Where have you been?

I was listening to Mirza Ghalib while driving home from work a few days ago and I was reminded of that version of me who could empathize so deeply with someone's confusion, anguish and even joy. And then I was thinking about where that person might be hiding inside me, that person who did not constantly feel burdened by the nothings of everyday, tired and hungry, forever pining for that cup of cardamom tea and some silent contemplation. The person who liked herself best while savoring words, sentences, paragraphs - woven from thoughts old and new - thoughts she could call her own or thoughts of someone else that spoke to her like they could be her own. 

Sometime ago, I spoke to a dear one who asked when I expect to finish up writing the book that I should start writing - perhaps it was a nudge for acknowledging the me that used words for a soul cleanse. I have not embarked on such an exercise (here, in this space) in such a long time now that I was awestruck by the question itself and surprised by its impact on me. Quite suddenly felt an urgent need to fish that person out from wherever she might be. I read some things I had written several years ago. It is unlikely that I am exactly the same person, unaffected by life and its learnings. But, it was reassuring to find similarities between what I had written and what I am now. 

Recently, finally, I earned my Doctorate. After being unable to be done the first time, I had enrolled in a different program at a different university, solely relying on the confidence of everyone around me. This time around, there was more honesty in my purpose for wanting to do research - it was not just as an escape from what I did not want to do. Also this time, it was not the only thing I was doing - there were additional and entirely new aspects of marriage, motherhood, work and money-related realities holding me close. 

Among all the things that make life beautiful is the fact that everything is on a sliding scale - meaning the calibration for what is happening in the present moment is informed by all the moments previous to this one. One cannot help but feel grateful for this superpower. 

My PhD is being celebrated in different parts of the world! ("We always knew...", "..coming your way sooner or later..", "... what an accomplishment..."). Someone asked if I feel vindicated now. I thought about it and finally arrived at my answer - no. "why?" ... because the two attempts are separate events for me - I am not the same person, my expectations were not the same, my approach was not the same. I was (am) more humble, more aware, more certain. 

To the universe and my friends: ( I wrote this as part of my acknowledgement) "thank you for lending me your strength when you found me lacking"

Letting my fingers type this one...

.... I will not let my brain come in the way.

Once, I lent my ears and attention to a civil services aspirant's life snippet. It involved the abandonment of an unfinished examination to take a friend and fellow examinee to medical attention that was suddenly needed. The protagonist later found that his qualification for the coveted spot was left wanting of the paper left behind. I have often, quite often, too often in-fact,  tried to evaluate the heroics and the foolhardy of what had transpired. Also, I have wondered how the situation would play now, and with different actors.

Someone mentioned that her memory of me was that of a person always surrounded with people.    "...in which life?" I asked.

While I grow older and collect more life lessons, I find that my person is in an awkward dance of sometimes an outward unfolding and of others where I crease and tuck away an aspect of myself that does not surface again if I can help it.

In another conversation from the past, I remember mentioning to someone (this is verbatim) "...my honesty is my way of respecting the person that you are..." to which she said (not verbatim) "... not everyone you meet will be ready or able to receive the gift of your sincerity...". I was too young to know fully what that meant.

A few months ago, I confessed to a friend of having forgotten an important piece of news shared with me. While cowering under the fierce lashes of her vitriol, I forgot to provide an appropriate explanation:  that of being overwhelmed with new parent fatigue or of being unable to guess (as I interpret it) that her recent gregariousness was simply an escape.

If you know me well (or know me at all) perhaps you are aware that for me a raised voice is death-by-asphyxiation of a relationship. And that I go to great lengths to protect myself from the possibility of such accidents. So, after about a decade of clean, verbal-conflict-free living, I was trapped and crucified again. The experience was as disorienting as the last one.

In my desperation to recover, I comb through my list of acquaintances, some of whom were perhaps friend once, to find another friend, spreading little electronic notes like spores. It is quite comical - the disconnect between my eagerness and the polite sleepy replies, if at all.

It must be the unnavigable grief of losing a friend that brought me here. I will get better (let me get back to being busy with motherhood.)

Vanilla ice-cream with strawberry sauce.

I am conflicted about writing, it requires focused soul searching, it leaves me out of breath, panting for air like immediately after a long intense run. Everything/everyone requires nurturing and affection - even your sub aspects - like your ability at sentence formation.

It's almost the end of another new year - moments get woven into hours that get twined into days that become yarn-ball of years in a mix of colors - red green yellow white grey blue - often blending into new colors when thought about retrospectively. Sometimes though, incidents are able to keep their original color even in the light of perceptions altered with the burden of life experiences.

