No, I am not trying to come up with rhyming words. For once, I want to write, not about feelings and emotions, but just about my day. I often wonder how people are able to just summarize their typical day and it sounds so much more interesting than my so-called interesting days. Without further analysis about why this may be so, however hard it may be not to introspect and conclude that it is I who makes the day interesting or mundane (I did that again, didn't I?), I proceed to my dear diary style summary of today.
11.15 AM - I woke up a little bit on the wrong side of the bed, I mean how much farther away is the right side anyway?! I groggily walked to brush my teeth and noticed remnants of the previous night, comforters, pillows and an abandoned DVD player sitting in the hall outside my bedroom. I thought of friends and bonhomie, laughter and good times...I smiled. The next second, an image popped up in my head and I was suddenly wide awake. I frowned. Jyothika with her crooked expression, psychotically crazed eyes, her kumkum disturbingly smeared all over her forehead dropped into my mental faculty to say a friendly hi and somehow, I did not feel so good humoured any more.
12.30 PM - B, P, k & I had planned to go to the temple and were all set to leave, when we realized that the temple closes at 2, for an hour! Bad planning. We postponed our trip by an hour and I sat pondering over similies to kill time. Finally, we set out at 2.40 PM and reached the temple at 4 PM. Probably the highlight of the day. We had a nice darshan and reached home by 6.45 PM. OK, this is a ridiculously boring journal entry, nevertheless, I plod on listlessly because I hate to leave things incomplete.
7 PM - P & I agreed that C~ki was a bad choice for a midnight movie, we exchanged similar worries and fears that the movie and Jo in particular had managed to inflict on us and I found a little peace in that conversation. No scarcity of crazy people in this world and am not talking about Jo here. k agreed that the movie was bad but went on to suggest that S~in was no better and I was suitably offended. I did enjoy watching S~in, however mind-numbingly repetitive the boy-loves-girl-who-takes-sweet-time-to-say-yes formula was.
8 PM - As I added salt for probably the fourth time to the unprotesting sambhar, I pondered on my mood for the day. I concluded that I did not feel the best that I could have felt - the happy gathering of the previous night had left a vacuum in the house and Jo made it a point to remind me of that fact and of, lets just say, many other dubious facts that left a bad taste in my mouth. I sighed. Almost every weekend the past month, I was either busy in anticipation of something exciting or just busy with some social gathering or the other and now suddenly, I had nothing to look forward to, I was definitely sad. The now brownish liquid frothing in front of me seemed to reflect my mood.
9 PM - The four of us sat down to eat and started discussing our lives now and how the nuptial knot is going to change it altogether. We discussed a surprisingly wide variety of topics ranging from marriage, frustrations, complaints, parents and children! I found myself laughing and was even more glad to note that I was able to make everyone else laugh with me. We teamed up, as we normally do, girls vs boys, and the debate was suprisingly balanced for some time, before tilting favourably towards us, as is the norm. We laughed some more. I made a small mental note that my mood had changed the past hour, maybe He decided to intervene, maybe I subconsciously did, I dont know. I was just glad to be glad.
11.45 PM - And that completes my entry for today and before I take note of the time and switch from glad to sad with Monday morning blues, I bid adieu.
April 24, 2005
Playing around with similes...
Similes are often considered, unfairly, to be in a poor man's repertoire of figures of speech, just trying to get more intimate with them and see what they have to offer!
Words are like little strings of jasmine flowers, they look beautiful when tastefully woven together; but an innocent heart, like the delicate maiden that the jasmine adorns, creates the right canvas for the words to complete the painting.
Words are like children, sometimes they are so adorable, you cannot take your eyes off them and at other times they have to be separated from each other because they seem to create a most grating and discordant noise and there are a few still, impish even when left by themselves.
Words are like snowflakes, each having its unique pattern and each having different associations in different minds, for some, it is romantic, for some, wretched, it all depends on how you see it fall, from the window.
Words are like seedlings, when sown the right way, they both look beautiful when they see the light of the day.
Words are like babbling brooks; alliterations, hyperboles, oxymorons, similies…while they may all pleasantly murmer to us, sometimes, they fail to leave anything behind.
Words are like daggers through the heart, words are like soothing balm on enraged emotions, words are like puppets in a puppeteer’s hands, words are like conflicting emotions - love and hate, animosity and appeasement, curiosity and disinterest, words are like magic to me and words are all I have…
Words are like little strings of jasmine flowers, they look beautiful when tastefully woven together; but an innocent heart, like the delicate maiden that the jasmine adorns, creates the right canvas for the words to complete the painting.
Words are like children, sometimes they are so adorable, you cannot take your eyes off them and at other times they have to be separated from each other because they seem to create a most grating and discordant noise and there are a few still, impish even when left by themselves.
Words are like snowflakes, each having its unique pattern and each having different associations in different minds, for some, it is romantic, for some, wretched, it all depends on how you see it fall, from the window.
Words are like seedlings, when sown the right way, they both look beautiful when they see the light of the day.
Words are like babbling brooks; alliterations, hyperboles, oxymorons, similies…while they may all pleasantly murmer to us, sometimes, they fail to leave anything behind.
Words are like daggers through the heart, words are like soothing balm on enraged emotions, words are like puppets in a puppeteer’s hands, words are like conflicting emotions - love and hate, animosity and appeasement, curiosity and disinterest, words are like magic to me and words are all I have…
April 22, 2005
And if I had one song to pick...
I cant seem to make my hand stop writing! I am glad they do have a name for my syndrome, for those suffering similarly, refer to this article.
I have a song in my heart that I cannot disengage myself from, a song I heard about eight years back...I remember the girlish talks that night, suitably life-altering for an average sixteen-year old teenager, I was sitting with M, in my dorm room at Meera Bhawan, Bits…I remember listening with wide-eyed wonder as M explained each phrase of the Tamil song to me, the effect of which put-together was undeniably greater than its parts and I have been its slave since...
Lightning of my life, why did you appear?
I know not why my eyes hurt, do you?
Are you not the mirage that disappeared in my sky?
You stayed for a few precious moments and yet my palace lies simmering,
Oh lightning, my sky searches for you,
Myriad colors that dissolved when I dare to open my eyes,
I have but a memory of the sweet lifelines in your hands,
As my heart explodes into a million suffering bits, I see but your reflection in each little bit,
…a blazing inferno awaits you in my tears, I am but a delicate flower, blooming in the shadow of your tender feet…
Is there ever parched earth that fails to await the soothing caress of rain drops? Is there ever a divine force that awaits not loving festivities with welcoming arms? Is there ever a passionate poet who yearns not for his union with rhyming words? And as I wait, does my love not become eternal?
…a blazing inferno awaits you in my tears, I am but a delicate flower, blooming in the shadow of your tender feet…
and this is the melody that I carry with me till the end...
I have a song in my heart that I cannot disengage myself from, a song I heard about eight years back...I remember the girlish talks that night, suitably life-altering for an average sixteen-year old teenager, I was sitting with M, in my dorm room at Meera Bhawan, Bits…I remember listening with wide-eyed wonder as M explained each phrase of the Tamil song to me, the effect of which put-together was undeniably greater than its parts and I have been its slave since...
Lightning of my life, why did you appear?
I know not why my eyes hurt, do you?
Are you not the mirage that disappeared in my sky?
You stayed for a few precious moments and yet my palace lies simmering,
Oh lightning, my sky searches for you,
Myriad colors that dissolved when I dare to open my eyes,
I have but a memory of the sweet lifelines in your hands,
As my heart explodes into a million suffering bits, I see but your reflection in each little bit,
…a blazing inferno awaits you in my tears, I am but a delicate flower, blooming in the shadow of your tender feet…
Is there ever parched earth that fails to await the soothing caress of rain drops? Is there ever a divine force that awaits not loving festivities with welcoming arms? Is there ever a passionate poet who yearns not for his union with rhyming words? And as I wait, does my love not become eternal?
…a blazing inferno awaits you in my tears, I am but a delicate flower, blooming in the shadow of your tender feet…
and this is the melody that I carry with me till the end...
April 21, 2005
The little girl and the big mansion.
A little girl lived in a charming, little house complete with a chimney peeping from within dreamy ringlets of smoke. She smiled at the happy sun, skipped through the garden and shooed the birds that rested on her red-gold daffodils. She spent every evening leaning on the little gate that led to her little house, smiling at everyone, happy in her little world.
And one day, standing by her gate, she let her gaze wander over to the green hills that her little house overlooked. Standing on top of the first hill stood a magnificent white mansion. She could not take her eyes off the great big mansion. She stood by her gate till dusk, staring in awe at the mansion.
The next day, she rushed out to the gate to get a better look at the mansion and then felt a sudden pang. She looked around to see her little house and realized it was little indeed. She longed to be in the mansion, discovering new rooms everyday, living like a princess in a royal fortress. The more she looked at the mansion, the more she wanted to be the princess and the less she liked her little house.
One day, she resolutely set out to the big mansion. She longed to claim it her own. As dusk fell, her tired feet finally neared her destination, her destiny. She sat down, so weary that she did not look up to see the big mansion. In a few moments, she looked up to cast her eyes on the object of her desire and in front of her stood her little house from the bottom of the hill. She rubbed her eyes and wondered if they were playing tricks on her.
She looked down towards the bottom of the hill and there stood her destiny, her magnificent white mansion.
Sometimes I fear I am this little girl and my life is the trip up the hill…
My little booklet of irrationalities.
Our minds are cluttered with so many irrational thoughts, I suspect the world we live in is just one big lunatic asylum. As I grow older, I find more illogicality to add to my growing repertoire of asinine traits. Anyway, here goes an incomplete list.
When I enter a supermarket, I have this feeling the automatic doors are going to connive to smoothly slide shut on my face and then I would have to live with a flat face similar to the one that Tom has when Jerry somehow manages to run a tractor over his face. While we are on the topic of supermarkets, let me share a secret with you. I never shop alone. I am just not amused enough by my company to shop alone and when I do shop with friends in a supermarket like Walmart, with 2035 aisles to mislead you, I am paranoid that while I am carefully scrutinizing the imponderable variation of shades between ruby red and rusty rose nail colors, my friends would have progressed on to the other 2034 aisles. I spend a few frantic minutes searching for my life line and then heave a sigh of relief when I see a familiar face. Before I sign off on the subject of supermarkets, let me reveal one other touch of insanity in me. I am terrified that after I leave the supermarket, happily jingling the car keys in my pocket, my car would vanish. I anxiously inspect every parking row, convinced that I would never find my car and I would have to live a life of abandonment and disillusionment, in the parking lot, forever. Well, may be a bit too extreme, but passably justified in the name of comical euphemism.
Coming to the subject of conversations, an area I have little merit to claim, let me just say, I am happy to stand by and watch people converse. My inadequacy finds startling new ways to manifest itself, more in a non-desi get-together than a desi one. While, I am not gung-ho about cliches, let me say, the cat literally does get my tongue. I cannot bring myself to enunciate anything more pronounced than an unexpectedly loud sigh. A million conversation-starters race past my mind and then I hear myself saying "uh uh" accompanied by a sheepish grin. I quickly think of amusing one-liners, extremely funny jokes to deal with my awkwardness, practise it in my mind and open my mouth to say it, when I realize that the conversation has taken an entirely new direction, literally and figuratively and I am standing about two feet away from everybody else gaping at nothing in particular, my faithful grin still plastered stupidly on my face.
Yet another vagary - I am merrily discussing trivialities with friends and having a great time, and in time, I realize that I am having a great time and for the next few seconds, I am not having such a great time! I quickly and resourcefully think of two events that could transpire that would spoil the day. I visualize the day ending miserably, thanks to these two non-occurrences. A small chunk of my time is now spent wondering why the day had to be spoilt such as I imagined, when it was not infact spoilt at all and the very act of me thinking as I was thinking, was spoiling it! Talk about confusing thoughts!
While there are several others that I wish to share, I would still like to maintain a semblance of rationality (sanity?) in the readers' eyes. I suspect, the attempt to do that is becoming increasingly difficult as I write more :)
When I enter a supermarket, I have this feeling the automatic doors are going to connive to smoothly slide shut on my face and then I would have to live with a flat face similar to the one that Tom has when Jerry somehow manages to run a tractor over his face. While we are on the topic of supermarkets, let me share a secret with you. I never shop alone. I am just not amused enough by my company to shop alone and when I do shop with friends in a supermarket like Walmart, with 2035 aisles to mislead you, I am paranoid that while I am carefully scrutinizing the imponderable variation of shades between ruby red and rusty rose nail colors, my friends would have progressed on to the other 2034 aisles. I spend a few frantic minutes searching for my life line and then heave a sigh of relief when I see a familiar face. Before I sign off on the subject of supermarkets, let me reveal one other touch of insanity in me. I am terrified that after I leave the supermarket, happily jingling the car keys in my pocket, my car would vanish. I anxiously inspect every parking row, convinced that I would never find my car and I would have to live a life of abandonment and disillusionment, in the parking lot, forever. Well, may be a bit too extreme, but passably justified in the name of comical euphemism.
Coming to the subject of conversations, an area I have little merit to claim, let me just say, I am happy to stand by and watch people converse. My inadequacy finds startling new ways to manifest itself, more in a non-desi get-together than a desi one. While, I am not gung-ho about cliches, let me say, the cat literally does get my tongue. I cannot bring myself to enunciate anything more pronounced than an unexpectedly loud sigh. A million conversation-starters race past my mind and then I hear myself saying "uh uh" accompanied by a sheepish grin. I quickly think of amusing one-liners, extremely funny jokes to deal with my awkwardness, practise it in my mind and open my mouth to say it, when I realize that the conversation has taken an entirely new direction, literally and figuratively and I am standing about two feet away from everybody else gaping at nothing in particular, my faithful grin still plastered stupidly on my face.
Yet another vagary - I am merrily discussing trivialities with friends and having a great time, and in time, I realize that I am having a great time and for the next few seconds, I am not having such a great time! I quickly and resourcefully think of two events that could transpire that would spoil the day. I visualize the day ending miserably, thanks to these two non-occurrences. A small chunk of my time is now spent wondering why the day had to be spoilt such as I imagined, when it was not infact spoilt at all and the very act of me thinking as I was thinking, was spoiling it! Talk about confusing thoughts!
While there are several others that I wish to share, I would still like to maintain a semblance of rationality (sanity?) in the readers' eyes. I suspect, the attempt to do that is becoming increasingly difficult as I write more :)
April 20, 2005
Final Flight of Fancy.
I cant seem to quell the urge to take fanciful flights every so often, flights steered by my thoughts, thoughts throttling on moments, moments made eternal by those close to my heart.
Did you notice…
...that its moments like these that lend life its wonderous mysticism?
L, I promise, this is the last oh-so-sugary serving from me!
Did you notice…
- The beauty that lies in the glow of a young mother-to-be?
- The softness hidden in the callused hands that caress a child’s tresses lovingly?
- The sweet saltiness that you can taste in a beloved one’s tears?
- The comforting wetness of sweat that sticks to you when you hug your mother?
- The hint of pride in your mentor’s eyes when you grin from the stage, basking in the glory of your accomplishment?
- That his heart skipped a beat when you said his name?
- That your sibling clapped for you fervently, several seconds longer than anybody else did?
- That he was looking at you from the window, long after you had gone?
- That he beams, when you get a compliment?
- That his eyes wandered for a few frantic seconds before settling contentedly on you?
- That your ship was sinking until you found the anchor in his heart?
- That you struggle not to drown in the deceptively calm ocean of emotions that his eyes exude?
- That the grip of your child’s palm around your finger is the one most emotionally gratifying sensation in the world?
...that its moments like these that lend life its wonderous mysticism?
L, I promise, this is the last oh-so-sugary serving from me!
April 19, 2005
Disconnected, as always.
