Friendship is never a constant. You discover something new every day. It’s really like life on a ship. One day you’re out in the sun, enjoying all its golden benefits, another day you stumble into a hidden crevice and get yourself all dirty, only to find a gold ring clinging to your shirt sleeve as you clamber out, the next day you want to throw up because you feel nauseated.
What I recently discovered helped me understand why even the biggest of criminals has a best friend. Why even Hitler had a best friend.
My best friend Nisha wrote in my slam book in 12th grade that, of all the people she knew and loved, she was proudest of me because, I was one of the few who thought with their head and not heart.
However, some nights back, on the phone, torn between deep exasperation, annoyance and helplessness, she asked me why I had become exactly the kind of girl we both hated and purposefully turned our noses up on. In all the fourteen odd years we have known each other, Nisha has hardly ever questioned my actions. She always believed that I knew what I was doing, even when I myself was in doubt. Even when I was in the US fighting with half the world to come back, Nisha sent me several mails asking me what the problem was, never once suggesting I go against my will.
And yet, some nights back, the girl vehemented strongly against my actions. She called me brainless, she called me cheap, she called me shameless, she called me dumb. She called me everything she hated most in a person.
My best friend is extremely snobbish when it comes to girls who are brainless, cheap, shameless and dumb. She hates them with a vengeance. In fact, she will staunchly refuse to partake of a conversation involving characters with the aforementioned traits. And yet Nisha continues to love me.
Nisha and I had great plans for the future. When in school we both wanted to be pilots. When that idea was shot down, we decided we would study in the same college. That didn’t happen. We decided we would do our Masters in the same university. Didn’t happen either. The day she left for Singapore, I cried like a baby, in front of several of my friends. And then I came back, and then she came back. A dubious commonality to have, other might have thought. But we knew we were tougher than all other girls put together, for taking that step. We prided ourselves on never compromising on our dignity. We took perverse pleasure in our bloated egos.
I respect Nisha immensely. So much that in the past I often hid things from her, so she wouldn’t judge me. But as I discovered a few nights back, this girl wasn’t going to give up on me. Ever. I could be the personification of everything she hated and she would still love me. After all, I was that fated gift of karma- a best friend.
In her desperation to get me out of a tricky situation, the girl who sleeps at 9 pm, stayed up till almost 12 to drive the drivel out of my head. Nisha is an impatient girl and I listened almost amused as she incredulously repeated the same things over and over, not quite believing I could be so daft.
Sometimes I am sad, because Nisha is no longer all mine. She belongs to the world now, with several other boys and girls clamouring for her company. But yet, deep within I know when it comes to something that really matters, really really matters, she will call me. She will call me first. She will call only me.
I am ashamed because sometimes I do things knowing it will hurt her. Because I hate it that she’s no longer all mine. I publicly declared I had no best friend. She retaliated in her own way, in a similar way. Another dubious commonality.
But deep, deep within, I know that she knows. That one day, when she too has pathetic things to say about herself, she will turn to me. She knows I will call her cheap, dumb, brainless, shameless. But she knows I will still love her. She could be a drug-pedaling mafia, with a history of murder and manslaughter for all I care and I’d still love her.
After all, she is that fated gift of karma. A best friend.
Monday 29 March 2010
Tuesday 23 March 2010
a walk to remember
I am a self-flagellist and I have a great many grouses about myself. And the one grouse that unfailingly breaks my heart at 9 o clock every morning is my walk.
That shop is my cause of grief; the new one with the shiny glass. The glass; that terrible sheet of truth. Every morning, I park my car in a side lane and walk towards my office. Halfway through, the glass teases me; it uses the sun’s glint to get me to turn even when I staunchly tell myself not to. And so I turn.
There I see her. Anusha Vincent, the sloth-bear/duck hybrid. She walks as though an invisible Panda bear resides on her back. Like she has webs for feet. Like she’s fresh out of zombie training camp. Anusha Vincent’s walk is worthy of a mighty mock, giant gawk and a big balk. I turn away upset.
I don’t claim to have too many life goals, but of those I have, giving competition to the Hunchback of Notre Dame’s plod isn’t one. I blame it all on those who I grew up around in my formative years. I blame my parents, my aunts, my teachers, my older cousins. They taught me ameobal locomotion, but they did not teach me to walk. They made me read about the majestically cantering Black Beauty but they didn’t teach me how to walk. They helped me solve ‘a man walks from point A to point B’ problems in Math but they didn’t teach me to walk. Alright, so they did help me take my first steps, but when they took all those pains to mould my character, why couldn’t they have taken some time to give my walk some character?
I love reading books. Books are replete with women, each one of them better than the other, in one way or the other. I read about hot-blooded Latinas swaying and sashaying down the golden pavement, prim and proper ladies gliding past effortlessly, cool girls sauntering in and out of coffee shops, uptight ballerinas pirouetting around, rocker babes swaggering about.
Then at 9 am the next morning, I see Anusha Vincent walk.
The thing is, I have come to attach much to the walk. I think it defines the person in a way that nothing else can. A giant with a puny gait is no giant. A dwarf with head held high is no dwarf.
Just the other day, at the railway station, a puny girl strolled past me with a walk that added a magnificent padding to her scrawny person. On the other platform, a bear of a boy scurried about like a church mouse. The girl was probably top of her class; the boy right at the bottom… my mind had given its verdict. Two people defined by their walks and not their physical facades. I couldn’t be the only one judging people by their walks… it also couldn’t be that I myself wasn’t being judged for my walk, for every uncertain step.
