A tryst with the close of the year

I've been writing posts dedicated to December for a couple of years now...it's a month when I am able to return home, sans marking, exonerated from the whirlwind of an existence I lead in another land, a time when I can give myself up in complete surrender to the days of childhood which have slipped me by, to the years of adolescence which have waltzed by ere I could pick up the rhythm of the dance, and just envelop myself in the warmth of the walls which are silhouetted with memories and fledgling dreams and hopes. The end of the year lends itself to moments of calm reflection and deep introspection over the year that was...the feathers it may have added, on so many levels, on the cap of one's life...it is the time for laughing, for no particular reason, a season of innocent revelry, innocent because it's devoid of tangible expectation, which one might find unavoidable in most professional/ academic scenarios...every year, I come back to the same home, the same city, in the grip of time's relentless brush, I see an added wrinkle on the face of a loved one, a slight crease of smiling eyes, a more pronounced limp in someone's walk, a wall slowly discolouring with the onslaught of days...and I also notice renovations, repair, creation, new constructions...I try to find the familiar amidst the inevitability of change, to draw comfort from the blanket of untarnished emotions which cover the realm where I can never return.
And if I look upon the city through the eyes of a dearly loved one,who is slowly witnessing the nuances of the city I call home, I feel like I'm gazing upon everything for the first time, through a curtain of familiarity, juxtaposed with the wonder of discovery...the feeling of disorientation mingles with exhilaration...to hold someone's hand and take the person back with me, to relive the childhood which we can now both experience, through the narration of simple life events, pointing out never-quite-forgotten by-lanes, manufacturing precious memories in unfamiliar shops which will remain ever etched in the mind's canvas, associated with certain spaces, memories tucked into the corners of particular places...and then one's consciousness, one's remembrances and the other person's sincere eagerness and genuine interest and generosity of spirit, can amalgamate and form a time machine like no other...and Time becomes continuous, running parallel to its many planes, at once in the past, seated in the present and hopeful of a sanguine future, a repository of shared revelations .

A piece of Love

Love seems to me to be the most perplexing of emotions...what does it really seem to signify? We yearn for the wisdom of spiritual leaders who preach this language of love...that it should be unconditional, that we should grow in love and give of ourselves no matter how harsh situations seem, that it is the only vital thing which keeps us rooted, gives meaning to the radnomness of existence...yet, this is an emotion which most of us are cautious and careful with...we reserve the intensity of this feeling for those who we deem worthy of it...or we invest in those from whom we are quite assured of reciprocal returns...when somebody hurts us we find it difficult to tolerate, let alone like, and least ever, to love them...so how do we cope with the harsh realities of the present world? Why is there this feeling of disconnect between the 'real' and the 'spiritual?' Why do we always pay deep respect to virtues such as mercy, charity, sacrifice, forgiveness, but in reality we are willing to renounce all or at least some of the above, at the altars of success and survival, which so often overlap in today's realm of cut-throat competition?
It is necessary to defend oneself and one's interests...that is very true...but how do we reconcile spiritual and moral teachings with this language of self-protection? Should we speak to the people who are being unfair to us in a language which they can comprehend, i.e., by giving them a potent dose of their medicine? But then how true are we being to the spiritual promises which we readily make, to love and forgive no matter what? Being human is hard, and all these lofty and meaningful aspirations which we acquire or start out with in all earnestness, get trampled under the ruthless circumstances of this complex world...and this is but natural, because we are an amalgam of emotions , we are sensitive, we have feelings...But if everyone and no one is right and wrong, simultaneously, can we ever reach the elusive path where all these multiple perspectives can walk hand-in hand and not cause so much pain and grief...
When one is gripped by the feeling of injustice, of being treated unfairly, of being subjected to behavior which one doesn't think one deserves...one might proceed to do many things...to return the treatment he/she receives, in the spirit of tit-for-tat, wallow in self-pity and depression, or perhaps, if one is lucky enough to have a pair of ears to vent to, they might empty their hearts to one who doesn't judge, and then move on with life...but the world values those who are pro-active and assertive...which nowadays implies being tough and defensive...is there value in quiet resilence, in the world today?...the ideas of tolerance, patience and deliberate passivity in the face of provocation, have amalgamated into an indistinguishable heap.

Shades...

I was tempted to change the title of this to 'shades of grey,' but I changed my mind for reasons more evident than evident can be...off late, I do feel that absolute truths are absolute illusions, that perspectives are enriched through diverse multiplicity, that shades of black and white cease to exist in a time of sepia-tinted truth...that truth too is flexible, subjective, subject to constant change, a constant flux of right and wrong...the sheer possibility of varied interpretation of each episode I encounter, stuns and baffles me, and yet I simply cannot help looking at the two, or sometimes three (and usually plenty more) sides to every story, of every argument...I do feel akin to a photographer, who dons a different set of lens and takes several shots of the 'same' scene...the 'same' sight, just that once the angle of the camera has been changed, the perspective changed, the whole picture looks altered, sometimes unrecognisable...and I begin to feel that if we could simply look at life through multiple lenses, it might be somehow a little easier to understand the motivations behind the actions of various people, not in a bid to merely justify their actions, but to comprehend their intentions a little bit more...thereby, hopefully, making us more tolerant, more flexible, more malleable, despite valuing individualism and firm conviction...I think teaching GP might have something to do with it...the arguments and counter-arguments which punctuate the ebb and flow of life...

LUCY...and the connections I made in my mind...

So we went to catch Lucy last weekend...the trailer looked interesting, and we were all anticipation...but what struck us most about it was that it transcended its own premise of being quite the thriller, and opened up infinite possibilities of philosophical thought...how when, indeed if, we put our brains to full use, we become so intricately connected with all the aspects of our surroundings, that we are everywhere and nowhere all at once...our scope becomes so vast and limitless that we cannot be contained within the contraints of one body, within the temporal and spatial restrictions that would impose on us...that we are able to look at things from such an immense height of enlightened understanding, we begin to fully comprehend the bigger picture, and thereby control our emotions, by placing them against the grand tapestry of life...we become infinite and hence eternal...that which knows no bounds can never die, and never exist either...we become one with the world, and this both defines, ehances and yet weakens and undermines our individual identities...our idiosyncracies bow in the presence of the moods of the universe...we are liberated by this intricate and universal connection...how well Tagore had captured it, I couldn't stop myself from thinking as I left Golden Village, (the movie theatre), as the song which kept repeating in my head was "Tomaro ashimey prano mon loye..." My interpretation of this song is that for Tagore, the idea of God is embedded in this realm of the infinite, this heightened perspective which helps us moderate our many emotions and feelings in the light of the bigger picture, which is the vast and infinite universe...so, in the end, my conclusion is that the full use of our brain capacity has been predicted by the brilliant Romantic poet, William Blake, eons ago: “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.” ― William Blake, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell

