growing....growing....grown
There are times when I feel a strange ache inside me. No, the doctor isn't required, at the moment. These are just growth pains. They are supposed to make us stronger, they are supposed to help us cope with the "BIG, BAD, WORLD." Why, wouldn't it just be easier if the world continued being big, and just stopped being bad...it's not an entirely absurd impossibility, if one comes to think of it...
I have often, no, repeatedly, told myself to steer clear of expecting anything from anyone...apart from those I love with every span of my soul, of course...expectations are of a different category with them. But, just in general, it is best to do and give without hoping for anything in return. And I am not talking about material returns at all. I mean, even in friendship, ONE should learn to GIVE love and affection, without hoping to be loved back in return. This is rare...friendship is usually premised on mutual fondness...this sounds difficult, and it is...but the lower one's expectations, the happier she/he will be....this is what I feel. And there are just days when one feels unloved, but everything is all sunshine and Plums the next day again...friends should give each other that space and respect.
Hmmmmm...so what else have I been up to? Well, reading L.M.Montgomery again. I think I will start crying, out of the sheer intensity of revisited and imagined emotions, (revisited because her books are always visiting my mind), if I ever do really go to Prince Edward Island. The trip will be a Holy Pilgrimage, consecrated to my Love for Literature, and my Devotion to the philosophy advocated in her books.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
...
I would like to say a very hearty thank you to my friends who say I should consider formal publishing...I will try dearies...but I don't know how I feel about that...because I really feel like Anne Bradstreet does...hehe...sending out a child into the big, commercial world of printing...haha, but the blog has copyright...lol
The story I'm working on now...incomplete as of now........plan to formalize it a bit more before the final publish
Old Mr. Hanshaw had his face turned towards the wall, as he lay on his bed, living on borrowed time. 70 years had passed by, almost in a jiffy, he thought. But it must have taken AGES, he reasoned with himself, to have built up the repository of memories which were now reposing in quiet corners of his furiously active brain. He no longer felt keenly about the absence of books by his bed-side. It was enough for him to turn over the chapters which were strewn across his mind, and attempt to string them together, in some semblance of chronology.
The doctor had merely given a grave, subtle little nod to the Nurse, that morning. She thought Old Mr. Hanshaw, as he was popularly known, was too ill to realize the dark significance of her little gesture. But Mr. Hanshaw’s eyes had always been sharp, and he felt a sharp pain slice his insides, with the sharp jaggedness of a serrated-edged knife.
The world was far too precious to him. He had NEVER taken it for granted. He’d be up at five, to keenly welcome each morning, he’d sing a silent ode to the hottest of afternoons, sitting at his office cubicle, he’d worship each evening’s ephemeral loveliness, and he would anticipate each new night with the exhilarated eagerness of a love-cloaked girl, awaiting a letter from her beloved.
His thoughts were always with HER. She was by his side, every waking moment, and every sleeping hour. She nestled against him in the soft hours of those lonesome nights, she was holding his hands, with her feathery fingers, in the first hours of the Dawn, when the Dark Curtains of the previous Night were parting, to make way for a brand new day, a brand new scene. She was with him, as he stirred his porridge in his lonely kitchen, as he bent over slightly to see if he had boiled it enough. Her fingers fluttered nimbly, over his, as he turned the pages of the morning Newspaper. She hovered around, like a formless Angel, when he dressed hurriedly, to get ready for work.When he arrived breathless at the bus stop, she would inspire him with her indefatigably energetic spirit. On afternoons, when his clerical duties seemed never-ending, she would infuse him with an enthusiasm so rare, that the people around him wondered at his passion for the monotonous tasks he so smilingly performed.
The evenings were the most Special of All. She would stroke his hair, mop his brow, and effortlessly glide into his soul, as effortlessly as the gentle, sudden transition, with which the sky went from blue-pink-pitch black and star-studded, with a quiet certainty. No, he was never alone. Yes, she was always there, the Moonshine Girl, the Healer of the Spirit, the Stimulator of all things lovely, the girl he had never had the courage to speak to. And yet, he was never alone. Maybe that’s why he was never alone. Yet, she was never a figure of Exasperating Idealism, which a lot of women become to single men. She was real, she had faults...oh yes, she and Hanshaw would argue in his mind, over a plethora of trivial issues...and the end of each session, Hanshaw would leave a silent rose on his window-sill, to make up for his recalcitrance...the first sign of madness, some had said. Mad, had Hanshaw smirked. Who could be labelled as completely sane?
