahead do not faze me as much as the feeling of being tied down permanently by responsibilities that no other can share. I have wonderful friends who sympathize – some even have a considerable degree of empathy. I have siblings who are ever ready to reassure. I have a spouse who is wholly involved with the family. Despite this, there are days when no one else can do what I must or even feel what I do – it is a universal truth no doubt and not something that is exclusive to me. Everyone has problems and mine are as ordinary to others as theirs are to me – all I want is the power to distance myself from them once in a while so that the pain can ebb and flow instead of throb heavily every moment. That is not too much to dream of I think. When I was a little girl, I had lofty dreams and plenty of sleep – now even my dreams do not have the power to fly and sleep is as elusive as a good cup of tea in Bangalore ;-)
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Soul mates
I can understand why a person who has led as sheltered an existence as I have would not be able to define true love. I even doubt its existence. I know security and a kind of love of course but I have never experienced the kind of magical, sweep-me-off-my-feet kind of love. I adore my husband and children but I have never been able to let go with anyone ever. I always seem to hold a piece of myself back which witnesses my interactions with my loved ones dispassionately. I have no clue why this is so and I don’t think there is another soul who even understands what I am talking about.
There are people who could not be more different in tastes, attitude, exposure or inclination compared to me but they too still seek true love. Some of the more cynical feel very superior when they declare that the majority of the world confuses love with lust. It is not that simple. While lust is a healthy by-product of attraction, love and lust need not always be mutually exclusive – they are separate entities but inextricably intertwined some of the time. Imagine an entire world full of people in search of their soul mates. What are the chances that they go beyond the immediate radius of friends, home town, state or at most country? Given the enormity of the population, what is the guarantee that the soul mate would be of one’s own culture or race? How is one supposed to actually find this soul mate? The sheer impossibility of such a task should fill one with disbelief.
So most of us settle for what we can be comfortable with rather than what would perfectly complement us. I see nothing wrong with that. It is not part of nature to endow soul mates with some sort of identification badge. The more important task for any living being is survival and of course procreation. Love isn’t necessary for either and so is not an essential part of life according to the laws of nature. Years of conditioning by means of stories of eternal love has left in every man and woman an inexplicable yearning somewhere deep inside. It is of course true that very few act on that yearning but yet it rules most of our expectations. Therefore whether we have arranged marriages or love marriages, we secretly yearn to know whether what we have is the love that dreams are made of instead of the routine sort that actually makes the world go round.
There are people who could not be more different in tastes, attitude, exposure or inclination compared to me but they too still seek true love. Some of the more cynical feel very superior when they declare that the majority of the world confuses love with lust. It is not that simple. While lust is a healthy by-product of attraction, love and lust need not always be mutually exclusive – they are separate entities but inextricably intertwined some of the time. Imagine an entire world full of people in search of their soul mates. What are the chances that they go beyond the immediate radius of friends, home town, state or at most country? Given the enormity of the population, what is the guarantee that the soul mate would be of one’s own culture or race? How is one supposed to actually find this soul mate? The sheer impossibility of such a task should fill one with disbelief.
So most of us settle for what we can be comfortable with rather than what would perfectly complement us. I see nothing wrong with that. It is not part of nature to endow soul mates with some sort of identification badge. The more important task for any living being is survival and of course procreation. Love isn’t necessary for either and so is not an essential part of life according to the laws of nature. Years of conditioning by means of stories of eternal love has left in every man and woman an inexplicable yearning somewhere deep inside. It is of course true that very few act on that yearning but yet it rules most of our expectations. Therefore whether we have arranged marriages or love marriages, we secretly yearn to know whether what we have is the love that dreams are made of instead of the routine sort that actually makes the world go round.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Choices
What is a person’s life without passion in it? I often wonder when I look around and see a number of people going around leading lives which to me seem purely mechanical. Everyone seems obsessed by a need to do something. Most often that something brings them neither happiness nor satisfaction. Of course they do make money but ultimately does simply making money satisfy your soul? It cannot. You can justify almost anything you do but if you are unhappy as a result, there really is no point.
Of course, everyone tells me that it is impractical to expect every single person to be happy at their respective jobs. I am also frequently told that many do not have the luxury that I do of simply taking time off and lazing around waiting for inspiration to strike. They are right. I have no clue where I am going in my life but I do know that I will find my way when the time is right. I could compromise like I tried doing off and on for years but I did not want to. It meant a smaller income. It meant frustration of a different sort. It also meant that I did not have the company of people to stimulate me for most of the day. It was not a very easy decision for me to make and I have always been tortured by self-doubt but in the end the choice had to be made. I had to follow my own star, vague and distant though it might appear now.