Somewhere over the rainbow

'Somewhere over the Rainbow/way up high/there's a land that I heard of/once in a lullaby...' Yes, a song of wish fulfilment, a wistful yearning for that one place where the troubles, little or big, of this worldwill no longer plague us, as George Orwell termed it in Animal Farm, the Sugar Candy mountain each of us secretly or perhaps even openly craves...but in Animal Farm, we see that the people who oppress others the most are the ones who promise the assurance of this paradise to those they put through torture...the idea that suffering eventually will liberate us from suffering...a problematic idea, because this can serve as a justification to continue oppressing others...but sometimes, though this statement is fraught with complexities, one can't help but close one's eyes and think upon that land... Alright this will be a rambling post...echoing the long walks my mind revels in taking...I am posting a poem by John Clare here, which I love: >I Am! BY JOHN CLARE I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky. What strikes me in particular about this poem is that despite being dismissed or critically judged by elements of the world, Clare's own self-belief is largely unshaken as he firmly establishes his identity and asserts "I am!"

Flow

Off-late, I have been investing a lot of my emotions and a great deal of energy into teaching...pedagogy...the art and the science of teaching and learning...how do I transform all those years of education I received into 'good grades' for my students? How will my knowledge and the manner in which I transfer it convert itself into an alphabet of utmost importance on another's certificate...and that of course leads to the bigger, age ol question of whether education is really so quantifiable, methods of assessment and how best to guage learning... Besides which, life hasn't been a bed of rose petals, I've encountered the pricks of thorns, but the wounds didn't bleed as much as they infused me with some sort of unknown strength to persevere, to better myself, to bury any semblance of an individual ego into the soil of unimportance, and replace it with the bigger picture of commitment and service which I have set out to pursue...it is when one learns to focus deeply on the intent of the action, the true motivation for one's work, does some modicum of peace prevail, despite certai humbling moments... A song by Tagore peforms an act of inspiration every time...and propels me forwards, through this tempest called life... "Ami marer shagor paari debo..." Tagore If i may atttempt a rough and rudimentary translation, or rather transcreation of this song perhaps... "I will cross the tempest-tossed and difficult sea, At the pace of an enraged storm, As this is the way in which I can encounter and overcome my fears... I will put my trust in Divine assurance, And ride on a broken sail, My boat will reach your secure port, Under the shade of your sheltering tree I know my way will be paved, By the One whose purpose I'm fulfilling, I only hope that I may untie myself From my native shore And traverse the journey with courage... For when my day comes to an end, I will bear the blood-stained flower Of my hard, hard days And lay it as an offering To convey my acts of service At Your feet."

