Did you write something yet? -- 2

I sit down to write, here, because (CachinnatingCockatoo!) Ma told me that she read one of my posts. [For those who cannot tell, that is Captain-Haddockism {for those who cannot tell- from Tintin (for those who cannot tell - really?)}]

Talking about the glorious fantasticity of mother (mine or yours, actually all mothers) is, well, several minutes of clacking keyboard keys and then clacking at the delete button for another almost attempt. It brings me to where I am aware that I should just get up and get a snack because that is easier to do.

Together, we lived the confusion of the reverse-gearing of the violet-color-pencil incident and the consequent terror-induced numbness for a six year old; and her voice held me in a warm embrace for some beautiful moments over an inexpensive VoIP call.

Such magic.

Once, we decided to take a bus to the city for a girls' day out. We lived at the end of Noida where all you could do to do anything was to take a bus to Delhi where you could actually do something - like the famous eat-shop-eat routine of Dilli Haat, or the Connaught Place ramblings. While we waited for a state-run GL32, a local-goon-owned private bus came zipping by and tempted us with the possibility of a shorter trip time (a combination of reckless driving and the strategic shortcuts) - it wouldn't have taken us as close to our destination, but our wait time under our umbrella under the hot sun would end and we'd be on our way! As soon as we had boarded and before we could get comfortable, I happened to see that GL32 was not far behind, and I was ready to supergirl to it. Only Ma refused to cooperate - that is, deprive the goony driver and conductor of the ticket earnings from us.

(sound of reason and resolution) "It will not be fair to them (pointing at the bus operator), we have already boarded this bus"

(whiny) "BUT Ma, we will NOT have to wait for ANOTHER bus"

We were having this conversation in English (our go-to exchange medium for serious conversations). The bus-operators were able to catch-up soon enough and realized that if the sickly-looking girl got her way, they'd be out of twenty rupees. An altercation followed, where they said that we could de-board provided we pay the full fare. Before I could counter-argue, Ma handed the bus-fare and took a seat. Their menacing demeanor had rattled me and I sat beside her navigating through the maze of my red emotions.

We sat there, together, silent and exasperated with our unwillingness to see the other's viewpoint till we arrived at the stop that required a change of transport. Soon however, we were distracted and happy about being back in civilization - the general color and sounds of the city squeezed us out of our overcast moods.

Her incredible ability to empathize with anyone and anything is the content of moral science books (Chapter 1: "How Suniti taught pigeons to share food" Chapter 2: "How Suniti helped a poor salesman make a living" Chapter 3: "...")   Once, she insisted that I purchase a mix of good-looking and less than perfect looking pea pods so that the vegetable and fruit seller person could sell his stock. As kids, we could never get away with wasting food (though I was on the far spectrum when came to fussing about food) because she would gently remind us how important it is to respect food.

I don't know how to conclude this post. She is awesome, what more can I say.

Did you write something yet?

I play dodge with anyone who flings this water-balloon at me, including myself. Usually, I sit in-front of my machine, write a couple of sentences, get distracted/overwhelmed and my focus shifts onto something else - a trip to the kitchen, a new tab on my browser for music, another new tab on my browser to read something to accompany the music, a bathroom trip - just about anything. To be fair, I am writing more in my journal (not as much as I would like to, yet - but more than before) and my brain and fingers' protest-screams are getting more feeble with every visit. 

We were at a grocery store this one time and a sign saying that eye-pencils were on sale stared at my face. [Stores offer as much help as one needs in making impulsive decisions and keeping you in the premises for as long as possible - so grocery stores also sell clothes and makeup; clothing stores also sell furniture, and house-hold goods stores also sell grocery (the world is round, after all.)]

So, this 'blackest-black' pencil looked at me like an unhappy puppy desiring my attention, and I puppy-eyed Evan in return. His reaction was that of disbelief ("You want a fourth one?!" "umm, I don't have a black one for when I am not wearing blue, green or brown!") and laughed at me in the same decibel I use on him when we are in the ice-cream aisle. He was still laughing when he said that I was "So (oo) vain!".

(gulp!)

His observation was made on a very light note, meant to be forgotten after an affected reaction of hurt; but the anion of its truth stayed with me and much later led me down the spiral corridors of my mind's catacombs.

Among all the things I take pride in, not being narcissistic is one of them (!) Rigorous convent-schooling has embossed the idea that any emotion greater-than-or-equal-to self-love is inappropriate. As a consequence, more often than not, I find myself trapped in the region of less-than-or-equal-to self-acceptance. ugh.

On occasions that I get a glimpse of my vanity in life's rear view mirror, it shames and disturbs me so much that I have to go into hiding to unravel and re-crochet my disoriented mind-space. The otherwise suspended, mostly harmless fat-drops of conceit coalesce into a colossal cannibal who devours me in one giant gulp and I find myself staring in disbelief at the Tetris pieces that just won't line-up.

I am not quite sure of the point I am trying to make. Perhaps what I am getting at is how everybody is made of good pieces and the less-than flattering bits. So, maybe the narration here should include the not-so-stellar aspects too. That would be far more ground-level than the everyday circus on social media -- proclamations of being the best and the demand for validation. Our fragile sense of self-worth has become so naked under these floodlights. ["All the world's a stage..."]

We'll see what's next.

the schism

original image sourced from the internet
and tinkered with to fit the narrative

I often wonder if the distances between what is said, what is meant, what is heard and what is interpreted are variables for other people too. I start this post on that slightly unclear note because sometimes when I think back on conversations that have a splatter of an unexpected reaction, I wonder if word-strings had been unable to navigate the said-meant-heard-interpreted maze. I also want to believe that I am not the only one occupying the bewildered bandwagon on the matter.

On one occasion, as a student of class 2A at Mount Carmel, I was particularly proud about carrying a brand new dozen color pencil set for art class that day. We were all coloring in our drawing books, and the pencils were being passed about around me to whoever required a particular shade for their work. At the end of the period, the pencils found their way back to me. Just as I was about the close the set and get ready for the next class, I noticed that the box was missing (and I distinctly remember this part) the violet pencil. I was particularly distraught because suddenly my new set was incomplete.

Some of us girls looked around to see if it had rolled into some obscure corner without anyone noticing, but with little luck. Then, on a classmate's suggestion that I should tell the class-teacher, the small-voice, teary-eyed me went up to the big desk and shared my predicament. The teacher was not happy at all and instructed us to look for the missing article accompanied with a warning that if the pencil was not found, each of us would be required to bring a rupee for a new box for me. In the midst of my distress and just outside it; the problem compounded manyfold.

Assisted by a time-portal similar to the one that facilitated its disappearance, the pencil found its way back into the box - it had rolled to the bottom of the box, and its sister pencils were sitting on top of it. So, I dutifully walked up to the big desk again to inform the teacher, armed with good news this time.

Her reaction stunned me and I recoiled in panic. The teacher gave me harsh moral science lesson about how wrong it was to blame others. I was made to stand in front of the class and apologize because (according to her) I had accused them collectively of stealing from me. My little brain and my forever-hyperactive sense of right and wrong wanted to push-back to assert that the idea of theft had not occurred to me at all, but could not muster the courage. Among the ancillaries of a convent-based education is that considerable effort goes into deforming you into your most timid version, blunting your sense of defiance and your ability to question authority.

This was among the earliest instances when I was unable to navigate the chasm between my words and else's comprehension. Self-reflections are polka-dotted with not-too-unfamiliar imbroglio and I cannot be confident about any change for the better either.

I am a conversational-Neanderthal (groan!) Oh well, I guess I will trudge along.