Today's fortune: You have an unusual equipment for success, use it properly.
That is my Orkut fortune for the day. And I'm wondering if I'm the only one who finds it slightly, err... obscene?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Elephant Jokes, Tequila Shots.
To M and to S, who left. I miss you already.
And if there really is
A heart of the matter,
Then it is broken along the same lines
That all hearts break.
Along your loss,
Along the vital absences
Of your warming laughs,
Along the quickening pulses
Of our shared jokes,
Along the stimulating togetherness
Of alchohol.
And if there really is
A point to this poem,
Then it is lost along the same way
That all points are lost.
Along my daily latte,
Along the friendly frenzy
Of our nightly dances,
Along the orange restaurants
Of our favourite custom,
Along the way of your days here
That seemed so short.
And a piece of this poem by Alexander McCall Smith, which seems to have been written for this moment.
But what breaks the heart the most, I think,
Is the knowledge that what we have
We all must lose; I don't much care for denial,
But if pressed to say goodbye, that final word
On which even the strongest can stumble,
I am not above pretending
That the party continues elsewhere,
With a guest list that's mostly the same,
And every bit as satisfactory;
That what we think are ends are really adjournments,
An entr'acte, an interval, not real goodbyes;
And perhaps they are, dear friends, perhaps they are.
-Alexander McCall Smith
"The World According to Bertie"
And if there really is
A heart of the matter,
Then it is broken along the same lines
That all hearts break.
Along your loss,
Along the vital absences
Of your warming laughs,
Along the quickening pulses
Of our shared jokes,
Along the stimulating togetherness
Of alchohol.
And if there really is
A point to this poem,
Then it is lost along the same way
That all points are lost.
Along my daily latte,
Along the friendly frenzy
Of our nightly dances,
Along the orange restaurants
Of our favourite custom,
Along the way of your days here
That seemed so short.
***
And a piece of this poem by Alexander McCall Smith, which seems to have been written for this moment.
But what breaks the heart the most, I think,
Is the knowledge that what we have
We all must lose; I don't much care for denial,
But if pressed to say goodbye, that final word
On which even the strongest can stumble,
I am not above pretending
That the party continues elsewhere,
With a guest list that's mostly the same,
And every bit as satisfactory;
That what we think are ends are really adjournments,
An entr'acte, an interval, not real goodbyes;
And perhaps they are, dear friends, perhaps they are.
-Alexander McCall Smith
"The World According to Bertie"
***
Monday, August 4, 2008
In Forums Like These
To Cheriyan Alexander
You probably don't remember me, and I have no claim to your memory except one that I am ashamed of, and I still wonder how it was that you kept so calm that day in class, when I called Emily Dickinson's poem trite; I still remember the poem. It was 'A Narrow Fellow in the Grass'. You probably thought that I knew no better. But I did. That is the worst of it. I knew that I had no business saying what I did, using the word 'trite' for Emily Dickinson, for Emily Dickinson's poem, no less.
I still wonder what made me do it, what rebel-without-a-cause feeling made me want to seek that horrible sort of attention. Not that I had any sort of feeling about the poem, really, not then. Just that I wanted to have an opinion, preferably a controversial one, to air.
But I will take this opportunity to apologise, even if you will never see this, and if you do, you will neither remember nor care. Because you, and Arul and Etienne, in those 200 hours of poetry and popular music, opened up a world that may be routine for some folks, but to me, was magic; to me, was all the peaceful dissent of the world, was all its angry protest, was all its arts and faiths and voices, was all the dread of a world gone wrong, was all the hope of a world that could be, was in short, the place from which all my sense of the world derived.
One of my cherished few minutes of the twentieth century fiction course was a class where we were discussing 'No Longer at Ease', and talking about Nigeria's vicious circle of oppressed becoming oppressor. And a sort of terror took hold of me, and I asked Etienne, "But if that is true, then there is no hope for Nigeria, and other countries like Nigeria?" And Etienne said, "Of course there is. In forums like these."
