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.

Krrish 3...SPOLIER ALERT!!!!! DISCONTINUE READING SHOULD YOU WISH TO WATCH THE FILM.

Perhaps it is by virtue of being a GP teacher. There, I have just gone and constructed a sentence fragment which I would underline with a squiggle, had I been marking. As a GP tutor, I have been reading up and explaining and engaging in a lot of discussion off late about the realms of Science and Ethics. Are they necessarily mutually exclusive? Can they co-exist in harmony? Is Science dangerous, does it hold lethal potential? Is human intention the main factor through which Science can manifest itself as good or bad? What is the most noble ideal of Science? To benefit the world of animals and humans alike? How subjective is the notion of 'ethics?' Does the definition change with varying situations? Why then are we seeing the creation of so much technology which is out to destroy? Do we foresee an apocalyptic future, with an Armageddon between Good (humanity?) and evil?(machines?) Or may it be the other way round? Are machines necessarily bad...of course not...then...is it the motivation behind the creation which will determine all that follows...

Questions of this order have been heatedly debated and discussed over the past few days: with students, my parents, my friends...

So as I stepped into Jurong Point's Golden Village to watch Krrish 3, I felt like I had stepped into the heart of it all...This will not be a very 'academic' post at all, just an outpouring (hmmm) from my heart...(hmmm again)

Okay, I might s well begin with a confession...of my love for the Roshan boy...he has always struck me as being an earnest, sincere and eager actor, and coupled with his, well, pulchritude, those eyes, that smile, and that nose (yes, it possibly sounds like I am in love, besides other things, with the way he looks) that I was determined to like the film...shallow as that may sound, I beg your indulgence, allow me a fan-girl moment... And I must admit that I have always thought of Vivek Oberoi as an earnest actor, though I must say that this was a far cry from one of his better performances.
So I was excited...despite having heard and read reviews which vehemently trashed the film.

Two scientists, both undeniably intelligent, endowed with resources galore and heaps of brains are on vastly different missions: one, to benefit humanity by utilising the Sun's infinite energy and the other, to wreak havoc on humankind through biological warfare...thereby underscoring the value of intention which detremines the use or/and abuse of science.

Can Man/Woman play God? Should we intefere with the processes of Nature? Should we be 'audacious' enough to follow in the footsteps of H.G.Wells's Dr. Morrow or those of Kaal, who gleefully merges animal DNA with that of humans?
The idea which has been picked up by many critics, and indeed a focus of the film itself, is that of 'playing God.' Kaal is trying to play God as he unhesitatingly and unflinchingly conducts cruel experiments on animals and humans alike, in a bid to fuse their DNA...some critics have very skillfully ( thanks, Captains Obvious) pointed out that Krrish and Dr. Mehra are also playing at playing God...they are trying to go out and save lives, actively do something to alleviate the misery of the everyday...indeed Dr. Mehra goes against God's dictum of Death and resurrects his only son with the help of his invention...but, hang on for a minute!!!!!! Is this even the issue at hand? In an age where we have witnessed the creation of a Vacanti Mouse, on which scientists grew a human ear for the purpose of organ transplant, in an era where animal testing is rampant, in an era where medical research is delving deep into how to cheat/push away death and disease, as exhibited by the increasing populations of the aged, are we not trying to gain more control over the world than we ever had? Stem cell research has used mouse embryonic cells...aren't we all in our own ways, trying to gain Power over the unknown? But the main and more pressing issue to me seems to be WHY we are doing this? Is it to benefit humankind? One could rightfully argue that we are violating the rights of animals just for human gain...and I do find that a valid claim. However, how can we simplistically say that Krrish should not blame Kaal for playing God because he and his dad are doing the same?

The point is simple...in fact it is so simple that it is dangerously easy to overlook...Krrish and his father are 'playing God' to do GOOD things...and for Believers like myself, God is an embodiment of ALL that is good, all that we should strive to be, the moral compass which directs and guides... Maybe one could argue that the definition of the word Good is subjective, but even by subjective parameters,  Krrish and his father's  intentions are not to harm or hurt...rather to help and relieve...they are not driven by cold and mercenary concerns ...they are not merely strategising businessmen who devise ways of making the most money with their limited resources...of spreading fear to increase demands for their medicine... the choice here is a moral choice...the tragedy here is, in our endeavour to be astute critics of what many consider a flawed story, we are losing sight of the motivation for evil lurking, in its beguiling and wicked splendor, in so many everyday situations...which we overlook...