Someone observed (and was harmlessly envious) of my life-pattern having very few, if any, soft turns - mostly I am seen navigating around and about acute-angled maneuvers in the 3-dimensional space. Things are not offered the luxury to become comfortable before they are flipped over and you have to start from (0,0,0) again. It is unsurprising that the (0,0,0) point is also a variable. One can argue that it keeps one agile, nimble on the feet, like a ballet dancer forever posed for her next pirouette. And then, also, a sapling trying to bloom into a tree in trans-planting pots. Where next? What next?

I forget what I started to write - I find myself being extra-contemplative lately, perhaps as a foolish escape from the urgency of work that I am running behind with or that I feel ill equipped to handle.

We lived in a small snooty island of Type5 officer's flats in Gol Market in midst of Type2 flats. Apartment2 had an open door policy for students linked to an adult in the family for upto n-degrees of separation. There was lots of room and little furniture, and therefore plenty of space for people. If you needed to be in Delhi for any reason (education-related reasons were priority), for any length of time (days-weeks-years) you could find food and board here.Very few questions asked, and parental supervision provided without asking.

The bustle was often that of a railway platform moments after the arrival of a train. People getting in or getting out at the same time, frayed nerves and a strong smell of urgent hanging in the breathing air. Having temporary family members was the norm. Perhaps it is the reason why I have not had trouble trusting and liking strangers till faced with a compelling reason to not. My current physical setting is in such contrast to my positively skewed comprehension of life that it makes me quite uncomfortable when cornered into providing reasons for being trusted. I don't do well in those situations.

The household operated on a threadbare budget of an honest government employee salary supplemented with that of another working adult employed in a government-owned company. I was too young to calculate, comprehend or care about the economics of running a household. The mothers of our big family seamlessly led us from one financial year to next. This involved a weekly trip to the local vegetable wholesale market at daybreak, around the time when street dogs chose to huddle around rags to keep warm instead of investing energy to intimidate passers-by. The blue scooter would come home laden with sacs of fresh vegetables that would be washed, dried and put away for use during the week. There was also a time when none of us in the family were averse to eating meat - which was expensive and unaffordable, however. When Ma's younger brother worked in Delhi and was naturally living under the shade of freely provided parental supervision, and would sometimes happily splurge to pamper the collective palate of us kids.

For a few years, my school had a policy of sending report cards through postal mail prior to meeting with the parents. So the weeks between the end of exams and declaration of results were full of worry for us students. Unsurprisingly, my sixth grade results were stellar without a lot of hard work on my part as I had had the advantage of ICSE schooling up-until class 5th before being suddenly transported to Delhi over a weekend. That year, a local ice-cream parlor ran a promotion that entitled students to two scoops of ice-cream for good grades.

On the weekend just after having received my result, Papa took me to Cafe 100% in Connaught Place. I  stood next to a very proud father and fished out my report card to show it to the person behind the counter for the (anticipated) yummy prize. As I write this, I can taste that particular bowl of vanilla ice-cream with strawberry sauce. It was my first time eating ice-cream with any topping and I remember how beautiful it looked to me. It was an experience of complete happiness and contentment. So real and so precious.

Thank you, universe.

did you write something yet? --3

It is getting really easy to name these posts (hehe!)

The 'hehe' in the end is a complete lie. Not sure if I am the only one who has to trudge through the slush of serious birthday/newyear/some-arbitrary-point-on-the-calendar related blues wearing cotton socks. My cerebral cortex activity takes me on these exhausting treks and I am an unwilling puppy tugging on the leash in my attempts to release free.

I write this to snuggle in the warmth of a life excerpt (I discovered my fascination for stories dating back to when Siddharth and I would hold our badi dadi (everybody calls her Didi) hostage for them while lying width-wise on a khatiya. The dimensions on the jute-rope cot were such that while us little people fit just fine, our badi-dadi was forced to curl her legs awkwardly while keeping mosquitoes at bay with the back and forth of her palm leaf fan. We would be all-ears-aboard shrouded in the octopus-ink darkness and far-far away glow-worms of the sky. It was fantastic. Sometimes, I can still manage to haggle out stories from her.)