Comparisons, or such

I have just finished reading The Fountainhead, recommended to me by a significant someone, whose opinions I really greatly value...and I recently re-watched Ray's Aguntuk, (translated as 'the guest,'), a film I remember watching with my parents as a child, when I was too young to appreciate the subtle brilliance of Ray's last work...and I will try to compare Howard Roark, the protagonist of 'The Fountainhead,' with Mitra, the protagonist of the film by Ray. Let me begin with Aguntuk, a film which Ray adapted froma short story he had written, bearing the name 'Atithi,' which also means guest...my father always maintained that out of Ray's brilliant corpus of work, this one resonates the most with him...I am sure scholars of great erudition and excellence have written reams about this particular film, but I would like to do what the literary critic I.A. Richards termed 'practical criticism,' without reading any critical material on it (comprising of a close reading and incisive analysis of the core text)... How to read a film text like 'Aguntuk' closely? It is analogous to a multi-layered desert,whose sands have built up over the journey of time...indeed, it seems to be a textured culmination of the many beliefs Ray might have acquired over his years as a director, writer, artist and indeed thinker. Debate is crucial to this film...and indeed there are a number of binaries which Ray explores, through the eyes of the protagonist played by Utpal Dutt...and these binaries, which are seeming oppositions, are critically challenged, and their lines are blurred through the course of the film... "Civilisation" and "savagery," are pitted against one another, by a seemingly suave but ultimately narrow-minded barrister, where civilisation seems to stand for unprecedented scientific and technological progress, such as the triumph of NASA...and much of this is attributed to the West...whereas "savagery" is condemned as primitive, regressive and indeed lascivious...Dutt's character, howver, challenges these simplistic views and speaks of the presence of many Native tribal groups who live in the "West," and recounts his encounters with the natives of South America...he distils the notion of urban hegemony which is always associated with the West ,in favour of a more inclusive world view,and an objectively critical analysis of "civilisation," which is capable of performing savage and brutal deeds like waging nuclear warfare, annihilating masses of people and obliterating certian histories while favouring others...for him, science and technology are not the sole prerogatives of those residing in the urban space...he speaks of the different invenetions created by tribal groups, and how their contributions to science are of no less importance...the idea of cannibalism,attributed to 'savages,' is also decimated by Mitra (Dutt's character, as sophisticated civilisations are no less hungry for human blood (wars, wars and more wars)...one wonders if Ray had the idea of the "Noble Savage" ('The term noble savage is a literary stock character that expresses the concept of an idealized indigene, outsider, or "other" who has not been "corrupted" by civilization, and therefore symbolizes humanity's innate goodness.' Source: Wikipedia) in mind, and if there is a certain idealisation at play...are chracters like Mitra and Howard Roark analogous to this concept, somehow? At the core of the film is a deep awareness of the problems embedded at the heart of humanity, of how institutionalised religion is employed as a tool to divide members of the human race, and Mitra consciously compares this with the caste system, an artificial, deplorable and hideous method of categorising human beings with hierarchical labels...who decides these systems? People. Why? To oppress and rule, to literally divide and rule. The whole film, then, is an indictment of, a criticism of, the easy stereotyping we have become increasingly prone to, the tendency for us to generalise without a deeper probing of the several issues at hand...and it is also a hymn to open-mindedness, which is why Mitra refuses to be a 'frog in the well,' he would rather be a 'guest' who renounces the idea of a permanent home and makes the entire world his home, and yet not his home, all at once...home suggests permananence, but to Mitra, the idea of a fixed Home implies stagnation, complacence and an attitude of narrow-mindedness...it is when one is willing to explore the unknown facets of the world, and keep rolling like the moss-less stone, does one realise, at some level, the real meaning of being human, being grounded and being universal...he refuses to be labelled, refuses to be constrained, refuses to fall into any one strict category...he chooses to live in a state of tentative learning, to build his firm convictions, he chooses to remain the 'outsider' the 'eternal guest... And this brings me to Rand's 'The Fountainhead,'where one encounters the fiercely individualistic Howard Roark, who refuses to conform to pre-conceived notions of architecture and wishes to break free of the jaded 'canon' of architecture, if one may call it that...in his endeavour to establish a unique and idiosyncratic style, in his attempt to extablish creativity over hackneyed replications of past monuments, he refuses to compromise on his artistic ideals, to a point of economic failure, where he renounces the idea of a stable job, as that would compromise and weaken his professional views...to him, the idea of his designs are sacred to a point where he refuses to bend and adapt them to suit the needs and requirements of clients and colleagues, whose needs and requirements have also been shaped by the dictates of society, and not by individual intellectual thought...so, can a comparison be proposed? Both Mitra (from Aguntuk) and Roark (from The Fountainhead), choose to remain outsiders, strangers to the mainstream, 'normative' notions of society, they choose to remain unsettled, wanderers of the world, (Roark moves around from place to place, with his work too), both remain uncompromising in their individual convictions but have a vision of society, a vision with a lot more clarity and analysis, than those living at the very heart of the system, people whose minds are dictated by artifical conventions, by narrow-minded prejudices, and by a staunch refusal to accept change? In a section of 'The Fountainhead,'Gail Wynand and Dominique have a conversaion about the idea of 'homelessness,'a conversation which brings both Mitra and Roark to mind...while one travels and studies anthropology, the latter moves around because work is home for him, he flows with his work, refusing to 'settle' for anything which will marginalise his creative prowess...even if others consider the work 'demeaning' and 'beneath him,' which he never does... Roark and Mitra both learn through thir travel, their wanderings, Roark exploring unchartered territory through trying out different modes of work...but both retain the essential 'goodness' of human essence...Roark is ever willing to help climbers like Peter Keating, because the idea of contributing to architecture is more important to him than the petty competition of human egos...and Mitra is willing to sacrifice a large sum of money, which he could have put to use, to a niece he hardly knows... Both characters are liable to be misunderstood, as they consciously define themselves against what is deemed as 'acceptable'according to conventional social standards...both are viewed with varying degrees of suspicion and fear, as they have the potential to disrupt the comfortable notion of the status quo, the complacent hidey-hole which we like to keep our heads buried under...like the dynamite which Roark literally uses to demolish a particular construction, both characters may be viewed as metaphorical dynamites, waiting to blow pre-conceived prejudices away. Suspicion seems to be common to both these works, suspicion of the 'unknown' and this suspicion breeds from pure ignorance, from a limited view...in the case of Ray's film, of a limited understanding of the lives of others, for example, the lives of rural tribes, who are easy to label, and in Rand's work, the limited knowledge of architecture beyond the brainwashing and promotion of the tried and tested styles from the past...quite forgetting that Renaissance art which is endorsed by mainstream architecture, was also the result of a creative re-awakening from the stale stupor of the Dark Ages...and not a mere imitation of art from the past...this brings out another common theme...the hesitation to try something new, the reluctance to let go of 'safe' traditions in favour of that which is changing...Roark and Mitra are seen as subversive elements, dangerous to the illusion of stability... The idea of brainwashing is also seen in both texts, film and novel...in the former, the character played by Mamata Shankar, finds it hard to resist the lair and lure of suspicion as she is convinced by her more cynical husband ( and the husband is a symbol of the world in general, cynical to a point where all are guilty until proven innocent), of the potential for peril in Mitra...and in the latter, 'thinkers' like Toohey are shown to wield immense influence over the masses...and people are willing to adopt these views without careful thought or consideration, judging those like Roark without attempting to understand his philosophy, vision or work ethic... Which brings me to a final reflection for now...that on identity...what is identity? How is it defined? Can it be restricted to the pages of a passport? Mitra from Aguntuk says it cannot...identity is revealed through time...and his ultimate act of altruism, where he donates his inherited property to his niece, is testimony to his character...Howard Roark's identity is revealed through his work...the work which will stand the test of time...his personality is engraved in his buildings, and hence his identity transcends the trappings of labelling, and soars, literally in the forms of his buildings, unparalleled and uncommon, over the skyline of the city... ne could go on, but this is hardly an academic paper...it is just an outpouring of thoughts and reflections, which needs much work,much revision and much more careful thought...

