Unhappy minds...

I woke up feeling inexplicably sad today. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. True, the last few days have been somewhat difficult but I generally bounce back quickly and therefore found it hard to believe that a few more kicks when I am down would actually get me feeling that low. Somehow I don’t think that was the reason for the overwhelming feeling of sorrow that seemed to have pervaded my being. The sorrow was not invasive though – it seemed to presage some inevitability that I had no control over but must grieve for nevertheless.

Is man’s mind while at rest, happy? Mine never is – it tends to sit quiet and pensive thinking over the nature of things instead of simply relaxing. Can any thinking being be truly happy? I somehow doubt that – one is so busy ruminating on consequences and second-guesses that the moment of living is past before one knows it and one has neither relaxed nor enjoyed the present moment before it has moved on to the past. Maybe the key is to set a goal of making your mind live in the present for just that one moment and no more – gradually it will find itself not bogged down by too many thoughts perhaps.

I have never actively tried it since I am used to the buzz and traffic of too many thoughts in an overheated brain. I also wonder whether being quiet and happy for the most part will be conducive for a writer’s imagination anyway. I mean the periods when I am relatively content, I have no urge to write whatsoever. However when I am sad, angry, frustrated or ridiculously irritated, then the words seem to flow effortlessly. Am I like the oyster that needs to be uncomfortable and in pain to be creative? I don’t imagine satisfied, eternally happy, irritation-free oysters are capable of producing pearls.

So there may be a role for the forever-restless minded like myself to play in the vast production that is day to day life in the universe. It may be that some of the finest inventions were born of restless inquiry and not of content contemplation. It may be that intense feelings of sorrow can prompt an outpouring of creativity that boggles the mind. I don’t know for sure but I am certain of one thing – unhappy minds need to be celebrated too...

Bring it on...

I understand repeated hammerings can do beautiful things to metal giving it a texture, feel and appearance that is drastically different from the original and supposedly more alluring as well. That may work for metal. How does it work for human beings I wonder?

I am not writing a despondent note. Once ceases to be despondent after years of hammering anyway. I do remember vaguely the years long ago when I really did not have a care in the world and the hammering of fate was a distant nightmare. Such a happy girl I was in comparison to today. And yet today I have learnt to be happy with the smallest of things. Someone thinking of me and sending me an affectionate message. A compliment on my looks even when I feel like something the cat dragged in. A cup of tea someone actually makes for me. A little hand drawn card my daughter makes saying “you are the world’s best Amma” even if I have been hard on her that day. Hammering at least makes you seek joy wherever you can find it.

I have stopped asking the pointless question of why I seem to get all sorts of difficult situations dumped on me. I feel like I am specially marked out for all the wrong reasons sometimes. I rant and rail at fate. I break down many a time. I steel myself with a stiff upper lip at other times. Whatever mode I use to tackle the continuing stream of fate’s blows, I cope. My one saving grace is that given a little time, I can find some humour in any dire situation. That has saved me from losing my sanity over the years.

A few of my friends are somewhat surprised that there is so much going on in my life and I still pull through. It explains my basic negativity though. I get to a point where I feel somewhat content and on the cusp of happiness and wham! , there’s another blow with the cosmic baseball bat. I am wary of happiness. I am wary of letting go. I am really wary of relaxing. And yet with all this wariness I cope. It is truly amazing how much inner strength we each have that even we are completely unaware of.

Nobility does not lie in an accident of birth – it is a part of one’s character that you earn by being in difficult situations and not backing down or taking no for an answer. It is taking the more difficult path when there are many easier options available. It is looking at a belligerent fate and facing it with the courage born of anger, determination or even plain helplessness. Hammering does tend to impart that strength of character – being folded a thousand ways and beaten repeatedly ensures you never crack and though it leaves permanent scars, they are not necessarily disfiguring ones – in a certain light, they even possess an uncanny beauty.

It has also taught me one more thing - to be grateful at least occasionally for what I have – the strength to take what comes my way, a loving family that views me as some sort of superwoman, unexpected love that comes my way like a miracle, friends who believe in me way more than I have ever believed in myself and a sense of humour to laugh at it all in the very end for if you cannot laugh, you might as well give up now.

Of not so smart phones...

It is definitely an addiction. She’s smart, a lovely deep red, looks hot and fits in my hand perfectly. She throws none of the tantrums that an overstrung smart phone does. I mean you can actually hold her any which way and type messages to anyone while being driven at speed over potholed roads - try doing that with an iPhone or a Samsung Galaxy and you will immediately understand what I mean. On top of that you don’t have to wave your hand or gesticulate in one fell swoop to answer or more importantly to disconnect the phone – all you have to do is click buttons normally and even emphatically if you so desire. Try being emphatic with a smart phone and all you get is a headache.

So my Blackberry is a thing of beauty and utility while my husband’s touch screen phone to me looks like an unmitigated disaster except for the games. It acts like something I’d give a kid and not something I would want to use while making vitally important calls. I simply cannot send a message on that thing to save my life. It is important to position your nails (I have nails) somewhere in the upper right quadrant of the numbers/letters on the screen if you actually want that number or letter to be typed. Who the hell has time for that? I would rather just use my thumbs and click away at high speed and get the message done rather than vexedly deleting every wrong letter I have managed to somehow get typed. Smart phones are really not very smart or they would come with buttons like any sensible piece of equipment.

