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.