A walk maketh a person? Vetoed. But, a walk sure defineth a person.
First things first. Identify the problem.
I decided to ask around and reach a consensus on what people made of my walk. My aunts said point blank that I walked like a hip-swaying monkey. My friends said that I walked as though I was devoid of life. My mom said I walked like a school kid with a bag on her shoulders. An old classmate said that I looked like I was perennially scared of tripping. Worst of all, one of my best friends had to think for a good 5 billion minutes before telling me, ‘Uh, I’ve never really noticed your walk.’
Quite daunting. Time to introspect.
Hip- swaying monkey- do I have simian tendencies? Have I ever showed a proclivity towards Shakira videos? Nix and nil.
Devoid of life- last checked, still breathing. Lack of interest in day-to-day activities? Possible. Take note.
School kid with bag on shoulders- just checked my certificates. In the clear.
Perennially scared of tripping- am I insecure? Nervous? Not confident? Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. Point taken.
Uh, I’ve never really noticed your walk- extremely worrying. Lack of character? Hope not. Lack of charisma? Maybe.
Inference: A walk is not just a physical phenomenon. It is an emotional bearing. It is a state of mind. So does that mean my state of mind is that of a hip-swaying monkey? Or a zombie? Or of NO ONE?
Problems identified, I start working on them. My walk gets better, I feel better about it. There’s this other thing I’ve realized about working on your walk. I mean, apart from addressing the internal issues that might be weighing down on it, you need to consciously include some style too. Just to give it that extra edge.
Shoulders square, chest a little bit out there, a gentle sway of the hips, medium strides, hands dangling happily by the sides, feet comfortably pointed. But most importantly, with head held high.
I am a woman of the world. Anusha Vincent walks her talk with her head held high, mind without fear.
And into that heaven of freedom my father, let my consciousness awake.
That shop is my cause of grief; the new one with the shiny glass. The glass; that terrible sheet of truth. Every morning, I park my car in a side lane and walk towards my office. Halfway through, the glass teases me; it uses the sun’s glint to get me to turn even when I staunchly tell myself not to. And so I turn.
There I see her. Anusha Vincent, the sloth-bear/duck hybrid. She walks as though an invisible Panda bear resides on her back. Like she has webs for feet. Like she’s fresh out of zombie training camp. Anusha Vincent’s walk is worthy of a mighty mock, giant gawk and a big balk. I turn away upset.
I don’t claim to have too many life goals, but of those I have, giving competition to the Hunchback of Notre Dame’s plod isn’t one. I blame it all on those who I grew up around in my formative years. I blame my parents, my aunts, my teachers, my older cousins. They taught me ameobal locomotion, but they did not teach me to walk. They made me read about the majestically cantering Black Beauty but they didn’t teach me how to walk. They helped me solve ‘a man walks from point A to point B’ problems in Math but they didn’t teach me to walk. Alright, so they did help me take my first steps, but when they took all those pains to mould my character, why couldn’t they have taken some time to give my walk some character?
I love reading books. Books are replete with women, each one of them better than the other, in one way or the other. I read about hot-blooded Latinas swaying and sashaying down the golden pavement, prim and proper ladies gliding past effortlessly, cool girls sauntering in and out of coffee shops, uptight ballerinas pirouetting around, rocker babes swaggering about.
Then at 9 am the next morning, I see Anusha Vincent walk.
The thing is, I have come to attach much to the walk. I think it defines the person in a way that nothing else can. A giant with a puny gait is no giant. A dwarf with head held high is no dwarf.
Just the other day, at the railway station, a puny girl strolled past me with a walk that added a magnificent padding to her scrawny person. On the other platform, a bear of a boy scurried about like a church mouse. The girl was probably top of her class; the boy right at the bottom… my mind had given its verdict. Two people defined by their walks and not their physical facades. I couldn’t be the only one judging people by their walks… it also couldn’t be that I myself wasn’t being judged for my walk, for every uncertain step.
A walk maketh a person? Vetoed. But, a walk sure defineth a person.
First things first. Identify the problem.
I decided to ask around and reach a consensus on what people made of my walk. My aunts said point blank that I walked like a hip-swaying monkey. My friends said that I walked as though I was devoid of life. My mom said I walked like a school kid with a bag on her shoulders. An old classmate said that I looked like I was perennially scared of tripping. Worst of all, one of my best friends had to think for a good 5 billion minutes before telling me, ‘Uh, I’ve never really noticed your walk.’
Quite daunting. Time to introspect.
Hip- swaying monkey- do I have simian tendencies? Have I ever showed a proclivity towards Shakira videos? Nix and nil.
Devoid of life- last checked, still breathing. Lack of interest in day-to-day activities? Possible. Take note.
School kid with bag on shoulders- just checked my certificates. In the clear.
Perennially scared of tripping- am I insecure? Nervous? Not confident? Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. Point taken.
Uh, I’ve never really noticed your walk- extremely worrying. Lack of character? Hope not. Lack of charisma? Maybe.
Inference: A walk is not just a physical phenomenon. It is an emotional bearing. It is a state of mind. So does that mean my state of mind is that of a hip-swaying monkey? Or a zombie? Or of NO ONE?