Pondered upon while servers start up, machines hum and bugs are written, in my small, creative harbor - my office space. Two bogeys trailing lazily at the end of the track, all but hidden in the dense smoke coughed up by my train of thoughts. Of selflessness and whimsy, as disconnected as before...
I cannot even begin a sentence without a personal pronoun and paradoxically, I talk about selflessness. Today, a selfless act made me happy. An act, which by its very nature, cannot have a whisper of selfishness associated with it, Adoption. A father of two has adopted a child and that makes me happy. I envy his selflessness and I wish I could be noble enough to emulate. I think the tears blurring Meena's eyes, in Rhythm, when she hears his reasons for adoption, are very meaningful tears, tears that would sanctify the ground they touch, just because the one reason, for which they appeared, is so distinguished. How many of us can find altruism in us, sufficient to lighten the iron hold of manacles made of our own blood? How many of us can find the strength in us to love another as our own, to provide for another's child as our own and to lay our lives down for another's? I bow down to you, for you are like me and yet your thinking is so much higher than mine.
One bogey has chugged along to be replaced by its apparent twin, as different from it, as can be. Call me crazy, call me maudlin, I prefer to name it my Whimsy.
My whimsy, of many forms, many moods and many manifestations - my imagination - delightful at times, irrational most times. When I meet someone and start interacting with them socially, casually, I am suddenly usurped by my imagination, I find myself riding with it and it takes me years ahead of where I stand now. I imagine life, if I were to live it in close proximity of these people, as a friend, sharing stories of "those were the days...", laughing at our ancient crushes, discussing philosophy, complaining about our spouses - or to put it more clearly, I visualize us, sitting on the front porch of my house, laughing at ourselves, sometimes just being comfortable in the silence, watching the now familiar, white strands of his hair reflecting, not only the sunlight of many years but also wisdom that comes only with age. I imagine waiting anxiously just as she is waiting, for our kids to return from their excursion, I see myself discussing family life and inlaws with her. For an all-encompassing moment, I am not me in the present but I am his faithful friend, her confidante of many years and I see life many years from now, enriched by his company, stable in her support...
And then I am brought back to the present, by a quick laugh, by a question posed to me, louder, a second time, by someone gently tapping me on my shoulder and I know I am yet to be this person's closest friend, I am still just the acquaintance and not the soul mate. But, I can't help but wonder, how life would be if I were to be much more to him than just what I am now?
I cannot even begin a sentence without a personal pronoun and paradoxically, I talk about selflessness. Today, a selfless act made me happy. An act, which by its very nature, cannot have a whisper of selfishness associated with it, Adoption. A father of two has adopted a child and that makes me happy. I envy his selflessness and I wish I could be noble enough to emulate. I think the tears blurring Meena's eyes, in Rhythm, when she hears his reasons for adoption, are very meaningful tears, tears that would sanctify the ground they touch, just because the one reason, for which they appeared, is so distinguished. How many of us can find altruism in us, sufficient to lighten the iron hold of manacles made of our own blood? How many of us can find the strength in us to love another as our own, to provide for another's child as our own and to lay our lives down for another's? I bow down to you, for you are like me and yet your thinking is so much higher than mine.
One bogey has chugged along to be replaced by its apparent twin, as different from it, as can be. Call me crazy, call me maudlin, I prefer to name it my Whimsy.
My whimsy, of many forms, many moods and many manifestations - my imagination - delightful at times, irrational most times. When I meet someone and start interacting with them socially, casually, I am suddenly usurped by my imagination, I find myself riding with it and it takes me years ahead of where I stand now. I imagine life, if I were to live it in close proximity of these people, as a friend, sharing stories of "those were the days...", laughing at our ancient crushes, discussing philosophy, complaining about our spouses - or to put it more clearly, I visualize us, sitting on the front porch of my house, laughing at ourselves, sometimes just being comfortable in the silence, watching the now familiar, white strands of his hair reflecting, not only the sunlight of many years but also wisdom that comes only with age. I imagine waiting anxiously just as she is waiting, for our kids to return from their excursion, I see myself discussing family life and inlaws with her. For an all-encompassing moment, I am not me in the present but I am his faithful friend, her confidante of many years and I see life many years from now, enriched by his company, stable in her support...
And then I am brought back to the present, by a quick laugh, by a question posed to me, louder, a second time, by someone gently tapping me on my shoulder and I know I am yet to be this person's closest friend, I am still just the acquaintance and not the soul mate. But, I can't help but wonder, how life would be if I were to be much more to him than just what I am now?
April 18, 2005
On Possessiveness and Writing.
I am going to stop writing like I write now. I am going to change my focus from the genre that I write on to something more tangible. I know I blog for two reasons, to write and to express. Sometimes, I think the scales are so biased towards the former that the presence of the latter in this equation can hardly be justified.
I love to write, however mediocre my presentation. The challenge to present in words, my thought processes and feelings, knowing that words are little equipped to cover the infinite gamut of human emotions and interconnections, stimulates me and makes me want to attempt this futile exercise. While I will come nowhere close to expressing what I exactly feel, if I can just touch the surface of my thoughts and transfer one ripple of sensation through the reader and connect to him, even for an instant, with nothing to my aid but my words, then I know I have indeed written.
I do know too that I need to isolate aspects of my writing from the feedback that I receive. I need to stop thriving on compliments and criticisms of my writing and I need to write with a mind unfettered by the limiting boundaries drawn by unsuspecting readers. Sometimes, I think I have just enough curiosity to exceed what is appropriate for one to write for the sake of writing. I reluctantly acknowledge that I can relate to R's thought process.
Although it may seem so, my aim here is not to confuse, by mixing two subjects that have little in common. My aim is to write as I think and since I tend to have simultaneous yet unrelated or thinly connected thoughts competing for my attention, I attempt to reflect the same here. Possessivness occupies prime time slot below, in reverse order.
Let me say it while I still can say it. I am possessive. If there were a ladder that measured good qualities in a person, I fear I see myself hovering around the lower most rung. I avert my eyes from the ladder and write what I acknowlege about myself. I am possessive about my friends - I have seen quite a few people who are - the last disclaimer to be read in a defensive tone, mine!
Thankfully the strength of the feeling is still not alarming enough to generate concerned looks and tsk, tsks thrown my way, yet...
Anyway, I find it easier to deal with my quirks, outside - for the world to see, rather than buried deep inside me. So, here it is. I feel a pang of whatever-you-may-call-it-because-I-cannot-bring-myself-to-say-it-again, whenever I feel that those special people in my life are closer to someone other than me. There is something in the knowing smile they exchange, the understanding nod that they mirror to each other that makes me want to be the one winking in understanding rather than anybody else. It is a fleeting moment, it is ephemerally worth ignoring and then there are people like me, who hold on to that very transient sensation and force themselves to ride the guilt-trip. While I have not matured enough to laugh at the Quixote in me, I am atleast more aware.
I love to write, however mediocre my presentation. The challenge to present in words, my thought processes and feelings, knowing that words are little equipped to cover the infinite gamut of human emotions and interconnections, stimulates me and makes me want to attempt this futile exercise. While I will come nowhere close to expressing what I exactly feel, if I can just touch the surface of my thoughts and transfer one ripple of sensation through the reader and connect to him, even for an instant, with nothing to my aid but my words, then I know I have indeed written.
I do know too that I need to isolate aspects of my writing from the feedback that I receive. I need to stop thriving on compliments and criticisms of my writing and I need to write with a mind unfettered by the limiting boundaries drawn by unsuspecting readers. Sometimes, I think I have just enough curiosity to exceed what is appropriate for one to write for the sake of writing. I reluctantly acknowledge that I can relate to R's thought process.
Although it may seem so, my aim here is not to confuse, by mixing two subjects that have little in common. My aim is to write as I think and since I tend to have simultaneous yet unrelated or thinly connected thoughts competing for my attention, I attempt to reflect the same here. Possessivness occupies prime time slot below, in reverse order.
Let me say it while I still can say it. I am possessive. If there were a ladder that measured good qualities in a person, I fear I see myself hovering around the lower most rung. I avert my eyes from the ladder and write what I acknowlege about myself. I am possessive about my friends - I have seen quite a few people who are - the last disclaimer to be read in a defensive tone, mine!
Thankfully the strength of the feeling is still not alarming enough to generate concerned looks and tsk, tsks thrown my way, yet...
Anyway, I find it easier to deal with my quirks, outside - for the world to see, rather than buried deep inside me. So, here it is. I feel a pang of whatever-you-may-call-it-because-I-cannot-bring-myself-to-say-it-again, whenever I feel that those special people in my life are closer to someone other than me. There is something in the knowing smile they exchange, the understanding nod that they mirror to each other that makes me want to be the one winking in understanding rather than anybody else. It is a fleeting moment, it is ephemerally worth ignoring and then there are people like me, who hold on to that very transient sensation and force themselves to ride the guilt-trip. While I have not matured enough to laugh at the Quixote in me, I am atleast more aware.
April 16, 2005
Go fly a kite!
I somehow have this feeling that more than a few pair of eyes are going to read this particular post and that, I hope will not make me alter my narration even subtly, for, I think, every descriptive piece of writing, carries with it its inherent, special charm only as long as its written without a conscious effort to relate events appropriately rather than accurately. My disclaimer ends here and my narrative begins below.
Day 1: Let me introduce myself, I am the sewing machine in the house and I have worked non-stop for three days. I was rented by two young people a few days back and the old lady who owns me did not want to part with me, atleast thats what I thought as she rambled on, telling the young bespectacled lad how to use me. "You keep the bobbin here and you use the lever thus..." and more such mundane details, I don't think the girl on the phone is interested, she is hardly listening. I think she thinks I cannot stitch a kite that can fly or maybe she is not a kite-person...
Day 2: Ah, company. I now also have another lad and a young girl working for me. Specky (thats what I have named the first one) is excited, he wants to make his kite the best kite in Georgetown, the lad and the girl share his excitement. I sense, the girl on the phone still is not convinced...I have been working for 3 hours now and am proud of my product, a red and yellow wannabe kite. It is interesting to listen to them chat about various things under the sun, kite aerodynamics being the topic under scrutiny now.
Day 3: I bid goodbye, a beautiful, pulsating kite is ready now to leave its nest and fly high. I smile because I think I finally see a believer in the girl-on-the-phone.
Since the main event for the first three days was the making of the kite, personifying the sewing machine seemed to be one way to describe the process. Several of us had decided to meet and go to the Georgetown Kite Festival. What follows is a smorgasbord of scenes, moods, sensory perceptions, emotions through the capricious eyes of yours truly...
Cheerful sunlight, friendly voices greeting each other, melody playing at a distance, perfectly complimented by kites adorning the perfect blue shade of the sky - kites in all shapes and colors flew hither thither, sometimes flirting with one another, sometimes giving each other the cold shoulder and sometimes hugging each other like old friends - a scene from fairyland, an old couple's paradise, a child's dream come true.
We ambitiously embarked on our project - making our kite fly. After a few futile attempts to cajole our proud kite to fly, we decided to fly the ones that would fly. Specky's kites found homes in different excited albeit amateurish hands, clumsily attempting to pull their kites up, slowly learning the tricks, maneuvering the string, unaware of the satisfied smile playing on their lips when their kites eventually soared high...there is something about making a kite fly, somewhat akin to setting a bird free, like releasing your mind from the shackes of self-imposed captivities.
Having tired ourselves, we proceeded to eat with relish, the picnic food that we had packed, delicious whiffs of puliyodarai and tomato rice tickled our senses and, needless to say, the food disappeared quickly.
And the story gathers momentum now, after more than half the day had passed. While I enjoyed the first half of the day, the more mentally gratifying experience for me was the result of a board game, Loaded questions. The point of the game is simple, ask a question, each person in the group answers it and one person has to guess who answered what. Yes, it is a game to get to know each other better. But, its also a game that reveals startling facts, insights into the other person's psyche. For me, it is like an opportunity to peek into someone's head for a few moments and wonder at the images that greet me, maybe relate to them and forge new bonds?
Loaded questions started with the requisite amount of fanfare and we were soon drenched in a flood of questions...What would you title your autobiography? What is the most romantic place on earth to meet your true love? What compliment do you receive the most? What have you always wanted to do but could not? - questions attempting to explore a bit more, to walk a few furlongs farther into each person's mental roadmap. Fantasies and visual images competed to be complimented and acknowledged - terrace in the moonlight, a hand gently clasping another, Highlands of Scotland, Venice and Greece, old friends fondly remembered, past romance kindled, subtle hints thrown askance and time stood still...
And if you are wondering about specky's proud kite, he has a beautiful bronze plaque sitting on his shelf that says "First Place, Youth Kite Making Competition". I have, perhaps, observed the whole day through rose tinted glasses and sweet fragrance, but my heart demands that I write such and my pen follows its dictate.
April 15, 2005
Mental exercise!
Its almost like the more I write, the more I think of things to write about and what I create with my pen is my own and that is a wonderful feeling, one that I would never tire of...thats just an aside, coming to the point of this piece of writing - I would describe it as a mental exercise that focuses on two important faculties - introspection and observation. I think it would have the startling effect of making us realize how different we are from what people perceive us to be. The exercise is as follows:
...and finally notice the difference! Sometimes, the two sets are so distinct from each other, its almost laughable. I wonder what to infer from this exercise, if the two sets are similar, does it mean you are an open book, for everyone to read? And if not, are you a person afraid of opening up or just conveying the wrong impression all the time? Pennies for thought...
I perceive myself as: passionate, romantic, sensitive, diffident, incongruously silly and serious, spiritual, dedicated and tend to be swayed strongly by emotions.
My feeble observations suggest that I am perceived as: a straight talking person to the point of being rude, controlling, slightly haughty, hard working, practical and a person with an imaginary barrier that people are scared to cross, to get close to me.
...and if you have your twin sets of contradictions to add to my list, be my guest!
- Think of five adjectives that would describe you. Feel free to lean towards verbosity if you want or make it terse, use metaphors, similies, feel free to experiment...the point is - capture your essence, yourself in these five words.
- Now, think of five words that other people would use to describe you. At any point in your life, has anyone characterized you with a single, strong behavioral trait? Did subtle hints slip out unknowingly that revealed to you what this person thought of you? Does it happen all the time? Think of five such defining words.
...and finally notice the difference! Sometimes, the two sets are so distinct from each other, its almost laughable. I wonder what to infer from this exercise, if the two sets are similar, does it mean you are an open book, for everyone to read? And if not, are you a person afraid of opening up or just conveying the wrong impression all the time? Pennies for thought...
I perceive myself as: passionate, romantic, sensitive, diffident, incongruously silly and serious, spiritual, dedicated and tend to be swayed strongly by emotions.
My feeble observations suggest that I am perceived as: a straight talking person to the point of being rude, controlling, slightly haughty, hard working, practical and a person with an imaginary barrier that people are scared to cross, to get close to me.
...and if you have your twin sets of contradictions to add to my list, be my guest!
April 14, 2005
I remember...
Snapshots in my mental eye, glimpses from the past, experiences that define me, relationships that mould me and epiphanies that lend meaning to my life; I am, but a making of these moments...
I remember...
I remember...
- when he first planted the seed of the idea in my head, convinced it would be fruitful...I remember being unsure.
- when my hopes sored as we discussed the possibility of the idea, praying we could make it happen.
- our first meeting, ideas pouring out, anxious but ambitious plans made, hoping it would not just remain an unfulfilled fantasy.
- the pleasant sensation that coursed through me as one by one, people started trickling in, each person raising my confidence further that this was not a wishful figment of my imagination, it is happening!
- being tensed, losing sleep, panicking before our very first big show, will this be the event that strengthens our bond to the community or will it end as a feeble attempt to infuse enthusiasm, where none existed? or did we not channel it wisely?