And suddenly, academic noose became tight enough to be noticeable when we stepped into the Board exam year. Up-to that point, I was a decent student who coasted along with less hard word and ambition than her peers; and had fuzzy life plans based on meaningless data from Hindi movies (Only now, much later, I realize why TV curfews were implemented with such rigor at home.) My pre-Board math scores didn't quite match up to the expected and I remember being pinned down by Tr. Chari's unhappy-accusing-eyes and later bawling myself inside out in shame. I had no training in working hard for doing well at tests (!) and was often careless in my hurry to complete answering an exam (!!)

On that day, the day of the exam, I was yoked to my anxiety and my disquiet while I attempted to recollect everything I had studied at a per second frequency. On the first page of my Math question paper was a 'prove:' problem whose solution did not jump out at me and I decided to save it for (as advised by Math practice books) when I was done with the rest of the questions.

My panic had started cutting the oxygen supply to my brain as the allotted time drew to a close and I could not get back to the skipped questions (a total of 8 marks of the maximum 100) before my answer sheet was taken away. My world became viscous and I waded out of the classroom alone with the reverberation of having done badly.

My comprehension returned to focus on my father's face in the crowd. He was there, standing at the gate("wait, why isn't he at work?"), sparkling with ("but how did he know?") and actually radiating confidence and pride ("perhaps our umbilical cord attachment tugged at him to come and see me at the exam venue") . My countenance, a tightened grip at not giving away how mulched up I was peeled away to show the crumpled, defeated and lost me. Papa wrapped me in a giant hug and I let myself be the little girl I actually was. Together we walked back, with my school bag slung over his arm. We stood under the big tree near home to discuss the question paper, and assessed that I would score a 91. By the time we arrived, I felt less dispersed and the world took on her hues again.

Later, Soumya mentioned to me that she couldn't imagine the possibility of being hugged amidst people if she dared cry in public.

My brother and I have had the fortune of sharing our parents with a lot of people and have grown up thinking that it was the way. I have kept this story (and a few others) within several memory folds lest I am tempted to share the bits that I am fiercely possessive of.

Perhaps I have grown up. Oh well.

For the sake of your curiosity, it was 79 for my math exam. I spent the first few months of 11th grade skirting around Tr. Chari, afraid of having let her down too. One Friday, she smiled her compassionate smile at me in the second floor corridor. I could not walk up-to her, thinking I would on Monday. But that was too late.

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. 

How about ..

..a new post that takes me completely by surprise for the lack of labored deliberation I am notorious for. Well, here it is.

It is raining in Pittsburgh, and I find myself here in another attempt to relieve the pressure of a brain full of words doing a dance in my head - holding hands to make a sentence, and then changing formation to hold hands with other words to make another sentence. They tease me for my inability to befriend them and join the dance. The longer I wait, the more elusive their dance-steps become.

Not too long ago I had the chance to be reacquainted with Delhi Monsoon. Voluptuous rain-drops permeating through the skin into my entire being in one of those surreal life-moments when all your molecules align themselves along one axis.

Years ago, this one time while hurrying home, I boarded a bus which was missing the front glass panel on the conductor side. It started to rain and my co-passengers proceeded to elbow their way out of the direct drench (to the extent possible when you are stuffed inside the bus-skeleton like a sack of potatoes). I happily sat alone at this seat through the ride, with all the water scrubbing-off from me another exhausting day at college. It was glorious. The driver glanced at me more than once to check if I was alright in the head.

This narration escapes flutters of the mind from further back on the linear time scale we employ for the ease of pegging experiences on a straight line.

A bunch of us girls were waiting for bus N-17 to school. Obese, spherical raindrops were shattering themselves against their landing surfaces. We were all packed tight under our umbrellas, trying to save our uniforms, our white canvas shoes and our bags from getting soaked. The bus was late because of the water on the streets; but it did come, scooped us in and headed towards Chanakyapuri, the destination.  When we arrived, we found out that the classes had been canceled for the day because of the weather. (This was pre-cell phone era, when communication was limited enough to be pleasant and something to look forward to.) So, the bus full of children headed back the same way it had come.

We were let off from across the stop where we had boarded less than an hour ago and unlike the end of a typical school day, there was no sign of parents/elders to receive us. The rains hadn't stopped, and so, being the eldest of the group of more than a dozen (but all of twelve years having just started seventh grade) I decided to bring all the children home with me. We held each other's hands to form a chain and waded home, starting from me and ending in the next eldest girl among us, with all the primary schoolers between us. There was enough water to reach my knees (and the waists of some of the little ones) and no conceivable way to figure out the location of potholes, so we walked in the middle of the road, following exactly the steps of the one in-front. The starting point was the hardest part and we were able to reach home with some difficulty.