What being Bengali means

On days when I sit alone in my room,here in distant Singapore, I feel a sense of wonder at where I am, why I am here and sometimes indeed, who I am...how do I define my identity? To what aspects is it inextricably tied? What does it mean to be a girl? What does it mean to be a twenty something in the realm of education? What does it mean to be a Bengali? I think back to a story I had written as a teenager, something quite preposterous, really, to the effect of aliens from some far off galaxy taking over the world, and how the world was forced to unite as one to ward them off...and display an alarming degree of unity in diversity which is seldom found today, where battles are fought on a daily basis based on human created divisions...why then, am I so passionately attached to the language I inherited from my parents, the "cultural inheritance" I stepped into, by the mere virtue of my birth, my geographic location, the space of the universe which I had been chosen, without consulation to inhabit. Sometimes I ask this question: am I a Bengali solely by chance? A spin off of probability, a result of the many probable permutations and combinations of possibilities? Perhaps...but did Einstein not once say that 'God does not play Dice?' Am I Bengali for a reason? Do I have something to live up to? Do I need to learn something? Do I need to rectify something about this abstract notion of culture? Let me dwell on what I perceive as being Bangali...I don't think concrete answers are feasible...maybe It consists, in part, of long ago mornings when I would cling to my father's fingers, and he would slowly wrap his fingers around that thin little wrist, and take me to the bazaar...the streaks of silver, gleaming in the early morning sun, reflecting off the bodies of the fish being sold, always dazzled my eyes...the streaks of blood as they were pried apart on a 'boti,' the scales flying helter skelter, the sellers wiping their foreheads with the backs of their hands, tired after their several transactions, the stray cats hovering around, in hope of a scrap or morsel or bone...the visits to numerous sari shops with my grandmother, how she was friends with all the salesmen and women, how they would ask me which class I was in, while my grandma admired and admonished the quality and textures of the complicated (they seemed complicated to me at that time, because they reminded me of bed sheets)...how the colours would dizzy me almost, the textures varying in degrees of softness as I tentatively touched a few...the visits to the houses of guests and relatives with my mother, being force fed sweets,in keeping with the stereotypical (perhaps) hospitality, being called too skinny, being asked to recite poetry, being scrutinised, occasionally praised,always entertained... Learning the Bengali alphabet, the beautiful letters, and in my opinion the most beautiful language in the world, though I acknowledge the greatness of every other, writing the letters wrongly at first, being reprimanded... my school, Calcutta International School, Mrs. Chatterjee's pedagogical approach,Mrs. Lal's goodness and nature worshipping, (how we buried a butterfly which no longer had the life to flutter by),the early morning school bus rides, the conductor uncles, the cosmopolitan feel of mutual respect of those from varied communities... Dakshinapan, the quaint shopping complex, the store which sold me a defective toy near Park Circus, the inexplicable and delirious joy derived from Durga Pujo, the smell of the season of Shorot, the blessing of unfurling and unravelling the songs of Tagore,the mesmerising beauty of his emotions and feelings, presiding over this City, almost uniting it, in its grasp of deep thoughts, simple feelings and ultimate connection. The December mornings of awakening to hot tea, the quick evenings, the lngering nights... Jadavpur University, where cigarette smoke (which I hate) mingled with 'adda,' the quintessentially Bengali term for conversation...where we learnt the complex theories of literary analysis, where we made friends, where we forged connections, where we broke our hearts when connections did...where each of us harboured a secret crush,perhaps, where I was too shy outside the classroom,where I never bunked a lesson and thought I should on the last day and just sat outside the class and watched others copying notes...copious cups of iced lemon tea and those evenings on the grass by the Jheel, a little lake,as evening descended in circles of pink, and our day was coming to an end, and the time for spending at home was approaching... The city, my city, which always welcomes me by default, where I have been born, a decision I have not made, I have not consciously taken, but a decision which I will strive to live up to...the enlightenment of Ramkrishna, the way in which he acknoweldged and respected multiple religions, the social awakening of a collective conscience by Vivekananda, the altruism and compassion towrds women shown by those such as Vidyasagar...the beautiful smile of Mother Teresa, who realised that home was where one chose as well...the crisp prose of Leela Majumdar,the movies of Ray, oh, everything, there is so much to live up to... And these make me Bengali...

It's so nice to be able to see words flow out, from their abstract state of formless diffuseness in my mind, to the tangible reality of typed words...how thoughts can become ideas, form themselves into outcomes, whether measurable or not... because one can't live off ideals alone...one needs to give them shape and mould them into aspects of reality... in other news, I just came back from home, and am suffering the pangs of lonesome homesickness, which faithfully fly back here with me each time...when I go home each time, I begin to fear that I'm moving further away from it...the change is not necessarily noticeably discernible...the house looks the same, the TV hasn't moved, a microwave may have been changed, magnets might have been added to the doors of refrigerators...ouch, I miss the feeling of thankful abandon I feel when I go home...it's like I can slip into a state of pre-lapsarian peace the minute I put myself down on the nearest chair... My mind is inclined to recline in happiness...

zzz

While sleep slowly seduces each lash of each eye... No, I don't know what I/m saying. I'm feeling a soporific spell settle around me...I should write more later...

Ray

I'm remembering unforgettable moments of Satyajit Ray's profoundly brilliant work, on the anniversary of his leave from Earth. He is so much a part of my being...and the part of so many, the world over. One of the very first conversations I Remember registering as a child, was one in which my parents were passionately discussing the beautiful Pather Panchali, the first of the Apu Trilogy...the train hurtling through the rural midst, the Kash flowers, the poignant death scenes, one of the quiet l scenes towards the end, which remains with me, where Apu throws an ornament belonging to Durga into the water...as I grew up , I grew into the realm of Ray...the exquisitely subtle romantic exchanges in 'Apur Sansar,' specially when Apu, in all earnestness, asks Aparna, 'tomar chokkhe ki achhe bolo toh?' and she replies 'Kajol...' simply, meaningfully. Growing up with Feluda, Soumitra playing the role to the hilt, getting excited every time one of the movies was screened on the telly. How we thrilled to the wonder of 'Shonar Kella,' without fail, Everytime we watched it...the magic of Ray's Rajasthan casting its faithful spell on us, how we surrendered in eager abandonment to the splendour of Varanasi, captured like no other director could or can, in Joy Baba Felunath.' in grateful understanding of the intelligent symbolism, always so subtle in movies like 'Mahangar,' and 'Jana Aranya...' feeling passionate emotion and with 'Devi...' in which Ray deals with how easily we confuse superstition with spirituality and the gender politics which accompany this...and my eternal favourite, 'Charulata,' which we studied at the excellent Jadavpur University Department of Film, ( Mrinalini Ghosh :)))....where the sheer layers of nuanced analysis stimulated the mind beyond comprehension ...to say nothing of his marvellous short stories which I could read and re read at any given hour and his interviews which are sharp and articulate ...and to think that I have touched upon only a few of his films and indeed only a very few aspects of his multi faceted artistic genius

...

The more I swim In the sea of love, I see The complex beauty of Vulnerability. As I drift away From the world’s commotion Into that remote Microcosm of devotion, I marvel at the perplexing depth Of this limitless ocean Of the baffling range of emotion. I learn to give That which I never knew Reposed within… The ebb and flow With which we begin, The searching and finding, The mysterious binding, Of soul to soul, Of heart to heart, Where does it all start? I receive your gifts Of Time and Care, They give me a glimpse Of a sight so rare, So pure is your warmth, So clean is your soul, That it makes my scattered world, Assemble into a whole. So deep are your eyes, When they are locked in mine, So earnest, so searching, I feel like merging Myself with you on so many levels… How does one preserve This pulsating intensity? How does one maintain The passionate density Of feeling packed with feeling, Without reeling Away, into a realm Of indifferent dismay? How does one avoid Slipping into apathy, With the passing of time? Indifference, to me Is an irreversible crime. How best to evade The dilution of feeling, With each changing clime? How can one retain The early notes of Love, So tentative, so tender? How does one learn to treasure And remember, The thrill of each unfurling sensation, The strength of every emerging foundation, On which a relationship learns to stand? Shakily, steadily, like a sailor back on land, Pulling himself through the slippery sand, (After a long and lonely voyage Until Solitude disbands) How do two identities, Each so distinct, Amalgamate in unity, In moments of harmony? In sudden resonance, Despite spells of dissonance? These answers I seek not I had rather let, Love’s river carry me, to a land Where I may never forget That Life is too short To lose love in regret.