- the smell of payasam that stayed in the car a week after the event, I remember feeling euphoric and nothing less, feeling that my heart could not beat any faster, feeling closer than I have ever felt, to myself, to people around and most importantly, feeling genuinely happy.
- clapping my hands as they finished their dance routine, in perfect synchrony, drenched in sweat, a satisfied smile on their lips, I remember wondering if we could pull off a full fledged debate such as this, on stage, I remember feeling bad, almost guilty that he could not be there.
- convincing him that we could make the crazy mohan drama happen, I remember picking up my cell phone with trepidation and whispering, in awe "இது மோஹன் Sir a?" and I remember not believing that the voice that answered back was indeed his...I remember him saying, almost incredulously "...we have gained a different level of repectability now, haven't we?"...I remember laughing when Mohan sir said "ரம்யா, இது உன் சமயல்னு நினச்சேன்??"...I remember feeling proud to see the plaque exchange hands...
- feeling a mix of sadness, like something slipping out of my hands, a strange detachment and anxiety as I knew that this event marked the end of it all...but I knew somehow, that the bond has only been strengthened and that this was only the beginning.
April 12, 2005
Words fail to describe...
Boons that I desire...
A bed by the window
A full-moon day, everyday
Rain, as I wish for it
Flowers by the road corner
Dewdrops in the morning
Melody at night
An unassuming smile
A friendship with no lies
A hundred poems a day
Yet another Bharathi
A friendly shoulder to lean on
A loved one to caress my hair
Sleep on a mother's lap
Greeted by death, as I sleep
A heart that expects none of these...
I read this poem at S's Thinnai Arattai and was moved enough by it to attempt a translation that does little justice to the magic that the original Tamil poem creates...my apologies for killing a part of its essence.
A bed by the window
A full-moon day, everyday
Rain, as I wish for it
Flowers by the road corner
Dewdrops in the morning
Melody at night
An unassuming smile
A friendship with no lies
A hundred poems a day
Yet another Bharathi
A friendly shoulder to lean on
A loved one to caress my hair
Sleep on a mother's lap
Greeted by death, as I sleep
A heart that expects none of these...
I read this poem at S's Thinnai Arattai and was moved enough by it to attempt a translation that does little justice to the magic that the original Tamil poem creates...my apologies for killing a part of its essence.
Relationships.
Since when did the sweet-sour nature of relationships tilt more towards sour than sweet? Is it just me or does every relationship come with a baggage that initially seems light but at some point or another weighs so heavily on us that we start wondering if the fault is with us? To not sound absolutely ludicrious, let me support my seemingly baseless allegation with a few examples:
I think I have rambled on sufficiently on this topic. My point here is not to discredit every relationship, my point is probably that people like me who tend to take every relationship seriously (subject of my previous blog), should learn to lighten up! After all, we only live once, so lets live and let live!
- Firstly there are the obvious examples of unrequited love, the worst of it all, the fear of rejection is validated and magnified by the actual act itself and while one might learn to live with it, the problem is right there! One has to live with it, no other go there.
- I feel I can write an entire book about expectations...consider a perfectly healthy relationship, where two individuals have the space they need and share an enviable rapport with each other and the world is a beautiful place!
him (humming a tune): That was an awesome party, wasnt it?
her: Busily studies her nails
him (slightly annoyed at the silence that continues to greet him): I thought it was great fun...his voice trails along feebly as he realizes that the silence is intentional and the air around is suddenly pregnant with meaningful pauses...
her: Now suddenly interested in the contents of her purse
him: Racking his brain to remember what had gone wrong this time...pretty girl in red dress, the super-expensive golf sticks, great food, light conversations with Mrs. & Mr.A, great food ...shakes his head to clear his thoughts
her: All subtle hints lost, breaks into tears
Now, this is a classic example of how evil expectations are. The source of her outburst being what follows below:
Mrs.A (after the initial over-effusive greetings): "Mrs.B told me that your gulab jamoon came out more like payasam" followed by pretentiously loud laughter.
him: joins the laughter unwittingly
...and there was the problem. While she had expected him to act as a support while her culinery skills were being trampled upon, he had joined the enemy. She admits that her cooking is edible if not palatable at all times, she still expects. And this case is not necessarily only applicable to romantic relationships, am talking parents, siblings, acquaintances, friends, colleagues, the general masses! - Then, there are the many devious variations of a subject that I tend to linger upon(?), love. I cannot imagine the trauma that a person has to undergo when he/she finds the right connection, the perfect wavelength-match, the perfect conversationalist, but that almost perfect person is not his/her spouse! Imagine the load that one has to carry on one's head then...is love worth that trouble?
I think I have rambled on sufficiently on this topic. My point here is not to discredit every relationship, my point is probably that people like me who tend to take every relationship seriously (subject of my previous blog), should learn to lighten up! After all, we only live once, so lets live and let live!
April 11, 2005
Attachment.
The storm has passed and the calm did come, but little did I realize that the storm took with it a part of me. Today, I am confused about the shadow of a line that separates attachment from dispassionateness...and to think, I assumed to bond, to be attached was always to feel something nice, definitely not to be confused with dependency or inability - to be attached to someone or something, was for me, until today, a positive trait, beneficial in all respects. And today, I see a different side to the same trait...while the trait itself may still claim its merits, I think I understand today why every major path to realizing the "true self" talks about disassociations, detachments, renouncements...is it just a shield to protect us from ourselves?
I have often argued against the concept of sacrifice in religion or anything else as a way to comprehend goodness and God maybe? But today, I seem to find a tad of reasonableness behind this concept, maybe its not about goodness or God, maybe its about Him making sure we are not lost when the very thing that we are attached to, is taken away from us. I understand that when attachment bleeds into possessiveness, its time we stopped in our tracks and let go...I understand the concept of letting go not only of people but also memories, of the negativity that oversentimentality is often associated with, but when do we stop this list from burgeoning so much so that we start reanalyzing some relationships, that are so important to us, that they should not be ended? How do I know if I have put a fullstop to a sentence that should have ended long back or that I have actually pruned it prematurely and thus left a beautiful poem incomplete?
I have often argued against the concept of sacrifice in religion or anything else as a way to comprehend goodness and God maybe? But today, I seem to find a tad of reasonableness behind this concept, maybe its not about goodness or God, maybe its about Him making sure we are not lost when the very thing that we are attached to, is taken away from us. I understand that when attachment bleeds into possessiveness, its time we stopped in our tracks and let go...I understand the concept of letting go not only of people but also memories, of the negativity that oversentimentality is often associated with, but when do we stop this list from burgeoning so much so that we start reanalyzing some relationships, that are so important to us, that they should not be ended? How do I know if I have put a fullstop to a sentence that should have ended long back or that I have actually pruned it prematurely and thus left a beautiful poem incomplete?
April 10, 2005
Harmony in disharmony
A musical philosopher, a talented realist, a sensitive thinker, a whimsical romantic and a nonchalant jester - put them in a place together and what do you expect? discord? disharmony? disinterest? or just the right amount of connection, the right amount of variety and the right amount of intelligence to carry on a delightful conversation?
What started off as a possibly lukewarm and polite dinner conversation, led us from Bella Notte to Dennys, from sunsigns to starbucks, from tragedy to romance, from hypothetical situations to philosophical discussions...and from unfamiliarity to familiarity. As we discussed trivialities and tribulations, somewhere along the line, I knew we had connected. Suddenly, I was not so conscious, not trying so hard to say the right thing and not holding back what I really wanted to say. I felt my thoughts escaping my mouth faster than I could wonder if they were appropriate to be revealed.
Chemistry need not necessarily be the intangible force only between a man and a woman, it plays an important part in group dynamics and when we realized we were all trying to excitedly take part in a conversation that the general onlooker would have classified somewhere between boring and passable, I knew there was chemistry, not in the uniformity of thoughts but in the very lack of it.
When the waiter in the restaurant subtly but unmistakably clears his throat and wishes you a good night for the second time and then the lights dim a shade lighter, you know you have overstayed your invitation and you also know that you were lost enough in the conversation to not notice that you and your company are the last to still be sitting in the restaurant, empty plates and bills scattered on the table in front of you. It would have been an incomplete interaction, more like an interesting novel with the last few pages torn off, had the scene ended in the empty restaurant, and so, we proceeded to Dennys. Long after glasses of milk shakes and steaming hot cups of coffee and tea were emptied, the words continued to find their way out, sometimes clashing and sometimes finding their perfect match, before being replaced by more. As brows furrowed in contemplation, lips smiled in recognition, minds wandered in reminiscence, as ideas and images danced back and forth and laughter filled the air, a harmony was born in disharmony...
What started off as a possibly lukewarm and polite dinner conversation, led us from Bella Notte to Dennys, from sunsigns to starbucks, from tragedy to romance, from hypothetical situations to philosophical discussions...and from unfamiliarity to familiarity. As we discussed trivialities and tribulations, somewhere along the line, I knew we had connected. Suddenly, I was not so conscious, not trying so hard to say the right thing and not holding back what I really wanted to say. I felt my thoughts escaping my mouth faster than I could wonder if they were appropriate to be revealed.
Chemistry need not necessarily be the intangible force only between a man and a woman, it plays an important part in group dynamics and when we realized we were all trying to excitedly take part in a conversation that the general onlooker would have classified somewhere between boring and passable, I knew there was chemistry, not in the uniformity of thoughts but in the very lack of it.
When the waiter in the restaurant subtly but unmistakably clears his throat and wishes you a good night for the second time and then the lights dim a shade lighter, you know you have overstayed your invitation and you also know that you were lost enough in the conversation to not notice that you and your company are the last to still be sitting in the restaurant, empty plates and bills scattered on the table in front of you. It would have been an incomplete interaction, more like an interesting novel with the last few pages torn off, had the scene ended in the empty restaurant, and so, we proceeded to Dennys. Long after glasses of milk shakes and steaming hot cups of coffee and tea were emptied, the words continued to find their way out, sometimes clashing and sometimes finding their perfect match, before being replaced by more. As brows furrowed in contemplation, lips smiled in recognition, minds wandered in reminiscence, as ideas and images danced back and forth and laughter filled the air, a harmony was born in disharmony...
April 08, 2005
What captures a girl’s fancy?
I do ramble on about girls and women and feelings and such feminine stuff, don’t I? Anyway, for those who still want to indulge me and my idiosyncratic posts, here goes…
For the sake of convenience only, let me (over)use the personal pronoun:
For the sake of convenience only, let me (over)use the personal pronoun:
- Sincere compliments, not the unctuous kind delivered in the most obvious manner, I mean rare and thoughtful, maybe even inconspicuous compliments, those that greet me at a moment, so unexpected, that it throws me off-guard.
- A minute yet thoughtful gesture in the middle of chaos – an imperceptible nod, a light tap on my head, a small voice asking if I am alright, a concerned look thrown askance on me, for a moment and in the midst of a noisy, fun-filled gathering, the kind that energizes event the most introverted person to sing and dance boisterously – a hint given to me then, that someone is looking out for me….like a caressing breeze that touches your sun-burned cheek, like pleasing rain drops that kiss you unexpectedly on a sultry, summer morning
- Silly little gifts, offered in an immature but sincere manner – I am not talking about a bouquet of roses, carefully wrapped in silk ribbons and an expensive tag with my name on it, I am talking about mundane, almost boring gifts that are given to me in the most unappealing way, but yet offered so spontaneously and totally unaware of the way it is being presented…now, that gift I cannot refuse!
- Long walks and lengthy talks, blame me for being an incurable romantic, but I think two people can walk their way into a healthy relationship. A quick clarification here being that my reference here is not to the kind of corny, maudlin proclamations that boys tend to make to girls, its about quick-witted, not necessarily intellectual but intelligent conversations, the kind where each is careful not to overstep the boundaries into each other’s private lives, but still share enough to develop a healthy respect and gain an insight into the other’s psyche.
- What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet – William Shakespeare
While this may hold true for certain other situations, not so for me. I like to hear the sound of my name, I am not trying to sound vain here, but I do enjoy hearing people call me by my name, my name is music to my ears – its what I claim to be my own and it’s a part of my identity. - A writer, an artist, a musician, a geek - they all make me look up to them, its not because they have achieved a feat that others have failed to achieve and its not their mastery over their specific work or instrument or painting that I admire, its more their passion for what they do; I think the best in a person is brought out when they are doing what they enjoy the most and that captures my fancy!
- When the eyes do the talking, there is little left to be said...when his eyes meet mine, a second will suffice to exchange something more powerful than words can even dream of conveying. One glance and he has said all that there is to say.
- ...and finally, when I see a grown up man standing in a suit at the supermarket, making funny faces to stop the toddler in front of him from crying, when he stands clumsily holding a tray of steaming hot tomato soup when I wake up with red eyes and a stuffy nose...a jacket gently wrapped around me on a wintery day, an old woman smiling gratefully, because he said something that made her smile, something she hasn't done in a long time, when he walks in and a smile alights everyone's face...thats when there is magic in the air and I sense it and stand in awe...
April 07, 2005
Extra-ordinary in the Ordinary.
I had decided long back that life would go on much more smoothly if we learnt to not expect much out of people and if we learnt to see the good in them. Since, I have not done anything substantial to implement this decision, I decided to take some time out and pen down a few thoughts, observations if you will, about a few special people that I know, hoping that the act of me putting down in words, the small actions that make these ordinary people in my life, extra-ordinary, would help me notice the goodness in people, more often.
I admire him for his patience and his thoughtfulness. I admire him because he is a rock solid support for his friends and he is there for them, if nothing, just to listen to their ramblings.
If we are a bit more flexible, a bit more accomodative, half the battles that we have fought in life, would not have been fought. I admire him for his ability to adapt to people who think differently and act differently from him and his ability to enjoy the process of mingling with such people and to observe and absorb their positive traits.
I see goodness in him because he smiles unpretentiously when he talks to someone on the phone, not because he has to, not because he is expected to, but in anticipation that the other person has something to say that will make him smile.
I see goodness in a person when he paints a beautiful picture with his words. I admire him for his ability to put his pen to paper and create something so powerful, that it has the ability to make the reader forget his existence and for a few moments feel what the character in the story feels - to cry, laugh and pray with him.
In him, I see enthusiasm and love for his work. Sometimes, when I have given up on my profession, I look at him and know that I want to feel the same thing that he feels. I want to love my job and thanks to him, I end up loving it.
I cant help but be moved by what he has done for people, just for the sake of helping a fellow human being. I can only hope there is enough good in me to do half the good for people, that he is doing in his lifetime.
I see goodness reflected in her trust in people, in her faith in the Divine and in her unqualified love.
and finally
last but not the least ;), I see goodness within myself manifest itself as hard work towards causes that I am passionate about. I see goodness in my sleepless nights and tension bouts, doing things that I do only because I am passionate about them and I care...
Goodness is the only value that seems in this world of appearances to have any claim to be an end in itself. - W. Somerset Maugham
I admire him for his patience and his thoughtfulness. I admire him because he is a rock solid support for his friends and he is there for them, if nothing, just to listen to their ramblings.
If we are a bit more flexible, a bit more accomodative, half the battles that we have fought in life, would not have been fought. I admire him for his ability to adapt to people who think differently and act differently from him and his ability to enjoy the process of mingling with such people and to observe and absorb their positive traits.
I see goodness in him because he smiles unpretentiously when he talks to someone on the phone, not because he has to, not because he is expected to, but in anticipation that the other person has something to say that will make him smile.
I see goodness in a person when he paints a beautiful picture with his words. I admire him for his ability to put his pen to paper and create something so powerful, that it has the ability to make the reader forget his existence and for a few moments feel what the character in the story feels - to cry, laugh and pray with him.
In him, I see enthusiasm and love for his work. Sometimes, when I have given up on my profession, I look at him and know that I want to feel the same thing that he feels. I want to love my job and thanks to him, I end up loving it.