A passion is essential to live life to the fullest. Imagine getting up every morning full of vigour and looking forward to the day with joy. The idea that you are doing what you were meant to do, what you were born to do and what only you can do very well is compelling. It gives you a sense of purpose quite apart from the daily round of duties and responsibilities that fall to everyone’s lot. When you follow your passion, you are no longer merely someone else’s wife or mother or daughter, you are just you doing the thing you were created to do. I get that feeling only when I attempt to write – I say attempt because I have not yet been able to put down my thoughts the way they are in my head. They seem profound and beautiful in imagination and clunky when put down – I assume because of my inability to capture them correctly. Yet I continue to hope to have that passion rule my life one day.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Overcast
The overcast day always distracts me. The green outside looks a little more intense. The redness of the hibiscus deepens. There is a pensive quality to the air and to the day itself. I can sit for hours comfortable with the thoughts playing around in my head. It’s what I do best. I don’t need music to enjoy my mood – I am happy with the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind. The entire day weighs heavy with expectancy but not unpleasantly so. You don’t get days like this very often for the conditions have to be just right.
I sit next to my window and watch the sky that perfectly mirrors my soul. My soul is usually overcast or at least my mind is. The beauty beneath gets obscured by the sorrowing clouds. I have long ceased to see the blue and see only the grey. It is not a dreary unhappiness - just a subtly melancholic one. It may seem like a contradiction but it isn’t. No one can be perfectly happy. It is easier to be imperfectly happy. I take joy in some things but overshadowing it all is worry for my son’s future. It doesn’t go away and what frightens me more is my incapability. I cannot seem to help him – sometimes it appears I do not even want to try. A little centre of pain such as that can keep you from smiling your fullest smile. It’s been too long since my slender shoulders have been burdened and I cannot but wonder how his little shoulders will hold up. On days like this a certain sense of peace comes over me. A stillness where there is no expectation or thought or worry – just the satisfaction of being. The background noise of cars and people talking too loudly on their cell phones cannot detract from the essential beauty of the moment and I am calm and placid like a lake with only internal ripples.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Marketing tragedies
The current times call for marketing in all spheres of life. You could create the best work of literature in decades and no one would bother if you are unable to market it. The same goes for practically anything. You could be a mediocre cook but if you can market yourself by licking whipped cream off a spoon suggestively enough, you have arrived as a ‘domestic goddess’. Similarly if you have no product worth the name but have aggressively marketed it as the only piece of must-have software in the universe, then you are a millionaire several times over before you can blink. In short if you don’t sell it, you get nowhere – its not what you have to sell that counts, its how you go about selling it that really matters.
I think there can be no one better at selling than the Americans. They have it down pat. They can sell you their lifestyles, their non-existent history and culture (three hundred years is a mere flash in the pan), their heart-attack inducing eating habits and their germ phobic obsessions. They can make you think that they are the most important things in creation. You are pulled towards them by their unbelievable confidence in themselves as the center of the universe. You are mesmerized by their devotion to themselves and only themselves. Its kind of like a mouse being hypnotized by a cobra. You go along with it , aping their movies, their accents and their methods of making money. They are the gods and you are willing to pay obeisance. What the Americans do best, however, is market their tragedies.
They haven’t had many tragedies. They actually had more embarrassments and unnecessary wars than actual numbing, heart-rending tragedy. So for generations they have been insulated from the ugliness of the world and feel themselves above it. That could be why they were shaken up on 9/11. They were clueless about the fact that their ridiculous and short-sighted foreign policy would have led them to be attacked by the very terrorist forces that they had secretly provided arms to. They could have acknowledged their mistake and moved forward toward a real resolution. Instead they resorted to marketing. They made sure that no one would forget 9/11. It became a brand, a logo on a t-shirt, a movie , a milestone. Their dead were more important than any other country’s dead. The tens of thousands of innocent civilians who lost their lives as a result of American incursions into Iraq are of no import. Our Bhopal gas massacre (for it was not a mere tragedy but sheer carelessness) that left twenty five thousand dead and uncounted blind was of no importance either. There was no accountability – no redress of grievance – even our own courts let off the American head of Union Carbide with a playful pinch on the cheek.
In India no tragedy can be on so large a scale that we cannot forget it. Maybe we should outsource out marketing of tragedies to a U.S company – they will guarantee us a tragedy no one can forget...
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