The main advantage of using one of those touch-screen disasters is that the children have no interest in attacking my phone but instead make a beeline for my husband’s phone when they have had enough of cartoons and the laptops. My phone is fine for them to listen to songs on but gaming looks so ancient that I happily have had no reason to fear for my phone’s safety whereas my husband’s phone frequently freezes, hangs and locks up after the twosome’s loving ministrations. Such peace of mind cannot be purchased at any price, I assure you.

On top of all these wonderful features that come free with the smart phone, my major grouse is that it is really quite useless for a multitasking wizard like myself. I can answer the phone while doing almost anything. That however is solely under the assumption that it can be operated with one hand (please do not tell me about voice commands). So I click the answer button with one finger, prop the phone under my ear and get on with whatever chore I am performing at the moment. But when my husband is in the shower and yells at me to answer the phone while I am in the crucial stages of making that coconut fish curry, I have to first run and wipe both hands, do the weird swishy wave and attempt to cock the thing under my neck before trying to salvage the finely chopped onions for the tempering – invariably the call disconnects and the tempering gets messed up. If it were my little Curve, that would never have happened – happy fish curry, happy me would’ve been the only result.

Therefore I have decided to rename the smart phone to the ‘oversmart’ phone – smart when least needed and way ‘oversmart’ at all other times. Give me my non-smart phone any day!

This day...

He looks at me with eyes full of pain. I don’t notice the pain or I do, but I choose to ignore it. I am filled with anger fuelled by worry as always. “Why do you just sit there?” “Why can’t you show an interest in something?” “You aren’t a potato for god’s sake, say something!!?” “Stop that weeping – why can’t you just tell me what you feel!” I scream all of this and the pain hits me like a wave.

I don’t cry because I am mad. Mad at a fate that can gift me with a son I do not know how to handle. I worry insanely night and day about what it is he can do with himself. There are moments when I feel carefree but that is only because of one newfound friendship that makes me behave like a young girl after ages. When that ends, I’ll have to go back to being in pain nearly always yet again.

I am not untalented. And yet I have earned nothing for myself monetarily. All the years I spent in so many hostels at college were not of much use except to earn me the degrees I needed to be marriageable material. How could I work when there is no one else to be home for my son when he needed it? So yes I resent him for that as well. All this negative feeling pops up when the worry strikes me hardest. Otherwise I leave well enough alone and we are both reasonably happy.

I realize that life has no answers sometimes and the questions can be very tormenting. I also realize that there is no point beating one’s head endlessly on a wall – the wall’s still there and you have a blasted headache to top it all. And indeed on most days humour comes to my aid and I pull through. But there are always those days that I dread where I don’t see a chink of light in the gathering gloom; where I am swamped with the kind of fear only a mother knows; where I regret every single thing that I have done in my life – today perhaps is one such day. Tomorrow I will be alright – I shall see the shadows for what they are and glimpse the light behind it but for now, I am hard-pressed to simply get through this day.

Little lives ...

No sane person would enjoy reading the newspapers these days. And I punish myself twice each morning since I get two sets daily. Its normally amusing for me to see the wide disparities between the facts as presented in one paper compared to the next. There was nothing funny about today’s news however. A host of tragic stories – all to do with children. How many ways will we find to neglect and abuse our children I wonder? Abrupt endings to lives just beginning are so much more painful to contemplate – that’s why such stories haunt me for days.

The first story was one of those that will give any mother nightmares. A young mother was feeding her eighteen-month old son near open windows in a ninth-floor apartment. According to one account, the bowl of food slipped from her hand – she instinctively tried to catch it and loosened the grip of her arm around the little boy and he fell to his death. Was it a completely idiotic thing to attempt to feed a squirming child near an open window in a high-rise? Of course it was. Why was there no grill or some such protective mechanism? When builders cut corners, they don’t think twice about something as trivial as children’s safety. The buyers don’t seem to care or think ahead either. Despite all the immediate reaction to cast blame and wonder at how people could be so thoughtless, the overwhelming emotion is that of empathy with a mother who lost a child in the most careless fashion possible. How on earth will she live with herself? When I had two very young kids vying for my attention, I used to lose it with myself and the kids often enough so its easy to understand why she wanted to just get done with feeding the baby and on to the million other things vying for her attention. But it still doesn’t change the fact that the loss of her child was completely senseless and tragically avoidable.

The second story was something I should be used to by now but somehow never can get inured to. A guy grabbed his newborn daughter and threw her on the ground in an attempt to end her life because the combination of her undesirable sex and accursed clubfeet was simply too much for his manly pride to handle. After all he had apparently forced a promise out of his wife that she would only deliver a son – how dare the useless woman go back on her word and produce a freakish specimen instead? The last update mentioned the baby was still alive and struggling for life – every being wants to live, sex and club feet notwithstanding.