I cant help but be moved by what he has done for people, just for the sake of helping a fellow human being. I can only hope there is enough good in me to do half the good for people, that he is doing in his lifetime.
I see goodness reflected in her trust in people, in her faith in the Divine and in her unqualified love.
and finally
last but not the least ;), I see goodness within myself manifest itself as hard work towards causes that I am passionate about. I see goodness in my sleepless nights and tension bouts, doing things that I do only because I am passionate about them and I care...
Goodness is the only value that seems in this world of appearances to have any claim to be an end in itself. - W. Somerset Maugham
April 06, 2005
A trip down the memory lane....on second thoughts, lets not take the trip!
A little eleven year old girl, sitting at home on a bright Saturday afternoon, eating icecream and watching cartoons, she seems happy...and now lets move into the little girl's head and see what she is thinking - Radha Lakshmi and Kanchana, her best friends since Kindergarten, playing with her, sharing silly stories, her old Tamil school teacher praising her for her beautiful handwriting, her old dance School, Kalakshetra, her dance teacher proudly telling her mom "Your daughter is the youngest in our class, but she is my best student"...and then we see tear drops fall from the little girl's eyes...she wants to go back to Madras, she wants her old life back...
Fifteen years pass and that little girl is me, her thoughts have become more mature, she wants different things in life now, but deep down, she is still the little girl and she still wants to go back to Madras...
I read a blog today that actually inspired me to write this one. Do you know the two words I hate (no, one of them is not "ointment" and I am not Will or Grace) - Reminiscing and Yearning - I realized not too long ago that I am born with an incurable habit - To not live in the present (metaphorically, of course). To reminisce and yearn, to live in the past or to always struggle to be somewhere in the future, believe me, it is an annoying and unsettling feeling that drains you completely and leaves you feeling dis-oriented and dis-satisfied with what you have.
When I was in High School, I dreamed of joining Bits, I obsessed over it day and night, I really wanted to go to this University that was a world of its own - a fortress standing all alone guarding a whole new world inside it, a world of friendships and heartbreaks, freedom and happiness and I would be lost in this make-believe world...
I did get into Bits and yes, it was the world that I had imagined it to be...but, I was too busy to notice it. I was struggling to achieve that magic grade that would enable me to join the elite, Computer Science gang. I thought day and night of the fun Computer Science students have, discussing cryptic codes, tricky viruses, black boxes and white boxes, so much so that I sat in Computer Science classes, in rapt attention, absorbing every word the lecturer said, while two corridors away, the Marketing Professor was busy discussing the importance of the customer (Marketing, being my core course at Bits!)
Anyway, I graduated and had a job offer from Infosys, a software company and you would think, I would be thanking my lucky stars. hah! I was on to my next worry-venture - I came to US to do a Masters in Computer Science - a dream come true. Was I s a t i s f i e d? Nah...I was busy worrying about my next deadline, my next assignment and how happy I was at Bits and thus, two years passed...
I am now with IBM working on what I have always wanted to work on, and now, you ask me, am I happy? Well, I now sit here, wondering why I had not decided to stay back in India - to argue with my parents - daily, to be blissfully unaware of who a racist is, to take Tamil movies and Tamil movie theatres for granted, to eat hot South-Indian parotha and Sathukudi juice at Saravana Bhavan ...oh, there are a million things that I would rather be doing and I bet if am in India now, doing all these things, I would be thinking "Why did I not decide to go to the United States?".
Fifteen years pass and that little girl is me, her thoughts have become more mature, she wants different things in life now, but deep down, she is still the little girl and she still wants to go back to Madras...
I read a blog today that actually inspired me to write this one. Do you know the two words I hate (no, one of them is not "ointment" and I am not Will or Grace) - Reminiscing and Yearning - I realized not too long ago that I am born with an incurable habit - To not live in the present (metaphorically, of course). To reminisce and yearn, to live in the past or to always struggle to be somewhere in the future, believe me, it is an annoying and unsettling feeling that drains you completely and leaves you feeling dis-oriented and dis-satisfied with what you have.
When I was in High School, I dreamed of joining Bits, I obsessed over it day and night, I really wanted to go to this University that was a world of its own - a fortress standing all alone guarding a whole new world inside it, a world of friendships and heartbreaks, freedom and happiness and I would be lost in this make-believe world...
I did get into Bits and yes, it was the world that I had imagined it to be...but, I was too busy to notice it. I was struggling to achieve that magic grade that would enable me to join the elite, Computer Science gang. I thought day and night of the fun Computer Science students have, discussing cryptic codes, tricky viruses, black boxes and white boxes, so much so that I sat in Computer Science classes, in rapt attention, absorbing every word the lecturer said, while two corridors away, the Marketing Professor was busy discussing the importance of the customer (Marketing, being my core course at Bits!)
Anyway, I graduated and had a job offer from Infosys, a software company and you would think, I would be thanking my lucky stars. hah! I was on to my next worry-venture - I came to US to do a Masters in Computer Science - a dream come true. Was I s a t i s f i e d? Nah...I was busy worrying about my next deadline, my next assignment and how happy I was at Bits and thus, two years passed...
I am now with IBM working on what I have always wanted to work on, and now, you ask me, am I happy? Well, I now sit here, wondering why I had not decided to stay back in India - to argue with my parents - daily, to be blissfully unaware of who a racist is, to take Tamil movies and Tamil movie theatres for granted, to eat hot South-Indian parotha and Sathukudi juice at Saravana Bhavan ...oh, there are a million things that I would rather be doing and I bet if am in India now, doing all these things, I would be thinking "Why did I not decide to go to the United States?".
March 31, 2005
Devotion
Like pliable clay in a potter's hand, this one word, Devotion, has come to acquire different shapes in different minds. The one specific aspect of devotion that I am interested in is the simple connection that unifies the known with the Unknown, the powerless with the Powerful, the fathomable with the Unfathomable, the finite with the Infinite, man with God.
Why discuss such a loaded concept? Because a few incidents the past few weeks have left some nagging, unanswered questions, that I would like to revisit. I was with a group of people, each of us participating in several lively discussions in turns, when I mentioned my visit to the temple. I recall having said something to the effect of "I am sure God doesn't expect us to talk to him in hushed, revered tones, bowing down and prostrating in front of him all the time; infact He might equally well, if not to a greater extent, appreciate us talking to Him like we talk to our friends, confiding in him, sharing our secrets with Him and expressing our faith in Him" Having said what I considered was something that needed little analysis, I settled down to continue our other discussions. I realized very soon that I was being greeted by more than a few blank and skeptical expressions. One voice piped up, with an unmistakable hint of skepticism "...and I suppose God told you he wouldn't mind you treating him like a friend?"
...and there I was, with no answer to give to that voice. I am not sure if I was taken aback by my inability to answer the question or because the flood of thoughts and retorts that demanded to be verbalized, flew so fast to my lips, that I remained silent. Long after I left that place, this question kept coming back to my mind, somehow disturbing me...not my faith, just me. I had the sudden urge to go back in time to answer the question that was posed to me, to establish without doubt that faith in Him will make miracles happen - miracles that we are often too self-involved to notice, miracles that lie in the really small things and moments in life - in a child's smile, in a friend's hug, in tears of love, in pangs of separation, in rain and in sunshine - miracles too many to imagine.
...and I realized I no longer felt the need to prove to that voice that there is God, I felt blessed in my knowledge, my faith that He is there, watching us and He is there all around - in us and outside - அவர் தூணிளும் இருப்பார், துரும்பிலும் இருப்பார்.
Why discuss such a loaded concept? Because a few incidents the past few weeks have left some nagging, unanswered questions, that I would like to revisit. I was with a group of people, each of us participating in several lively discussions in turns, when I mentioned my visit to the temple. I recall having said something to the effect of "I am sure God doesn't expect us to talk to him in hushed, revered tones, bowing down and prostrating in front of him all the time; infact He might equally well, if not to a greater extent, appreciate us talking to Him like we talk to our friends, confiding in him, sharing our secrets with Him and expressing our faith in Him" Having said what I considered was something that needed little analysis, I settled down to continue our other discussions. I realized very soon that I was being greeted by more than a few blank and skeptical expressions. One voice piped up, with an unmistakable hint of skepticism "...and I suppose God told you he wouldn't mind you treating him like a friend?"
...and there I was, with no answer to give to that voice. I am not sure if I was taken aback by my inability to answer the question or because the flood of thoughts and retorts that demanded to be verbalized, flew so fast to my lips, that I remained silent. Long after I left that place, this question kept coming back to my mind, somehow disturbing me...not my faith, just me. I had the sudden urge to go back in time to answer the question that was posed to me, to establish without doubt that faith in Him will make miracles happen - miracles that we are often too self-involved to notice, miracles that lie in the really small things and moments in life - in a child's smile, in a friend's hug, in tears of love, in pangs of separation, in rain and in sunshine - miracles too many to imagine.
...and I realized I no longer felt the need to prove to that voice that there is God, I felt blessed in my knowledge, my faith that He is there, watching us and He is there all around - in us and outside - அவர் தூணிளும் இருப்பார், துரும்பிலும் இருப்பார்.
March 27, 2005
My favourite love scenes...
In no particular order,
There are many more (The post-car-race scene between SRK and Kajol in Baazigar, scenes from the Negotiator et.al.) and I am sure I will add to this list as I watch yet another scene that makes me laugh and cry at the same time. So, what's your favourite?
Mouna Ragam - Screen picturized in pouring rain, Revathi notices Karthik waiting down with his bike just because she had asked him not to go, she opens the window fully to see if her eyes are playing tricks on her, and runs down.
She asks him "எனக்காகவா?"
He says "எதோ சின்ன பொண்ணு, மனசு கஷ்ட பட கூடாதேன்னு..."
The look of amusement and mischievousness in his eyes and that of relief and love on her face convey a kind of chemistry that is hard to recreate.
Alaipayuthey - The last scene in the hospital, Madhavan's eyes are red and tired of crying and after many agonizing moments, Shalini opens her eyes and smiles at him and finally says the three words he has been waiting to hear for a lifetime, "I love you".
ThillanaMohanambal - Can't beat Sivaji Ganesan and Padmini in the train - they carry on a conversation without speaking a single word, their eyes doing the talking for them; while Sivaji Ganesan communicates much more than what words can just by the curl of his lips, Padmini matches him with her raised eyebrows dancing in reply. A scene that holds the viewer in awe of how something unreal can seem so real.
Punnagai Mannan - Kamal Hassan and Revathi dance to the tune of love, of celebration and of life. As Ilayaraja's music courses through your soul, they dance to it - an unconstrained and abandoned dance that only love can play the music to.
Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge - Palpable chemistry between SRK and Kajol in the scene where he reveals to her that he was kidding about what transpired between them the previous night. A light hug and yet we see sparks flying.
Azhagiya Theeye - Yet another last scene - the camera angle dances beautifully between Prasanna's tear filled eyes and Navya Nair's face showing a whole range of emotions - confusion, empathy and finally, realization. "Boom" indeed.
When Harry met Sally - Again, the climax of the movie, I don't recall the dialogues exactly but I know nobody could have described the crinkle on her forehead, among other things, more poetically than Billy Crystal did for Meg Ryan.
There are many more (The post-car-race scene between SRK and Kajol in Baazigar, scenes from the Negotiator et.al.) and I am sure I will add to this list as I watch yet another scene that makes me laugh and cry at the same time. So, what's your favourite?
Humour and envy
Humour and envy. Sounds contradictory? It wont after I fill in a little bit of background. Yesterday, I was watching Sai Santosh's talk during Sangamam for the umpteenth time; the surprising fact is that I don't tire of watching it. It's fresh and laugh-out-loud-funny each time I watch it. Humour, such a simple concept and yet so very difficult to create, without sounding contrived or derisive. I envy people who can make other people laugh, it is a blessing. You and I, we have so many worries that fill our minds, so many apprehensions that tug our hearts and if someone can make us laugh, can make us forget ourselves and our worries and can transport us to his make-believe world of funny people and funny incidents...well, I never cease to be amazed. For once, I wish I were born with this uncanny ability to make people happy, to make them laugh...it's not got much to do with the adulation, the applause, the admiration that this ability brings forth in people, as a consequence; it has more to do with just the fact that I can entertain and make a person smile - the middle aged chubby maami who sits worrying about her son's board exams, the thatha who knits his brows in worry wondering when his son would come to visit him with his grandson again, the teenage girl who is scared to death of making a public speech at her convocation, or someone like me obsessing with the software code change that I think will bring the whole IT network crashing - doesn't matter who you are - he can make you laugh and for that one instant when you laugh out loud, you are not the worried thatha or the anxious teenager, you are a bystander, an onlooker enjoying the comical antics of imaginary characters in funny-land and you have absolutely nothing to worry you - you are laughing and you are enjoying the moment - and that is what places comedians like Sai, a whole level above us mortals and for that, I bow down to them - gratefully. Lets not forget the envy bit though, I am envious but for now I am just grateful that I am that person laughing out loud, with not a thing to be worried about!
March 22, 2005
Perspective
Today I read something that brought things into perspective for me. Here I was writing about men and women and many such trivialities while in some other distant part of this world - men and women are fighting for their lives, for their freedom, struggling to achieve something big, to realise their lifelong dreams...and in comparison, I suddenly realised how very small I was and my thoughts were in the grand scheme of things. The skilful weaver above who weaved this web of joy and misery, anticipation and frustration, life and death...is probably laughing at me and my meaningless thoughts, wondering where he had gone wrong in creating us, while here I am, lost in my own selfish little world, worrying about things that will definitely not make people all around me happy leave alone feeding the hungry mouths of this world.
I guess what am trying to express is helplessness, life goes on sailing smoothly and suddenly a storm capsizes eveything that we had cherished and held precious in our little boat and we are left adrift in the sea wondering about our life and praying with fervour that we be given a second chance to live life the way it should be lived - joyously and peacefully, thanking the weaver above for the wonderful fabric that he has woven around us, thanking him for our good health, our good life and for our loved ones and their love that surrounds us like a shield, a bouquet of good wishes protecting us from ourselves.
A "thank you" to You, from me for making sure my boat is still sailing...
I guess what am trying to express is helplessness, life goes on sailing smoothly and suddenly a storm capsizes eveything that we had cherished and held precious in our little boat and we are left adrift in the sea wondering about our life and praying with fervour that we be given a second chance to live life the way it should be lived - joyously and peacefully, thanking the weaver above for the wonderful fabric that he has woven around us, thanking him for our good health, our good life and for our loved ones and their love that surrounds us like a shield, a bouquet of good wishes protecting us from ourselves.
A "thank you" to You, from me for making sure my boat is still sailing...
March 19, 2005
He said, She said...
Before you start wondering – this is a figment of my imagination, but with parts of it inspired from factual incidents.
I am in a dreamy and mischievous kind of mood, kind of strange mix of emotions. I decide to indulge my mood. I look for a guinea pig. I hear a sharp intake of breath and wake up from my reverie and look at the source of the interruption; he bangs his fist on the floor – I deduce Kentucky is losing to Cincinnati in the NCAA game. I nudge him playfully and ask “So, what would you do if I weren’t there in your life?”. No response.
I clear my throat purposefully and wait. Oh, I give up! Men cannot comprehend or even hope to surmise a woman’s meaningful pause, a pregnant silence, an exasperated sigh or a stern visage. I do the one thing that I know will definitely grab his attention. I switch off the TV. Ha, that worked like a charm. I have his full fuming attention now.