When my mother answered the door she was surprised to find her daughter back, accompanied by a pack of Carmel- uniformed children. All of us were towel-dried and given a snack of hot milk and biscuits. I do not remember when it stopped raining, but it was very nice to be home; dry,warm and fed. I brought out colors and paper and we sat together doing art while parents were called and given updates and road directions for picking up the kids. In a few hours everyone had been sent home.

The following day, we were all at the same stop waiting for the same bus to school. One of the mothers thanked me for my presence of mind and handed me a box of chocolates and a small gift as an encouragement. I did not think I had done anything heroic, but it is always nice to get chocolates.

I am no longer in touch with any of the children from the bus stop - I guess we are all scattered in different parts of the world. I am not sure if anyone would remember the day either. The bus conductor for N-17 was a big rough sounding man, who once told me (surprisingly, with a smile) that I take very good care of the children from my bus stop. The observation made me return his smile, despite my limited comprehension of compliments.

Happy New Year!

The issue with keeping a record of your time on earth using the somewhat arbitrary system of your revolutions around the sun is, in my humble opinion, grossly inadequate in its capacity of a tracker. It is ill-equipped for everything except to make you (me) feel miserable about the (now) terrifying expanse between what is and what was expected to be. For whatever reason, my color-palette and brush set is different from that of who/what-ever is painting the bigger canvas.

This one time, a friend and I were standing at the edge of Lake Washington, staring at the beauty of the sunset. He mentioned that his life looks different from what he had imagined for himself; and in one of those moments of aura-ed glory, I had suggested that it was never guaranteed to us that our myopic plans will be in congruence with the *big* plan. I remember he looked at me all wide-eyed; completely taken by surprise that a pretty little airhead had voiced the idea. He confessed that it had taken him a really long time to figure that out before asking me about the source of that wisdom.

How easy it is to forget, and how important it is to remember (or least store it in a ready part of your own hard-drive).

This kernel had tucked itself in some inaccessible corner of my mind and I lived the last few weeks as a hamster on a worry-wheel. I was miserable about the divide and filled with heavy feelings pervading my comprehension of all things. It really did not help that my birthday was here again - these seem to come around so much more quickly now than before. Perhaps the earth moves faster around the sun the older you grow (haha!)

From around the time when I needed assistance with putting books together for the next day's study schedule at school, I was part of the group that went for an inter-school painting competition on Republic Day that year which was hosted on the roof-top of the Bhagalpur Engineering College. The junior group was to work on the theme 'Seasonal Flowers' and the seniors were to illustrate 'National Integration'. Not many of us knew the actual meaning of the word 'seasonal' and as a concession we were allowed a quick peek at the flower beds a few floor-levels below.

I drew a poppy bush with half-a-dozen flowers in full bloom and a few others eager to follow suit.  I wrote a stylized 'petunia', below this bright red drawing. When the allotted time was up our drawings were collected and presented to the panel of judges, and participants were instructed to stay in our places. I remember being impatient and wanting to go home, but I was too timid to even request for a bathroom trip and so stayed put. Few of my friends were watching the activity at the judges' desk curious about the results and someone told me that my drawing was on 'that' desk.

Soon (but what seemed like a long time) it was time to declare the result, and (who'd have guessed) my drawing won (gasp!) the *first* prize. My name was called and as a response my body vacuum-sucked my stomach in and I became the third-person in my own narrative. I walked up to the stage in disbelief, accepted the prize (engraved brass-shield) in disbelief and returned to my seat in disbelief. I was so numb that I could not feel elation till much later. It was the first and the only time (yet) that I have won the first prize for something in my life.

I pen this life-event because I felt a similar disbelief-filled-elation when I read through messages, postings, texts and phone-calls on the occasion of my birthday (I happily blame facebook for being rigorously insistent that you make your contribution to ensuring that someone-anyone has a happy birthday). It was an exhilarating revisit to my fundamentals of optimism, affection and smiles that climb up-to the eyes.

So, thank you. I suspend my dislike and distrust for social-media on this occasion. I confess that I am a long way off of an immediate change from my notoriety for not acknowledging conversation-snips; but the affection is reciprocated in equal measure, if not more.

I am. I am just not here.

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.     

On November.

I had this conversation a few days ago (its not verbatim - I tried, but my memory- ugh.)
"You make good use of words, but don't you have better stories to tell?"
"Its probably because this is all I am willing to share of me via the electronic media."

I struggle with the comprehension of how real and unreal the internet (and the communication media supported by it) are at the same time - for me, they remain short of almost. It is credited with obviating physical distances; and I must be the only one who thinks that the opposite is equally true.