Problems identified, I start working on them. My walk gets better, I feel better about it. There’s this other thing I’ve realized about working on your walk. I mean, apart from addressing the internal issues that might be weighing down on it, you need to consciously include some style too. Just to give it that extra edge.
Shoulders square, chest a little bit out there, a gentle sway of the hips, medium strides, hands dangling happily by the sides, feet comfortably pointed. But most importantly, with head held high.
I am a woman of the world. Anusha Vincent walks her talk with her head held high, mind without fear.
And into that heaven of freedom my father, let my consciousness awake.
Monday 15 March 2010
mutation
Is it possible that one strong experience can change you for good and mutate your personality out of recognition? Can one strong stimulus or a couple of them administered steadily over a period alter you as a person?
For sure. And I suspect theories like ‘learn from past experience’ are offshoots of this concentrated theory.
My true calling might have come from elsewhere, but when in college I was passionate about Biotechnology. A subject that dealt with life and how it could be engineered.
Day after day we’d shuffle into our lab for a new set of experiments. On the first day of microbiology lab, our professor told us that the first step was the most important and that our test results would be based on the efficiency of its execution.
Sterilization was the first step. We flamed the apparatus, pressured the glassware and topped it all off with a generous flourish of methanol. We thought we were microbe-free. The thing about Biotech is you know you’ve messed up only when you get the final result. And the result of my first experiment was clouded by contamination. (Those dratted colonies of fungi I shall never forgive.) Anyway, there came a point when my sterilization skills finally became decent. But I still observed minor contamination. Annoyed, I demanded an explanation from my professor. He finally admitted it could be mutation. That the unwanted microbes might have got acclimatized to high temperatures, pressures and dehydrants. That one of their little DNA fragments might have mutated to make them resistant to my extreme subjections. So I watched dismayed as batch after batch of carefully cultured baby E Coli got killed by those damned mutated monsters.
Fast-forward some years. Early this morning, an annoyed friend of mine sent me a particularly caustic mail saying that she had had it with all my depressed/ depressing status messages and that I’d darned well start cleaning up my act. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an act I could clean up. It wasn’t even an act. I really had become that person. The person who was perennially whiny/ moody/ angry/ disillusioned/ directionless. Exactly the kind of person I would’ve turned my nose up on some months back.
It all started several months back when something I believed in was shattered. The next month, yet another huge blow presented itself. And yet another. And again. Four strong stimulus and consequent months of avoiding it resolutely, instead of dealing with it, changed me. Every day was a bad day, even the good ones. I forgot how to be happy, I was out of practice and seemed to have unlearned the art of happiness. I wanted nothing more than to sit at home away from all life.
People from all corners reached out to me, wanting to help. I was impermeable. I had become resistant to external stimuli. Positivity bounced off me like a ping pong ball.
And that’s not even the worse part. I became a weed. I depressed the living daylights out of those around me. The mutated me was selfish and terrible.
Thankfully these mutations are reversible. A strong dose of good mutangen was what I needed. And this morning, when my friend lambasted me it really hit me. That was my good mutagen. I started cleaning up right away.
Which got me thinking, if several lethal doses of bad mutagen could be reversed by one strong dose of good mutagen, then perhaps we can immunize ourselves against bad stimuli altogether by being exposed to the good ones. By surrounding ourselves with positive people, by smiling more often, by doing good to others, by putting in our best in whatever we do, by reaching out to others as often as we reach within ourselves in the quest for peace, by finding joy even in the thinnest of silver linings.
Ultimately, mutation too is a choice. You can choose to use it how you please. You take what you want to survive and become stronger. The bacteria took what it needed to battle the odds. So did I.
You need strength to resist the bad mutations though, they are always that bit more menacing. That’s where your friends and family come in. They form a wall around you, protecting you.
On hindsight, mutations are a good thing. A particle of dust underwent repeated mutations and several centuries later the first human baby was born (sorry, I don’t buy into the Adam theory). Mutation led to evolution. And I dare say mutation of the personality too leads to its evolution. You either grow or depreciate with each mutation. You evolve.
When you die you die evolved.
I know how I want to be when I die.
For sure. And I suspect theories like ‘learn from past experience’ are offshoots of this concentrated theory.
My true calling might have come from elsewhere, but when in college I was passionate about Biotechnology. A subject that dealt with life and how it could be engineered.
Day after day we’d shuffle into our lab for a new set of experiments. On the first day of microbiology lab, our professor told us that the first step was the most important and that our test results would be based on the efficiency of its execution.
Sterilization was the first step. We flamed the apparatus, pressured the glassware and topped it all off with a generous flourish of methanol. We thought we were microbe-free. The thing about Biotech is you know you’ve messed up only when you get the final result. And the result of my first experiment was clouded by contamination. (Those dratted colonies of fungi I shall never forgive.) Anyway, there came a point when my sterilization skills finally became decent. But I still observed minor contamination. Annoyed, I demanded an explanation from my professor. He finally admitted it could be mutation. That the unwanted microbes might have got acclimatized to high temperatures, pressures and dehydrants. That one of their little DNA fragments might have mutated to make them resistant to my extreme subjections. So I watched dismayed as batch after batch of carefully cultured baby E Coli got killed by those damned mutated monsters.
Fast-forward some years. Early this morning, an annoyed friend of mine sent me a particularly caustic mail saying that she had had it with all my depressed/ depressing status messages and that I’d darned well start cleaning up my act. Unfortunately, it wasn’t an act I could clean up. It wasn’t even an act. I really had become that person. The person who was perennially whiny/ moody/ angry/ disillusioned/ directionless. Exactly the kind of person I would’ve turned my nose up on some months back.
