Mere Color



Mere color, unspoiled by meaning, and unallied with definite form, can speak to the soul in a thousand different ways.~Oscar Wilde



Of the lives people live..

We are suddenly more aware of the ‘lives ‘people around us live.. or atleast appear to ‘live’. One hot-lazy Saturday afternoon when even afternoon nap is elusive, I log in to facebook only to spend the next 1+ hours tracking the lives of friends, acquaintances. Yeah something like the peeping  Tom or generally face-booking!

As I browsed through the photo albums, I was entering into their worlds and trying to juxtapose those random pieces to create the storyboards of their lives. I knew this girl way back in school. Our fathers were college friends but we didn’t really much carry forward the family legacy. So I am totally out of touch with her since I left school. And today unable to think of doing anything more constructive I look at her album. Honestly as kids we had no inkling of what each one of us would grow into. Or perhaps back then we never tried to fast forward into our futures and picture that stuff. Now all thanks to Facebook I can rewind back into the little snippets of the past which are public to ‘friends’ and witness the part I missed. And see my ‘friends’ grow into the people they are now, and the life that they apparently live. Well I cannot imagine a conversation between the two of us exchanging notes on our lives so far but in an impersonal way each of us is remotely aware of others existence.

Next I moved on to track down a dear teacher from school. I remember her as this sophisticated, young pretty woman who stood almost 6 feet and to add to her spell she spoke impeccable English. Today I see her looking seraphic, flanked by her daughters, holidaying in Europe, Jaipur. Lovely!  It was wonderful to see her after so many years.

Our social space has definitely undergone a radical change with the growing advent of social networking sites. How we ‘project’ ourselves, ‘express ourselves’ has changed because we are now aware of a bigger audience waiting for our ‘updates’.  ‘Prohibition never stood a chance against exhibition’, and it seems like exhibition has just found a new stage. Yes at some level it appears as if people are merely exhibiting their lives, their every move- well keep it coming, who’s complaining.  Birthday, Weddings all personal events, official/nonofficial trips,  daily trivia everything has an audience. One has to comment and tweet, to make others aware of his existence in the impersonal cyber space. There is the maddening physical world where we live and another virtual world which is getting louder by the day. It’s almost like striking a balance to retain your sanity J

Silence..

Silence is full of music..  The silence of a girl as she nods a ‘yes’ is music to the ears of the soul hanging at the other end!

A moment of silence can sometimes put at ease weary nerves, balm bruised souls. You can almost hear the music of life pulsating if you sit silently under a shady tree, along a flowing river, sit gazing at the starry sky or observe the antics of a new-born child. The most eloquent silence that I have experienced was along this nearly deserted water front in Kanyakumari, sitting on a boulder with my eyes closed I could sense the speed , direction of the waves coming from afar and hitting the shore. There was a rhythm to the coming and the crashing..

R. Kelly croons,’See I was on the verge of breaking down
Sometimes silence can seem so loud’. You try & try to shut it out but there it is, the looming silence. It doesn’t let you in peace just leaves you anxious all along. The consciousness of the absence of words which you can almost see hanging in mid air. Then there are times when its pitch dark to even see the writing on the wall, it’s a blind silence but again ‘loud’. The long wait where you strain to hear some human voice beyond the all-encompassing silence. The childhood days when before the results were announced, all you could here in the silent auditorium was the loud sound of your own breathing as you wiped your sweaty palms. The silence of anticipation and the cruel silence of hopeless waiting, we have all experienced it one time or the other. The disciplinarian demanding ‘Pin drop silence’ seems almost kinder than being caught in an awkward silence with a close friend .

‘With time we become people with more of silence in between. Perhaps, we mature into more keen beings. But we tend not to express..’ This is where things get complex, when we choose not to express. It may be because of that old brute, ‘ego’ raising a sky high mountain for us to surmount before we can speak up. It may be because we think too much and call in prudence to restrain the mumble within. Strangely at times it happens that all you want to do is speak but words betray you completely. It was so effortless to talk to the person standing in front of you but now as hard as you may try to speak up, all you can muster is silence. There is a natural rhythm to conversation with people, it flows, at times there may be some ebbs and falls but the continuity remains.  Yet some conversations make you stray into the territory which is the abode of silence. Some make their way out some stay there forever…

Musings on Women's Day

“Sheer words merely demean what actions alone can redeem..”

When I look at all the Women’s day hoopla around me, it is this thought that rhymes in my head. This is what I feel when I hear people make customary ‘Women’s Day’ speeches.

I live in a world which has given me more opportunities, more choices more independence. Yes there is reason to celebrate, reason to acknowledge that we’ve come a long way. However nothing steers within when well organized cosmetic campaigns play out as scripted. I may not be quite a cynic to dismiss outright all celebrations and symbolism around all such ‘Days’ but with each passing year I see myself slowly turning nonchalant to such one day gestures. Yet today is the day when I want to reflect on the dichotomies of a women’s existence on a personal note.