I settle down to (what I hoped would be) an introspective, enlightening and bonding conversation that would bring us closer and help us connect on an intellectual and emotional level. Ok, I really have to stop romanticizing everything. Anyway, I ask again “Can you imagine life without me?”. I wait eagerly for the reply that will change my life and perception of him and…the phone rings. Cursing the untimely interruption, I make small talk with the person who called, hang up and come rushing back to continue my conversation with him. He is nonchalantly browsing through Reader’s Digest. I wait in anticipation, my pulse racing. He replies, “I guess I can wake up a bit late”. I am jolted awake nastily…”I am sor..sorry?” I stammer. He continued, by way of explanation “You see, I feel compelled to wake up early and go to work early so that you won’t be annoyed…” I must be dreaming. Let me correct myself, I was dreaming before and reality is now doing a good job of biting my head off now.
I decide to give him a second chance, hoping to find a layer of sensitivity hidden deep within him, so deep it needs to be brought out with considerable force and effort from me. I give a superficial laugh, more like a nervous giggle, as if he is just messing with me and I know more profound thoughts will flow out from him after the initial teasing. I move away from the questionable topic of week-days and ask “Well, lets take weekends for instance, what would you do when you wake up and there is no ‘me’ around?” He looks puzzled. I give a mental thumbs-up to myself, kudos to my ability to bring out the sensitive little man within him. I have finally made him ponder about our relationship and how much I mean to him. He answers with a sense of finality “I can wake up late on weekends also, you see….” I grit my teeth in frustration, looking up towards the Lord – “Have pity on me and forgive me, Oh mighty one, for I should like to hurt this guy, very badly…” I shake my head to rid myself of my evil thoughts and continue with the patience of an old woman “Yes, you can wake up late and then? What goes through your mind when you realize I am not with you?” I make little circles around my head to emphasize my question, as if my gesticulations will make the gravity of my question seep through his thick skull. He answers, beaming “Well, Saturday, I can play x-box whole day long!” I resist an impulse to squeeze his tiny throat with my bare hands and somehow find the strength to plod on.“And, What, may I enquire, would you do the whole of Sunday?” – The intuitive reader will now detect a certain coldness in my tone and rightly so! He answers with little deliberation “I guess I can go to the gym and then come back and play x-box”
I need a drink of water immediately. I empty the whole bottle and hold back a sniffle. Tears threaten to come rushing down my cheeks and as I am about to isolate myself from him for the rest of the day and possibly for the rest of my life, I feel a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. I turn around and notice that he is trying hard to hold back bouts of laughter.
“Sorry darling couldn’t resist it” he says and switches on the TV to catch the second half of the game.
I am in a dreamy and mischievous kind of mood, kind of strange mix of emotions. I decide to indulge my mood. I look for a guinea pig. I hear a sharp intake of breath and wake up from my reverie and look at the source of the interruption; he bangs his fist on the floor – I deduce Kentucky is losing to Cincinnati in the NCAA game. I nudge him playfully and ask “So, what would you do if I weren’t there in your life?”. No response.
I clear my throat purposefully and wait. Oh, I give up! Men cannot comprehend or even hope to surmise a woman’s meaningful pause, a pregnant silence, an exasperated sigh or a stern visage. I do the one thing that I know will definitely grab his attention. I switch off the TV. Ha, that worked like a charm. I have his full fuming attention now.
I settle down to (what I hoped would be) an introspective, enlightening and bonding conversation that would bring us closer and help us connect on an intellectual and emotional level. Ok, I really have to stop romanticizing everything. Anyway, I ask again “Can you imagine life without me?”. I wait eagerly for the reply that will change my life and perception of him and…the phone rings. Cursing the untimely interruption, I make small talk with the person who called, hang up and come rushing back to continue my conversation with him. He is nonchalantly browsing through Reader’s Digest. I wait in anticipation, my pulse racing. He replies, “I guess I can wake up a bit late”. I am jolted awake nastily…”I am sor..sorry?” I stammer. He continued, by way of explanation “You see, I feel compelled to wake up early and go to work early so that you won’t be annoyed…” I must be dreaming. Let me correct myself, I was dreaming before and reality is now doing a good job of biting my head off now.
I decide to give him a second chance, hoping to find a layer of sensitivity hidden deep within him, so deep it needs to be brought out with considerable force and effort from me. I give a superficial laugh, more like a nervous giggle, as if he is just messing with me and I know more profound thoughts will flow out from him after the initial teasing. I move away from the questionable topic of week-days and ask “Well, lets take weekends for instance, what would you do when you wake up and there is no ‘me’ around?” He looks puzzled. I give a mental thumbs-up to myself, kudos to my ability to bring out the sensitive little man within him. I have finally made him ponder about our relationship and how much I mean to him. He answers with a sense of finality “I can wake up late on weekends also, you see….” I grit my teeth in frustration, looking up towards the Lord – “Have pity on me and forgive me, Oh mighty one, for I should like to hurt this guy, very badly…” I shake my head to rid myself of my evil thoughts and continue with the patience of an old woman “Yes, you can wake up late and then? What goes through your mind when you realize I am not with you?” I make little circles around my head to emphasize my question, as if my gesticulations will make the gravity of my question seep through his thick skull. He answers, beaming “Well, Saturday, I can play x-box whole day long!” I resist an impulse to squeeze his tiny throat with my bare hands and somehow find the strength to plod on.“And, What, may I enquire, would you do the whole of Sunday?” – The intuitive reader will now detect a certain coldness in my tone and rightly so! He answers with little deliberation “I guess I can go to the gym and then come back and play x-box”
I need a drink of water immediately. I empty the whole bottle and hold back a sniffle. Tears threaten to come rushing down my cheeks and as I am about to isolate myself from him for the rest of the day and possibly for the rest of my life, I feel a hand on my shoulder, stopping me. I turn around and notice that he is trying hard to hold back bouts of laughter.
“Sorry darling couldn’t resist it” he says and switches on the TV to catch the second half of the game.
March 17, 2005
Now why would I write about something that I am completely and passionately not interested about? Two reasons: I am sitting infront of my computer at work, trying to make sense of a piece of software that I wrote a few days back and what do I hear but cheering! All my office colleagues are assembled in the adjacent conference room cheering UK playing in an NCAA game! Thats reason number one, the next reason is my friend b, who asked me a pertinent question yesterday - why is everything about what women want? Why cant someone ask the question - what do men want? So, I thought I would explore the relatively uncomplicated minds of men and their wants and why they want what they want.
Want number one: Undependent on normal variables like nationality and religion. All men and I do mean All Men are crazy about sports. The variables probably only affect what sport it is that they are crazy about. Let me take cricket for instance, for it is close to my heart and I have been guilty of watching not too many late night matches praying that Sachin would not get out. Here's a common occurrence in my house:
Time: 10 PM
Event: cricket match on TV
Participants: appa, thatha, bro
Annoyances to participants: my mom and I
As far as cricket is concerned, all the males in my family decide to establish some basic rules and prove to the helpless females of the house who the head of the house really is. Bro gets the most comfortable chair closest to the TV, thatha and appa settle down equally comfortably on the sofa nearby. Their eyes are glued to the TV and nothing will make them even turn away. To further emphasize this point, mom makes entry into TV room and hold the dinner plate to Bro, who extends his hands at an angle approximately 90 degrees to his body to take it. We now witness a pretty complicated maneuver - the eyes need to stay on the TV but mom is standing behind Bro, so he needs to extend his hands towards the plate which is behind him not moving his eyes away. Needless to say, Bro did not win the agility contest and the stainless steel plate landed with a resounding crash on to the floor, its contents finding their new homes under the sofa and the comfortable chair. Mom ties her pallu to her waist - let me interrupt my narration at this point to explain the significance of this simple action. This scene is akin to warriors blowing their shells in ancient times to indicate start and end times of a battle. Lets just say, the trio missed the next 10 overs in the match.
Thatha and appa quietly accept their dinner plates without any fancy acrobatics. Then the unthinkable happens, Sachin almost gets out!!! Thatha is too restless to watch the match sitting down. He stands up and decides to walk to and fro deciding how to win the match which is quickly making its way to India's quickest all-out of all times. He nods knowledgably to himself and then yells at mom "Nee ingendhu naganthu inda chairla okkaru, nee ukkandrukkara edam seri illa!". Mom looks up to see if senility is finally getting to thatha. She further discerns that he is indeed serious about his request and obliges, after giving him an old-Tamil-movie-Savithri glare. Sachin however does get out in the next ball and to this day, thatha claims its because of my mom.
Then there is the way k treats me like an absolute princess when a game is going on. He would help around the kitchen, ask if I need something and reduce the TV volume to a minimum...and if you believe what I just mentioned, you must be out of your mind!!! Another simple rule that guys believe in - when a game is on, act like you are in a vacuum with the TV, act like Gandhiji's three monkeys rolled into one, only in this case its not evil that you are avoiding but everything except auditory and visual inputs about the game!
I have long given up trying to talk sense into men, explaining to them that human beings are far more important than a piece of ball being hit towards the sky with a piece of wood but the men in my life do not listen - be it my dad, my thatha, my bro or k...and so here I sit, typing my observations about what is most important to men, while in the conference room next to me, more cheers erupt because Florida has beaten Ohio 67-62...Sigh. I sneak in just to see what is this magical quality about this silly game that can twirl a group of well-dressed, intelligent men around its little finger and make them dance to its tunes and I catch glimpses of the game - the euphoria, the thrill, the excitement, the passion, the emotions surrounding it and realise no woman can ever hope to outwit a nice game, she will always play second fiddle to the scheming game and there is nothing she can do about it.
Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, so..."Goooooo Floridaaaa!".
Want number one: Undependent on normal variables like nationality and religion. All men and I do mean All Men are crazy about sports. The variables probably only affect what sport it is that they are crazy about. Let me take cricket for instance, for it is close to my heart and I have been guilty of watching not too many late night matches praying that Sachin would not get out. Here's a common occurrence in my house:
Time: 10 PM
Event: cricket match on TV
Participants: appa, thatha, bro
Annoyances to participants: my mom and I
As far as cricket is concerned, all the males in my family decide to establish some basic rules and prove to the helpless females of the house who the head of the house really is. Bro gets the most comfortable chair closest to the TV, thatha and appa settle down equally comfortably on the sofa nearby. Their eyes are glued to the TV and nothing will make them even turn away. To further emphasize this point, mom makes entry into TV room and hold the dinner plate to Bro, who extends his hands at an angle approximately 90 degrees to his body to take it. We now witness a pretty complicated maneuver - the eyes need to stay on the TV but mom is standing behind Bro, so he needs to extend his hands towards the plate which is behind him not moving his eyes away. Needless to say, Bro did not win the agility contest and the stainless steel plate landed with a resounding crash on to the floor, its contents finding their new homes under the sofa and the comfortable chair. Mom ties her pallu to her waist - let me interrupt my narration at this point to explain the significance of this simple action. This scene is akin to warriors blowing their shells in ancient times to indicate start and end times of a battle. Lets just say, the trio missed the next 10 overs in the match.
Thatha and appa quietly accept their dinner plates without any fancy acrobatics. Then the unthinkable happens, Sachin almost gets out!!! Thatha is too restless to watch the match sitting down. He stands up and decides to walk to and fro deciding how to win the match which is quickly making its way to India's quickest all-out of all times. He nods knowledgably to himself and then yells at mom "Nee ingendhu naganthu inda chairla okkaru, nee ukkandrukkara edam seri illa!". Mom looks up to see if senility is finally getting to thatha. She further discerns that he is indeed serious about his request and obliges, after giving him an old-Tamil-movie-Savithri glare. Sachin however does get out in the next ball and to this day, thatha claims its because of my mom.
Then there is the way k treats me like an absolute princess when a game is going on. He would help around the kitchen, ask if I need something and reduce the TV volume to a minimum...and if you believe what I just mentioned, you must be out of your mind!!! Another simple rule that guys believe in - when a game is on, act like you are in a vacuum with the TV, act like Gandhiji's three monkeys rolled into one, only in this case its not evil that you are avoiding but everything except auditory and visual inputs about the game!
I have long given up trying to talk sense into men, explaining to them that human beings are far more important than a piece of ball being hit towards the sky with a piece of wood but the men in my life do not listen - be it my dad, my thatha, my bro or k...and so here I sit, typing my observations about what is most important to men, while in the conference room next to me, more cheers erupt because Florida has beaten Ohio 67-62...Sigh. I sneak in just to see what is this magical quality about this silly game that can twirl a group of well-dressed, intelligent men around its little finger and make them dance to its tunes and I catch glimpses of the game - the euphoria, the thrill, the excitement, the passion, the emotions surrounding it and realise no woman can ever hope to outwit a nice game, she will always play second fiddle to the scheming game and there is nothing she can do about it.
Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, so..."Goooooo Floridaaaa!".
March 15, 2005
Restless
Restless - this word pretty much characterizes how I have been feeling the past couple of days. There is this lovely scene in Jerry Maguire where a guy mimes to his wife making a circle with his hands - "You complete me". In his view, his wife completed him, emotionally. I guess I already have a strong family-friend-fiance support base to complete me emotionally but am waiting for that one thing that will complete me creatively. To cut a long story short, I think I need to work towards finding my creative niche.
When I was in third grade, I started learning Bharathanatyam and was a student who picked up the dance very fast for the next four years. My family then shifted to Bangalore whereupon my tryst with dance ended. I am not sure if it is this small encounter from years back that has created this yearning within me or if its something more recent; but I do know I want to learn to dance. I took up swing dancing classes with k in an attempt to recreate the magic of my childhood dancing days. Swing dancing was fun, but it turned out to be a fair-weather friend and I bid farewell to it.
Then came my attempt to paint. I took up a class at Michael's, our friendly overpriced art-supplies store and tried my hand at painting. I must say, I was impressed with the results, my painting came out beautiful. I felt euphoric for some time, thinking I had found my long-last friend - I thought, painting, in lieu of dancing, would complete me. But, that was not to be. Michaels was not able to woo me a second time.
Then came the time when I was inseparable from my apron. I took cooking quite seriously for some time and pictured mouth-watering dishes that people would talk about and myself glowing at the adulation in my spotless kitchen. k wishes I had stood by this wont but I moved on.
I then pondered upon volunteering at my local Children's hospital but that has remained just a thought in my head, definitely something I want to do at some point in my life.
After many days of introspection and considerable encouragement from k, d and I started tca. Every time I involve myself in the organization's activities, I feel a fresh sense of satisfaction - it used to be an adrenanline pump when I saw what we had worked towards take a concrete shape in front of our eyes, now, its much more than that - almost a part of me. More than anything else that I accomplished in US, I think this assoc gives me a stronger sense of identity and makes me be less harsh on myself. I feel less restless and more at peace with myself now...but am still searching.
I dont know if this innate restlessness (thanks to my dad!) is something that I need to be thankful for, for it drives me on, searching for something more in my life or if I should just learn to be satisfied with what I do and with what I am. I am now vacillating between - learning to play the piano, dancing and writing (there's enough there for a whole new blog!). I dont know which of these acquaintances would be my soul-mate for life but I do know she is there somewhere and I will find her soon.
signed still-searching.
When I was in third grade, I started learning Bharathanatyam and was a student who picked up the dance very fast for the next four years. My family then shifted to Bangalore whereupon my tryst with dance ended. I am not sure if it is this small encounter from years back that has created this yearning within me or if its something more recent; but I do know I want to learn to dance. I took up swing dancing classes with k in an attempt to recreate the magic of my childhood dancing days. Swing dancing was fun, but it turned out to be a fair-weather friend and I bid farewell to it.
Then came my attempt to paint. I took up a class at Michael's, our friendly overpriced art-supplies store and tried my hand at painting. I must say, I was impressed with the results, my painting came out beautiful. I felt euphoric for some time, thinking I had found my long-last friend - I thought, painting, in lieu of dancing, would complete me. But, that was not to be. Michaels was not able to woo me a second time.
Then came the time when I was inseparable from my apron. I took cooking quite seriously for some time and pictured mouth-watering dishes that people would talk about and myself glowing at the adulation in my spotless kitchen. k wishes I had stood by this wont but I moved on.