Post following an evening stroll around NTU, Campus revisited

Once in every fleeting while, if one happens to revisit places of the past, chance upon unexpected flowers and familiar routes, take in the mandatory change and sameness, and look up at the transitional sky, and realise how different situations seem with lapses of time, with changes in relationships, indeed with diurnal and seasonal variation, one can actually surrender in wonder to life's constant vicissitudes, one can remember without stings of pain, one can laugh at that which may have once hurt, one can consciously forget and unconsciously smile without quite knowing why...sigh...contentment lies in company of the self and the special others

A poem by P. Janya

It was not in the night that the darkness evolved, For darkness is not a being but a mere state. The state of being and not, For it evades the lightened heart. We walk through the past, present and the future times, Hand in hand, soul in soul.... We relive the happened times, for we live again through the days of yore, We live through the sorest of disdain, as people evolve with the passing times, The times were bad but the smiles were real, And we live again and again.... As we smile at the darkness that evolves into a glorious dawn." ~ P Janya.

In the mood for...?

First and foremost, I am in the mood to write...Thunder is rumbling in the far off sky, my staff room has this sleepy, cold and yet somehow soothing feel to it today...or is the feeling of calm within, a sense of reconciliation with the self and the world, with its abundant goodness and necessary obstacles? I have been having deep conversations with people very close to me, off late, a treat indeed...and the other day I was just thinking of how one of my favourite books, (in fact, quite a universal classic) ended...I'm speaking of 'To Kill a Mockingbird,' where Atticus, lawyer, father, but most of all human, passes on a gem of wisdom to his children...of how the best way to understand people is to walk into and creep around in their skins, how, when and if we do that, we can't possibly label ANYONE bad...and someone extremely close to me offered his views on looking at things from a range of perspectives and how that sometimes deters him from taking extreme stands...this ackowledgement of multiple truths, co-existing in, often divisive subjectivies, can ironically help to unite us...I read Harper Lee's work when I was 14, but it seems to be just yesterday when my father, who would talk about the book all the time when I was growing up, deemed me old enough to read it... At that point in our lives, his mother was suffering from cancer, and it was trying, emotionally, spiritually and physically...and he took me out one day and said that I was ready to read the book...I didn't realise until after I read it that my father didn't buy it for me earlier as the book dealt with the topic of sexual transgression, (No spoilers) around which the court case Atticus fights on behalf on Tom Robinson revolves. I've always been in awe of people who fight for those who are denied a voice, for people who are not afraid to speak up against perceived 'wrongs,' without a heed for their self-interest...and for Atticus to conclude that it is difficult to label people 'bad,' after the slew of experiences he and his family go through, after the jaw-dropping denial of justice and truth, at least on a legal scale, after the physical assault on his innocent son, for him to say that, is one of the most heightened processes of ethical evolution and acceptance of the world I have or will possibly ever see...I think Atticus could serve as a role model for all the parents of the world, and the genius of the book lies in Lee's choice of Lens---she narrates this story of complexity, racism, inherent prejudice and coming to terms with the world,people and situations through the eyes of a five yea rold child, Atticus's little girl, Scout. And this takes me back to another man whom I admire so immensely...Abraham Lincoln, who, for me, is the example of one of the finest models of humanity...as I mentioned earlier, I have and will immensely admire hosts of people who have fought for the deliberately down-trodden, have taken firm stands against oppression and injustice...be it Dr. Ambedkar, Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Touissant L'overture to Martin Luther King...but here we have a White President, undermining, disregarding his position of privilege as a White, as positions of privilege often breed indifference towards the plight of the 'other,'because those in this seat of comfort are not active sufferers, but silent, sometimes distantly sympathetic observers, when they are not the perpetrators...Lincoln, who uses his position of power, the seat of the President, to implement a necessary change,even if it means ruffling and throwing into disorder his immediate context, who is so committed to the notion of universalising the concept of his Gettysburg Address, that he risks his nation to the grip of Civil War, believing that it will once again be united through a common notion of humanity and according human rights to the unfairly treated, and isn't afraid to overturn the status quo...in his desire for the abolition of slavery... Moving on, I need to dwell on the four letter word which is loaded with lineage and legacy...LOVE...the more I experience it, in its various forms, in its infinite potential and glorious epiphany, the more I witness it, the more it rises, like a transcendental balloon, hovering over the reach of all, until one makes a concerted and active effort, to reach out...what is love? The quiet sacrifices parents make over years, from simple deeds like watching over their children eat, feeling full when they are fed, feeling rested when they sleep soundly, feeling happy when they succeed, feeling wronged if they are hurt, scolding them into self-rectification? Is love the emotion which makes you crave for a lot more than can be fit in to the temporal constraints of 24 hours a day, when saying goodbye to your partner, for a couple of hours makes you inexplicably yearn? Is it the calm assurance of holding the other's hand, deriving from that clasp physical and emotional comfort? Is it the way in which you begin to shape and fashion your identity in relation to someone else's, holding on to certain necessary independent beliefs, but willingly merging on others? Is it the burning feeling of wishing to be connected at all levels, at all times, in all ways, and trying to figure out how it was that you managed to survive on your own all these years without feeling the need to have always been with this other half of your whole? Of giving some part of your soul to another, which you didn't even realise existed? Of being half afraid that the dream will stir, that one might have to carry him/herself back to that state of loneliness which he/she had/have gotten used to, but will never, like Theseus's Ship, quite be the same, after love has taken one apart from that self...one can't be forced into a semblance of his/her former shadow... Is Love, then like a compass which gives one direction, but what leads us to that compass? Choices?Destiny? Divine Intervention? Human Intervention? Epiphanic inspiration? Intelligence? Common Sense?

Realities...