You probably don't remember me, and I have no claim to your memory except one that I am ashamed of, and I still wonder how it was that you kept so calm that day in class, when I called Emily Dickinson's poem trite; I still remember the poem. It was 'A Narrow Fellow in the Grass'. You probably thought that I knew no better. But I did. That is the worst of it. I knew that I had no business saying what I did, using the word 'trite' for Emily Dickinson, for Emily Dickinson's poem, no less.
I still wonder what made me do it, what rebel-without-a-cause feeling made me want to seek that horrible sort of attention. Not that I had any sort of feeling about the poem, really, not then. Just that I wanted to have an opinion, preferably a controversial one, to air.
But I will take this opportunity to apologise, even if you will never see this, and if you do, you will neither remember nor care. Because you, and Arul and Etienne, in those 200 hours of poetry and popular music, opened up a world that may be routine for some folks, but to me, was magic; to me, was all the peaceful dissent of the world, was all its angry protest, was all its arts and faiths and voices, was all the dread of a world gone wrong, was all the hope of a world that could be, was in short, the place from which all my sense of the world derived.
One of my cherished few minutes of the twentieth century fiction course was a class where we were discussing 'No Longer at Ease', and talking about Nigeria's vicious circle of oppressed becoming oppressor. And a sort of terror took hold of me, and I asked Etienne, "But if that is true, then there is no hope for Nigeria, and other countries like Nigeria?" And Etienne said, "Of course there is. In forums like these."
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Terry Pratchett
I cannot figure out if I like Terry Pratchett or not. Maybe he is an acquired taste, but until I acquire that taste, well. I know he has some sort of a cult following, so I may be an outcast among those who affect his brand of fantasy and humour, but I'll just have to live with that, won't I?
I don't really like Discworld, period.
I don't really like Discworld, period.
Where else could you belong, except in the place you refused to leave?
With recourse only to CNN, it is inevitable, especially over the weekend, that some current affairs permeate through to my consciousness, woefully ignorant as I am of world news/history. These two features that I saw today, touched me deeply.
One was the story of the surviving Jews in Yemen. Articles on the net put the number of Jews left in Yemen today anywhere between 200 and 500; about 45000 were flown to Israel in the 1950s Operation Magic Carpet.
The second was the story of the incredible odds facing Buddhist monks in China and in Burma.
Both the Jews and the Buddhist monks want little- a place to call home and in which to practise their faith. A a place that they will never leave, or be asked to leave.
Where else could you belong, except in the place you refused to leave?
-The Hungry Tide, Amitav Ghosh
One was the story of the surviving Jews in Yemen. Articles on the net put the number of Jews left in Yemen today anywhere between 200 and 500; about 45000 were flown to Israel in the 1950s Operation Magic Carpet.
The second was the story of the incredible odds facing Buddhist monks in China and in Burma.
Both the Jews and the Buddhist monks want little- a place to call home and in which to practise their faith. A a place that they will never leave, or be asked to leave.
Where else could you belong, except in the place you refused to leave?
-The Hungry Tide, Amitav Ghosh
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
How did I go so wrong?
This most recent blog surfing (trolling?) spree has led to a more desparate panic than I have felt before. I've realised that:
a) The sorry excuses for writing that I've been perpetrating over the last few days (months? years?) are in fact, pointless. Why? Because a writer, more than anyone else, needs to keep his/her eyes and ears open to all that the world contains- to perceive, to understand, to elucidate, to just fucking have something to write about. I don't, and what is worse, I couldn't care less. I don't know if it's an indifference that comes with the territory that I'm in right now, but at any rate, it is time to stop fooling myself, and get on with making a (very short) list of things that I can actually do, without screwing up, and stick only to doing those things.
b) All that could have been mine, that once was in my reach, I have destroyed. All the potential that I ever had, I have wantonly, cruelly, systematically, replaced with all the representations of ordinariness that I could find. I have done such a good job that no one could now be more ordinary than me. You could search me with the brightest light, and you would never find that promise they said I had as a child.
Does all this seem melodramatic? Does there seem to be no need for such fatalism?