It's the growing up I have done in the last year (and I am still in shock) - I had no idea that I had such potential to mature. There is a certain appeal in being optimistic and happy - but what has changed (and I have noticed) is that I do not use them as blinders anymore. In any case, I seemed to have turned down my hysteria from high to sim; but more on that later.

There was a part of me that wanted to discontinue blogging because the difference is too stark;  but I reasoned that my writing here documents my growing up.  If I destroy it on an impulse, its very likely I will regret it later (like how I regret not saving my math mid-term exam paper from the 10th standard; my subject teacher, Tr. Chari had written 'good' for the logical way I had solved a question on taxation. I was foolish enough to part with it when I was cleaning my book shelves one day).

Changing tracks, it was my birthday last week; it was a day spent very well and in fantastic company - I was positively contemplative and I ate some very good food (two things that make me happy).
I also recalled how it was celebrated the year before - in freezing cold, on a sidewalk next to a park opposite my home, with cake and candles and grins and hugs.

With Manohar, Rahul, Ankit, Susmita, Manisha, Shilpa, Siva, Karthik, Vikash, Dvijotham (who did I miss?) Thank you, I am so grateful.

I missed Barry (and he reminded me) - thank you, you too!

Nov 2nd, 2011

Poem from a bus-stop wall.

I moved to Greenwood a few months ago. Now, school is about 3 miles away from home. I am trying to separate my academic life from the rest of me, so there can be a rest of me.
I take bus #48 to school, I try to come only as many times as is necessary - for classes, meetings and library books. If I get the chance, I like to sit on the seats that are higher (I think those are located just above the wheels of the bus) so I can look out the window at Greenlake and smile about how alive beautiful things are and how beautiful are alive things.
I read a part of this poem painted on the side of a bus stop and looked it up - and made me wish I could write so well. Lately, I have noticed how sterilized my writing has become - like they come out of a bottle of Dettol - squeaky clean and minty fresh.

So, the poem is a translation from Spanish, written by Pablo Neruda. Perhaps it is well known in the literary world - and I am simply an ignorant outsider.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,

or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,

in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms

but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;

thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,

risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;

so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I do not exist, nor you,

so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,

so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

[I copied the lines from a website, and took the liberty to change a grammatical error in the last paragraph]

one of those people.

Summer is so beautiful - I never thought I'd ever get to say this, considering I am from the tropics, where the only '-ful' used to describe Summer is 'pain-'. This, of-course, is a personal opinion - its my blog you are reading!

I should perhaps apologize for not having ventured here in a while (so much for resolutions) but if you'd see how colorful my life is, you'd know. The unfinished thought lines that litter my draft basket are quite interesting reads in themselves. So, I bet a cardamom tea I will not finish this (if I lose, I will make tea for myself; and if I win, then, well, this post will be another draft I will not want to delete.)

So the thought string that I want to trap in words is actually something that happened yesterday. I had had a very unproductive day (most days that are more than twenty-four hours away from a deadline fall in that category) I decide to go and shop for food (I have a pretty exciting life - my facebook pictures can prove that!)

I always buy more food things than I can comfortably carry - but my other option is to go food shopping every week - which is not a great use of time. So I went shopping at this store in Lake City my friend had told me about, and it was close to 9 pm by the time I was done.

I am very quick to lose my way, and on occasions that I have tried to take time to figure out local maps in my head I have been known (by me, and some other people I want to amuse) to have wandered for a considerable bit *before* reaching where I had originally intended to. So, yesterday, I decided to not take the risk ( I had five heavy bags full of food) and turned around to ask the first person who got out of the store with me for the directions to the closest bus stop.

The first person was this man and his young daughter. I asked him if he could direct me to the nearest bus-stop where I could catch a 75 - and he smiled and made a little air-map for me to follow. I nodded along- I usually don't understand directions completely in the first instance of being told- and then flashed my generous toothy smile. The man offered to walk me to the stop as he was concerned about how late it was, and told me he had four daughters and he'd do the same for any of them.

My heart turned human when he said that - he said it so simply. He offered to help me with my shopping bags - which I politely declined as I am used to doing my own work, carrying my own weight ( metaphorically and literally), and he patiently agreed. So he, his ten-year old daughter, and I headed in the direction from where I could take the bus ( he could have taken his bus from much closer than what he was willing to walk with me). We talked along the way, about my work and how trying it can be, and how the school wants to make you deserve your PhD, and therefore the system is almost brutal. We reached the intersection from where we had to go in opposite directions (I had to just cross over to the other side for my bus stop) and he gave me his card - saying he'd be happy to help if I needed anything - I smiled and said I was a big girl and I can pretty much take care of everything that concerns me. Then he smiled back ( I love conversations that are full of smiles) and said that if I had some time I should google him, that he has written a book and that he was a retired NBA player.