It all started several months back when something I believed in was shattered. The next month, yet another huge blow presented itself. And yet another. And again. Four strong stimulus and consequent months of avoiding it resolutely, instead of dealing with it, changed me. Every day was a bad day, even the good ones. I forgot how to be happy, I was out of practice and seemed to have unlearned the art of happiness. I wanted nothing more than to sit at home away from all life.
People from all corners reached out to me, wanting to help. I was impermeable. I had become resistant to external stimuli. Positivity bounced off me like a ping pong ball.
And that’s not even the worse part. I became a weed. I depressed the living daylights out of those around me. The mutated me was selfish and terrible.
Thankfully these mutations are reversible. A strong dose of good mutangen was what I needed. And this morning, when my friend lambasted me it really hit me. That was my good mutagen. I started cleaning up right away.
Which got me thinking, if several lethal doses of bad mutagen could be reversed by one strong dose of good mutagen, then perhaps we can immunize ourselves against bad stimuli altogether by being exposed to the good ones. By surrounding ourselves with positive people, by smiling more often, by doing good to others, by putting in our best in whatever we do, by reaching out to others as often as we reach within ourselves in the quest for peace, by finding joy even in the thinnest of silver linings.
Ultimately, mutation too is a choice. You can choose to use it how you please. You take what you want to survive and become stronger. The bacteria took what it needed to battle the odds. So did I.
You need strength to resist the bad mutations though, they are always that bit more menacing. That’s where your friends and family come in. They form a wall around you, protecting you.
On hindsight, mutations are a good thing. A particle of dust underwent repeated mutations and several centuries later the first human baby was born (sorry, I don’t buy into the Adam theory). Mutation led to evolution. And I dare say mutation of the personality too leads to its evolution. You either grow or depreciate with each mutation. You evolve.
When you die you die evolved.
I know how I want to be when I die.
Sunday 7 March 2010
Daddy invinciblest
Twenty two years ago, amidst the milling early morning crowd at the magical Marina Beach, something beautiful conspired. A family sat on a picnic blanket. A mother, so beautiful, the father couldn't stop beaming with pride as she gazed into the sea, against the dewy, salty breeze. A father so affectionate, the mother sat simply smiling at her good fortune. A little baby thrown up in the air, looking up to the skies, dressed in swathes of yellow and white, giggling toothlessly, not bothering to contain her rapture. And as she came down, she looked down sideways and saw love like she would never see in all her life. Love that refused to be filtered unlike the early morning sun’s rays. The grains of sand from her tiny feet reaching for his magnetic persona, with the lazy sun making a halo for him, made it look like magic dust was descending on her father. Magic dust that caressed his brown face as he looked skywards challenging the Gods with his invincible smile.
This is how I will always remember him, the man whose blood runs through my sluggish veins, my father.
Twenty two years onwards, I sit in my room, isolted, ashamed thinking about the Magic Dust God who becomes more of a mortal being to me with every passing year, as he exposes his vulnerabilties in front of me. Fearlessly in front of me. My father, the mortal, seems more beautiful than the Magic Dust God as I drown in a sea of Ave Maria and Moonflower. He seems so fragile, so strong, so brave, so exposed.
Sundays were glorious. Summer time mangoes glugged down my elbows, winter dew settled on my bulbous nose like a moist bandage, yellow autumn leaves hid themselves in my black hair. Seasons came and went, but at the stroke of 2 pm, without fail, Daddy marched me away for my English lesson. An hour of reviewing lessons, asking me questions, a severe spelling bee where nothing but 13/15 would do. This would be followed by him giving me a story book to read, he let me choose what I wanted on our weekly expeditions to the bookstore. He reviewed each book with me. I loved Rapunzel the best. He even did mathematical tables with me, when Ma grew tired of my playful nature.
When my Magic Dust God wasn’t rebuking me for making mistakes in English and Math, he was busy buying me the best of clothes, treating my ears to the best of music, taking me to the most amusing of amusement parks, shielding me from Ma’s glowers, cheering on from the sidelines as I played a match of tennis. He taught me to keep my mind as open as my mouth, to the joys of food. To lose myself in music. To immerse myself in books.
Pampering makes a single child a raw nightmare. Didn’t anyone ever tell my father that? Why did he pamper me so? It would be his undoing. My undoing. I became a raw nightmare. I made him sad. I made him disappointed. I made him lose faith in me. I made him a man with no daughter to be proud of. I made him a man who needed to knock on his daughter’s door everyday just so he could look at her ungrateful face. I made him a man who looked as though there was no joy left is his life. My Magic Dust God now looked up to the sky Gods, hoping for some good to descend upon him, almost sorry for challenging them years back.
And while my father keeps the flatscreen TV spurting nonsensical political news company, squinting through a nascent cataract, all I want to do is hug him and tell him I am sorry for being such a disappointment. Yet, all that comes out is, ‘I am going out for dinner.’
There goes by not a day when I hear of a classmate, a colleague, a friend, losing/ close to losing her father. And every time I hear this, the wind gets knocked out of me. I feel faint. I want to know how my Magic Dust God is doing. I call up my Ma urgently and ask her. She says all is well…and why don’t I just call him up and speak to him? I don’t know Ma. When you disappoint someone you love, you never want to show face ever again, you never want to hurt them ever again. The man doesn’t deserve to go through life trying to make a right of a wrong. Trying to make a right out of me.
