The cobwebs were gathering dust, and I took an impromptu decision to clean up some.
I judge people on their sense of cleanliness - I try not to, but its difficult with my frame of reference. My Ma's house is like a shiny red apple; and I am genetically designed to be mindful of respecting and loving physical spaces that house and protect me (and sometimes, friends). What better way than keeping things in order and scrubbed. But that is just me.
My megalomania for a virtual presence is negatively correlated with my (aargh) age. I had started this blog as a foray into non-academic writing, and for updates for my (I would like to believe) web-savvy family back home. I have failed on both counts.
A few weeks ago I was in conversation with a friend discussing a piece of writing. I was told it lacked warmth and it was more opaque than he remembered me. My writing pleaded guilty; and I reflected out loud that perhaps its the truth, the reality of the present. Of-course, this was met with rabid disagreement, and there wasn't a conclusion, since neither of us were willing to negotiate our stance.
Also, a few weeks ago I posted a youtube video I found when I fished into a seemingly intriguing post.
Here's the link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF7oU_YSbBQ
It a collection of interestings - music, singer's voice, location, theme, story, and (the best part) the mutual acknowledgement of the protagonist and son, from seconds 0:26 to 0:28.
I time travelled about two decades into the past when we were in New Delhi for Summer vacations. Vacations, when there was money, usually was all of the four children of the family and one set of parents. My mother's parents lived in Delhi, and later Chandigarh. Our holidays were mostly spent there and sub-vacationing in adjacent cities and towns.
My father took us to see the Lotus Temple - a concrete structure with precast concrete ribbed roof clad in white marble. Weather notwithstanding, it is usually swarming with tourists like other places that feature in travel brochures. We reached when the heat was at its highest, and the red sandstone paving was perhaps trying to keep up with the temperature of sun's surface. The barefoot walk to the temple was an adventure for the brave and most people were taking shelter under sparse shading options (pun intended). Mirages were nervously suspended a few inches above ground, and the regular water spray on the hot paving had little effect.
I was huddled with my brothers under the barely sufficient shade of the structure where tourists were required to leave their footware, and absolutely refused to undertake the heroic act of walking/hobbling the distance to the main building.
I must have been emphatic about my dislike for the idea, because my father decided to pick me up in his arms and save my little feet from the heat. I did not think much of it then, because I had declared myself deserving of the affection and pampering of everyone in the world I knew. And some more. It was silly, but it was when I could count my years without double counting my fingertips.
I distinctly remember a bearded foreign man standing under some shade looking at the daddy-daughter duo in amusement. My father and I noticed him noticing us, and my father said to him "It's because I love my daughter". The man nodded his assent with a smile, and we were on our way.
I cannot recall much more of that visit, I do not remember being overwhelmed by the scale or the beauty of the building or what we had for snacks after. I do not even remember when I disengaged myself from my father's arms.
I was oblivious to the existence of this event as a memory till a few years ago when I was in an abstract conversation with someone, and this incident took shape in words and found its way into my monologue.
I have watched this link fondly many times over; the affection in the utterance of 'Appa' and 'Muthu' resonates with my sentiment for my parents, family and home.
Perhaps I am homesick.
I judge people on their sense of cleanliness - I try not to, but its difficult with my frame of reference. My Ma's house is like a shiny red apple; and I am genetically designed to be mindful of respecting and loving physical spaces that house and protect me (and sometimes, friends). What better way than keeping things in order and scrubbed. But that is just me.
My megalomania for a virtual presence is negatively correlated with my (aargh) age. I had started this blog as a foray into non-academic writing, and for updates for my (I would like to believe) web-savvy family back home. I have failed on both counts.
A few weeks ago I was in conversation with a friend discussing a piece of writing. I was told it lacked warmth and it was more opaque than he remembered me. My writing pleaded guilty; and I reflected out loud that perhaps its the truth, the reality of the present. Of-course, this was met with rabid disagreement, and there wasn't a conclusion, since neither of us were willing to negotiate our stance.
Also, a few weeks ago I posted a youtube video I found when I fished into a seemingly intriguing post.
Here's the link https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UF7oU_YSbBQ
It a collection of interestings - music, singer's voice, location, theme, story, and (the best part) the mutual acknowledgement of the protagonist and son, from seconds 0:26 to 0:28.
I time travelled about two decades into the past when we were in New Delhi for Summer vacations. Vacations, when there was money, usually was all of the four children of the family and one set of parents. My mother's parents lived in Delhi, and later Chandigarh. Our holidays were mostly spent there and sub-vacationing in adjacent cities and towns.
My father took us to see the Lotus Temple - a concrete structure with precast concrete ribbed roof clad in white marble. Weather notwithstanding, it is usually swarming with tourists like other places that feature in travel brochures. We reached when the heat was at its highest, and the red sandstone paving was perhaps trying to keep up with the temperature of sun's surface. The barefoot walk to the temple was an adventure for the brave and most people were taking shelter under sparse shading options (pun intended). Mirages were nervously suspended a few inches above ground, and the regular water spray on the hot paving had little effect.
I was huddled with my brothers under the barely sufficient shade of the structure where tourists were required to leave their footware, and absolutely refused to undertake the heroic act of walking/hobbling the distance to the main building.
I must have been emphatic about my dislike for the idea, because my father decided to pick me up in his arms and save my little feet from the heat. I did not think much of it then, because I had declared myself deserving of the affection and pampering of everyone in the world I knew. And some more. It was silly, but it was when I could count my years without double counting my fingertips.
I distinctly remember a bearded foreign man standing under some shade looking at the daddy-daughter duo in amusement. My father and I noticed him noticing us, and my father said to him "It's because I love my daughter". The man nodded his assent with a smile, and we were on our way.
I cannot recall much more of that visit, I do not remember being overwhelmed by the scale or the beauty of the building or what we had for snacks after. I do not even remember when I disengaged myself from my father's arms.
I was oblivious to the existence of this event as a memory till a few years ago when I was in an abstract conversation with someone, and this incident took shape in words and found its way into my monologue.
I have watched this link fondly many times over; the affection in the utterance of 'Appa' and 'Muthu' resonates with my sentiment for my parents, family and home.
Perhaps I am homesick.