I then pondered upon volunteering at my local Children's hospital but that has remained just a thought in my head, definitely something I want to do at some point in my life.
After many days of introspection and considerable encouragement from k, d and I started tca. Every time I involve myself in the organization's activities, I feel a fresh sense of satisfaction - it used to be an adrenanline pump when I saw what we had worked towards take a concrete shape in front of our eyes, now, its much more than that - almost a part of me. More than anything else that I accomplished in US, I think this assoc gives me a stronger sense of identity and makes me be less harsh on myself. I feel less restless and more at peace with myself now...but am still searching.
I dont know if this innate restlessness (thanks to my dad!) is something that I need to be thankful for, for it drives me on, searching for something more in my life or if I should just learn to be satisfied with what I do and with what I am. I am now vacillating between - learning to play the piano, dancing and writing (there's enough there for a whole new blog!). I dont know which of these acquaintances would be my soul-mate for life but I do know she is there somewhere and I will find her soon.
signed still-searching.
March 08, 2005
What do women want?
An existential conundrum that has haunted the fairer sex since time immemorial. This question show its obstinate face time and again affecting women on land, on sea and in air. She can be a pilot, she can be a strict mother, she can be a homely wife - it still surfaces every now and then in her mind - what does she really want? I can not claim to have solved the riddle but I state here, some related insights that I have gained in my life based on my interaction with more such confused women.
Lets take three typical women Ms.A, Ms.B, Ms.C, almost stereotypical in the way they interact with the world, each having predefined roles in society - some thrusted on them, some by choice. I give a brief character portrayal and behavioral traits that define these women. I will then proceed to analyze the question stated above in the context of my interaction with these women. I confess I have exaggerated a few of these social interactions below to highlight what I think characterize the turmoil in a woman's head - the answer to something men often ask with a puzzled expression on their faces, scratching their heads, searching for an answer there-"What is she really thinking?".
Ms.A - her life and something like that:
Ms.A, a spirited, emotional girl, deeply attached to the people in her life, not just bordering on but well into the realm of "possessiveness". She recently married a guy picked by her parents, everything happened the traditional "arranged marriage" way. The wedding was an expensive affair - the kind people talk about even many months later and say "The food was delicious". Post honeymoon, we received a number of nice photos from Ms.A and hubby, a long email followed that can be condensed to - "We are so happy.He is perfect, I could not have picked a better guy". At this point, I conclude Ms.A's role, rather abruptly, because I think I can make my point without travelling further into Ms.A's life.
My reactions:
When I heard Ms.A state directly to me that she thought her life was perfect, I was thrown into a state of turmoil. Men and the ignorant should note at this point that women in a group live in a state of delicate balance, maintained mentally based on the information they exchange with each other - a mental see-saw, if you will. After my talk with Ms.A, my mental see-saw became inconceivably unbalanced. Within a week, I had drawn comparisons between her life, her marriage and my life and relationship with k. I further proceeded to feel a mix of anxiety, restlessness and dissatisfaction about my relationship for a period lasting a few weeks. I then proceeded to talk to other close friends of mine questioning the validity of my relationship and finally proceeded to what these events usually lead to - a letting-off-steam, emotional-outpour and finally a stream of tears all directed towards k. k, as he normally is in situations such as these, was clueless. He said all the right things at the wrong time which infuriated me further; I added an additional worry-item to my mental see-saw - my significant other does not even understand me - a high priority, heavy weight item that further unbalanced what little balance existed.
Ms B - What is love?
Ms B, a graceful dancer, excellent singer but belonging to the clingier variety of women. The clingy, needy, whiny variety. Our local community considered Ms.B and boy friend inseparable and felt their names needed to be added to the list of Romeo-Juliet, Heer-Ranjha, Pritviraj Chouhan-Samyukta, you know how that list goes! At various points in my interaction with them I noticed how loving and lovey-dovey-cuddly they were with each other and felt "Ah, here is true love, I have been blind". To add further "poondu" to the rasam (just trying something new instead of fuel to the cliched fire), Ms.B confided in hushed tones to me that she felt she could not live without him or imagine a life without boy friend. She further questioned me if I felt the same about k.
My reactions:
I felt myself getting sucked into the vortex again, plummeting down in my mental roller-coaster. Innumerable questions came pouncing at me, characterized by three emotions - doubt, disappointment and resignation in that particular order. I re-analyzed my relationship and came to the conclusion that what we shared was just a pale shadow of true-love's distant cousin. I proceeded to isolate myself from people and spent many productive (so I thought), enlightening hours wondering why I could not share the perfect relationship that B shared with boy friend. This resulted in me not talking to k for the next two weeks and stating that our relationship is reaching an official closure now. He remained as baffled as ever.
Ms.C - To listen to the wife or not to listen
Ms.C, a friendly, good-natured, smiling girl - someone whose wavelength matched mine (the discerning reader would have realized by now that, that is a rarity in my life, especially where another girl is concerned). To cut a long story short, she married the guy she loved and we were very happy for her. She often told me about how child-like he was and how he would surprise her with expensive, impulsive gifts - yada yada. Recently they even had an extended honeymoon to someplace remote - cruising, candle light dinner - the works.
My reactions:
I would often listen wide-eyed to Ms.C's romantic escapades and wonder "why not me?". When do I get my share of silly, super-expensive watches with my name engraved in gold and the rest of my carefully hand-giftwrapped gifts hidden in potpourri in a room decorated with pink flowers and soft music...my mind wanders, transported to this magical world and then poof, I am back to reality with a thud. At the risk of sounding repititive, lets just say I went through the whole cycle of emotions, yet again. k started looking up self-help books hoping that would help him figure out his life and mine.
The reality phase:
...and then reality dawned. Let me first fill you in on a few other events that took place in our subjects' lives. Ms.A had problems adjusting to married life and in-laws. Ms.B and boy friend broke up. Ms.C revealed to me later on that her child-like hubby does not participate in even small things that she enjoys because he considers them "childish", although they are still happy. I realized none of their lives was perfect. What they portrayed to the world was probably perfect, but their lives? Far from it. I guess, its hard for women to admit that they lead normal, imperfect lives, nothing really that makes them stand out from every other Jane, Cynthia or Bridget. When we get down to the nitty-gritty its always the same story - filled with compromises, negotiations, squabbles, tears and sleeping on the couches but in each of their lives are moments that make the struggle worth it. We can decide to concentrate on the negatives in our life and allow ourselves to be filled with self-doubt or we can dwell in those little nuggets of joy - the days when he gets up early and has a bed-coffee ready for you with just a tad more sugar and a tad less coffee than you would like, when his chivalrous front comes to the forefront and he wraps you in his jacket and gives you a rose, when he smiles at you crying because you are so very bad at cooking and hugs you consolingly, when he whispers "I love you" before he kisses you goodnight - those few moments make the whole relationship worth its while. k, meanwhile carries on, confused that I have been so very nice to him the past few weeks, little does he realize that a storm has come and gone, but it has left back colorful little conches and shells, each having a valuable lesson to learn and if he listens carefully, he will understand a little more about what women want.
Lets take three typical women Ms.A, Ms.B, Ms.C, almost stereotypical in the way they interact with the world, each having predefined roles in society - some thrusted on them, some by choice. I give a brief character portrayal and behavioral traits that define these women. I will then proceed to analyze the question stated above in the context of my interaction with these women. I confess I have exaggerated a few of these social interactions below to highlight what I think characterize the turmoil in a woman's head - the answer to something men often ask with a puzzled expression on their faces, scratching their heads, searching for an answer there-"What is she really thinking?".
Ms.A - her life and something like that:
Ms.A, a spirited, emotional girl, deeply attached to the people in her life, not just bordering on but well into the realm of "possessiveness". She recently married a guy picked by her parents, everything happened the traditional "arranged marriage" way. The wedding was an expensive affair - the kind people talk about even many months later and say "The food was delicious". Post honeymoon, we received a number of nice photos from Ms.A and hubby, a long email followed that can be condensed to - "We are so happy.He is perfect, I could not have picked a better guy". At this point, I conclude Ms.A's role, rather abruptly, because I think I can make my point without travelling further into Ms.A's life.
My reactions:
When I heard Ms.A state directly to me that she thought her life was perfect, I was thrown into a state of turmoil. Men and the ignorant should note at this point that women in a group live in a state of delicate balance, maintained mentally based on the information they exchange with each other - a mental see-saw, if you will. After my talk with Ms.A, my mental see-saw became inconceivably unbalanced. Within a week, I had drawn comparisons between her life, her marriage and my life and relationship with k. I further proceeded to feel a mix of anxiety, restlessness and dissatisfaction about my relationship for a period lasting a few weeks. I then proceeded to talk to other close friends of mine questioning the validity of my relationship and finally proceeded to what these events usually lead to - a letting-off-steam, emotional-outpour and finally a stream of tears all directed towards k. k, as he normally is in situations such as these, was clueless. He said all the right things at the wrong time which infuriated me further; I added an additional worry-item to my mental see-saw - my significant other does not even understand me - a high priority, heavy weight item that further unbalanced what little balance existed.
Ms B - What is love?
Ms B, a graceful dancer, excellent singer but belonging to the clingier variety of women. The clingy, needy, whiny variety. Our local community considered Ms.B and boy friend inseparable and felt their names needed to be added to the list of Romeo-Juliet, Heer-Ranjha, Pritviraj Chouhan-Samyukta, you know how that list goes! At various points in my interaction with them I noticed how loving and lovey-dovey-cuddly they were with each other and felt "Ah, here is true love, I have been blind". To add further "poondu" to the rasam (just trying something new instead of fuel to the cliched fire), Ms.B confided in hushed tones to me that she felt she could not live without him or imagine a life without boy friend. She further questioned me if I felt the same about k.
My reactions:
I felt myself getting sucked into the vortex again, plummeting down in my mental roller-coaster. Innumerable questions came pouncing at me, characterized by three emotions - doubt, disappointment and resignation in that particular order. I re-analyzed my relationship and came to the conclusion that what we shared was just a pale shadow of true-love's distant cousin. I proceeded to isolate myself from people and spent many productive (so I thought), enlightening hours wondering why I could not share the perfect relationship that B shared with boy friend. This resulted in me not talking to k for the next two weeks and stating that our relationship is reaching an official closure now. He remained as baffled as ever.
Ms.C - To listen to the wife or not to listen
Ms.C, a friendly, good-natured, smiling girl - someone whose wavelength matched mine (the discerning reader would have realized by now that, that is a rarity in my life, especially where another girl is concerned). To cut a long story short, she married the guy she loved and we were very happy for her. She often told me about how child-like he was and how he would surprise her with expensive, impulsive gifts - yada yada. Recently they even had an extended honeymoon to someplace remote - cruising, candle light dinner - the works.
My reactions:
I would often listen wide-eyed to Ms.C's romantic escapades and wonder "why not me?". When do I get my share of silly, super-expensive watches with my name engraved in gold and the rest of my carefully hand-giftwrapped gifts hidden in potpourri in a room decorated with pink flowers and soft music...my mind wanders, transported to this magical world and then poof, I am back to reality with a thud. At the risk of sounding repititive, lets just say I went through the whole cycle of emotions, yet again. k started looking up self-help books hoping that would help him figure out his life and mine.
The reality phase:
...and then reality dawned. Let me first fill you in on a few other events that took place in our subjects' lives. Ms.A had problems adjusting to married life and in-laws. Ms.B and boy friend broke up. Ms.C revealed to me later on that her child-like hubby does not participate in even small things that she enjoys because he considers them "childish", although they are still happy. I realized none of their lives was perfect. What they portrayed to the world was probably perfect, but their lives? Far from it. I guess, its hard for women to admit that they lead normal, imperfect lives, nothing really that makes them stand out from every other Jane, Cynthia or Bridget. When we get down to the nitty-gritty its always the same story - filled with compromises, negotiations, squabbles, tears and sleeping on the couches but in each of their lives are moments that make the struggle worth it. We can decide to concentrate on the negatives in our life and allow ourselves to be filled with self-doubt or we can dwell in those little nuggets of joy - the days when he gets up early and has a bed-coffee ready for you with just a tad more sugar and a tad less coffee than you would like, when his chivalrous front comes to the forefront and he wraps you in his jacket and gives you a rose, when he smiles at you crying because you are so very bad at cooking and hugs you consolingly, when he whispers "I love you" before he kisses you goodnight - those few moments make the whole relationship worth its while. k, meanwhile carries on, confused that I have been so very nice to him the past few weeks, little does he realize that a storm has come and gone, but it has left back colorful little conches and shells, each having a valuable lesson to learn and if he listens carefully, he will understand a little more about what women want.
March 04, 2005
A few days back, before my India trip (thats a looong story, details of which will be revealed over time), I got over-enthusiastic and posted a semi-autobiographical (characters in the story), semi-fictional story (events in the story) that I wrote for Sulekha:
I turned back again, to say goodbye to Jai. He seemed sad to see me go, which made me feel better, in a weird sense, as if I was able to vindicate the numerous fights we had had in the past. He had a look of resignation; he had accepted the fact that he was never going to see me again, but he was too proud to verbalize what I could see, so clearly, unspoken words that would torment him for a long time. I swiped my boarding card and smiled distractedly at the airhostess.
Here I was, flying back to where I came from. Back to my colorful, exotic India! A whirlwind of thoughts filled my mind, fleeting images of relatives I said goodbye to, my parents, thatha, my brother, friends…the sights and sounds of India, that make it special for anyone who lives away; and amidst all these thoughts, I saw one face clearly and I had a gnawing feeling, a complete sense of loneliness enveloped me…Jai, of all the people…I could see him clearly, like he was standing in front of me…I closed my eyes and gave in to the feelings that drowned me…anger, hurt, remorse…I saw his tall, lean frame clearly, his small, almost round face, his sharp nose, laughing eyes, unruly hair and his weird glasses, and perfect teeth smiling at me, mocking me. I hated him now and yet, I missed him so much, the sense of power that I felt over him when I left the airport left me now, to be replaced by longing, and I felt two tear drops fall down my cheeks. I hate it when I cry…
My dad, Ranganathan Iyengar and my mom, Mrs.Padmini Ranganathan have infinite arguments when it comes to the issue of an inter-caste marriage.
My dad, a tall and hefty fifty-year-old English Professor at Vivekananda College in Madras, a man who can inspire a class of unmanageable, almost rowdy teenagers, who can explain to you the nuances of a dangling participle and an indefinite article - a professor who has a double MA in English and Sanskrit, and yet, a man who believed that it is not appropriate for a Brahmin girl like me to marry a Non-Brahmin guy."Shalu, you are just a child and we don't know the boy's parents, his kulam, gotram, no, no, this is unimaginable", he said.
Every morning, after reciting Vishnu Sahasranamam, he would sit with a cup of steaming-hot coffee made by my mom. He looked like a professor even at home. He would stare at you from his thick old-fashioned dark-brown rimmed spectacles, a look that made most people wilt away. My father, a leader, at work, at home and with friends and family, loved to organize and lead. He could teach Wharton Business School Graduates a thing or two about personal networking and people management. Some people age gracefully and my dad is one of them, the more his hair grayed and the more laugh lines that grew to adorn his face, the more dignified he looked, but his strict face and serious disposition softened to a ready smile and a bear hug whenever he saw his little Shalini, the apple of his eye, me.
Let me now describe briefly the one person whom my father pretends to not be scared of, but actually is – my mother, Padmini…say this name in our Gopalapuram temple and you will hear words of praise, small anecdotes, funny incidents, inspirations that people shared and learned from my mother. Her pretty round face with the sacred kumkuma pottu on her forehead and honey-like voice attracted people to her like a flock of bees seeking advice and sometimes, just her attention. She always had a nice word for everyone, wishing them well. People thought she was a close friend of the Lord himself and often came to her with their worries and anxieties. My mother spent, approximately one third of her time in the kitchen, one third in the temple and the remaining time at home doing her household chores. My father was very proud and a tad afraid of his talented wife.