I will never forgive myself for not being there when his father, Chachan died. When his mother, Ammachi died. When Tin Tin, his son, died. I will never forgive myself for not being there when all he clearly needed was a daughter. For not living out my dream. For letting his nieces make tea for him while I sat in my room. For making him lose his soulful smile.
There is a part of me that shivers at the very thought that Magic Dust God is now a mere mortal. That he can no longer protect me with a swish of his muscular arm. That he is just as vulnerable as I am. That every car that passes his path is just as prone to colliding with him. That every thought that passes his mind is just as capable of messing with his heart.
And yet when I hear my friend telling me that my father dug a grave for his canine son, with his own hands, I know the Magic Dust God hasn’t died. I look up and smile and glance sideways to see my father , still so glorious, so pure, so strong.
This is how I will always remember him, the man whose blood runs through my sluggish veins, my father.
Twenty two years onwards, I sit in my room, isolted, ashamed thinking about the Magic Dust God who becomes more of a mortal being to me with every passing year, as he exposes his vulnerabilties in front of me. Fearlessly in front of me. My father, the mortal, seems more beautiful than the Magic Dust God as I drown in a sea of Ave Maria and Moonflower. He seems so fragile, so strong, so brave, so exposed.
Sundays were glorious. Summer time mangoes glugged down my elbows, winter dew settled on my bulbous nose like a moist bandage, yellow autumn leaves hid themselves in my black hair. Seasons came and went, but at the stroke of 2 pm, without fail, Daddy marched me away for my English lesson. An hour of reviewing lessons, asking me questions, a severe spelling bee where nothing but 13/15 would do. This would be followed by him giving me a story book to read, he let me choose what I wanted on our weekly expeditions to the bookstore. He reviewed each book with me. I loved Rapunzel the best. He even did mathematical tables with me, when Ma grew tired of my playful nature.
When my Magic Dust God wasn’t rebuking me for making mistakes in English and Math, he was busy buying me the best of clothes, treating my ears to the best of music, taking me to the most amusing of amusement parks, shielding me from Ma’s glowers, cheering on from the sidelines as I played a match of tennis. He taught me to keep my mind as open as my mouth, to the joys of food. To lose myself in music. To immerse myself in books.
Pampering makes a single child a raw nightmare. Didn’t anyone ever tell my father that? Why did he pamper me so? It would be his undoing. My undoing. I became a raw nightmare. I made him sad. I made him disappointed. I made him lose faith in me. I made him a man with no daughter to be proud of. I made him a man who needed to knock on his daughter’s door everyday just so he could look at her ungrateful face. I made him a man who looked as though there was no joy left is his life. My Magic Dust God now looked up to the sky Gods, hoping for some good to descend upon him, almost sorry for challenging them years back.
And while my father keeps the flatscreen TV spurting nonsensical political news company, squinting through a nascent cataract, all I want to do is hug him and tell him I am sorry for being such a disappointment. Yet, all that comes out is, ‘I am going out for dinner.’
There goes by not a day when I hear of a classmate, a colleague, a friend, losing/ close to losing her father. And every time I hear this, the wind gets knocked out of me. I feel faint. I want to know how my Magic Dust God is doing. I call up my Ma urgently and ask her. She says all is well…and why don’t I just call him up and speak to him? I don’t know Ma. When you disappoint someone you love, you never want to show face ever again, you never want to hurt them ever again. The man doesn’t deserve to go through life trying to make a right of a wrong. Trying to make a right out of me.
I will never forgive myself for not being there when his father, Chachan died. When his mother, Ammachi died. When Tin Tin, his son, died. I will never forgive myself for not being there when all he clearly needed was a daughter. For not living out my dream. For letting his nieces make tea for him while I sat in my room. For making him lose his soulful smile.
There is a part of me that shivers at the very thought that Magic Dust God is now a mere mortal. That he can no longer protect me with a swish of his muscular arm. That he is just as vulnerable as I am. That every car that passes his path is just as prone to colliding with him. That every thought that passes his mind is just as capable of messing with his heart.
And yet when I hear my friend telling me that my father dug a grave for his canine son, with his own hands, I know the Magic Dust God hasn’t died. I look up and smile and glance sideways to see my father , still so glorious, so pure, so strong.
Lead Opram: For Saj
Together the li'l rabbits sat
Arguing about who was fat
They looked almost the same
And it did shoot them to some fame
They went to classes together
Talking mostly about the 'weather'
Ocassionally they did discuss physics
Actually, more about the master's antics
In a short time they became quite close
To break that bond, was needed a strong force
Life took its toll on the bond
But Saj, of you I'll be forever fond
Arguing about who was fat
They looked almost the same
And it did shoot them to some fame
They went to classes together
Talking mostly about the 'weather'
Ocassionally they did discuss physics
Actually, more about the master's antics
In a short time they became quite close
To break that bond, was needed a strong force
Life took its toll on the bond
But Saj, of you I'll be forever fond
Luck it!
What is the deal with luck?