His thoughts drifted even further back, to his mother. The flowers on the table she so carefully arranged, the loose bun on her head, which she so carelessly tied. The warm smell of her gentle, sudden hugs, the lopsided half smile which danced upon her lips when he returned home with his sports trophies. Her love of all food bland, her love for sad, sad movies, which made her silently cry into her pink, pink handkerchief, while the little Mr. Hanshaw watched on, in great distress (he did not like to see his mother cry, but she so often did, thinking he wouldn’t notice), such thoughts came hurtling back to him now, with the speed of an over-zealous train.
His Father. What memories did he have? Mr. Hanshaw tried to turn out his mind, as he would turn out his pockets on his birthdays, when he would receive sweets from his friends. Yes, his father. He had been a big, busy man, busy doing things which Hanshaw had no idea about. He was hardly ever in the house. He hardly spoke to mother. He was hardly ever there. But Hanshaw did remember the rough sting of his father’s one brusque kiss on his cheek, the only form of affection he ever showed, before he left with that brown, or was it grey suit-case. Did the color matter now? Had it ever mattered? How old had he been, Hanshaw? Seven? Eight? Nine? Did it matter anymore? But that was the end of the Father-chapter. Did he miss his father? Did he judge him harshly in his later years? Hanshaw never did. A father was a father to him, if irresponsible, if callous, if cruel, a father was a father. Hanshaw frowned in the Darkness. These were not his words. These had been his Mother’s last words.
Not of mother, though, no. Mother was always there, sadder still after father left, but somehow happier too.
But what about the University degree? Mr. Hanshaw could never complete it. Blame it all on the broken leg, he thought. But a clerk’s job was not a bad one, someone had to do the work, he’d reasonable reasoned with himself.
His office cubicle had been quite a sight to behold. Cluttered one day, organized the next, cluttered one day, and re-organized the next. And the books of poetry…what poetry did to Hanshaw, a bowl of hot soup did to a sore throat, a cool strip of cloth did to a warm, fevered fore-head, a good night’s sleep did to a worn-out body and mind.
Which quote was playing upon his mind now? No, it was not the one he thought would play in his last hours. “Do not go gentle into that good night…” For Hanshaw had ALWAYS been a gentle man, ready to succumb, ready to yield, and ALWAYS ready to re-adjust. No, he had been delusional in thinking Dylan would win over Keats…
“Now, more than ever it seems rich to die…”
And slowly, the jagged knife inside him melted, as though the pain of his imminent extinction was being extinguished by an unseen, cool, soothing balm…
And then there was John Clare, whose "I AM" was embedded in his mind forever...a sudden flash...three boys who had taunted him by calling him fat...Hanshaw shedding tears...the boys laughing...and She, silently reprimanding the boys, smiling shyly at Hanshaw and running away...that had been her last day at school...
Mad, they had called him, mad Old Hanshaw, MAD in his recent days. Why, he thought? Because he spoke to the birds which perched upon the balcony of the Home? Why, because he remained silent for long, long spells, lost in his realm of memories and dreams? Why, because he refused to eat for three days, as he wanted the poor, thin-as-a-rail lady on the next bed, to have his helping as well. So what if she was not allowed to eat solid food, as they had explained to him. Did they ever really matter, the states of matter? What was the state of his life now? Was he about to assume the gaseous state of diffuse nothingness when his solid body would be laid to rest, soil heaped over it? Were the years in between Liquid, flowing from one incident to the next, one state of existence to another?
He remembered his Physics tutor. He had such huge spectacles. And he detested poetry. What was his name? Hanshaw didn’t pursue this thought. It hadn’t mattered then. It certainly didn’t matter now.
All his life, Mr.Hanshaw had wanted to write a book. It was his only regret. His only regret. But now, in his last waking hours, he realized that all books were not written by hand, there were a few which were authored by Life.
The doctor had merely given a grave, subtle little nod to the Nurse, that morning. She thought Old Mr. Hanshaw, as he was popularly known, was too ill to realize the dark significance of her little gesture. But Mr. Hanshaw’s eyes had always been sharp, and he felt a sharp pain slice his insides, with the sharp jaggedness of a serrated-edged knife.