A thought has been nibbling quietly, in a secluded corner of my mind over the past few days, nay weeks, and I haven't given it as much thought as I should have, though it has steadfastly been calling out to me for a moment or two of reflection. It is to do with the changing nature of our "realities," at different points in our lives...for example, what might seem to be an indispensable part of our immediate lives at one moment, might be relinquished to the realm of that which "will never more be seen," at some point in the distant, or indeed near future... One can start at the level of the most minutely micro-cosmic...if I dwell upon the bone shaped pillow I sleep on at night, the grating phone alarm which tears me away from my tryst with Morpheus's land of sleep every early morning, the wooden floor which I drag my feet across in the early morning hours, the blue walls which blankly greet me everytime I look around at the walls, the sliding windows opening on to the Buddhist temple adjacent to our block, the old age home which my window looks upon...these are the immediate realitites, the absolute truths I open and close my eyes to every morning...these are the few things I can count on to remain the same, the realities which I can depend upon...for now... There might be days when I cannot predict the nature of my own moods, the content of the days events, whether I will receive a much awaited phone call, or have time to longingly meet some much awaited people...but this expectation which builds up is also a building block of the temporal reality of my present situation... When I am out with, for instance, a particular person, and we go out for a meal...his/her, (okay using one's is easier), one's side profile, the slant of one's face, the size of one's shirt, the scents of the day, the way in which one eats, indeed what one eats, the look in the person's eyes on seeing you, the hour at which one has to to part from the other and say goodbye, where one parts, (train stations, bus stops, below housing estates),all become part of our unquestionable though temporary realities...and I can't help but think that a day will come when these situations might change...for instance, if a point is reached, rather, when a point is reached when we decide to have meals in our homes, which was the case with my friends and loved ones in Kolkata, back home, we might sit together very differently...not in a semi-formal setting of a restaurant...we might sit across one another, on sofas, on mats on the floor, on the terrace...and the steady reality of having to eat out at restaurants in a foreign land will yield to another kind...when deadlines and time restrictions will slowly give way to new ones, before they too, change... The reality of my present moment constitues meeting the myriad job deadlines, making sure I make time for my loved ones, getting sufficient rest, negotiating fatigue, managing my time, coaxing myself into pursuing a few of the hobbies I held very dear...but these are so different from the everyday realities of my past...as a Uni student, my life was inundated with a deluge of rehearsal schedules for theatre, socialising with friends by watching intense films, studying for our ubiquitous tests and exams, attending lectures and seminars with unwavering enthusiasm (honest!) waking up later than I do now, diligently (umm, mostly...LOL) attending yoga sessions till the face of my instructor became excessively familiar, till our patterns of breathing matched, till our bodies resonated with the same rhythm... My reality then was just waking up and seeing my mother smile into my eyes every morning, kissing her blessed face, my father tuning us all into Rabindrashangeet, driving me to some very early French classes, waiting for my grandmother's early morning call, conjugating French verbs in my head while singing along to our car radio, and getting very confused in the process...of talking to certain friends daily, of the realitites of their rooms, of them in my room, of our endless threads of continued conversation, our sustained interests... Which again, was so different from the reality of my school days, when routine dictated me to board our school bus, bearing the number of 6162, of me watching out anxiously, hoping I didn't miss it...that number was uber important then , but 6162 just reposes, sleeps silently in my mind's corner, rendered useless unless in the realm of memory, until I stir it for a bit, before letting it rest again...of those assemblies at the Calcutta International School's 18 Lee Road porch, (which in its present day reality has been converted to a monstrous parking lot for a hideous shopping mall), Back in those days, 9 y-10 years ago, the reality of our school's court case with the owner of the shopping mall who wished to take over our space loomed big and large...of me of worrying about performing well on tests and exams, but mostly enjoying the process of learning, of exploring education to its extreme extent...my realities then were my HUGE, red coloured Biological Science text book, my yellow, (put me to sleep) Physics text book, a thumbed copy of Tennessee Williams's A Streetcar Named Desire, Mrs. Chatterjee's unique handwriting flooding my essays with comments, my electronic calculator which I needed for integration and trigonometry, the apple green colour of Barium's flame test, the swivelling motion of my hand as I performed titration experiments, the readings on the meniscus, the horror of handling a vernier calliper?(is that how you even spell it?)...I couldn't do without these...without these contents, my life would be rendered impossible to live...but now, I don't even possess a calculator, which was stowed away once the desired grades were received... But the realities of my mind, my priorities have also changed...from being the kind of person who moaned in despair if I got even a mark less than I had expected to, of always wishing to perform and excel, yes, indeed I believe that spirit of competition which used to rage (haha, well, maybe flicker) within me, has changed to one which is far less so...of one which is happy to just contribute to the trying to help others, to measure success in terms of touching lives is the aim I'm trying hard to work towards, and I have a long way to go ...a long marathon looms... I have touched upon, perhaps, just a tip of the tip of the ice-berg...but perhaps one could note that each indispensable reality, will in time, be replaced by a slew of others...it is all very dependent on one's sitaution...temporal and spatial...one reality will soon become a memory...near or distant...and the more one remembers, the more real the things which are out of our reach now, perhaps forvermore, will seem...if only for a brief moment or two...fleeting...fleeting...so I wished to photograph some of my remembrances in words...and I am taking in my present surroundings, my cubicle, with its sheets of marking, with my name etched over it for now, (which too will change once I leave, being replaced with the name of an unknown other, who I might never meet, though we will have occupied the same seat),the faces of my colleagues, the green cup of green tea by my side...

...

Sometimes I wish I could wake up to the sound of morning dew instead of my raucous alarm...to open my eyes to the beauty of Creation in the middle of the night, and blink up at the winking stars, their suffused, mellow light greeting me from a far off land though we have never crossed paths...to breathe in the smell of rain on the grass, to try and spot that fleeting transitional moment, wehen Evening pulls off her many hued garment, painted a soothing pink and purple, and dons the black garb of night...to wish upon the Orion, with Someone lying beside me, breathing evenly next to me, validating my existence by listening to the sounds of Night with me...to decipher the steady murmur of the insects, to yield in abandonment to the Quietness of the world, to the Stillness of our bodies and our minds, to the quiet Dynamism of the processes of the Universe which we take for granted...to consciously inhale the mix of air we do, the essential Oxygen and the non-essential ones, mingling in harmony with the aromas of our surroundings...our chests rising and falling to the rhythm of our lungs, as the internal body processes tirelessly, ceaselessly, go about their duty, while we live...the outer runnings of the Universe, the inner workings of the human body, the continuous and wavering streams of thought in our minds...the vivid nature of Creation, within and without, encapsulating us in its tight embrace yet liberating us with its evolving push forward.