What better a reference point than my own mother? Compared to the choices, opportunities she had I am way ahead. Honestly her say was merely namesake whether it was with respect to her career or her marriage. There were others in the family to look for her. Yet for all the decisions that others made for her she bore them with dignity, adjusted, learnt to strike a balance even if she was the only compromising party. She made personal sacrifices with a smile on her face. Her needs, her aspirations always came secondary. She made the perfect team with my dad to give me a life she herself could not claim. She raised me, fought for me and above all she believed in me. My heart truly goes out to her.

As I sift through her life I become conscious of the duality in her life. I may have taken some special likeness to the word ‘dichotomy’ but then in some way it is the strongest undercurrent in a women’s life.  Men can be selfish and get away with that, a woman is less singular in her choices, she’ll think of her family, society. It is here that the dichotomies-trichotomies(if there is a word like this) emerge. It is the nurturer instinct in her that comes into play. I remember having read somewhere,

‘Its not a bad thing, is it, to be strong in some ways and fragile and vulnerable in others’.

An invincible woman is not my idea of womanhood. She’ll lose her vitality if she becomes all ‘me’. There is a beauty in the duality of her existence. However it is a tender balance, it’s ruining if the duality overpowers her existence and makes her lose her own identity. My mother contributed in her own way to help me carve out my identity and my father supported me throughout. I’d find my way to live with the dichotomies J

As for the Women’s Day, I choose to find my own meaning, away from the clamor mills!

(Lit-Treat)^3

Hey Feb is here and no blogs.. ?

Oh!! I was busy reading, you see three much acclaimed novels. (Pretentious Literati!)

‘Insanity is contagious’-Catch 22
The back cover of the book reads,”Catch22 is a microcosm of the twentieth century world as it might look to someone dangerously sane”. The novel explores varied themes, sanity vs. insanity, hero vs. antihero, absurdity of bureaucratic set ups, capitalism & its amorality, personal integrity but it is the dark humour that is the unique flavor of the book. Well after an abortive first attempt at the novel, this time my taste buds finally adapted to the tantalizing ramblings and to the tantalizing brevity. The writer has invented people, who are totally unlike real human beings, all appear as a pack of psychos yet their most abstruse ways find resonance in real world people. I agree that the above statement sounds most contradictory! The book is unconventional in more than one ways-the characters, the situations, the rhetoric, the structure of the novel.

“But suppose everyone felt that way.
Then I’d certainly be a damned fool to feel any other way, wouldn’t I?


‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others ‘-Animal farm
I read this book in one straight read. The symbolism of the characters through different animals, the characterization of different world events kept me hooked to the novel. It was my first attempt at a political novel written in a satirical story telling format. ‘The novel describes how a society’s ideologies can be manipulated and twisted by individuals in positions of social and political power, including how a utopian society is made impossible by the corrupting nature of the very power necessary to create it.’ And the last lines..(man-to-pig) made me sit bolt upright- ‘The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again, but already it was impossible to say which was which’

The third read was, ‘The portrait of Dorian Gray’-Oscar Wilde
The style of the story's narrative is closer to drama than a novel. Conversations that through up ideas, an almost poetic rendition, an intricate tapestry of words which mesmerize you with their beauty. I narrated the story to at least 2 people on the very day I had read some 100 pages. Then came the pithy one liners. I am still reeling under some. I read attentively the portion which dealt with Dorian Grays love for a woman and how he dismisses that whole emotion away. I smiled when I read, ’Young men want to be faithful, and are not; old men want to be faithless, and cannot . . .’ I smiled nonchalantly as I read the usual chauvinist rant, ‘My dear boy, no woman is a genius. Women are a decorative sex. They never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly. Women represent the triumph of matter over mid, just as men represent the triumph of mind over morals.’

Recommended the above books to friends & foes, have been recommended to read ‘mrityunjay’, hope I get my hands on that book soon.

Hoarder!

Happiness is a myth that was invented to make us buy!


I and my true friends feel a ‘happy’ rush seeing the first hoarding calling out SALE! Yet as I put the word happy under the saintly quotes I was in for a surprise. Instead of a seraphic happy angel, I saw a greedy devil looking back at me. Oh! We were unscrupulous believers to fall for the myth and now we walk home with lighter wallets and baggages of things we wanted and not quite wanted.

I am a greedy hoarder. And over the years I just feel that the things I hoard has grown leaps and bound. Back in the monsoon season in Nainital I was all eyes for the dark green ferns. Walking along I used to scan through the green outgrowth looking for a leaf I didn’t have in my collection. There were those artistically shaped fern leaves, which ingeniously had a brown powdery substance on the backside. It almost worked as a carbon sheet and you could stamp the pattern of the leaf on your hand :) The leafy skeletons(jackfruit leaves) buried under the stones was valuable treasure to me.