The world was far too precious to him. He had NEVER taken it for granted. He’d be up at five, to keenly welcome each morning, he’d sing a silent ode to the hottest of afternoons, sitting at his office cubicle, he’d worship each evening’s ephemeral loveliness, and he would anticipate each new night with the exhilarated eagerness of a love-cloaked girl, awaiting a letter from her beloved.
His thoughts were always with HER. She was by his side, every waking moment, and every sleeping hour. She nestled against him in the soft hours of those lonesome nights, she was holding his hands, with her feathery fingers, in the first hours of the Dawn, when the Dark Curtains of the previous Night were parting, to make way for a brand new day, a brand new scene. She was with him, as he stirred his porridge in his lonely kitchen, as he bent over slightly to see if he had boiled it enough. Her fingers fluttered nimbly, over his, as he turned the pages of the morning Newspaper. She hovered around, like a formless Angel, when he dressed hurriedly, to get ready for work.When he arrived breathless at the bus stop, she would inspire him with her indefatigably energetic spirit. On afternoons, when his clerical duties seemed never-ending, she would infuse him with an enthusiasm so rare, that the people around him wondered at his passion for the monotonous tasks he so smilingly performed.
The evenings were the most Special of All. She would stroke his hair, mop his brow, and effortlessly glide into his soul, as effortlessly as the gentle, sudden transition, with which the sky went from blue-pink-pitch black and star-studded, with a quiet certainty. No, he was never alone. Yes, she was always there, the Moonshine Girl, the Healer of the Spirit, the Stimulator of all things lovely, the girl he had never had the courage to speak to. And yet, he was never alone. Maybe that’s why he was never alone. Yet, she was never a figure of Exasperating Idealism, which a lot of women become to single men. She was real, she had faults...oh yes, she and Hanshaw would argue in his mind, over a plethora of trivial issues...and the end of each session, Hanshaw would leave a silent rose on his window-sill, to make up for his recalcitrance...the first sign of madness, some had said. Mad, had Hanshaw smirked. Who could be labelled as completely sane?
His thoughts drifted even further back, to his mother. The flowers on the table she so carefully arranged, the loose bun on her head, which she so carelessly tied. The warm smell of her gentle, sudden hugs, the lopsided half smile which danced upon her lips when he returned home with his sports trophies. Her love of all food bland, her love for sad, sad movies, which made her silently cry into her pink, pink handkerchief, while the little Mr. Hanshaw watched on, in great distress (he did not like to see his mother cry, but she so often did, thinking he wouldn’t notice), such thoughts came hurtling back to him now, with the speed of an over-zealous train.
His Father. What memories did he have? Mr. Hanshaw tried to turn out his mind, as he would turn out his pockets on his birthdays, when he would receive sweets from his friends. Yes, his father. He had been a big, busy man, busy doing things which Hanshaw had no idea about. He was hardly ever in the house. He hardly spoke to mother. He was hardly ever there. But Hanshaw did remember the rough sting of his father’s one brusque kiss on his cheek, the only form of affection he ever showed, before he left with that brown, or was it grey suit-case. Did the color matter now? Had it ever mattered? How old had he been, Hanshaw? Seven? Eight? Nine? Did it matter anymore? But that was the end of the Father-chapter. Did he miss his father? Did he judge him harshly in his later years? Hanshaw never did. A father was a father to him, if irresponsible, if callous, if cruel, a father was a father. Hanshaw frowned in the Darkness. These were not his words. These had been his Mother’s last words.
Not of mother, though, no. Mother was always there, sadder still after father left, but somehow happier too.
But what about the University degree? Mr. Hanshaw could never complete it. Blame it all on the broken leg, he thought. But a clerk’s job was not a bad one, someone had to do the work, he’d reasonable reasoned with himself.
His office cubicle had been quite a sight to behold. Cluttered one day, organized the next, cluttered one day, and re-organized the next. And the books of poetry…what poetry did to Hanshaw, a bowl of hot soup did to a sore throat, a cool strip of cloth did to a warm, fevered fore-head, a good night’s sleep did to a worn-out body and mind.