My mother strongly supported my father as far as Jai was concerned. “Shalu says the boy looks fair and maybe good-looking…” she acknowledged grudgingly, “but he is not a good match for you, Shalu. If you marry him, what will Chelapa chitappa and Vaidehi maami say?”. As you might have guessed by now, I was, but a mute spectator when my parents started discussing Jai. So, I listened to the evil-me in my head and started designing a master plan…
Three weeks passed…
Sundar, his parents, his sister, uncle and aunt were all set to visit our house for the traditional girl-seeing ceremony and the girl in question was I! My friend, Aarthi’s parents called my parents a few days back and recommended this “jadagam” to my parents; they gave all the relevant details – boy’s caste, complexion, education, and salary and asked if my parents were willing to consider this match. My parents, noticing the six zeroes in his salary, the heavy recommendations and the fact that he was an Iyer gleefully agreed. Mom made badam halwa that day, my favourite sweet and I knew immediately that something was brewing in that mind of hers. I “reluctantly” agreed to meet the boy, in lieu of 24 hours of lecture about how I was a disobedient daughter and so, the preparations began…
Another week passed…
I had to admit, our whole house looked beautiful, it smelt like honey and jasmine and a pleasant thoranam with banana leaves adorned our front door. Mom selected a gaudy blue saree with rows and rows of gold finishing on it and a heavy diamond necklace and matching earrings for me to wear. I felt heavy, emotionally and literally. The important hour was upon me, I stepped out to meet Sundar and his gang when I heard my mom’s voice “Shalu, see who has come home”, like this was all an unexpected joyful surprise.
The first face that I saw calmed me immensely, for, Shaila aunty’s face was glowing with a serene and welcoming smile…I felt less apprehensive. My parents, I noticed, had managed to strike a comfortable conversation with Sundar’s parents and also managed to connect with Shaila aunty and Madhesh uncle, Sundar’s “relatives”, who could only speak broken bits of Telugu and Tamil. I could see that my father was proud of me; he gave a triumphant smile when I entered the room as if challenging his guests, daring them to find a better bride…
That night…
My mother sat next to me on my bed. “Shalu…I think Sundar is a very nice boy”, I remained silent, mom continued…“I understand it will be hard for you to forget Jai, but you both can be friends, maybe even Sundar and Jai can be friends…” I couldn’t help laughing at that preposterous thought. I looked at her, searching for an answer in her eyes. She said “I think he will keep you happy…I feel it in my instincts”.
Three weeks passed…
I stood clothed in a traditional South-Indian bride’s red nine yards saree and mom was fussing with my hairstyle. Suddenly, I could not take the farce anymore and I broke down. My mother looked startled. She came to me silently and made me sit down…”Shalu, whatever happens, you are the most important person in my life…” I felt a touch of guilt thinking of my dad, wondering what he would say if he heard this. She continued, “If you are not comfortable with this marriage, it is not too late now…” I was crying uncontrollably by now and tried to smile at my mother through my tears. I said “Ma, sit down, I have to tell you this right now, wait here”. As she sat down puzzled, I strode out of the room and got Sundar alias Jai into the room, “Shalini…” he said, I stopped him, “Ma, meet Jai, Sundar whatever, the only man I ever loved…” Mom looked astounded. Dad walked in on this confusion and heard what I said and immediately his face turned an unhealthy shade of red. I watched speechless and sorry that I had lied to my parents for so many days, I thought of Aarthi and how she had convinced me that this plan would work and that her parents would help me, I thought of Jai’s parents, Shaila aunty and Madhesh uncle not at all approving of this plan but finally giving in to Jai’s insistence…
A week later…
As I sit, watching the happy clouds around me, holding hands with my husband, I am thankful to my mother and father who were able to forgive their impulsive and stubborn daughter, who finally realized that Jai was not as bad as they thought he was. “We are all set”, the airhostess announced, “We are indeed set”, I thought, and smiled.
I turned back again, to say goodbye to Jai. He seemed sad to see me go, which made me feel better, in a weird sense, as if I was able to vindicate the numerous fights we had had in the past. He had a look of resignation; he had accepted the fact that he was never going to see me again, but he was too proud to verbalize what I could see, so clearly, unspoken words that would torment him for a long time. I swiped my boarding card and smiled distractedly at the airhostess.
Here I was, flying back to where I came from. Back to my colorful, exotic India! A whirlwind of thoughts filled my mind, fleeting images of relatives I said goodbye to, my parents, thatha, my brother, friends…the sights and sounds of India, that make it special for anyone who lives away; and amidst all these thoughts, I saw one face clearly and I had a gnawing feeling, a complete sense of loneliness enveloped me…Jai, of all the people…I could see him clearly, like he was standing in front of me…I closed my eyes and gave in to the feelings that drowned me…anger, hurt, remorse…I saw his tall, lean frame clearly, his small, almost round face, his sharp nose, laughing eyes, unruly hair and his weird glasses, and perfect teeth smiling at me, mocking me. I hated him now and yet, I missed him so much, the sense of power that I felt over him when I left the airport left me now, to be replaced by longing, and I felt two tear drops fall down my cheeks. I hate it when I cry…
My dad, Ranganathan Iyengar and my mom, Mrs.Padmini Ranganathan have infinite arguments when it comes to the issue of an inter-caste marriage.
My dad, a tall and hefty fifty-year-old English Professor at Vivekananda College in Madras, a man who can inspire a class of unmanageable, almost rowdy teenagers, who can explain to you the nuances of a dangling participle and an indefinite article - a professor who has a double MA in English and Sanskrit, and yet, a man who believed that it is not appropriate for a Brahmin girl like me to marry a Non-Brahmin guy."Shalu, you are just a child and we don't know the boy's parents, his kulam, gotram, no, no, this is unimaginable", he said.
Every morning, after reciting Vishnu Sahasranamam, he would sit with a cup of steaming-hot coffee made by my mom. He looked like a professor even at home. He would stare at you from his thick old-fashioned dark-brown rimmed spectacles, a look that made most people wilt away. My father, a leader, at work, at home and with friends and family, loved to organize and lead. He could teach Wharton Business School Graduates a thing or two about personal networking and people management. Some people age gracefully and my dad is one of them, the more his hair grayed and the more laugh lines that grew to adorn his face, the more dignified he looked, but his strict face and serious disposition softened to a ready smile and a bear hug whenever he saw his little Shalini, the apple of his eye, me.
Let me now describe briefly the one person whom my father pretends to not be scared of, but actually is – my mother, Padmini…say this name in our Gopalapuram temple and you will hear words of praise, small anecdotes, funny incidents, inspirations that people shared and learned from my mother. Her pretty round face with the sacred kumkuma pottu on her forehead and honey-like voice attracted people to her like a flock of bees seeking advice and sometimes, just her attention. She always had a nice word for everyone, wishing them well. People thought she was a close friend of the Lord himself and often came to her with their worries and anxieties. My mother spent, approximately one third of her time in the kitchen, one third in the temple and the remaining time at home doing her household chores. My father was very proud and a tad afraid of his talented wife.
My mother strongly supported my father as far as Jai was concerned. “Shalu says the boy looks fair and maybe good-looking…” she acknowledged grudgingly, “but he is not a good match for you, Shalu. If you marry him, what will Chelapa chitappa and Vaidehi maami say?”. As you might have guessed by now, I was, but a mute spectator when my parents started discussing Jai. So, I listened to the evil-me in my head and started designing a master plan…
Three weeks passed…
Sundar, his parents, his sister, uncle and aunt were all set to visit our house for the traditional girl-seeing ceremony and the girl in question was I! My friend, Aarthi’s parents called my parents a few days back and recommended this “jadagam” to my parents; they gave all the relevant details – boy’s caste, complexion, education, and salary and asked if my parents were willing to consider this match. My parents, noticing the six zeroes in his salary, the heavy recommendations and the fact that he was an Iyer gleefully agreed. Mom made badam halwa that day, my favourite sweet and I knew immediately that something was brewing in that mind of hers. I “reluctantly” agreed to meet the boy, in lieu of 24 hours of lecture about how I was a disobedient daughter and so, the preparations began…
Another week passed…
I had to admit, our whole house looked beautiful, it smelt like honey and jasmine and a pleasant thoranam with banana leaves adorned our front door. Mom selected a gaudy blue saree with rows and rows of gold finishing on it and a heavy diamond necklace and matching earrings for me to wear. I felt heavy, emotionally and literally. The important hour was upon me, I stepped out to meet Sundar and his gang when I heard my mom’s voice “Shalu, see who has come home”, like this was all an unexpected joyful surprise.
The first face that I saw calmed me immensely, for, Shaila aunty’s face was glowing with a serene and welcoming smile…I felt less apprehensive. My parents, I noticed, had managed to strike a comfortable conversation with Sundar’s parents and also managed to connect with Shaila aunty and Madhesh uncle, Sundar’s “relatives”, who could only speak broken bits of Telugu and Tamil. I could see that my father was proud of me; he gave a triumphant smile when I entered the room as if challenging his guests, daring them to find a better bride…
That night…
My mother sat next to me on my bed. “Shalu…I think Sundar is a very nice boy”, I remained silent, mom continued…“I understand it will be hard for you to forget Jai, but you both can be friends, maybe even Sundar and Jai can be friends…” I couldn’t help laughing at that preposterous thought. I looked at her, searching for an answer in her eyes. She said “I think he will keep you happy…I feel it in my instincts”.
Three weeks passed…
I stood clothed in a traditional South-Indian bride’s red nine yards saree and mom was fussing with my hairstyle. Suddenly, I could not take the farce anymore and I broke down. My mother looked startled. She came to me silently and made me sit down…”Shalu, whatever happens, you are the most important person in my life…” I felt a touch of guilt thinking of my dad, wondering what he would say if he heard this. She continued, “If you are not comfortable with this marriage, it is not too late now…” I was crying uncontrollably by now and tried to smile at my mother through my tears. I said “Ma, sit down, I have to tell you this right now, wait here”. As she sat down puzzled, I strode out of the room and got Sundar alias Jai into the room, “Shalini…” he said, I stopped him, “Ma, meet Jai, Sundar whatever, the only man I ever loved…” Mom looked astounded. Dad walked in on this confusion and heard what I said and immediately his face turned an unhealthy shade of red. I watched speechless and sorry that I had lied to my parents for so many days, I thought of Aarthi and how she had convinced me that this plan would work and that her parents would help me, I thought of Jai’s parents, Shaila aunty and Madhesh uncle not at all approving of this plan but finally giving in to Jai’s insistence…
A week later…
As I sit, watching the happy clouds around me, holding hands with my husband, I am thankful to my mother and father who were able to forgive their impulsive and stubborn daughter, who finally realized that Jai was not as bad as they thought he was. “We are all set”, the airhostess announced, “We are indeed set”, I thought, and smiled.
Of Cabbages, Kings and Cooks...
We have heard of successions of Kings, seers, ministers, but my family is unique in that it has seen a succession of cooks, all claiming to possess the ability to cook delicacies that can invigorate a dying man to rejoice in life. Let me rewind back a decade and look back upon the joyful days that I spent in Bangalore, the garden city, the city where I spent uncountable hours trying to guess the dishes that our then cook, Prabhamani concocted in her empire, our kitchen. Her word was the law and we abided by her strict rules. She was a small creature; she had the darkest, kohl-lined eyes and thick glasses that kept sliding down her sharp nose. She had the strangest notions on worldly things and faithfully stood by what she claimed was the cosmic truth. “We have all facilities at our place, in Chemmangudi” she claimed. Chemmangudi, from where she hailed, had to be Utopia, the way she raved about it. “Of course there are many powercuts and that is difficult but we manage with table fans”. How she managed to make her table fan work when there was a power cut was, we figured, a wonder of modern science yet to be revealed to our ignorant scientific community. Prabhamani was an expert in many respects (so she claimed), but sadly lacking in one – the art of cooking.
"Appetite is inversely propotional to a cook's ability to cook". Prabhamani being the proof that I offer now to support the lemma that I state above. The supposition for this lemma, ofcourse, is that the cook comes to cook at our place. Maybe it is to do with the people in our home or the lack of enforcement of rules or just the atmosphere in my home - whatever it be, it definitely led to a marked degradation in food quality as days passed. The Sambhar at night started resembling rasam, the pooris tried to ape applams and cooked rice tried to imitate gooey-white-unrecognizable-mass. Inspite of unrecognizable dishes residing in our kitchen, they disappeared at surprising speed, thanks to Prabhamani’s enthusiastic appetite. So, one day, dad decided to put his foot down and he fired Prabhamani.
"1924 born", he emphatically stated every day, we weren't sure of what to infer from that statement and thus was born our next saga, Gurumoorthy Iyer. He came to our house claiming to have cooked for royalty; we were thrilled, our mouths watered as we imagined him rolling out crispy light puris and golden brown potato curry in a light, delicious gravy and bright orange jangris and kaara-saara arachuvitta sambhar. It was 5.30 PM on a Friday when Gurumoorthy Iyer landed upon us; he prompty proceeded to the kitchen and checked to see what was already left over. "Kos iruku, kootu iruku, today's share is done." and so saying, he proceeded to relax with a kumudam. "Poor guy, must be worn out from the travel" mom said and proceeded to make coffee for him. The next day, he got up early and asked my dad what he should cook. My dad has always had a liking for chapatis, something my mom almost never cooked. Eyes twinkling with expectation, he replied “Chapatis and kurma”. Half-an-hour later, we all sat down for breakfast and a big anda descended on us. I peeped inside it, with trepidation and noticed, dark brownish-black square chappati-wannabes sitting inside. They say, "a hungry man can even kill" and dad seemed to have an urge, at that moment, to want to prove that saying. Mom quickly tried to calm my dad and me "Maybe they dont have the correct color, I am sure they are tasty to eat". We proceeded to eat and stopped approximately 5 seconds later. The chappatis seemed to have a texture roughly between fabric and gum. Mom cleared up the chapatis and quicky cooked some idlis, telling us "See, we asked for a south-indian cook, it is our fault, asking him to make chapatis and what not". This faint hope carried us forward to the next day. Dad decided to be more adventurous, he told my mom "Ask that Gurumoorthy Iyer to make batchanams, deepavali is anyway nearing, let us not spend a lot on buying sweets from Krishna Sweets, he can cook everything for us".Mom looked doubtful but decided to enquire anyway. "Sweets? Sweets ellam enaku panna teriyadu. Can you cook some, then I can just follow your recipe and make some more! See, it is not right for me to lie, also one should not waste food". After lecturing us on the virtues of life, Gurumoorthy Iyer continued "See, naan 1924 born. I can grind maavu for days together if you want. Sweets and all I cannot make." Another cook found himself outside our house with Rs.500 for his day's work and a new saree for his daughter.
“I will adjust wherever I go, I was indispensable at Doctor ammas place, I cook with the right amounts of ingredients, I…” small stature, a small, slightly longish face - nondescript but for the distinctive round kumkum that adorned her forehead and sparkling diamond mookuthi that sat on her parrot-like nose – Krishnaveni had taken over the reigns now. It is surprising how someone so small had the energy to talk so much. Her voice filled the room and carried forward even outside the house, filling curious ears with interesting family titbits, that normally would have stayed inside our four walls. She was like an old slightly irritating tape recorder set that continued to sing old songs in a recursive loop until someone firmly pushed the stop button on it. “Maami, you have to tell me how you normally cook around here, because I will then cook accordingly. My daughter, panjavarnam, used to say ‘amma, how do you manage to cook so fast?’, have I told you about Panjavarnam….” And so, the monologue continued. I often gave mom a much needed and welcome relief by calling her out to some errand or the other and mom would sigh a weary sigh, tired from all the auditory input and mouth “thanks” to me. Krishnaveni’s skills at cooking turned out to be a pale shadow compared to her skills at talking and after a week of Sambhar without salt and curd that tasted like milk, she left back to join panjavarnam with a new saree that my mom gave her (her ears saying thanks to Krishnaveni, I suspect).