Well, at least for me, this is how it was.When I was a little girl, seven years old or so, I was on the phone with my friend the evening before the much-feared Math exam. I chirped a 'Best of luck' before hanging up. And almost immediately, my father was upon me. Telling me why, 'All the best' was a better alternative. Why one must never depend on luck. Why luck as a concept was for those who didn't have faith in themselves. Alright Daddy, taken. Any place luck had in my life was vanquished by good sense. And so litte Noosh grew up to be this girl who would henceforth always cautiously avoid phrases like, 'best of luck', 'what a terrible stroke of luck', 'luckily for me' and the like. I invariably end up cutting my nails on a Tuesday night, much to my perima's chagrin and in college, I was the girl who had this uncanny habit of turning up in black at the start of every semester (much against my mom's plead. If luck is impossible, me changing twice at 6.30 in the morning is laughable).
Well, dear Noosh, luck does exist.
My father dropped the bomb on me today. My little dog having died, I was talking about getting a companion for Lola, our other dog. And my dad, shook his head pensively and said, 'Never again. We just don't have luck with dogs. First it was Velvet (who met with an accident, became a quardiplegic and had to be put to sleep after 4 years of suffering) and now Tin Tin. The luck is just not right.' But Daddy... 'No'
So is luck subject to time? Nay, nay. Luck is completely subject to one's convenience. When everything goes your way and every wispy strand of hair is firmly in its place, luck can take a hike. But one bad thing, and, 'what terrible luck.' Really? Is this how fickle-minded we are? Do we really need to blame an external source, whether or not it really exists, for our inadequacies? For our lack of courage? For lacking the strength to accept reality and move on? For our inefficiencies? For our imperfections? For our very existance? Well, I may not be a lot of things, but one thing I am. I am a person who takes responsibility for her actions and their (often) dire consequences. I may not be efficient, perfect or brave but I sleep better at night knowing that the problem lies with me. That the problem can be rectified because it is in my hands. Blaming luck would mean surrendering my life to the whims and fancies of something that I have never seen substantiated. It is just a crazy man's tangential stupidity.
But Loosh (my scheming alter-ego) asks me. 'So how do you explain how I got the first place in the Bible contest way back in 11th Std, when I hadn't even opened the Bible?' I think, muse, cogitate. Probability, you evil thing, probability! Multiple choice questions...probability, for sure.
Loosh grins at me maliciously. 'Ok Noosh. So explain why you never keep your legs on a pillow? Is it because perima told you long back that if you sat on or kept your legs atop a pillow, your appa wouldn't reach his final destination safe?' Why do you never cross over an elder's leg? Scared of what bad luck it might bring?' Ok, guilty. But not as charged.
There are things you do simply out of habit, and also so you don't end up upsetting anyone else. I attach no importance to these acts.
The bottomline is, I believe in life. I believe that man invented all that he has invented, not by a mere stroke of luck, but by a stroke of genius. I believe that exams are passed or failed not because of luck, but because of the presence or absence of application. I believe that the mess I am in is all because of me. I blame myself entirely. I am to blame. And I have the full power in my hands to change things as I please. I feel liberated.
As for you Daddy, does the 'luck' stop here?
Well, at least for me, this is how it was.When I was a little girl, seven years old or so, I was on the phone with my friend the evening before the much-feared Math exam. I chirped a 'Best of luck' before hanging up. And almost immediately, my father was upon me. Telling me why, 'All the best' was a better alternative. Why one must never depend on luck. Why luck as a concept was for those who didn't have faith in themselves. Alright Daddy, taken. Any place luck had in my life was vanquished by good sense. And so litte Noosh grew up to be this girl who would henceforth always cautiously avoid phrases like, 'best of luck', 'what a terrible stroke of luck', 'luckily for me' and the like. I invariably end up cutting my nails on a Tuesday night, much to my perima's chagrin and in college, I was the girl who had this uncanny habit of turning up in black at the start of every semester (much against my mom's plead. If luck is impossible, me changing twice at 6.30 in the morning is laughable).
Well, dear Noosh, luck does exist.
My father dropped the bomb on me today. My little dog having died, I was talking about getting a companion for Lola, our other dog. And my dad, shook his head pensively and said, 'Never again. We just don't have luck with dogs. First it was Velvet (who met with an accident, became a quardiplegic and had to be put to sleep after 4 years of suffering) and now Tin Tin. The luck is just not right.' But Daddy... 'No'
So is luck subject to time? Nay, nay. Luck is completely subject to one's convenience. When everything goes your way and every wispy strand of hair is firmly in its place, luck can take a hike. But one bad thing, and, 'what terrible luck.' Really? Is this how fickle-minded we are? Do we really need to blame an external source, whether or not it really exists, for our inadequacies? For our lack of courage? For lacking the strength to accept reality and move on? For our inefficiencies? For our imperfections? For our very existance? Well, I may not be a lot of things, but one thing I am. I am a person who takes responsibility for her actions and their (often) dire consequences. I may not be efficient, perfect or brave but I sleep better at night knowing that the problem lies with me. That the problem can be rectified because it is in my hands. Blaming luck would mean surrendering my life to the whims and fancies of something that I have never seen substantiated. It is just a crazy man's tangential stupidity.
But Loosh (my scheming alter-ego) asks me. 'So how do you explain how I got the first place in the Bible contest way back in 11th Std, when I hadn't even opened the Bible?' I think, muse, cogitate. Probability, you evil thing, probability! Multiple choice questions...probability, for sure.
Loosh grins at me maliciously. 'Ok Noosh. So explain why you never keep your legs on a pillow? Is it because perima told you long back that if you sat on or kept your legs atop a pillow, your appa wouldn't reach his final destination safe?' Why do you never cross over an elder's leg? Scared of what bad luck it might bring?' Ok, guilty. But not as charged.