Which quote was playing upon his mind now? No, it was not the one he thought would play in his last hours. “Do not go gentle into that good night…” For Hanshaw had ALWAYS been a gentle man, ready to succumb, ready to yield, and ALWAYS ready to re-adjust. No, he had been delusional in thinking Dylan would win over Keats…
“Now, more than ever it seems rich to die…”
And slowly, the jagged knife inside him melted, as though the pain of his imminent extinction was being extinguished by an unseen, cool, soothing balm…
And then there was John Clare, whose "I AM" was embedded in his mind forever...a sudden flash...three boys who had taunted him by calling him fat...Hanshaw shedding tears...the boys laughing...and She, silently reprimanding the boys, smiling shyly at Hanshaw and running away...that had been her last day at school...
Mad, they had called him, mad Old Hanshaw, MAD in his recent days. Why, he thought? Because he spoke to the birds which perched upon the balcony of the Home? Why, because he remained silent for long, long spells, lost in his realm of memories and dreams? Why, because he refused to eat for three days, as he wanted the poor, thin-as-a-rail lady on the next bed, to have his helping as well. So what if she was not allowed to eat solid food, as they had explained to him. Did they ever really matter, the states of matter? What was the state of his life now? Was he about to assume the gaseous state of diffuse nothingness when his solid body would be laid to rest, soil heaped over it? Were the years in between Liquid, flowing from one incident to the next, one state of existence to another?
He remembered his Physics tutor. He had such huge spectacles. And he detested poetry. What was his name? Hanshaw didn’t pursue this thought. It hadn’t mattered then. It certainly didn’t matter now.
All his life, Mr.Hanshaw had wanted to write a book. It was his only regret. His only regret. But now, in his last waking hours, he realized that all books were not written by hand, there were a few which were authored by Life.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
?
They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder,
That Distance doubles Yearning,
But I am slowly Learning...
To dis-believe unquestioned adages...
Emotional Bandages
On intangible Wounds,
Caused by sorrow and tears, as one so often hears.
Hardly heal.
That Distance doubles Yearning,
But I am slowly Learning...
To dis-believe unquestioned adages...
Emotional Bandages
On intangible Wounds,
Caused by sorrow and tears, as one so often hears.
Hardly heal.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
This December
Well, this whirwind of a month seems to be drawing to a close, and with it the old year is yielding itself to the new. The nip in the air is slowly waning, and Winter will soon have to renounce its strong-hold on Weather Kingdom. Oh what a month this has been, with weddings and family re-unions, loss and love.
My father lost his aunt, something which grieved us deeply. One very beautiful and profound quotation by Cicero repeated itself in our minds (De Senectute)...a person who leaves the world at an advanced age is akin to a ship coming into harbor, a ship which has finished a long and eventful voyage on a wide, wide sea...like a ripe fruit, which has fallen to the ground, having spent its allotted hours on the tree of life. It made me realize that we are all living on borrowed time, and hence life is really too short to be taken too seriously...And life should ideally be a celebration of just Living, and Breathing, Exploring and Loving, Discovering and Learning and Re-learning.
Then there were the Weddings. So many people we know decided to tie the Nuptial Knot this month. Some of them were barely a year older than me. This frightened me. When did I grow up enough to have friends who were getting married? Did the years just slip me by, like the brisk morning breezes which we miss when we over-sleep? "Where have all the" years "gone?" Or have they gone anywhere at all? Don't they simply accumulate, like chapters of a book, till we reach the end of our journey on Earth? In that case, aren't all our lives books, some written, some read, and others forgotten? I remember a Time, a long spell back, when an invitation to a wedding party simply meant shiny new clothes, gorgeous lights and fragrant flowers, and a hearty, delicious repast. It still conjures all these things in my mind, but now I ponder upon other things as well...I hope each couple will embark on years of magnificent togetherness, kinship, and will support and endlessly love each other through their days and nights. Now I look for emotions hidden in the eyes of each couple, happiness mixed with apprehension, strain-mixed-with elation, joy diluted by irrational misgivings...The excited voices all around, the hopes, the expectations which hover upon the couple, the superficial fun the children have, running around and wildly yelling, just as we used to do, unaware of the loftiness of the decision, the risks, and all the wonderful chances the couple who have decided to get married, have taken.