And that brings me to a greater question. How many of us are willing to accept help in humility? That would mean acknowledging inadequacies of some sort...or do we seek help in an ungrateful manner, posing as if the helpers could not do without us...recalling the notion of the Hegelian master slave dialectic and the politics of dependence to mind.

Altruism versus megalomania could be the other: megalomania and altruism are not antonyms, but one could try and pitch them against one another in this case...I guess...Krrish and his father Rohit are willing to sacrifice their time, energy and blood for the greater cause of saving the world...they are intensely stirred by the suffering all around them...so emotions can catalyse great scientific inventions and discoveries...it's not only about cold, calculating and uber-logical beings, sitting in a semi de-humanised lab, trying to out-patent one another...which brings me to another theme...is logic necessarily devoid of ethics? Science is logical, ethics belong to the realm of morals...are they necessarily as different as we may  think they are? Kaal is an undeniable megalomaniac...though Krrish hides his identity, in keeping with the 'anonymous' vigilantes of the West, he has no clear desire for fame as he never reveals his true identiy...whereas Kaal, despite his metallic, and rather scrappy metallic get up, seems to be consumed by a burning desire for Power...power to be make money and gain control...but does "power corrupt and absolute power corrupt absolutely?" In the right hands, can power lead to benefits? Absolute is the enemy word...the key word, the 'absolute' term...can power co-exist with humility? Can it ever be a one man's world? The film hints a the power of collaboration, of finding the good within...

I was very curious to unpack Kaal's motivation for his unadulterated evilness...what could it be? Why does he wish to create a race of super humans and wipe out humanity? In an age where 'designer babies' and cloning are the topics of raging debates, one could take a minute out to wonder. Does Kaal associate all human beings with frailty, weakness, emotion and most importantly disability? Is it the fact that he is paralysed from head down which prompts him to somehow create a breed of creatures who will never be susceptible to such a condition? Are his machinations an indirect result of suffering? He himself is an experiment gone wrong...he is a guinea pig product of Dr. Arya's quest for a super human...a super human who has not evolved in terms of compassion or kindness...

Which brings me to another question: who is a super-human? Who is a hero? Possessing incredible powers is shown to be secondary to possessing the precious (and sadly, perhaps increasingly rare) qualities of compassion. selflessness and genuine sympathy/empathy for others...hence to 'evolve' into a super human, we don't need to depend on external powers of flight and might, but rather cultivate and cleanse the soul within...as the movie adroitly implies, Krrish is a state of consciousness, the potential for good latent or indeed blatant in each and every person...and on a more sinister note, one could also assume that there is a latent/blatant Kaal within each one of us...What is evolution? Would I be wrong to argue that as our back bone straightened over time, our integrity and uprightness should also grow stronger to evolve into a better breed of humanity? We should not strive for efficiency to a point where anything which is at once obviously necessary yet obviously superfluous should be sacrificed...empathy, sympathy, the act of being charitable, sometimes losing but actually ethically triumphing?

There is one thing which moved me immensely...during his battle sequnce with Kaal, Krrish, in a way which touched me, tries his best to avoid collateral damage...he does not accept "incidental casualties" (in the age of drones and nuclear warfare) with a practical shrug of his (gorgeous )shoulders...he values every human life, even if that "disadvantages" him...to the end, he is more a humane hero than a merely strategising one...and ofcourse, Krrish himself acknowledges that being human gives him strength and not weakness...

And the gratifying realisation that dawns on one at the end, inevitable and cliched as it may sound, is that love is indeed the answer...and we should not relegate this realisation to the realm of the hackneyed, because we cannot afford to take it for granted in an age of civil war, drones, violence and corruption. We cannot...th importance of love is grossly under-rated...it is a term which is hugely misunderstood...some experiences I have undergone and stories I have heard and hear everyday, validates this even more...

There are allusions...the notion of Eugenics...Kaal's desire to create the most superior of races calls to mind the obvious reference to the Nazis...the notion of two people, who are poles apart yet with unmistakeable similarities, drew Harry Potter and Voldemort to my mind...how everything depends on a choice...it is ultimately all in our hands...and despite the aching carnage induced by 'bad,' the movie re-iterates the hope of good, in some form or the other, triumphing in some way or the other, over evil...the fact that Kaal is 'playing God' while the brilliant and kind Dr. Mehra prays to God in humility, acknowledging a Power greater than himself, is another thought that struck me.

