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.