Spun Sugar

Our college just completed its bi-annual fun-fair, where I got, among a host of other things, the opportunity to re-live at least one aspect of my childhood. The moment a whiff of cotton candy greeted my nose, I followed its enticing aroma through the whirlpool of food and game stalls which our college had become, and eagerly tip-toed my way up to two girls who were selling cotton candy, spinning crystals of sugar on that familiar, almost spherical (mostly round) machine, waiting for the cobwebby texture of the sweet treat to appear, before adroitly winding it around long sticks, coaxing it into a semblance of compact coherence. As I waited with increasing anticipation, for that melt in the mouth, smear-all over the face sensation to end up in my hands, my mind began to spin, much like the machine itself...centrifugal force, is it? And I had to, in spite of myself, draw an analogy with Life itself, and how its myriad events have spun around me, adding layers, weaving disparate dreams, each incident wrapping itself around another, to endow me with some sort of an identity...the spin of development, physical, emotional, cognitive and perhaps even spiritual, wove itself around the corners of my mind...and in the midst of this sudden reverie, the tangible and edible cotton candy was ready for me to devour, and, as I happily tripped my way back to my staff room, I realised that the moisture of the air ( or so methinks), was causing the wispy delight to shrink, to diminish...and my thoughts went back to a long ago day in Calcutta, temporally and geographically far removed from my present space, when my Grandfather had taken me out on our annual pandal hopping Spree in Kolkata...we would make our trip to the Park Circus Pandal during Durga Puja, which was near our Mayfair Road home, and he would firmly hold on to my little hand, because we were both petrified of losing each other in the chaotic crowd. Every year, my family would dress me up in some starchy new dress, a pre-requisite for greeting Ma Durga, and when I was deemed ready enough, my grandfather and I would patiently listen to a host of safety instructions from my mum and granny, before setting out into the sea of human energy which thronged the city streets. At Park Circus, we made our visit to the pandal first, to pay our loving respect to the Goddess who had undertaken an arduous journey from the Kailash, to visit and bless our land...and one particular year, we were both very moved to see that Ramesh Pal, the sculptor, had deviated from the usual model of Ma Durga's weapon piercing the evil asura...instead, the asura was shown pleading for mercy, his hands folded, his head bowed, his eyes repentant, while the Goddess generously blessed him with all her goodness...after folding our hands in prayer, we would head out to the carnival like fair, which was held adjacent to the pandal...where a riot of colour, noise and pushing and shoving encountered us...and I would beg to be taken on a few of the rides...and then I would give my grandad, 'THAT' look, which quietly implied, "it's candy floss time..." and he always obliged my little whim, in fact he obliged so many little whims, such as buying me a balloon everyday, for the longest time...but that one time, after he bought me the candy floss, he refused to let me eat it in that crowd, deeming it unhygienic and insisted that we walk out to the emptier road, before I laid my hands on it...but in the midst of all the bustle, he forgot to ask the weaver to put it into an air-tight plastic bag, but rather he carried it over his head, far above my reach, till we reached the outside of the 'mela...' by the time he handed it to me, it had shrunk to a quarter of its size, in fact, it was almost gone, with condensed, pink, liquidy crystals just about clinging in desparation to one another, blinking bravely back at me...I must have been about 6 years old, maybe 7, and I remember having howled in sadness all the way home, because it no longe resembled or even tasted like the soft, pink cloud I was used to... And this brings me back to the present moment again, as too much nostalgia, amidst the realm of grown ups, might well up in me an inexplicable desire to linger longingly in the bubble of the Past, (that which is never quite gone, but that which is never quite there...I can almost reach it, but never quite, so alluring and evasive it is)...is Life, then, akin to cotton candy? As we spin through it, or rather it spins around us, we keep growing, not just physically, but in all aspects of our existence...and once we stop that motion, and are exposed to a lull, a pause (repesented by the water vapour in air;)) do we become rather flaccid, shrink, almost diminish? What does this spinning motion imply? That we have to lead excessively hectic, frenetic paced lives, in order to grow and 'prosper?' Or rather, as I would hope with all my heart, does it mean that we shouldn't stop spinning our dreams, cultivating our hopes and nurturing our aspirations, making friends, entering meaningful, multi-dimensional relationships, and motivating our passions, egging on our wills, until the crystals of all such thoughts take on a tangible shape, are woven into an attainable, if fleetingly temporary reality? The sugar crystals, to me, seem to represent all the people I've known, all the incidents I've encountered, all the houses I've moved to, all the pillows I've slept on, all the books I've read, the characters I've met, the places I've loved, all the mistakes I've encountered, the faults I've tried and try everyday to rectify, the fears I've harboured, the hopes I've treasured, the stories I've created, the truths I've taught myself to believe...among a range of other things...and these are the ingredients of our lives, with which our identities are spun, and just as moisture almost deflates the pink mass, time will eat away at most of the superfluous layers around us, until we are left with only the sugar crystals which mean the most to us, which we value and prize the most... ranging from an unforgettable memory,the inexplicable satisfaction of a job sincerely done, a goose-bump inducing touch, a faint smell from the cupboards of the past, the sensation of a re-visited emotion, the stirring sentiment behind a tear, the beauty of vulnerability, the assurance of strength, the lessons of disillusionment, and the magnificent hope of a new, slowly unfurling dream, the varied texture of a bond (chemical, metallic, covalent, emotional, spiritual, physical): "What will we take along with us? If at all we do? What has become so ingrained in ourselves, That losing it, we will rue?" Just a meditation I wished to ponder upon, in the midst of a hustling and bustling work day.