There are things you do simply out of habit, and also so you don't end up upsetting anyone else. I attach no importance to these acts.
The bottomline is, I believe in life. I believe that man invented all that he has invented, not by a mere stroke of luck, but by a stroke of genius. I believe that exams are passed or failed not because of luck, but because of the presence or absence of application. I believe that the mess I am in is all because of me. I blame myself entirely. I am to blame. And I have the full power in my hands to change things as I please. I feel liberated.
As for you Daddy, does the 'luck' stop here?
Saturday 6 March 2010
interpretation of beethoven's 6th symphony
I think of you when divine dawn filters in through my curtain
When the vulnerable smell of morning dew wafts in uncertain
When the guileless grasshopper wakes from his strident slumber
When the time on my clock is still just a nebulous number
I miss you when the glorious afternoon sun beats down on me
When in between hectic chapters everything but you ceases to be
When the riotous flowers soak up the sun in summer embrace
When the lazy grains of pollen float away into silent space
I long for you when dusk turns the sky a star-studded black
When the owl takes his first flight with ocular knack
When the brusque nip in the air makes my nose grow pink
When the unkind quandaries of the day finally sink
I love you between every comatose second that passes by
Between every listless blink of my doleful eye
Between every torturous tang that settles on my tongue’s bed
Between every langourous note that my ears are forcefed
I live for you because every snow flake reminds me of your free-falling fervour
Because every whiff of wind abounds with your familiar flavour
Because no fire warms my heart the way your crinkly eyes do
Because every grain of sand falls to the earth much like my soul reaches for you
When the vulnerable smell of morning dew wafts in uncertain
When the guileless grasshopper wakes from his strident slumber
When the time on my clock is still just a nebulous number
I miss you when the glorious afternoon sun beats down on me
When in between hectic chapters everything but you ceases to be
When the riotous flowers soak up the sun in summer embrace
When the lazy grains of pollen float away into silent space
I long for you when dusk turns the sky a star-studded black
When the owl takes his first flight with ocular knack
When the brusque nip in the air makes my nose grow pink
When the unkind quandaries of the day finally sink
I love you between every comatose second that passes by
Between every listless blink of my doleful eye
Between every torturous tang that settles on my tongue’s bed
Between every langourous note that my ears are forcefed
I live for you because every snow flake reminds me of your free-falling fervour
Because every whiff of wind abounds with your familiar flavour
Because no fire warms my heart the way your crinkly eyes do
Because every grain of sand falls to the earth much like my soul reaches for you
that thing
You are the thought of morning love that wakes me
The voice of beseeching reason that makes me see
The tender touch that draws me in and lets me go
The trusting smile that extends and lets me flow
You are first line in my virgin book of love
The recurring syllable in my little head above
The rhyme that sings in my meandering mind all day
The full stop that keeps my taunting troubles at bay
You are the reflection behind my formidable fear
The fear behind my searching scream
The scream behind my elated ecstasy
The ecstasy behind my lulled life
The voice of beseeching reason that makes me see
The tender touch that draws me in and lets me go
The trusting smile that extends and lets me flow
You are first line in my virgin book of love
The recurring syllable in my little head above
The rhyme that sings in my meandering mind all day
The full stop that keeps my taunting troubles at bay
You are the reflection behind my formidable fear
The fear behind my searching scream
The scream behind my elated ecstasy
The ecstasy behind my lulled life
particle in a box
I am the particle in a box, I glide and soar as I please
My movement is like a swaggering sweet symphony
My dance, like the tangential thought of lucid lyrics
My limbs undulate with psychedelic sepsis
My eyes dart around like a memorising melody
I am the particle in a box, I am redolent of colour
Smell my heart; you will sense the fuchsia of freedom
Smell my lips for a whiff of pink passion
Smell my skin and feel the lilac song of love
Smell my mind to get a taste of tealy triumph
I am the particle in a box, I decide my destiny
I impinge the walls of fate with haughty hate
I shrug off my horoscope with head-strong hope
I do not believe in providence, I have better sense
I go not by the whims of luck… herein stops the buck
My movement is like a swaggering sweet symphony
My dance, like the tangential thought of lucid lyrics
My limbs undulate with psychedelic sepsis
My eyes dart around like a memorising melody
I am the particle in a box, I am redolent of colour
Smell my heart; you will sense the fuchsia of freedom
Smell my lips for a whiff of pink passion
Smell my skin and feel the lilac song of love
Smell my mind to get a taste of tealy triumph
I am the particle in a box, I decide my destiny
I impinge the walls of fate with haughty hate
I shrug off my horoscope with head-strong hope
I do not believe in providence, I have better sense
I go not by the whims of luck… herein stops the buck
no friendly matter, this
It would be the easy thing to do- to say, Ma was right all along, I should've just listened to her. No, but that would be the easy thing to do, not to mention delusional.