All in all, I thought Krrish 3 was thought provoking, creative and had its heart in the right place...of course it wasn't perfect, but to me, that was okay...there is nothing necessarily redeeming about perfection...maybe I would have liked it if there was more emphasis on gender...if Krrish and Priya's child had been a daughter...

Oh and a passing thought...the character of Kaya, de-humanised, epitomising inhumanity, manipulation and fabrication, too is capable of reforming her non-human self through Love...so the power of love can transcend the non-human as well...

I would recommend the movie, for though it might be easy to dismiss it, as some have, as juvenile and hackneyed, we live in a world, where increasingly, the values it protects are fast diminishing and are difficult to take for granted.

 

Morning

The morning breaks, in slow degrees of sunshine,
The first stirrings of a sleepy dawn,
Who shakes her tousled head ,
And reluctantly bids adieu
To night's comforting bed.
The clouds slowly awake,
To the touch of the first pristine light,
The warm glow of the sunrise
Is a fascinating sight.
The capricious breezes blow,
Sometimes swift, or slow,
And alarm clocks
Rouse those in slumber
To get them in their boats
To row
Through a new day.

I guess...

I guess absolute happiness is the illusory ideal we all seem to pursue silently and actively, determinedly and hesitantly...but the problem with this ideal is that nowhere is ideal...as I have often thought to myself these days, everywhere is perfect and not prefect, all at once...does that sound contradictory, because the idea of perfection seems to imply the exclusion of anything not pleasant...but honestly, the more I study things, they just seem to be two sides of the same coin...
Not all days are equally good...some days, teaching may bring an instant dose of immense satisfaction, and I often receive messages of warm encouragement from well-wishers who belive that the job that I wake up early each morning to rush to, will make a contribution of some sort which will benefit society. But then again, I wonder why so many memebers of this world, and indeed my own nation, talk about education as a very important tool, but refuse to give adequate, well, recognition to educators and teachers? If we hope to live in a knowledge-based economy, should our focus not shift to the quality of education which is ever so reliant on those who impart knowledge? I still feel that besides my family, my teachers are the beings who most profoundly influenced me and shaped my ideals and world views. There were those teachers who inspired us beyond imagination, whose memories still occupy a prized seat in prime positions of our minds.
That is the prime thought which motivates me to put my best foot forward and try to do my best though of course I have "miles to go," before I can rest in a more assured confidence of my skills.
Other days may bring discouragement, a lack of motivation, other personal problems such as feelings of homesickness and reconciling to the increased complexities which accompany growing up...
Sometimes when I crave rest and just lie on bed, my mind spins and wanders like an energetic top, spun by a very energetic child...so many thoughts move back and forth...and then I try to think back to how I kept myself very happy in the past...the other day I actually strolled in to Popular and strolled out with three volumes of Enid Blyton's short stories, which might seem preposterous for a girl of my age, but makes perfect sense to me...so in the midst of long hours of work, teaching, marking, happy and serious conversations, and reading Hemingway's 'A Farewell to Arms,' I have been peppering my moments with small doses of those familiar short tales from my childhood, and feeling an instant surge of re-connect and happiness.
As the days go by, I have to realise that a lot of Life is just about coming to terms with situations as they are. At a younger age, one might think it is possible to change the world, at least some of its aspects...but the only route to any change is really a change within, beginning with introspection and reflection and culminating in one's own actions. Of course, along the way one meets people to help, guide and share, but this primarily remains an individual endeavour and a deep dialogue with a Higher Being.