December is a month of Possibilities. I say that because I feel that Cold weather affords a lot of possibilities. Vacations are pleasanter and life yearns to be exploited and explored. We took a little trip to Shantiniketan, a sacred haven still, for Poetry aNd Peace. I might be being fanciful, but I feel that Poetry takes a tangible form in this lovely place. I can feel it in the wind which whips my face in the early mornings, I can feel it in the slight shivers I feel when Dusk Descends, I can feel it each time the Rickshaw takes a sudden turn, and my eyes are accosted by a sudden spray of roses, a sudden bunch of flowers, a sudden burst of trees. I can see it in the Crimson-Orange Sunset, I can hear it in the music of the Bauls at the Baul-Mela, and I breathe it every time I walk in to Rabindranath Tagore's Garden...oh, he has flung Poetry in the air, enough to stir the most prosaic of souls, or so I feel.
And then there IS the warmth of being at home, being surrounded by what is the most precious feeling on Earth: Unconditional Love, Absolute Love, Family Love...feeling warm from Love in a cold Winter month beats consuming a spoon of Medicinal Brandy for warmth, if I may use that metaphor.
And then there are my friends, friends who love me, and friends who I love, those who let me be the way I am and spoil me with their love...friends who I have known for years, who have all grown up with me, we've been through trials and tribulations, but have stuck it out...and that's what counts...
Life is all about making connections, ranging from mental, physical, emotional to SPIRITUAL...
And then, sigh, there is Gilbert Blythe in my lovely Anne books, and the one I still await...still amorphous, still elusive...I wish L.M. Momtgomery would write out this chapter of my life for me...<3
Yesterday we made our annual visit to the Little Village we visit, and I had the most splendid of times, I renewed my kinship with The Bicycle, and I cycled around the "gram," like a girl possessed...and now am bravely facing the inevitable consequences of sore muscles and aching appendages.
My father lost his aunt, something which grieved us deeply. One very beautiful and profound quotation by Cicero repeated itself in our minds (De Senectute)...a person who leaves the world at an advanced age is akin to a ship coming into harbor, a ship which has finished a long and eventful voyage on a wide, wide sea...like a ripe fruit, which has fallen to the ground, having spent its allotted hours on the tree of life. It made me realize that we are all living on borrowed time, and hence life is really too short to be taken too seriously...And life should ideally be a celebration of just Living, and Breathing, Exploring and Loving, Discovering and Learning and Re-learning.
Then there were the Weddings. So many people we know decided to tie the Nuptial Knot this month. Some of them were barely a year older than me. This frightened me. When did I grow up enough to have friends who were getting married? Did the years just slip me by, like the brisk morning breezes which we miss when we over-sleep? "Where have all the" years "gone?" Or have they gone anywhere at all? Don't they simply accumulate, like chapters of a book, till we reach the end of our journey on Earth? In that case, aren't all our lives books, some written, some read, and others forgotten? I remember a Time, a long spell back, when an invitation to a wedding party simply meant shiny new clothes, gorgeous lights and fragrant flowers, and a hearty, delicious repast. It still conjures all these things in my mind, but now I ponder upon other things as well...I hope each couple will embark on years of magnificent togetherness, kinship, and will support and endlessly love each other through their days and nights. Now I look for emotions hidden in the eyes of each couple, happiness mixed with apprehension, strain-mixed-with elation, joy diluted by irrational misgivings...The excited voices all around, the hopes, the expectations which hover upon the couple, the superficial fun the children have, running around and wildly yelling, just as we used to do, unaware of the loftiness of the decision, the risks, and all the wonderful chances the couple who have decided to get married, have taken.
December is a month of Possibilities. I say that because I feel that Cold weather affords a lot of possibilities. Vacations are pleasanter and life yearns to be exploited and explored. We took a little trip to Shantiniketan, a sacred haven still, for Poetry aNd Peace. I might be being fanciful, but I feel that Poetry takes a tangible form in this lovely place. I can feel it in the wind which whips my face in the early mornings, I can feel it in the slight shivers I feel when Dusk Descends, I can feel it each time the Rickshaw takes a sudden turn, and my eyes are accosted by a sudden spray of roses, a sudden bunch of flowers, a sudden burst of trees. I can see it in the Crimson-Orange Sunset, I can hear it in the music of the Bauls at the Baul-Mela, and I breathe it every time I walk in to Rabindranath Tagore's Garden...oh, he has flung Poetry in the air, enough to stir the most prosaic of souls, or so I feel.
