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…

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.

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 sautéing 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 – I 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.

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.

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.

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...

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.