The amber-'don't-walk'-hand turned into the white-'walk'- man and I thanked him and walked to my bus stop, very touched by the generosity of this man, and the patience of his daughter. My bus arrived in a couple of minutes and I got home soon after. I typed his name- Zaid Abdul-Aziz - in my browser and there is a lot of stuff about him on the web.

I meet the nicest, most generous people, who feed my tendency to be optimistic about everything every time it starts to drain out. And I have to stop to wonder in awe about how much love this world holds. ( I know this is slightly soppy - but I am soppy only some of the times.)

I think I will now go and make me some tea.

and so

It has again been a while since I wrote something, anything, that was not a part of a report, an assignment, a critique. It has been a while since I have indulged myself in word-play. My journal waits patiently too. There's so much I want to write, so much I should not let pass without some mention that will help me relive it again - the thrill of the memory, or its heartbreak, or both. So, I will try not to venture into the really very vague with this.

I have been so overwhelmed with work lately that every time I see myself running out of time (its more often than where 'often' averages) that I subject myself to some serious questioning, on my true intention to get a PhD.

"If this continues I will die, I will die a spinster in this room", with books and my computer and other meager possessions I have cared to bring with me, or acquired in the process of living on my own (the Calvin and Hobbes comic book, for example)

"PLEASE love me more, God... I am a very nice person you know"

My self-confidence, the precious little of it that I have, shaves another layer off itself every time I am not where I expect myself to be. People who know me well have observed that I am too hard on myself. I don't know if that opinion is not completely biased with their affection for me. So it never really figures in my life agenda - to take it easy.  (Also, I am incapable of taking it easy.) 

Mondays are when I have to talk at length about my progress, and this particular Monday meeting was especially brutal. I had been running away from my research work for the entire week (because I hate how lost I feel trying to find a direction). I don't know how to do research, yet. I feel especially cheated because I am not being given the time to learn. It was such a defeat- my incapacity to communicate my frustration, and their incomprehensibility.

American manners and polite-ness are so glossy that it takes a while to recover from their blinding effects and hear what is *really* being said. I am a long way from becoming deft at translations.   

It seemed like I needed to talk to someone who could be more objective than was in my power. I did, and worded (not very tactfully I am afraid) all that was troubling me. I was listened to, and on being asked whether I was being hysterical, told that I was not. The conversation ended in a warm, comforting hug. I felt blessed, and at ease, and could find my feet again. Being away from familiar places people and things can be so lonesome. This, was a heartwarming exception. 

Some moments in life can be such happy surprises! 

This week, now.

I am studying for my upcoming Java final exam with such sincerity that I feel like I am thirteen again. So earnest, so innocent. The grown up, cynical me has given up (its called depressive realism, in psychological terms). But my soul is a little girl- the starry-eyed optimist (I am always told that I am one, maybe because I grin too much-despite having such big teeth) And she is instructing the grown-up me to keep at it.

In about thirty-six hours from now the future will have come and gone.

I treat this blog as a space where I come to dump all the excessive emotions that make everything underneath the epidermis a homogeneous mixture, where you cannot make out the lungs from muscles from blood capillaries from bones. Its a sludge, thick, murky, sticky and very difficult to take off of you. And, I am the victim. (applause!) My aim for each day is to physically tire myself out so much that I am left with no energy, or will, to get into a fight in my mind, with myself.

Its 2:22 am Monday night, I was trying to (finally) (hopefully) get some sleep and get my body clock running on Pacific Time, but of-course it has a mind of its own. No one listens to me, not my head, not my heart, not my body. Like they are individually and collectively smarter than I am. (That's not making much sense)

I'm going nowhere with this. (ugh!) Isn't everything supposed to have a conclusion. If you took the class on theories of built environment with me you'd say, "No, not necessarily" , and you'd be right (Well, at least in the world of thinkers and theorists *that* is how the universe is constructed, and de-constructed..... and we end it with a food session!) With Java, I have to sacrifice the wings and be hard coded into reality. I don't know what I like more, its bits of both I think.

I hope for my next quarter I will ease out on the masochism. I really should like myself more.