And then there IS the warmth of being at home, being surrounded by what is the most precious feeling on Earth: Unconditional Love, Absolute Love, Family Love...feeling warm from Love in a cold Winter month beats consuming a spoon of Medicinal Brandy for warmth, if I may use that metaphor.
And then there are my friends, friends who love me, and friends who I love, those who let me be the way I am and spoil me with their love...friends who I have known for years, who have all grown up with me, we've been through trials and tribulations, but have stuck it out...and that's what counts...
Life is all about making connections, ranging from mental, physical, emotional to SPIRITUAL...
And then, sigh, there is Gilbert Blythe in my lovely Anne books, and the one I still await...still amorphous, still elusive...I wish L.M. Momtgomery would write out this chapter of my life for me...<3
Yesterday we made our annual visit to the Little Village we visit, and I had the most splendid of times, I renewed my kinship with The Bicycle, and I cycled around the "gram," like a girl possessed...and now am bravely facing the inevitable consequences of sore muscles and aching appendages.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
A Wintry Morning.
I am back in my room. I am back to the clickety-clackity sounds of my old lap top. My Window is open behind me, looking upon the Bridge, on which I used to travel to and from my College cum University. My room has welcomed me back with an ease which belies my absence.
The weather is just as it used to be...I never want to miss this evasive chill, the mist-laden mornings, the honey-tinted afternoons, which is really almost akin to a turned-over jar of honey being slowly emptied of its sunshiny goldenness. And then the sudden Darkness, the too-early evenings, the nippiest nip in the air....ooh.
And the best thing about being back is JUST being back. It feels like I've never left. All my little idiosyncracies pounce back upon me as soon as I return, the ones which I though I had lost forever. My books are yearning to be read another time, note pads wish to be scribbled in, or so I'd like to believe. And stories are spinning in my head, unwoven thoughts which wish to be woven into a narrative.
And then there are Weddings to attend, re-unions to attend. oH the pleasures they afford.
Here is my room, in which I had spun together the Golden threads of ambition. SorRY fot the constant reference to Golden, but it is SUCH a golden DAY TODAY. In this room had I pain-stakingly solved SAT and subsequently GRE papers. The very walls will testify the many application essays which I had written, the tests I'd studied for. The musical notations which I had tried to make sense of still waft silently across the room, and hang in stillness in the many corners and nooks. Ech piece of furniture has a fun anecdote to share. Like the table which had to be dragged up four flights because it could not possibly be fit into the lift, the wardrobe, built under my mum's supervision, which took days and days to take shape, the red revolving chair which had fallen with me, and had to be repaired, being quite indispensable.
The sounds of the garage, which used to annoy me in the past, have ceased to irk me now. They re-assure me in their steadfast, unshaken presence, something still unchanged in this ever-changing world. Now, that sounds quite bizarre. Hmmmm. And my Purple-Pink Quilt, which I love so much is still so snug and warm, and rosysmelling.
I love the sofa upholstery tooooooo....the warm red and beige stripes which spell HOME.
The weather is just as it used to be...I never want to miss this evasive chill, the mist-laden mornings, the honey-tinted afternoons, which is really almost akin to a turned-over jar of honey being slowly emptied of its sunshiny goldenness. And then the sudden Darkness, the too-early evenings, the nippiest nip in the air....ooh.
And the best thing about being back is JUST being back. It feels like I've never left. All my little idiosyncracies pounce back upon me as soon as I return, the ones which I though I had lost forever. My books are yearning to be read another time, note pads wish to be scribbled in, or so I'd like to believe. And stories are spinning in my head, unwoven thoughts which wish to be woven into a narrative.
And then there are Weddings to attend, re-unions to attend. oH the pleasures they afford.