The acorns were another favourite of mine. Perhaps there were the monkeys, birds, squirrels and me vying for them. Well I couldn’t climb on an oak tree unlike my competitors so I had to scout the ground beneath the tree to collect them. I collected the pretty luscious green ones and then the shiny brown dried acorns as well. I have already mentioned the wood roses in my previous blog so I’ll give it a miss this time.

Let’s move on to stones. The most beautiful collection I have is the scaled golden stones I picked up from my maternal grandmothers orchids in the hills of Paharpani. Imagine the mud glistening golden in the sun. From the glistening golden to the sublime whites from some rivers bed I had them all. The perfectly round, and then the perfectly flat all made it to my collection. Very close to the stone collection I had the shell collection. Picked up from the shores of Kanyakumari and Kovalam, then some kind soul got me a handful from mandarmuni as well. For every shell I had, I had a story about its colour and texture.

All these stories sound so quaint today. I don’t scan the grounds, the grass, and the trees around me anymore. I have found a substitute today for my hoarding happiness, I scan the stores! And come the sale season I’m on my way.. Hey I’ve become this materialistic hoarding woman..:(

A thing for swings…

I trust a hemp rope as much as I trust the rusty iron chain when it comes to swings.  I don’t discriminate between a wooden, a plastic or even a rubber tire seat when it comes to swings. I just have a thing for swings. I’ll bribe away the kids or may be even shoo them away if they make me wait too long for my turn.

On a little windy evening, watch the dancing shadows of the dusk swing into night.  The receding shadows at their elusive best! I love the highs and I love the lows. I know the tricks too well; I’ll throw myself forward I’ll pull myself behind. It’s just a matter of time, when I begin to hear the sound of my hair playing in the wind-(I’d shampoo my hair any day if there’s a swing in the itinerary!). It’s lovely gazing at the night sky, leisurely swinging and spying on the stars above.  You might never reach them but there’s no stopping you from trying so here I tug the ropes more briskly taking my swing still higher above.

On a lazy afternoon, putting my swing under a shady tree, I like to swing gently with a gossipy partner.  It’s fun to start with small talk and then muse philosophically but it’s equally convenient vice-versa. It’s all the more special if someone buys you an ice-cream and then you relish it on a swing. (All the above events are no figments of imagination they bear close resemblance to few eventful days in other wise mundane life.)

I caught on the ‘swinging  bliss’ in Kolkata. How I miss the park nearby my apartment where I’ve spent countless evening with my roomies and close friends. Then there were the innumerable fairs year long in some or the other parts of the city, and the biggest draw-yes the swings! Bizarre swings, some made your head spin, the others had some serious momentum issues but I’m willing to forgive that all as long as I get to scream and shout with friends.  I have managed two swinging evenings in Hyderabad so far. I was fortunate to have a swinging morning in garden city Bangalore while on a weekend trip.  I’m surprised at how vividly I remember each of the days. Perhaps my childhood is swinging back again for all the days that swung past without a swing. 

Take a bow..

Reclined on my chair with ease I take in the last scene.  Of all the suspense, drama tension built over the course it is now time for all the pieces to fall in place.  The lost lamb will finally head home. .The wronged will get their rightful place under the sun... There will be manna for the hungry soul.  Maybe a reunion for the star crossed lovers. There is this comfort in the knowledge that ‘this’ would be the end. You may choose to appreciate or disagree but the end is inevitable. It is time for the curtains to gently fall down.

Walking down one wintery December evening I felt the same peace. I made my peace with the year that was just heading to its end. I could recall places and people who came into my life with this New Year. I felt tender warmth towards all the new faces that had turned familiar and known during the course of this year. I tried to fathom my own impressions of this new city, I moved into. And with a generous gesture smiled for everything ‘new’ 2010 had ushered into my life.

The wintery chill was also walking along and so was also the recollection of all the failures, heartbreaks and set breaks. I glanced gloomily at the distant light slowly fading in the wintery fog. I recalled all the friends I left behind as I strode past them. The reasons for which ranged from being genuine to silly or simple incomprehensible.

The curtains then finally fall; they have the finality of the end as meditated by the director. All the characters come forward join hands and take a solemn bow as they try to read the applause. But in life as a New Year rolls in, it is the hope of new beginnings which is more emphatic. I thought of giving a nostalgic bow to things, places, people I had left behind but still I hope that it is not the final bow and our paths will cross again. I would revisit the city which somehow feels so familiar in all its idiosyncrasies, incongruities! Yes Kolkata it was.  But alas this era that I lived in the city will have to take a bow...it can never be the same again. I wouldn't say so for the estranged people in my life. I may not retreat to make amends as yet but I would still reserve the bow. I would still hope that we warmly shake hands again and laugh aloud unhindered. Well some material possessions will have to take a bow or perhaps a handing over to younger siblings.

It is interesting how we measure life with the years we lived. How the moving hands of the clock one day suddenly fill us up with newer aspirations and the calendar graciously takes a bow.