What is wrong, you will ask, with being ordinary? An ordinary techie, an ordinary wife, an ordinary woman?
And I will say, nothing, except that I wanted to be an extraordinary writer.
The pathos of the situation makes me want to weep, but I find that I cannot even care enough to cry.
a) The sorry excuses for writing that I've been perpetrating over the last few days (months? years?) are in fact, pointless. Why? Because a writer, more than anyone else, needs to keep his/her eyes and ears open to all that the world contains- to perceive, to understand, to elucidate, to just fucking have something to write about. I don't, and what is worse, I couldn't care less. I don't know if it's an indifference that comes with the territory that I'm in right now, but at any rate, it is time to stop fooling myself, and get on with making a (very short) list of things that I can actually do, without screwing up, and stick only to doing those things.
b) All that could have been mine, that once was in my reach, I have destroyed. All the potential that I ever had, I have wantonly, cruelly, systematically, replaced with all the representations of ordinariness that I could find. I have done such a good job that no one could now be more ordinary than me. You could search me with the brightest light, and you would never find that promise they said I had as a child.
Does all this seem melodramatic? Does there seem to be no need for such fatalism?
What is wrong, you will ask, with being ordinary? An ordinary techie, an ordinary wife, an ordinary woman?
And I will say, nothing, except that I wanted to be an extraordinary writer.
The pathos of the situation makes me want to weep, but I find that I cannot even care enough to cry.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Barcelona
There, the salt mixes with your skin and the sun braids itself into your hair; and the cocktail in your hand has a hint of history, a pinch of romance, because when you are in Spain, you must do as the Spanish do, and be flamboyant and picturesque.
You must go and see the Fountains of Montjuic, you must sunbathe on the Mar Bella beach, you must ramble down La Ramblas, and if you have never written of Paris or Venice or Florence or Rome or Lisbon or London or Amsterdam, you must still write of Barcelona, because Barcelona has that special something; she is in Spain.
Someday, I will write of all those cities, or maybe it is already too late- the Keukenhof tulips have faded in my memory, the Louvre has become a tad lustreless and Trevi's fountain seems just a candle to Spain's scorching sun. But all those are unjustifiable comparisons, unnecessary excursions into the imaginaton. The important thing is, remember, you must go to Spain, once in this lifetime.
You must go and see the Fountains of Montjuic, you must sunbathe on the Mar Bella beach, you must ramble down La Ramblas, and if you have never written of Paris or Venice or Florence or Rome or Lisbon or London or Amsterdam, you must still write of Barcelona, because Barcelona has that special something; she is in Spain.
Someday, I will write of all those cities, or maybe it is already too late- the Keukenhof tulips have faded in my memory, the Louvre has become a tad lustreless and Trevi's fountain seems just a candle to Spain's scorching sun. But all those are unjustifiable comparisons, unnecessary excursions into the imaginaton. The important thing is, remember, you must go to Spain, once in this lifetime.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
A Song for an Elusive Moon
There is a song that I've been repeating on my ipod today. A song called 'Khoya Khoya Chand' from Sudhir Mishra's film of the same name. I have been trying (fairly fruitlessly) to find meanings for all the Urdu words that I didn't understand, and I have been trying to assess why I have suddenly fallen in love with it.
And this is it- this is who I am, this is who I have been for some time.
I am the coarse earthiness of this song; its shamelessly abstruse academic poetic references; its quest for an elusive moon; its wounded heart bouncing on its sleeve; its lost string of questions; its self reproach; its gouging of dead stars; its eccentric determination of destinations and distances; its admission of its own hypocrisy at walking on new shards of grief that it seeks, like an addict given over to pain; its loss of goal in an inky life; and in a fit of perverse snobbishness, a celebration of the whole mess that is its identity.
The identity of such songs is defined by the elusiveness of the moons that they seek; their ordinariness is dispelled, their fault lines blurred, their disloyalties cleansed by the single mindedness of the seeking.
And this is it- this is who I am, this is who I have been for some time.