Here is my room, in which I had spun together the Golden threads of ambition. SorRY fot the constant reference to Golden, but it is SUCH a golden DAY TODAY. In this room had I pain-stakingly solved SAT and subsequently GRE papers. The very walls will testify the many application essays which I had written, the tests I'd studied for. The musical notations which I had tried to make sense of still waft silently across the room, and hang in stillness in the many corners and nooks. Ech piece of furniture has a fun anecdote to share. Like the table which had to be dragged up four flights because it could not possibly be fit into the lift, the wardrobe, built under my mum's supervision, which took days and days to take shape, the red revolving chair which had fallen with me, and had to be repaired, being quite indispensable.
The sounds of the garage, which used to annoy me in the past, have ceased to irk me now. They re-assure me in their steadfast, unshaken presence, something still unchanged in this ever-changing world. Now, that sounds quite bizarre. Hmmmm. And my Purple-Pink Quilt, which I love so much is still so snug and warm, and rosysmelling.
I love the sofa upholstery tooooooo....the warm red and beige stripes which spell HOME.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Company...?
I've learnt to keep myself company. My inherent Disposition, or whatever you may call it, wants me to talk to people all the time. It is a strange need, a bizarre urge I need to satisfy. I love communicating with people, exploring their thought processes, sharing their emotions and letting them into my mind-scape. Even when I was back in Cal, I would pick up the phone and talk to people, if I was left alone for over an hour or so. But that needs to change. And it is changing. When you are so far away from all the people you love, and those who love you back with a great degree of Unconditionality, you must learn to be your own best company, and keep yourself happy...with a "little help from my friends," of course....Music, Books, Poetry, You tube, Facebook(I was never so active on Facebook in my life, but now it lets me keep in touch with my friends, there I go with my need to communicate with people again), and of course Movies. What I do miss is Theatre...both watching it as an awed spectator and performing in plays, and the endless hours of imperfect-nearing perfect rehearsals. And Dance rehearsals. I also miss conversations, often passionate, never in complete concordance, with my friends on Literature...I also miss the "DO YOU REMEMBER WHEN..." Conversations with my friends of yore, with whom I have a veritable collection of treasured memories.I also, ok, this will sound VERY weird, miss conjugating French verbs, and never quite getting them right on the first go. And then I miss the pressure of conjugating Italian verbs, which I always muddled up with French, and thus exasperated my Teacher...and I miss lovers of Romantic Literature, who would hyper-ventilate about Keats with moi
Saturday, October 29, 2011
A tale
The room was dark and cold. A fire was blazing in her mind. She sat very still in an old, rickety wooden chair. Her thoughts were in a mess...disarrayed, disordered. She shivered slightly, and got up slowly. She paced the room, stopping every two seconds, to take a deep, long breath...she would just let go, she would give up, she would forget...it wouldn't be too hard, or would it? She should have never thought about it the way she had. It was her mistake. She frowned, and her brows JOINED...it always seemed to work out for others...but never for her...people didn't believe her...but it was true..She surveyed the walls, the dampness she detected re-assured her...she would slowly come to terms with the way this was meant to be...and fall into an undesired groove of lfe, which was practical.
...
The Passive Voice of Active Reason,
Kept milling in my mind...
It was one of its kind...
It spoke in murmurs, it told me the Truth,
Which was half-blurred in its illuminated sanctimoniousness...
I didn't know what to think,
I questioned myself
Should I be sad, hen I'd rather be Glad?
This is why I detest getting emotionally attached...
Expectation is a Dangerous Thing...
The world of Fabricated fancies is a safer place,
Life is easier, when it is a fast and furious race,
With no time for extra thought, at a contemplative pace, slow
Is not the way to go...
Thinking is drinking the mind away to waste...
Why expect anything, when Fate already has plans?
Or does it...is it not what we make of it?
I dunno...my mind is spinning,
Yarn upon yarn...none of them ever cme true...
Well, not ALL
Kept milling in my mind...
It was one of its kind...
It spoke in murmurs, it told me the Truth,
Which was half-blurred in its illuminated sanctimoniousness...
I didn't know what to think,
I questioned myself
Should I be sad, hen I'd rather be Glad?
This is why I detest getting emotionally attached...
Expectation is a Dangerous Thing...
The world of Fabricated fancies is a safer place,
Life is easier, when it is a fast and furious race,
With no time for extra thought, at a contemplative pace, slow
Is not the way to go...
Thinking is drinking the mind away to waste...
Why expect anything, when Fate already has plans?
Or does it...is it not what we make of it?