Current happenings

Yesterday, I decided to renounce the idea of taking a bus home from a shopping mall I had visited and decided to stroll through the evening instead. Yes, I did say stroll "through" it. Because as I walked, the evening seemed to be a sort of pink pool of thoughts, which I had to swim through, whose waters I had to navigate, whose curtains I had to part, to wind my way back home.
As I walked I gave myself up to intuition, to some inner compass which I trusted would guide me...I used to be and possibly still am rather hopeless with directions, but somehow, something seemed to lead me home, though I had hardly used this particular route before...and this seemed to me to be deeply symbolic of the life we lead...sometimes, we just have to believe in a Being which is Higher than ourselves, which helps us transcend our own little limitations...this Being may also reside within us, representing a certain unleashed potetential, a kind of unexplored possibility, which might be resting, latent, within us all.
And that is when, through the course of this walk, my mind began to wander...the past 2 and a half years seemed to unravel themselves, like an unfurling carpet, in my "mind's eye..." (thanks Shakespeare, for coining such apt terms, which we use at Will...pun intended)...how when I first arrived on these shores, I would take long and solitary walks around the Boon Lay area, and how awfully home and heart sick I felt. How I used never to enjoy those moments alone, and would call home and cling on to the voices of my family and friends. How I would sit for hours on the benches of the HDB parks, well not hours, but the minutes sure seemed to drag, and breathe deeply, trying to be brave and blinking back tears, ashamed at my 23 year old adult self exhibiting juvenile behaviour...how all my philosophy on how to enjoy each moment and take care to avoid homesickness, had flown off to another world.
I remembered how I couldn't sleep some nights on an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, with its cold white floors, bare white walls and dull brown furniture. How I craved the colour and warmth which danced in those homes I had left behind. How I craved to feel the presence of loved ones by my side. And how I sought confort in trying to introduce elements of the familiar within the unfamiliar...old books which I strewed upon the table, with scribbled messages from my lovely friends...how Rabindrashangeet would play on my computer late into the nights, very softly, of course...how I would close my eyes and imagine I had never left...I even remember some funny incidents with the laundry, how I suddenly decided to wash MOST of my wardrobe one day, and how the dryer wasn't working and how I had to desperately fan them into dryness over the next couple of days...
And slowly, suddenly, surely, rapidly, the new became more "un-new" (yes, I just coined that ridiculous term, not even aiming to match up to Shakespeare). When I was doing my ESE I found myself craving the rest and repose offered by the unfamiliar room on long and tiring days, how I suddenly looked forward to conversations with my new friends, how I craved certain suddenly familiar foods at certain frequently visited canteen shops...I began feeling less nervous during lessons and gaining some degree of confidence, how I began, very slowly, to feel less sleepy in the mornings...less tired through the day...time seemed to be a vitamin, pumping energy into my veins...
And how, suddenly, the city I was a foreigner in, began to open its arms to me , in ways both obvious and imperceptible. How Jurong Point, where I had spent so much time just trying to figure myself out in the sea of anonymity surrounding me, suddenly ceased to seem clinical and detached...how the roads suddenly seemd to spell meaning, how certain hours of the day called my name...I may sound very fanciful but this is how it seemed then, and how it still seems now...
Then we moved on to NIE, where we lived on a verdant and lush campus...that too had seemed so lonesome and distant at first...but how I quickly convinced myself that every moment I would enjoy or despair over, would become a memory I might miss the next...so I explored the campus and thrust a few inches of my soul into loving the place...the white flowers which sent out a haunting and too-sweet perfume at night still punctuate my dreams...those meals at the different cnteens, with me falling prey to some not so delicious and some delicous food, the times when my daddy visited me, and I jumped up and down with exquisite joy at the mere thought of meeting him at the guest house, how he would buy me all the groceries which I couldn't possibly store from this shop called Grocer...still makes me smile...and how when I told him ,"Dad, I don't have a fridge," he would insist I eat and finish everything that day itself...how I made so many new friends, the Indian canteen where I still remember mostly eating Western food...
How I used to go for classes using those dear green shuttle buses, how nice the bus uncles were, how I would always walk on the grass and never the concrete path to reach NIE...how after a few days of being dazed, class-rooms, blocks and professors became familiar...all those luches and conversations with friends at the canteen, our British accent games, all those greeeeeat new friends I made...all those evenings of swimming, all those hours I would spend on the sports track, either walking or musing, often both, sometimes neither...how I would leave at 530 am each morning for practicum, sitting at a still very early morning-so dark bus stop, listening to frogs croaking somewhere...and board the 199 bus to the train station...walking through the smells of breakfast at Jurong Point...house hunting and eating at the Japanese rice wrap shop my friend introduced me too...
How I would come back late, on very busy work days and make a dash for the porridge stall at the canteen...how my throat thrilled to the warmth of hot honey and lemon, how I would share a room with my room-mate, and how I wrapped myself and my identity into the half of the room which I occupied...how I wrote so many poems sitting at the desk, when I should have been making lesson plans, how I had to stay awake some nights as a result, to finish off my work...
To now, where I have found myself again as a professional, struggling yet enjoying, often tired, mostly happy and always blessed to be serving people with my own education in some ways...how the meaning of home has changed over these years, in so many ways and everyday...how my new blue room is both mine and not mine, and this is the way of the world...