…and now peace reigns in our little home, appa and I silently eat mom’s cooking, without any complaints, infact, complimenting her more often than necessary, so that she wouldn’t insist that we bring in yet another specimen to cook in our home. Prabhamani, Gurumoorthy Iyer and Krishnaveni remain fond memories in our hearts, especially now that have left our home.
"Appetite is inversely propotional to a cook's ability to cook". Prabhamani being the proof that I offer now to support the lemma that I state above. The supposition for this lemma, ofcourse, is that the cook comes to cook at our place. Maybe it is to do with the people in our home or the lack of enforcement of rules or just the atmosphere in my home - whatever it be, it definitely led to a marked degradation in food quality as days passed. The Sambhar at night started resembling rasam, the pooris tried to ape applams and cooked rice tried to imitate gooey-white-unrecognizable-mass. Inspite of unrecognizable dishes residing in our kitchen, they disappeared at surprising speed, thanks to Prabhamani’s enthusiastic appetite. So, one day, dad decided to put his foot down and he fired Prabhamani.
"1924 born", he emphatically stated every day, we weren't sure of what to infer from that statement and thus was born our next saga, Gurumoorthy Iyer. He came to our house claiming to have cooked for royalty; we were thrilled, our mouths watered as we imagined him rolling out crispy light puris and golden brown potato curry in a light, delicious gravy and bright orange jangris and kaara-saara arachuvitta sambhar. It was 5.30 PM on a Friday when Gurumoorthy Iyer landed upon us; he prompty proceeded to the kitchen and checked to see what was already left over. "Kos iruku, kootu iruku, today's share is done." and so saying, he proceeded to relax with a kumudam. "Poor guy, must be worn out from the travel" mom said and proceeded to make coffee for him. The next day, he got up early and asked my dad what he should cook. My dad has always had a liking for chapatis, something my mom almost never cooked. Eyes twinkling with expectation, he replied “Chapatis and kurma”. Half-an-hour later, we all sat down for breakfast and a big anda descended on us. I peeped inside it, with trepidation and noticed, dark brownish-black square chappati-wannabes sitting inside. They say, "a hungry man can even kill" and dad seemed to have an urge, at that moment, to want to prove that saying. Mom quickly tried to calm my dad and me "Maybe they dont have the correct color, I am sure they are tasty to eat". We proceeded to eat and stopped approximately 5 seconds later. The chappatis seemed to have a texture roughly between fabric and gum. Mom cleared up the chapatis and quicky cooked some idlis, telling us "See, we asked for a south-indian cook, it is our fault, asking him to make chapatis and what not". This faint hope carried us forward to the next day. Dad decided to be more adventurous, he told my mom "Ask that Gurumoorthy Iyer to make batchanams, deepavali is anyway nearing, let us not spend a lot on buying sweets from Krishna Sweets, he can cook everything for us".Mom looked doubtful but decided to enquire anyway. "Sweets? Sweets ellam enaku panna teriyadu. Can you cook some, then I can just follow your recipe and make some more! See, it is not right for me to lie, also one should not waste food". After lecturing us on the virtues of life, Gurumoorthy Iyer continued "See, naan 1924 born. I can grind maavu for days together if you want. Sweets and all I cannot make." Another cook found himself outside our house with Rs.500 for his day's work and a new saree for his daughter.
“I will adjust wherever I go, I was indispensable at Doctor ammas place, I cook with the right amounts of ingredients, I…” small stature, a small, slightly longish face - nondescript but for the distinctive round kumkum that adorned her forehead and sparkling diamond mookuthi that sat on her parrot-like nose – Krishnaveni had taken over the reigns now. It is surprising how someone so small had the energy to talk so much. Her voice filled the room and carried forward even outside the house, filling curious ears with interesting family titbits, that normally would have stayed inside our four walls. She was like an old slightly irritating tape recorder set that continued to sing old songs in a recursive loop until someone firmly pushed the stop button on it. “Maami, you have to tell me how you normally cook around here, because I will then cook accordingly. My daughter, panjavarnam, used to say ‘amma, how do you manage to cook so fast?’, have I told you about Panjavarnam….” And so, the monologue continued. I often gave mom a much needed and welcome relief by calling her out to some errand or the other and mom would sigh a weary sigh, tired from all the auditory input and mouth “thanks” to me. Krishnaveni’s skills at cooking turned out to be a pale shadow compared to her skills at talking and after a week of Sambhar without salt and curd that tasted like milk, she left back to join panjavarnam with a new saree that my mom gave her (her ears saying thanks to Krishnaveni, I suspect).
…and now peace reigns in our little home, appa and I silently eat mom’s cooking, without any complaints, infact, complimenting her more often than necessary, so that she wouldn’t insist that we bring in yet another specimen to cook in our home. Prabhamani, Gurumoorthy Iyer and Krishnaveni remain fond memories in our hearts, especially now that have left our home.
March 03, 2005
A story that my mom often recites to me, with tears in her eyes...
Krishna Chaitanya, a great devotee of Lord Krishna, lived in Bengal. He prided himself on his devotion to Lord Krishna and considered himself one of the greatest devotees of all times. Around the same time, lived a simple man called Govind Bhatta. He spent most of his time praying and talking to Lord Krishna in the temple. Everyday he would loudly read a chapter of the MahaBharatha by the temple pond. This became a source of great ridicule because he often misread what was written in the great epic. People who came to the temple were amused and some annoyed seeing him read the MahaBharatha loudly and incorrectly.
One day, Krishna Chaitanya decided to visit the temple where Govind Bhatta worshipped. When the great man entered the temple, Govind Bhatta was going about his morning ritual of loudly reading the MahaBharatha missing keywords and sentences as he read it aloud. The people in the temple, scared that this would annoy Krishna Chaitanya, one of the greatest devotee of Lord Krishna, ordered Govind Bhatta to move to a corner of the temple. Krishna Chaitanya prayed to his heart’s content. When he was about to leave, he heard Govind Bhatta read the MahaBharatha. Krishna Chaitanya having read the epic many times, could immediately sense that there were many phrases and words missing in Govind Bhatta’s recitation. He moved towards the voice and found Govind Bhatta in a corner, immersed in the epic. Krishna Chaitanya patiently waited for Govind Bhatta to finish the chapter he was reading and then asked the latter, “Oh, devotee of Lord Krishna, do you not realize that you are not reading the epic incorrectly? “. Govind Bhatta was filled with remorse; he said “Oh, great Sir, I do realize that I am blinded when I read the MahaBharatha and do not read it correctly, but I do not have a solution, for, my eyes are blinded with tears of pain. I cannot share Lord Krishna’s bruises as he led the Pandavas to victory in the great battle, for I am but a simple man. However, I cannot bear the pain that the Lord must have undergone to save his friends and lead them to victory, I cannot stop my eyes from seeing the arrows wound Lord Krishna as he protected his friends. I cannot stop the tears that flow for the great Lord and since my eyes are blinded with tears, I miss out words and phrases as I read along.” Krishna Chaitanya stood humbled at having tried to correct a man who was a much greater devotee than he.
Krishna Chaitanya, a great devotee of Lord Krishna, lived in Bengal. He prided himself on his devotion to Lord Krishna and considered himself one of the greatest devotees of all times. Around the same time, lived a simple man called Govind Bhatta. He spent most of his time praying and talking to Lord Krishna in the temple. Everyday he would loudly read a chapter of the MahaBharatha by the temple pond. This became a source of great ridicule because he often misread what was written in the great epic. People who came to the temple were amused and some annoyed seeing him read the MahaBharatha loudly and incorrectly.
One day, Krishna Chaitanya decided to visit the temple where Govind Bhatta worshipped. When the great man entered the temple, Govind Bhatta was going about his morning ritual of loudly reading the MahaBharatha missing keywords and sentences as he read it aloud. The people in the temple, scared that this would annoy Krishna Chaitanya, one of the greatest devotee of Lord Krishna, ordered Govind Bhatta to move to a corner of the temple. Krishna Chaitanya prayed to his heart’s content. When he was about to leave, he heard Govind Bhatta read the MahaBharatha. Krishna Chaitanya having read the epic many times, could immediately sense that there were many phrases and words missing in Govind Bhatta’s recitation. He moved towards the voice and found Govind Bhatta in a corner, immersed in the epic. Krishna Chaitanya patiently waited for Govind Bhatta to finish the chapter he was reading and then asked the latter, “Oh, devotee of Lord Krishna, do you not realize that you are not reading the epic incorrectly? “. Govind Bhatta was filled with remorse; he said “Oh, great Sir, I do realize that I am blinded when I read the MahaBharatha and do not read it correctly, but I do not have a solution, for, my eyes are blinded with tears of pain. I cannot share Lord Krishna’s bruises as he led the Pandavas to victory in the great battle, for I am but a simple man. However, I cannot bear the pain that the Lord must have undergone to save his friends and lead them to victory, I cannot stop my eyes from seeing the arrows wound Lord Krishna as he protected his friends. I cannot stop the tears that flow for the great Lord and since my eyes are blinded with tears, I miss out words and phrases as I read along.” Krishna Chaitanya stood humbled at having tried to correct a man who was a much greater devotee than he.
February 07, 2005
I demand my share of pure, glorious happiness. Actors in movies always get their share - at happy-movie endings and I demand mine too. In life, if you have spent a considerable amount of time struggling to achieve something, and when you finally get what you want, why is there no cry of triumph? no pangs of thrill? no cant-stop-grinning phases? Why is life such a big anti-climax? This anti-climax-letdown is a common occurrence in my life: at the end of a one week long night-out session for my Bits compres, I would return back to my dorm after the exams, feeling....nothing. I would be tired, which is natural, I would be mildly interested in what I would do the next few free days, but was I exhilarated? No! Was not even bordering on grinning, leave alone exhilaration! A similar event today made me think - what is the point of my struggle if I cannot feel the satisfaction that I have achieved something? Does this mean what I was fighting for was not worth it or does it mean it was not important enough to affect my mood much or does it mean that I have moved on to other things that I want in life?
...whatever it is, its unfair and I want to make it fair. So, I have decided that, I will make a conscious effort to feel thrilled today; or atleast tomorrow; maybe if I want to feel thrilled, I eventually will feel thrilled.
...whatever it is, its unfair and I want to make it fair. So, I have decided that, I will make a conscious effort to feel thrilled today; or atleast tomorrow; maybe if I want to feel thrilled, I eventually will feel thrilled.
January 24, 2005
At what point do we become insensitive people? What demarcates caring from callous?
The fact that I am sitting in the United States away from people I know and miss, just because I want to lead a comfortable, almost lazy life - does that make me indifferent and insensitive? Should I have stayed back with my parents? I assume these are questions that haunt every immigrant here.
Is it really worth all this emotional upheaval? Maybe we can take a few more power-cuts, a little more red-tapism, a lot more traffic-jams, a tad more inefficiency at everything - maybe we can take it all or maybe we should take it all just because we stay with the two people who made our lives what it is today.
Is it fair to ask them to change their lifestyle, ingrained in them for 50 years, to come and live with us, because we cannot change our lifestyle of 5 years and go back to where we came from?
I doubt there is a single person here in the US who thinks his life is perfect, however much we think we earn, do we really feel we have it all? Wouldn't it be nice to wake up in the night with the security that we are doing all we can, for our parents? Wouldn't it be nice to see them, talk to them everyday and fight with them over everything?
I dont want to look back when I am fifty and wish I had opened my eyes and felt what my parents must have felt thirty years back. I want to take control now and make a decision, but can I leave everything I think I achieved, and go back so easily and not hate the people who I am doing all this for, in the first place? Wouldn't that negate the very thing that I yearn for now? Who is really happy? The "Resident" or the "Non-Resident" ?
The fact that I am sitting in the United States away from people I know and miss, just because I want to lead a comfortable, almost lazy life - does that make me indifferent and insensitive? Should I have stayed back with my parents? I assume these are questions that haunt every immigrant here.
Is it really worth all this emotional upheaval? Maybe we can take a few more power-cuts, a little more red-tapism, a lot more traffic-jams, a tad more inefficiency at everything - maybe we can take it all or maybe we should take it all just because we stay with the two people who made our lives what it is today.
Is it fair to ask them to change their lifestyle, ingrained in them for 50 years, to come and live with us, because we cannot change our lifestyle of 5 years and go back to where we came from?
I doubt there is a single person here in the US who thinks his life is perfect, however much we think we earn, do we really feel we have it all? Wouldn't it be nice to wake up in the night with the security that we are doing all we can, for our parents? Wouldn't it be nice to see them, talk to them everyday and fight with them over everything?
I dont want to look back when I am fifty and wish I had opened my eyes and felt what my parents must have felt thirty years back. I want to take control now and make a decision, but can I leave everything I think I achieved, and go back so easily and not hate the people who I am doing all this for, in the first place? Wouldn't that negate the very thing that I yearn for now? Who is really happy? The "Resident" or the "Non-Resident" ?
January 13, 2005
Flash! and it remains in your memory forever. Ever had those moments that remain etched in your memory, as if it happened a few seconds ago? Just before falling asleep, did you find your semi-conscious mind drifting to something in the past? Words uttered ages ago, smiles exchanged, battles fought, disconnected thoughts, images and then there is a flash, a crystal-clear image that cruises in front of your mind's eye - so clear that you can make out every freckle on the cheek, dark eyes twinkling mischieviously, lips pursed as if to chide you but a mouth that cannot hide its glee at what you are doing? An image zooms in your mind and then everything clears up and all you see is that face,that faded memory that makes you yearn for what has passed…
People have that effect on me, in the middle of my seemingly inconspicuous activities, they pop up in my head and wake me up…my teacher’s face when she smiled approvingly of my answer, my mom’s face when she found out that I was kidding about my grade and I had actually stood first in class, my dad’s expression when I tease him about his adolescent crushes…some memories that I cannot forget, that come back to revitalize me and remind me that the past may be past but it has made me what I am now…I freeze in time for a few seconds and the past comes pouring through me, a series of events, interconnected, a chain that has led me to where I am in life now…
People have that effect on me, in the middle of my seemingly inconspicuous activities, they pop up in my head and wake me up…my teacher’s face when she smiled approvingly of my answer, my mom’s face when she found out that I was kidding about my grade and I had actually stood first in class, my dad’s expression when I tease him about his adolescent crushes…some memories that I cannot forget, that come back to revitalize me and remind me that the past may be past but it has made me what I am now…I freeze in time for a few seconds and the past comes pouring through me, a series of events, interconnected, a chain that has led me to where I am in life now…
January 03, 2005
On First Love...
First love and first crush - two emotions (sometimes one?) that one does not forget easily...it stays behind in a small recess in our minds, our hearts, unmindful of further events that try to push it into oblivion. That feeling- my pulse quickening, blood rushing to my cheeks despite my desperate efforts to push back the color rushing to my face - cannot be forgotten easily...ever. Everyone has gone through this same chaos of feelings sometime in their lives; feelings that are proudly disclosed if the same guy (girl) is with them still, feelings that are covertly hidden if they are with someone else. Often first love (crush) tends to be unreasonable - feelings for someone who is just not right for you, feelings for someone who stands diametrically apart from you on everything - but first love is just that, just an irrational subset of emotions belonging to the larger, more inclusive set called Love. Its not something that one should dwell upon, ponder upon forever; its something that one should enjoy while it lasts and then recollect it much later in their lives, sometimes unexpectedly and rejoice in the feeling.
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