I am the coarse earthiness of this song; its shamelessly abstruse academic poetic references; its quest for an elusive moon; its wounded heart bouncing on its sleeve; its lost string of questions; its self reproach; its gouging of dead stars; its eccentric determination of destinations and distances; its admission of its own hypocrisy at walking on new shards of grief that it seeks, like an addict given over to pain; its loss of goal in an inky life; and in a fit of perverse snobbishness, a celebration of the whole mess that is its identity.
The identity of such songs is defined by the elusiveness of the moons that they seek; their ordinariness is dispelled, their fault lines blurred, their disloyalties cleansed by the single mindedness of the seeking.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Impending Doom
Today, a terrible feeling of unreality has taken me over. I am suddenly surprised at all the facets of my own life, primarily at this coming Friday- everytime I think of it, a pit opens up in my stomach, and I think how unfair it is that I, of all people, should be here in this time and place; I, so prone to dreaming, so ready to fail.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
All the Unread Books
Suddenly, I feel old with the weight of all the unread books in the world.
I have just finished Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns and Alexander McCall Smith's Tears of the Giraffe and 44, Scotland Street. And somehow, these three books have managed to give a new life to my waning reading habits. Admittedly, I was still doing an occasional Georgette Heyer or Agatha Christie (because old habits die hard and I don't think I could ever stop reading!)
But since my mother came and brought me Srividya Natarajan's No Onions nor Garlic, and for some inexplicable reason, Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul, I have rediscovered how many books I have left unread, and most important among them, are Alexander McCall Smith's books, which I have completely fallen in love with.
I will have an obscure second hand bookstore in London to thank for that.
I have just finished Khaled Hosseini's A Thousand Splendid Suns and Alexander McCall Smith's Tears of the Giraffe and 44, Scotland Street. And somehow, these three books have managed to give a new life to my waning reading habits. Admittedly, I was still doing an occasional Georgette Heyer or Agatha Christie (because old habits die hard and I don't think I could ever stop reading!)
But since my mother came and brought me Srividya Natarajan's No Onions nor Garlic, and for some inexplicable reason, Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul, I have rediscovered how many books I have left unread, and most important among them, are Alexander McCall Smith's books, which I have completely fallen in love with.
I will have an obscure second hand bookstore in London to thank for that.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
The Hostage Writer
Sometimes, all I have to say is tired of being said.
My poems are pinioned behind my back
And I am in a little space that is constantly, claustrophobically, closing in.
They say, write, write.
Write, while you are young, while there is still so much
So much to write about.
Your life, your strife, your struggle, your strength
That will not keep for much longer, your
Enthusiasm that will soon die, lie
lifeless.
Sometimes, all I have to say,
Is tired of being sad
And out in the rain
Where the ink flows off the wasted words
Like water off a duck's back.
They say write write while
you still can.
And perversely,
I cannot.
My poems are pinioned behind my back
And I am in a little space that is constantly, claustrophobically, closing in.
They say, write, write.
Write, while you are young, while there is still so much
So much to write about.
Your life, your strife, your struggle, your strength
That will not keep for much longer, your
Enthusiasm that will soon die, lie
lifeless.
Sometimes, all I have to say,
Is tired of being sad
And out in the rain
Where the ink flows off the wasted words
Like water off a duck's back.
They say write write while
you still can.
And perversely,
I cannot.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
The Theft of a Camera
I am writing this to an unknown, faceless thief.
I do not know who you are.
You stole a camera in Paris three days ago.
Out of the tens of thousands of cameras in Paris that day, and the hundreds in Musee d'Orsay, there could have been no other stolen camera so bitterly wept over- every tear a regret for its loss, a prayer for its recovery.
Does stealing automatically make you devoid of any redeeming feeling and emotion? I do not know. Normally, I think, stealing from the rich is considered okay, stealing from the poor a sin. But no one has ever written about stealing from the middle class. The Indian middle class family has few dreams- it saves its pennies for a rainy day, for a house and a car of its own, for its daughter to be married. And sometimes, it dares to dream further (given the right combination of circumstances) of a foreign holiday. A five day trip to Paris.