Reflections

Yes, I know, I have very wrongly neglected my blog over the past few months. And I feel terrible. This used to be my vent, my confidante, my source of support...and it still is, in many ways. I have just been feeling a dire need to reflect off late. To reflect on my own weaknesses and learn from them.
When I look around me, I find much to be thankful for, much to be inspired by. I look at the accepting love of people, I look at their readiness to welcome and embrace people and their ideas, support and be open-minded. I look at the quiet love they shower on their close ones.
And I used to think that I was becoming more mature with the years. But sometimes, when I reflect on my behaviour, I feel that I have miles to go. I think I have been caught up in a web of instant and constant gratification, a possible result of this "smart" digital age...smart phones and the host of networking and connectiing apps...this has possibly led to an erosion of patience on my end. I feel so bad that I can barely wait for text messages, calls and chats anymore...gone for me are the days when a letter a month could bring feelings of elation to a soul.  And I will change this. I hope to. I would never wish to inadvertently hurt those who i love.
Besides that, I must focus on my life more deeply. I must balance my work and personal life out. I must be deeply grateful to the Higher Being for ALL the blessings. I must look upon every seeming and apparent obstacle/mistake I make as a blessing. I must learn from all the errors I commit. I must begin looking at things from the perspective of others too. I need to be a better human being with every passing minute.

Dear Mrs. Chatterjee

Your indelible memory
Will guide us from afar;
Softly shining always
Like a steady star.

Whenever we'll feel the need,
To anchor our restless lives,
We'll search our souls for memories
Of you, where your Blessing thrives.

Every once in a busy while,
We'll gaze upon the sky,
To remember you by the rainbow
Which chronicles the days gone by.

Often we'll feel disheartened and lost,
Often we'll feel pain...
But those lessons which we can never forget
Will restore and renew us again.

Though our paths will never cross,
We won't ever see your smile,
You'll be locked within our hearts,
To make our lives worth the while.

When Sleep will lead each of us
To the Deep end of the Dark,
Your far away words, your enlightening thoughts
Will blaze up from a spark.

I'm sorry that this poem is far from good,
It emerges from a vacuum within,
But you would have been nice about it nonetheless,
And encouraged me with your grin.

For I wrote poems all along,
Which were mostly far from good.
But the way you listened, so earnest and rapt,
I never quite understood,
How they were really so far from good.

And here I am, Writing again,
By way of a humble tribute,
We bow before your brilliance, your kindness,
Which we'll forever salute.