Pottering

Somehow this morning reminds me of all things Harry Potter and I will now proceed to traipse down memory lane and re-acquaint myself with how I first met Harry and his gang...
I must have been 13 when  a very sad reason drew my family away from Bangalore, the city I was living in then, to Kolkata...the passing of my beloved grandfather, and a man who was kind hearted and generous and good down to the last sigh of existence...and it was on that trip, back to my eternal city of Joy, that my uncle and aunt gifted me the third part in the series..."The Prisoner of Azkaban!" ...and that was my first brush...and I was mesmerised from the word go...I slipped into the alternate universe so creatively moulded by Rowling...in an age where we were becoming increasingly reliant on technology, the book relied on magic...and I loved the way in which Rowling crafted the dynamics between the various characters! So I met Sirius Black, the eponymous prisoner of Azkaban, I hated Peter Pettigrew with every corner of my thirteen year old soul (and why am I assuming that souls have corners?) I was excited to be exactly as old as the characters in the novel...and boy, did I dislike the Dursleys...and did i want to try butter beer...
I've always ended up reading books in a series in a haphazard order...so it was only once we were ensconced in Kolkata post the Bangalore episode, that I began perusing the books again...I should have wriiten about this earlier, because now I am forgetting who it was who had lent me the second book to read...in vague recollection, I think "Chamber of Secrets," was lent to me by my dad's colleague's daughter...ahhh, yes, now I recall...by her indeed, my friend, named Nandini! This was a spell in my life when I was about 14, and a copious writer, who would eagerly contribute to ZOETROPE, the magazine publication of my dad's office, VESUVIUS! And at every office gathering, people kept coming up to me and asking me about stories I wrote...and ineveitably the discussion would always be diverted back to The Harry Potter Series... and it was so funny because often I asked them more questions about my own writing, than coming up with answers..(.Socrates exists in one and all)...I am also beginning to come to the conclusion that this post is also akin to a glimpse into my own childhood and adolescence...with Harry Potter as a central theme but also functioning as an excuse...okay, post that, I went to the annual Kolkata Book Fair and purchased Book number one with much glee! I reember discussing it vigourously with my many friends from my Grandma's building in Mayfair Road......Now to come to the next book. It was my beloved brother, who now lives in far away London, who got me very excited about " The Goblet of Fire," but this was also at a very sad juncture because it was the time during which my brother was staying with us as we took care of our ailing and ill grandma...so I always associate the fourth bookwith that time in my life...my dad's mum was diagnosed with liver cancer...and she was really dying by slow degrees before our eyes...and the most plaintive thing of all was, we hadn't told her how grave her illness was...and though we knew, we had to smile and be happy before her...and SHE in turn would comfort me and tell me that she would be better soon...there are some inexplcable emotions attached to " The Goblet of Fire..." I think I might have lay next to her, perusing it, while my brother smiled at us and smiled some more...a sad, sad smile...I remember that house in Jodhpur Park where I was living then, which I never liked , as to my young self, it seemed so different from the verdant wonder of Diamond District, the  complex I had lived in, in Bangalore...where my room had looked upon groves of coconut trees and the old airport...this room stifled me, but in retrospect, I now realise that it had liberated me...it was the place where, owing perhaps to a lack of excessive beauty in the surroundings, my imagination flew off, on the wings of birds, mostly crows, but sometimes, perhaps birds who were flying to far - off lands...I remember rushing back from school to discuss the Hogwarts Triwizard tournament with my bro!! And I am sure he had a crush on the Veela girl while I secretly liked the Quidditch player Krum, replete with his accent!
Book 5 came to me on my 16th birthday, I still remember that being the day when a German friend of my dad's sent us a bottle of white wine and I was deemed old enough to have a small glass full...we never have alcohol in the house, but white wine was an exception that day...and my grandfather had bought me this exquisite chocolate mousse cake, and the texture of the cake and the tang of the wine, and the company of my family, form a symphony in my mind till this date, interspersed with the text on the pages of "The Order of the Phoenix," stained by my tears to mourn Sirius Black's Death and how I hated Bellatrix Lestrange, despite grudgingly loving her name...
I was in CIS...my precious school, all the way until book 5...book 6 and I went into the college at the same time..."Half Blood Prince," was my way of bonding with all the various new friends I met at college...so it is special that way... and believe me when I say that I always suspected a hint of something between Snapeeeeeeeee and Lilyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.
Book 7 came at the time of post-grads...and somehow the craze was getting watered-down...so,e people said J.K. Rowling had become too commercial a writer, which was affecting he rart...but I immensely enjoyed all that came with the book...and was rapturous until the last page surfaced...
So, what makes the books special to me? Perhaps the fact that they are so intrinsically linked with my growing up years, they have peppered so many of my conversations with my friends....the fuel they have provided for thought and debate...the lessons learnt from studying the human relationships in the novels, the emotions so relatable to us, the sadnesses so stinging, the little joys so worth smiling for...

Well...

This is one of my long days at work, and I have been mostly diligent! Having finished with my lessons for the day and wrapping up my consults, I am now trying to accomplish the glorious tasks of eating my dinner, marking essays and resisting the temptation to write...the best way to stave off the final temptation, as Wilde would note with pleasure, is by me ending up yielding to it.
Sigh. That's a happy sigh, if a bit tired. My days have been glorious in all their difficulty, joyfulness, eccentricity, childishness, complexity, boisterousness and simplicity. In the midst of trying to figure out where I,indeed where we, figure in the complicated scheme of things, where laid out plans are foiled, carefully contstructed castles, (whether they float on air or are rooted on terrestrial soil) are pulled down and apart with alarming ease, I have been trying hard, often in vain, and sometimes with dim glimmers of evasive epiphany, to realise what offers one peace, contentment and stability in this seemingly mad maelstrom of event after event, emotion after emotion, place after place, face after face, small pleasures, small stings of pain, snatched moments of peace which seem unreal amidst all this chaos...what keeps one ticking?
I have also been wondering why I relentlessly think upon every issue I can possibly ruminate upon with such intensity these days...and whether it's a good thing to have all these parallel events so worthy of thought...

Increasingly, I find myself being told to let go, of old and perhaps childish ideals. Because childish is a bad word, is it not, in a world where the faster one grows up, the more chances one has of succeeding, of negotiating this complex maze of woven chapters...really? Weeell, not necessarily for me...for I have noticed that though life grows us all up, soon enough, that we begin to behave like uber responsible adults, do our work sincerely, meet deadlines, speak in tones of measured politeness, all these things have little to do with letting go of the eagerness and sincere emotions, the undiluted joys and the unadulterated pains a child feels...if one lets the child within die, one loses the concentrated elixir of pure emotion, that ultimate essence which makes life so exciting, so colourful, so vivid, so beautiful, so wondrous, so strange and yet so hopelessly hopeful. And retaining that innocence, if that could be the appropriate term, doesn't make one naive, stupid, foolish or an easy target for bullying...NO, I vehemently disagree...this innocence is not synomous with stupidity or silliness, it is protected by a charm of great wisdom, the golden keys are possessed by those who are wise enough to realise its worth, and not dismiss or discount its merits...
Am I rambling? I hope I am...it's so therapuetic to get all these thoughts out...does this innocence (will think of perhaps a better word), make one vulnerable to get hurt? Because one goes in to a myriad of situations, not armed with the well-worn defences of a weathered cynic, but with a great degree of hope and enthusiasm, which could get squashed, but which could also bloom...of course, the difference between childhood and adulthood being, perhaps, that a screen of caution is always on site, in sight, with varying layers of net...maybe
In other news...I have been enjoying the company of people...of friends who make my life so meaningful, who take the trouble to go out of their way, to help each other, be it answering my overseas phone calls, and calmly philosophising, be it going out of their way to accompany me when they sense I might need it, being there, in far and distant lands, like silent songs, waiting to spring into harmony, at the slightest touch of the musical chords.