The third story is also tragic, perhaps excessively so because it shines a spotlight on how a society such as ours allows young children to be influenced in the most bizarre ways imaginable. A ten year old boy and his siblings were playing by themselves at home. Both parents were away at work. The children decided that they would try to see whether hanging was actually possible or not. They had seen countless movies where forlorn lovers attempted it and were saved at the last minute. They had read enough stories about children hanging themselves from the nearest object after getting a dressing-down from their parents on anything ranging from poor marks to a badly chosen partner to undesirable behaviour. The temptation was therefore present and so was curiosity. So the little guy was egged on to hang himself from the window curtains. Imagine his surprise when he actually succeeded. The other kids raised a hue and cry and neighbours whisked him away to a hospital where he is reported to be in a critical condition. Go ahead – leave kids who know no better by themselves – expose them to the most ludicrous movies and news stories and then expect them to have the judgement to make a sensible choice.

How many ways will we find to let down our children? In India, the answer would be – in countless new and innovative ways. Tomorrow we will end up far poorer for the choice we make today to neglect these young lives. When will this country wake up and take notice? I am simply lost trying to find an answer...

Sleeping children

I look at the little faces lost in sleep or perhaps in dreams of another world. How still they are now as opposed to the restless energy that seems to possess them when they are awake! They are so alike and yet so different. They smell wonderful – not the special mixture of mother’s milk and Johnson’s baby powder like they used to when they were infants but clean and light – they still smell of innocence.

I don’t watch them sleeping very often because the love that catches me by surprise always tends to be overwhelming and I do not want to feel this much love for fear something will happen to detract from it. I usually look at them for a few minutes in the morning before I wake them up for the crazy round of brushing, bathing and breakfasting before school that never seems to finish on time.

Today I notice how beautiful the shapes of my son’s eyes are. He has lashes that any actress would kill for. His head is a perfect round, his nose is just right and he has little cupid’s bow shaped lips – such a cute face and yet whenever I see him my heart fills with anxiety at what the future holds for a child who will never belong with others. Maybe he will surprise me. For now I just look at him and let the sight take my breath away.

The little one has grown so much the past year. She is all tanned gangly limbs like a colt. Even while still you can see her grace and fluidity. Her face is still small and she still looks like a baby to me when asleep. Her features are like her brother’s in many ways but she has a very determined expression even while dreaming. I am sure her dreams are of flying. Her feet never touch the ground – my little colt has wings.

In a few moments the morning frenzy will start. I will go nuts and yell at them to hurry, hurry and hurry some more. I will not hear the stories Mahi wants to tell me about the girl whose jacket got exchanged with hers. I won’t notice the cat on the backyard wall as the distraction that prevents Appu from finishing his breakfast. I will heave a sigh of relief when they are bundled off and then immediately I regret not being softer, gentler more patient. And then I will think of them when they are asleep and smile – what a blessing these two are and how little I deserve them. But I too shall learn to grow as a parent and one day I shall be worthy of these two...

Again...

The headlines are mile-high. The pictures are unspeakably horrific. The words are all the right ones. Anger. Shock. Outrage. Fear. Panic. Every one of these emotions is captured well. There is also an unbelievable sense of frustration. The bile rises in my throat as I read about the latest series of bomb blasts in Mumbai. I cannot swallow past the acrid taste. There is no room for feeling anything other than real disgust that I am the citizen of a country that cares nothing for its people. And of course an overwhelming sense of déjà vu...

For the question in everyone’s mind is “When is the next one going to hit us?”. We all know there is going to be a next one and one after that as well. There’s no comfort in numbers or in knowing that perhaps by mere chance one might not lose a loved one in the next set of blasts. India, being the eternal soft state seeks neither revenge nor retribution like some other countries – indeed this erstwhile centre of spirituality does not even seek to teach those responsible any sort of lesson but instead chooses to assume that all things will even out in the next world. Those who died in the most gruesome manner were after all victims of their own past-life karma. The wheel turns and life goes on. Forgive. Forget. Never ever take steps to see that this doesn’t happen again. There are enough of us so that a few more dozen such incidents will not matter.

And we are to raise children in this kind of a set-up. We are to leave them be and hope that they go out of homes and come back eventually. We are to let them go in trains and buses to schools and colleges or to friends’ homes with a constant prayer on our lips and a dull throbbing fear that the almighty may not spare our children from the fate of countless others in a country that cares less for its children than roadside garbage.

How can one reconcile oneself to such a fate? To live in eternal fear? To not know closure for the deaths already caused. To get up in the morning and see pictures splashed in the newspapers cruelly depicting the bodies of young and old missing limbs and bathed in gore and mired in trash. Nothing can take away the horror or the pain. No one can soothe away the hurt. But if we had a government with some sense of responsibility or even commitment to the cause of protecting the very people who put them in positions of power, we wouldn’t have to live so. India today should be ashamed of itself for in India, tomorrow, who knows what will happen? All I know is that if its something bad, we still will not be prepared for it. People will die, speeches will be made, the spirit of a city will be lauded and then all will be forgotten. The spots marked by the blood of innocents will become mere tourist attractions. Their deaths will be as inconsequential as a series of summer rains. And it will happen again.