Title-less

There are days on which I feel an unrelenting anger. When I look around and find much to appall...no, I am not being judgemental...I do my very earnest best to climb into the skins of people and walk around in them, following faithfully Atticus's sound advice. I see much more good, in its many manifestations, than bad. I wait patiently, I try and listen carefully. I look within, and weed out my faults, so as not to let them draw me back...and I am sure there is a lot of scope for improvement in my own personality. My friend told me that I must use this blog to talk about social issues which disturb me...my nature is a cautious one, and I find reason to praise Diplomacy when it borders on sensitivity.
But I have been irked by something, for the longest possible time...gender issues should I call them? Something I used to do with my cousins and freinds, occasionally back at home, would be to laugh over the adverts in the Matrimonial Section of newspapers...some of them were absurdly funny, like one which said that only someone who possessed the beauty of a potential Miss India, need apply, but she had to be 'simple and homely.' This time, when my friend and I tried to resume the same activity, I recoiled and found little reason to laugh...here were people, 'educated' people who were perpetrating the very systems our country has struggled to fight against. "Educated boy seeks fair, {high caste, not getting into naming} wife." "Educated boy seeks very fair, simple and slim wife." "Educated boy wants a fair, tall, non-working, (high caste) wife with matching horoscope. I am not running down Astrology. It is one's prerogative to believe or not believe...but is that one vital, critical basis of forging a match? How come no one describes the kind of personality he/she would be compatible with? How come the first criterion is always caste, colour, vital stats or star signs? I am not undermining the importance, in some ways, of physical attraction. That is an undeniable aspect of a relationship. But I suppose when it is put across like that, in that bald, exclusivist way, it is difficult to read it and not squirm with discomfort.
What happens to girls, (and I am speaking of the ads which the boys/their families have put up,) who do not fit into this stencilled and crayoned idea of beauty. What if a different shade of colour fills their brows and skins? What if they fail to reach the desired, assigned height? What if she is born under an 'inauspicious' (as if) star sign? What if she isn't 'simple?' What does the word mean anyway? Every human being, in her or his own way is complex...we have millions of thought processes competing with one another in our minds...is being 'simple' a reference to being non-manipulative, non-'not-nice?' Or is it someone who is cheerful and joyous? If that is what it means, simple was never a synonym for any of those words.
Or is Simple someone who can be manipulated and cheated, but is too gullible, naive and ingenue-like to respond? I don't know what the term implies, but it disturbs me...what does 'homely?' mean? Home-loving? How many of us are NOT home-loving? I am sure all of us, irrespective of Gender, ache for aspects of our home...and as for house-work, it is something we all must, once again irrespective of gender, pitch in and help out with. There is nothing salubrious about sleeping on an unmade bed, or redeeming about not knowing how to rustle a meal up, or cool about not dusting drawers...it is just the insidious suggestion that we, having being born into the gender we have, should have been born with these skills...no, we have not...we learn, and believe me, we do learn, we need to learn to survive...but why is this so 'gendered?'. Boys should learn as well, they need to maintain their health and hygiene and satiate their hunger for food as well...and as for the caste and complexion fixation...I don't know what to say...I have heard people argue that people from similar 'caste backgrounds' will more comfortable in adapting with one another, and I have actually heard someone say this (groan)...but somewhere along this line of thought, the value of human characateristics get lost...and what of educational backgrounds, (and I mean love of similar subjects, etc) or common interests? ...and we still discriminate against those considered "lower" than us, (and I use the word with much, much sadness, that we still think like this)...that we cannot 'condescend' to scale ourselves down on our constructed heirarchical ladder ...education gets reduced to merely a qualification, a degree which will translate into a job, and this simplistic reduction of a field as rich as knowledge is doen in the name of being practical, pragmatism...we are forcing ourselves into this blatant and obvious state of Myopia...and the value of Universal Feeling gets lost...and as for the complexion bit...some may argue it is an aesthetic choice...but somewhere in the sea of demands for porcelain complexion, the obvious marginalisation occurs...and the media also pitches in, to capitalise on this sick obsession, forcing girls who do not blend into this prescribed palette of colour, to suffer unecessarily from entirely avoidable issues such as low self-esteem and depression...even the most casual of comments in regard to such sensitive aspects can scar a person deeply, or atleast compel someone to feel the need to use skin whitening products...and this compulsion is what is lethal...to say nothing of the eating disorders brought on by the highly unrealistic expectations of body types imposed upon so many of us...what has Education taught us? Oh, heaps of things, Undoubtedly...how much have we progressed, though? How open are our minds? Let us Give people a chance for their own sakes, for Personality's Sake, for human traits' sake...please. It is really, really a shame if we cannot extricate ourselves from the mire of such petty thoughts, if we are caught in the disgraceful cobweb of discrimination, using 'caste, creed and colour' as the essential components of our guiding compass, then we should feel ourse;ves burning with shame of the highest order.
 I mean, Seriously? What is wrong with us?