Five days to be lived to the fullest, to see every great building, museum, basilica and square. Five days of soaking in a culture and a life only read about. Five days of three hundred photographs to be treasured forever, put lovingly in a photo album, shown to friends over tea, secretly taken out in nostalgic moments from the important bottom drawer.
Do you realise what you've stolen?
You will never read this. But you have stolen a piece of my parents' life that I will never forgive or forget.
There are greater and far more horrific crimes in the world, I know. Yet your little theft will leave an everlasting regret that nothing else can match. And nothing can assuage.
I do not know who you are.
You stole a camera in Paris three days ago.
Out of the tens of thousands of cameras in Paris that day, and the hundreds in Musee d'Orsay, there could have been no other stolen camera so bitterly wept over- every tear a regret for its loss, a prayer for its recovery.
Does stealing automatically make you devoid of any redeeming feeling and emotion? I do not know. Normally, I think, stealing from the rich is considered okay, stealing from the poor a sin. But no one has ever written about stealing from the middle class. The Indian middle class family has few dreams- it saves its pennies for a rainy day, for a house and a car of its own, for its daughter to be married. And sometimes, it dares to dream further (given the right combination of circumstances) of a foreign holiday. A five day trip to Paris.
Five days to be lived to the fullest, to see every great building, museum, basilica and square. Five days of soaking in a culture and a life only read about. Five days of three hundred photographs to be treasured forever, put lovingly in a photo album, shown to friends over tea, secretly taken out in nostalgic moments from the important bottom drawer.
Do you realise what you've stolen?
You will never read this. But you have stolen a piece of my parents' life that I will never forgive or forget.
There are greater and far more horrific crimes in the world, I know. Yet your little theft will leave an everlasting regret that nothing else can match. And nothing can assuage.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
*Whine*
What used to be a healthy distaste for my work has now turned into a chronic revulsion. To make things worse, I am now constantly accompanied by a sense of responsibility that makes me want to do the best that I can, and a sort of advance guilt for mistakes that I haven't made, but am scared that I will make.
At the end of the day, I am drained out with the effort that it takes to ensure that no monumental disaster has taken place, and despite everything, another day has gone by without me having to admit that I cannot take this anymore. And then I sleep. It feels as though I couldn't sleep enough, as though only deep, dreamless sleep will ever cure me.
Many times during the day, I feel the need to push every single problem to the back of my mind and go for coffee breaks. And when I give in to that need, more than anything else, I hate coming back to my desk. I have been thinking about myself a good deal (so what's new!) and watching other people's attitudes and behaviour to defend mine, and I've come to the conclusion that if it wasn't for this constant need for security, I would be more than happy to throw up everything and be a bum.
But no. We want to eat our cake and have it too.
We want to break our heart over work that we hate to make a life that we are unable to live.
At the end of the day, I am drained out with the effort that it takes to ensure that no monumental disaster has taken place, and despite everything, another day has gone by without me having to admit that I cannot take this anymore. And then I sleep. It feels as though I couldn't sleep enough, as though only deep, dreamless sleep will ever cure me.
Many times during the day, I feel the need to push every single problem to the back of my mind and go for coffee breaks. And when I give in to that need, more than anything else, I hate coming back to my desk. I have been thinking about myself a good deal (so what's new!) and watching other people's attitudes and behaviour to defend mine, and I've come to the conclusion that if it wasn't for this constant need for security, I would be more than happy to throw up everything and be a bum.
But no. We want to eat our cake and have it too.
We want to break our heart over work that we hate to make a life that we are unable to live.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Things that also gladden.
These words of a song:
It starts to rain I paddle out on the water
Alone
Taste the salt and taste the pain
I'm not thinking of you again
Summer dies and swells rise
The sun goes down in my eyes
See this rolling wave
Darkly coming to take me
Home
And I've never been so alone
And I've never been so alive
- Motorcycle Driveby, Third Eye Blind
Listen to the song here.