I have failed to make a single genuine friend in my life. Well, ok, genuine is too strong a word. The thing is, everyone has this one special friend they turn to for everything. Everything. Who will pick the phone at 2 am and hear you out, as opposed to sending a message saying 'Am dead tired. Will talk in the morning'. Who will pull you close when you try to shut yourself out, as opposed to, 'just giving you your space.' Who will rebuke you when you do something stupid, as opposed to saying ,'Well, you know what's right for you.' Who's in touch with you 24/7, as opposed to propogating the philosophy of, 'We don't need to stay in touch all the time to be best friends.' Who will hold your hands when you tell them your dog just died, as opposed to saying, 'Oh sorry da. So did you guys meet up last evening?' Who will fight with you and yet be back the moment they sense you need them, as opposed to blaming their absence on the fight. No, I don't have such friends. I have friends who are all genuine people in their own right. Yes I have my fun times with them. But the thing is, if I were to get stuck in a flood in the middle of the night or meet with an accident, I can't name one friend, not even one, who I would want to call, feel justified in calling, not feel bad calling.
Getting back to what Ma always says. 'Your friends will be there for you as long as you're having fun. The moment life starts getting turbulent, they'll be gone.' Ma, I wish that were true. It's just that, it just isn't.
I look around me, in my own friend's circles, and see I'm alone. Everyone, yes even the guys, has a friend they turn to for everything, a friend who doesn't use them just to go out for a drink when all their other friends have abandoned them. I guess, a best friend is what I am getting at. And the beautiful (too bad for you Noosh) thing is, the more I see my friends, the more convinced I am that the concept of a best friend does exist.
So assuming that I am the problem, what have I done wrong? Is it my selfishness? Is it my horrible directness? Is it my hatred for all things imperfect (one can't really hate oneself)? Is it my sour outlook on life. Is it my moodiness? Is it my temper?
Is it just that I am a bad friend in return?
I have failed to make a single genuine friend in my life. Well, ok, genuine is too strong a word. The thing is, everyone has this one special friend they turn to for everything. Everything. Who will pick the phone at 2 am and hear you out, as opposed to sending a message saying 'Am dead tired. Will talk in the morning'. Who will pull you close when you try to shut yourself out, as opposed to, 'just giving you your space.' Who will rebuke you when you do something stupid, as opposed to saying ,'Well, you know what's right for you.' Who's in touch with you 24/7, as opposed to propogating the philosophy of, 'We don't need to stay in touch all the time to be best friends.' Who will hold your hands when you tell them your dog just died, as opposed to saying, 'Oh sorry da. So did you guys meet up last evening?' Who will fight with you and yet be back the moment they sense you need them, as opposed to blaming their absence on the fight. No, I don't have such friends. I have friends who are all genuine people in their own right. Yes I have my fun times with them. But the thing is, if I were to get stuck in a flood in the middle of the night or meet with an accident, I can't name one friend, not even one, who I would want to call, feel justified in calling, not feel bad calling.
Getting back to what Ma always says. 'Your friends will be there for you as long as you're having fun. The moment life starts getting turbulent, they'll be gone.' Ma, I wish that were true. It's just that, it just isn't.
I look around me, in my own friend's circles, and see I'm alone. Everyone, yes even the guys, has a friend they turn to for everything, a friend who doesn't use them just to go out for a drink when all their other friends have abandoned them. I guess, a best friend is what I am getting at. And the beautiful (too bad for you Noosh) thing is, the more I see my friends, the more convinced I am that the concept of a best friend does exist.
So assuming that I am the problem, what have I done wrong? Is it my selfishness? Is it my horrible directness? Is it my hatred for all things imperfect (one can't really hate oneself)? Is it my sour outlook on life. Is it my moodiness? Is it my temper?
Is it just that I am a bad friend in return?
Tin Tin
My sugar-coated caramel custard honey doll, Tin Tin died today. At a time in my life when nothing is in its place, he was the only one who made me laugh with joy, even without trying. He didn't expect anyting in return. The picky eater that he was, he subsisted on love, air and water. He was my white fluffy, furry ball of life, looney and love. Tinu hated being alone or going anywhere without my mom, dad or me. I hope he won't mind that we can't accopmany him on this last journey of his. The love of his life, Lola will miss him terribly. She knows something is wrong, she's shifting about restlessly and looking into our eyes looking for an explanation, not really wanting to know the truth. Lola, I know how much the truth hurts. The truth is like a spear, a spear that pierces the heart, the head, the tear glands.
Little boy was too young to go, just six years old. It was unexpected, making it harder to handle. For the past five days he was unwell, due to a liver problem, but even yesterday the doctor, after administering fluids, said Tinu should be up and about by this morning. But who am I to question? Who do I reason with? My dog died. I'll miss his prancing. His jumping when I come back home, even if is after stepping out for just two minutes and coming back in. His yelling and yelping. His running around the house like a madcap. His limp-bodied craving for a cuddle. His persistent tug at the leash. I'll miss calling him by his numerous/zany/irrelevant/irreverant pet names. I'll miss the family unit. Mummy, Daddy, Tin Tin, Lola and me. Please take care Tinu.
Little boy was too young to go, just six years old. It was unexpected, making it harder to handle. For the past five days he was unwell, due to a liver problem, but even yesterday the doctor, after administering fluids, said Tinu should be up and about by this morning. But who am I to question? Who do I reason with? My dog died. I'll miss his prancing. His jumping when I come back home, even if is after stepping out for just two minutes and coming back in. His yelling and yelping. His running around the house like a madcap. His limp-bodied craving for a cuddle. His persistent tug at the leash. I'll miss calling him by his numerous/zany/irrelevant/irreverant pet names. I'll miss the family unit. Mummy, Daddy, Tin Tin, Lola and me. Please take care Tinu.
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