And I will definitely make my next post more reader friendly. My last post, (which was very unsympathetic to the readers, my apologies) got me some peculiar reactions. I got hug emails, advice emails, unexpected adjectives, a whole bunch of things. One of my closest friends does not like my blog, and I send him links everytime I write something. Maybe I should like others more too!

I turn twenty nine

Its my birthday in India! and will be my birthday in the US in eight hours one minute for the time zone where I live. I don't know why I am writing this post. I am sitting in my rented room, feeling so alone at this very moment. There's only the wall clock ticking away seconds from this day and the sound of my fingertips hitting the keys to write the words my mind is dictating. A lot of these keys have similar sounds, and a lot of them have very distinct sounds. I've noticed this on other occasions too, but the sounds seem to be filling the silence around me more completely right now. 


I wish to hide myself from the love that will come my way, especially tomorrow. I feel so unworthy of it. I've felt on several occasions that I am not doing a great job growing older. There's come to be a strange (almost alien, for where I come from) desire to keep myself as the starting point of all that concerns me. What I want, how I want it, comes first. (When did I become so selfish, I wasn't taught to live this way)  Everything else comes second, third, fourth, or not at all. 


I just read an email from my father. I never knew Arial font could hold so much affection. Actually I do, Pa regularly writes to me. He fleetingly mentions a few moments from my childhood, they are such small insignificant stories, but he has talked about them with so much pride it just makes me question if I deserve so much unconditional love. 


I think I will call him right now.  

I come and go

I come and go and come and go, brimming with a million ideas about the million things I want to write. I start, and lose steam within seconds. Who exactly am I writing for? I would give anything to hear my heart say, "for me!" Oh well!

My journal looks forlorn, I haven't inked any of its beautiful white pages in my un-architect-like script, and un-grown-up thoughts, for a significant while now. It's an 11-years old's notebook, with sparkles on the cover, the size that can fit into a little purse, the kind that should be used to preserve beautiful leaves and memories within its pages.

Instead it holds, on occasions that I've felt generous enough to write, the accounts of my daily life. I'd vowed to myself that I will not be as heartless as to pour my heart bleedings into it and I've kept my promise. There aren't any emotional outbursts to hide myself from (and look back at, years later, amused at their innocence)

I like my account unworthy life. Lately I've been trying too hard to make it look golden, lately it has looked too grey to me. I should just let it be. Just be.

The battle gets bigger everyday. The magnitude that's coming into focus now makes me so aware of being terribly out-scaled. Of-course the battle gets bigger everyday. "Surrender!! You fool!" "You've no idea how huge this is!"

Perhaps I want to know. And so I will fight. Don't worry about me being alone, I have a fantastic support system to tap into whenever it gets too dark to see. And I'm buoyed enough to breathe-in oxygen for whatever's next.

here again!

I cannot exactly tell when I started to write to be read. I was reading my posts a few days ago and it hit me hard, that I had given-in to the pressure of being a sunflower on my blog. Perhaps it is another reason why I have stopped coming here as often as I did at one point in time (I had decided to write at least one post each week, managed it in January, reasoned with myself that two posts weren't too bad for February, it was a short month after all, and that March will see more of me here.)


Well.


I am also behind on my (ahem!) daily journal entries by a couple of weeks now. Everyday that I miss (or deliberately chicken out of writing) takes me further away from the hopes of ever being able to catch up. (My enthusiasm falls behind quickly when I am unable to do something in the exact manner in which I idealize it.) I cannot boast of an enviable success rate.


There has been a dichotomy of sorts in my approach to keeping a blog. I had started with the desire to keep everyone I know abreast with everything thats happening with me (I abandoned it, it was just too much work and I already had enough on my plate with my studies and living on my own for the first time in twenty something years.) I decided to use it to clear my head (it was all hush-hush, no one knew, I had it hidden from showing up in search results.) It proved quite effective, especially when even a visit to the UW art gallery didn't help.


I changed my blog settings on just an impulse one day. I am not exactly sure how I feel about it. While its not a life altering event by any measure, I am unable to use this as a release anymore. Perhaps the medium was wrong to begin with. (In my defense, since Architecture happened, my fingers can hold a pencil and draw more effectively than write; and with the fraction of my day spent in-front of my computer, it just seemed like an easy thing to do.)


Perhaps, perhaps not.


I don't like being the subject of photographs, am slightly uncomfortable with the attention they garner (I am hoping the innocence with which I have penned this will be appreciated, and not perceived as a 'hence-proved' of my conceit.) No one likes bad pictures, and its especially difficult for women to handle their unflattering documentation. I am very proud of the moment when I stopped buckling under the pressure of looking nice in photos.