It starts to rain I paddle out on the water
Alone
Taste the salt and taste the pain
I'm not thinking of you again
Summer dies and swells rise
The sun goes down in my eyes
See this rolling wave
Darkly coming to take me
Home
And I've never been so alone
And I've never been so alive
- Motorcycle Driveby, Third Eye Blind
Listen to the song here.
Things that gladden.
A trip to the children's section at Manor to shop for a friend's month old baby. The loveliest, tiniest t shirts, wee little socks in little bandboxes, small, perfect jackets with little hoods- the most enjoyable shopping experience that I have had in a long time.
The wonderful drunk-ness of a Gertrudstrasse party. Playing and loving and dancing to the same songs every other weekend. Being the dijjay. Being eccentric and temperamental and wilful and exuberant.
New socks.
The wonderful drunk-ness of a Gertrudstrasse party. Playing and loving and dancing to the same songs every other weekend. Being the dijjay. Being eccentric and temperamental and wilful and exuberant.
New socks.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Really.
Who am I? If I am not a static set of feelings and thoughts, if I am constantly mutating, constantly changing my frames of references, constantly shaping my desires in different moulds, then who am I, really?
And in this eroding myth of identity, is it really possible to identify, empathise, or 'relate to'? Because, who am I most like, at this moment- a slang talking teenager, revelling in gossip and romance and heightened hormones; a sincere software professional, living one day to the next in a flurry of spreadsheets and code; a wife, enjoying the symbols of domesticity and intimacy, all the representations of security; a writer, struggling to find coherence and validation; an exile, hungering for home and her own beloved room and posters and music; a rebel without a cause; a poet; a dreamer; a caged bird; a shopaholic; a consumer?
Who am I, really?
Sometimes, it is necessary to ask oneself these questions, to set the context for one's daily drudgery. Sometimes, it is necessary to say- at this moment, I am the blue rectangles of my bedroom windows, I am the tops of the bare trees, I am the smoke from a distant chimney, I am the flight of a grey pigeon. At this first conscious moment of my morning, I am the result of this image in my head, and nothing else.
Then, there is no need to ask, "Do you see the writing in my head? That is who I am, really."
I am the writing in my head.
And in this eroding myth of identity, is it really possible to identify, empathise, or 'relate to'? Because, who am I most like, at this moment- a slang talking teenager, revelling in gossip and romance and heightened hormones; a sincere software professional, living one day to the next in a flurry of spreadsheets and code; a wife, enjoying the symbols of domesticity and intimacy, all the representations of security; a writer, struggling to find coherence and validation; an exile, hungering for home and her own beloved room and posters and music; a rebel without a cause; a poet; a dreamer; a caged bird; a shopaholic; a consumer?
Who am I, really?
Sometimes, it is necessary to ask oneself these questions, to set the context for one's daily drudgery. Sometimes, it is necessary to say- at this moment, I am the blue rectangles of my bedroom windows, I am the tops of the bare trees, I am the smoke from a distant chimney, I am the flight of a grey pigeon. At this first conscious moment of my morning, I am the result of this image in my head, and nothing else.
Then, there is no need to ask, "Do you see the writing in my head? That is who I am, really."
I am the writing in my head.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
In other news
Would I have stayed if he had asked?
In all probability, I would have, but then, you see, he didn't.
In all probability, I would have, but then, you see, he didn't.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Work
It is only when I write that I can distance myself from the vagaries of work, its apportioning of guilt and credit, its frantic bid to be the most important thing in my life, its burgeoning sense of its own significance.
It is only when I write that I can forget my self pity at long hours and an indifferent boss, at the positive peaks of stupidity that the human mind can reach, and at my own sense of insecurity.
It is only when I write that I convince myself that, for all my faults, I am probably not as bad as I think.
At other times, I feel like a terrible techie. A failure that I, and only I, am responsible for.
God save the client.
It is only when I write that I can forget my self pity at long hours and an indifferent boss, at the positive peaks of stupidity that the human mind can reach, and at my own sense of insecurity.
It is only when I write that I convince myself that, for all my faults, I am probably not as bad as I think.
At other times, I feel like a terrible techie. A failure that I, and only I, am responsible for.
God save the client.
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