Suddeness

For the past few days, I have suddenly been engulfed by the feeling that I cannot write...it's not that I have felt that I cannot write well, it's just this feeling of not being able to write at all...it was like one of those nightmares from which one cannot possibly awake...one of those bad dreams which go on and on...and I tried to think of what was going wrong. So I decided to write an anecdotal blog post, which would not involve any syntactical flourishes (not that I have many), and talk about one or two incidents which occurred this December.
One of my closest friends got married. It was nothing short of a fairy-tale ending to a long and sweet romance. But there was another 'fairy-tale' ending waiting for me. This friend and I had had not spoken to one another for almost two years. We had had some juvenile and exceedingly silly fall-out over nothing in particular...and I missed her, a lot. There was another friend who was very close to us as well. After the stupid misunderstanding, all three of us tried to make amends, but somehow the cracks refused to seal themselves...or maybe we couldn't seal them well enough...it was just one misunderstanding upon another, and I presume it left all of us very hurt and sad. It had been a special friendship, you see. University days could not be recalled without the painful jab of recollection, that we had 'parted ways,' to sound dramatic!!
We moved on with our lives, made new friends...and God has been kind, I have never had a dearth of friends...actually, no one ever does...friendship is like one of those precious reservoirs, a plentiful resource...one needs to look around and listen...and anyway, who said things inanimate cannot be friends...books, music, movies, the arts, the Sciences...Nature...everyone of them has seen me through some lonesome spells and hours.
Well, anyway, I digress, so back to my story. After I went back home this time, a lot of my friends called me up and said that this friend of mine wanted to get in touch with me...but I had had no idea that she was getting married. Many thanks to those wonderful friends who got us back in touch, living right up to  playing the benevolent messengers. She had promised me, in those long ago days, that whenever she would get married, I would have to come and attend her wedding, from whichever part of the World I was in.
And then we spoke...and she sent me one of the most touching, honest and wonderful letters I have ever received in my life. I realised when I read it, that I had been waiting for it all along. And all credit to her, for being so warm and pro-active, and re-kindling the old warmth of our connection. I know her husband well...he was and still is like a brother to me, and how wonderful a couple they make...
On the day of her wedding, I couldn't hold back my tears...some will say that I am being sentimental, but Life has taught me to value sentiments...more so on certain occasions...warm hugs, quick snatches of conversation and many pictures later, we were happy...the venue was exceedingly romantic, and my Parents and I sat on a table, on a dreamily decorated roof-top of Tollygunge Club, and partook of the hearty and delicious wedding repast, madde sweeter by the secure knowledge of a snug friendship renewed. To make things even better, I met my favourite professor and one my favourite teachers...in addition to exchanging pleasantries with common friends and familiar acquaintances...
Another incident pained and warmed my soul. I went for the Memorial Service of one of the best and finest teachers the World has ever had...I think this is a profession which commands and deserves respect...and we, who have stepped into this realm, have a lot of ideals to live up to and put into active practice. Adjectives fail m if I have to describe the kind of teacher Mrs. Nonda Chatterjee, Principal, CIS, was. She was brilliant enough to have taught at any University...Calcutta International School was synonymous with her...she taught O and A Level History and Literature, with an ease that belied the daunting nature of teaching...she was equally brilliant at Math. and Geography...and when she would teach us History and Literature, her analogies would range from Chemistry, Physics and also Economics. To her, Knowledge was an inter-related whole. Keats and Tagore were among her favourites, though she could speak eloquently on the subject of just about any writer...she had a broad cosmopolitan outlook, was dedicated to a superlative degree and had travelled many nations, and was full of anecdotes, each one relevant...she shared with us, so generously , so liberally, her views on a multitude of subjects...she remembered us...she connected with us...she made us discerning, critical and mature readers...I fumbled as I spoke at her memorial services, all semblance of eloquence abandoning me, being swept over by wave after wave of strong emotion. May her Soul Rest in Peace.
And then I met old school friends, my cousins, and someone I regard as closely as I would my sister...Aand of course, I was spoiled by the Love of family...Thank God for Love...it keeps the world on its axis, puts things into perspective...and keeps us warm and cozy...

A Symphony of Silence

I have been Silent for a while. A long while. To be honest, I was numbed, numbed and sickened by what happened to a girl, only a little younger than me. I was shocked at the potential danger and violence lurking within human nature. I was sickened to hear of what happened to the poor, poor child. I can only pray. We can all only pray that each of us looks deep within, and that each of us, in our own special way, will try to become a better human being tomorrow, learning from our mistakes of today and yesterday. Because it is only through deep introspection and love of humanity, love for one another, can our society survive.
I have been bursting with a multitude of thoughts of late. But I buried them, buried them deep under the anguish and sorrow the past few days put all of us through, the suffering of an innocent, young, aspiration-filled, dream-filled girl.
Then there was the trip back to Kolkata. The thing about one's home city is that one never has to justify why one loves it. I cannot pin-point specific reasons, though there are many, to be sure. Meeting up with my Family, feeling Familiarity wrap itself tightly around me, like the blankets I used to ward off the Cold at Night, I feeling the gratifyingly scorching warmth of love, feeling the shivers of anticipation which trickled down my spine every time I went out to meet an old friend... I attended a Departmental reunion. I patched up with a dear friend and that was very gratifying. I attended weddings. I attended family reunions. Oh well.