I will *really* *really* welcome a similar breakthrough in my writing.  

something. something nebulous.

Today, I was just ambling around in my mind (whats new?), and my brain drew a picture for me explaining how it functions. It was strange to see it graphically, but it made sense when I added the missing bits. I wanted to write it down in words.(I am not promising that this will make a lot of sense.)


One of my resolutions for the new year was to document each day before my goodnights; all the significant (or not) things that I feel would be nice to look back at, stuff like the food I eat or something I notice....just about anything I my fingers want to write in one page or more of a square notebook. The insides of my head feel scrubbed clean post spending some time outside of me (when I am writing about the day). 


Lately, the entries have become sporadic and I have begun to bunch a couple of days up and write about them in a single go. Its a terrible terrible thing to do, because I miss a lot of details that I would have otherwise written, and most of my entries begin thus, 'I have no recollection of what happened that day (so I will make some stuff up)....' 


This defeats the purpose of keeping a journal. But I know me, and I know me very well. I find it impossible to stick to a good habit and require jet propellant thrust to get me off my procrastinating butt. 


What flashed in front of my eyes was this; after I have poured my mind out, the next time I am binging on thoughts (its involuntary, a sand-clock that is programed to flip over every-time the lower chamber fills up) (This is beginning to not make sense already) 


So, the next time when thoughts knock around in me, they scribble themselves on a fresh page (in my head), with a sharp pencil (again in my head). Eventually,with thought overload, the scribble becomes illegible, the pencil becomes blunt, and my head feels heavier. Thought strings get entangled and lose legibility, and are pretty much ready to burst out of me. Usually at such moments I am absolutely willing to trade my brain for a new, tame one. The pattern is recurring, with no set time limit for any aspect of this phenomenon. 


The point is,(I think), that it will be nice if I get into the habit of regular clean-ups of my mind. I think I owe it to myself. I am very heartless while dealing with me, and this can perhaps be my first step towards being less cruel. I could also try and accomplish this with better accountability of my time, but I cannot claim to have lately done anything about this more than a couple of half hearted attempts. I keep telling myself that I will be back to being me once I engage myself in something productive (like a job, for instance). 


I don't have a concluding statement for this post. 

I could think of nothing intelligent to say.

"So, is it true that there are cows just walking about on Indian streets and people are starving?" 


I wasn't sure if I had heard the question right. Or if an earlier part of the conversation had clues to what I was asked. I am slow by a slight when talking to the locals, because I still find myself acutely aware of the assumptions I have to deal with before I can speak to the actual person, then too with an impregnable coat of 'American sensibilities'. I have so far managed to befriend *one* American who doesn't mind my saying like it is, and who tells me like it is. 


I have let go of the expectation of hearing my name said correctly in firangland. Everyone here calls me She-leee-nee, when I am actually Shaa-li-ni. (Really, how difficult is that?!) But then again, its so similar in spelling to most of the Italian food (specifically pasta) that I cannot blame them. I don't notice it anymore either. This one guy who I had met on a bus ride back home from school had said my name exactly right in his first attempt. Ironically, he was an Italian (and amused at how happy hearing my name said correctly had made me)


I should really stick to what I was saying at the beginning of this post. So, a couple of days ago, I was at the volunteer thing and watching this deft  plumber person at his job (Skilled crafts like plumbing and electrical work earns you ~100$ an hour, I should have got my MS in some such skill. At least I would be making money then) I was asking him some questions, like the gauge of the copper pipe being installed, the material he was using for insulation etc etc (I can be quite nerdy) (And I like that about me)


It was his turn to ask me questions then, and he asked me what I did and where I came from. And then he asked me if it was true that there were people starving in India and there were cows on the street.  I swear I blanked out. This was perhaps the most original question I had been asked. EVER. 


So I started mumbling something incoherent in reply, starting from "umm...hmm....(confused look, brain processing a LOT of information)...umm". "Well, most Indians are vegetarians, and most of those who aren't certainly don't eat beef. Cows are considered sacred in our scriptures, actually the bull is a mode of transportation used by one of our Gods. And usually the cows on the streets are someone's property. So you can't just take them home and cook them."


Could I have given a stupider reply? I think not. I guess I cannot blame the Western world for their assumptions about  the East. I can still not think of an 'intelligent' reply, something that wouldn't have made me (and Indians in general) look like a moron. 


Apologies to the world. And to fellow Indians.