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.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
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 ...
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