I dunno...my mind is spinning,
Yarn upon yarn...none of them ever cme true...
Well, not ALL
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
May I, please?
Dear Blog,
I would like you to grant me permission to hyperventilate about the aspects of the world which I love!!! I love CREATIVITY...I am totally captivated by Satyajit Ray's brilliance...I mean, how versatile can you get? He was an excellent movie maker, and he touched upon many sensitive social issues, and came down heavily on superstitious practices, ( a film like Devi, for example), he was an amazing author, his short stories are quirky, informative, and very well told, well-spun yarns. His Feluda is UNPARALLELED. And boy, was he an excellent bi-lingual -speaker...he could give established orators a run for their money...and Rabindranath Tagore...OMG! need I say more? How could someone use a language so beautifully? Though it is true that Bengali is a very, very, really very beautiful language, and I love it and am so very, very grateful to have been born in to it...
I also find it fascinating when people do work which can really make a difference to the lives of others...which is why I have such high respect for those who teach and those who heal...as in, doctors and nurses..., and those who do research in areas which need to be researched...
I don't know if I will ever make a difference in any one's life, but I hope to touch lives along the way...and I hope to help them in some way I can...
And I miss my home, but I feel that this'training' was necessary...I was just thinking about something...this can really pull you through life...you can either try your best to 'adapt,' or you can just be 'miserable.' Adapting is easier...
I bought a new pink camera, this is a random insert...but cameras are strange machines? They can really freeze moments in time, and replay and record with uninterrupted ease...
I would like you to grant me permission to hyperventilate about the aspects of the world which I love!!! I love CREATIVITY...I am totally captivated by Satyajit Ray's brilliance...I mean, how versatile can you get? He was an excellent movie maker, and he touched upon many sensitive social issues, and came down heavily on superstitious practices, ( a film like Devi, for example), he was an amazing author, his short stories are quirky, informative, and very well told, well-spun yarns. His Feluda is UNPARALLELED. And boy, was he an excellent bi-lingual -speaker...he could give established orators a run for their money...and Rabindranath Tagore...OMG! need I say more? How could someone use a language so beautifully? Though it is true that Bengali is a very, very, really very beautiful language, and I love it and am so very, very grateful to have been born in to it...
I also find it fascinating when people do work which can really make a difference to the lives of others...which is why I have such high respect for those who teach and those who heal...as in, doctors and nurses..., and those who do research in areas which need to be researched...
I don't know if I will ever make a difference in any one's life, but I hope to touch lives along the way...and I hope to help them in some way I can...
And I miss my home, but I feel that this'training' was necessary...I was just thinking about something...this can really pull you through life...you can either try your best to 'adapt,' or you can just be 'miserable.' Adapting is easier...
I bought a new pink camera, this is a random insert...but cameras are strange machines? They can really freeze moments in time, and replay and record with uninterrupted ease...
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Oh for the sake of rhyming...
The Light engulfed me from every side,
Until, all that I wished to hide,
Was washed ashore, with the in-coming tide,
And I sat down in despair, and cried and cried...
I really don't know why I am writing all this...This is going to be a random post...desultory is another favorite word of mine...I think I have forced myself to focus on something concrete for three years and a bit...which is good, I feel less desultory...though it is STILL a favorite word of mine...and what else...the moon was engulfed in a sea of clouds today...I wished to quote Noyes, and call it a "Ghostly Galleon," but then I realized that the word "galleon," could not be applied to a full moon, as it really means a ship, which is echoed in the moon's crescent shape...I have realized that I love making conversations with people and that I love making new friends...and I am sniffing adventure in every corner, as I used to do of yore...and my imagination insists on running wild, though I keep it in firm check...and I love so many things...every tree is really a friend...
Until, all that I wished to hide,
Was washed ashore, with the in-coming tide,
And I sat down in despair, and cried and cried...
I really don't know why I am writing all this...This is going to be a random post...desultory is another favorite word of mine...I think I have forced myself to focus on something concrete for three years and a bit...which is good, I feel less desultory...though it is STILL a favorite word of mine...and what else...the moon was engulfed in a sea of clouds today...I wished to quote Noyes, and call it a "Ghostly Galleon," but then I realized that the word "galleon," could not be applied to a full moon, as it really means a ship, which is echoed in the moon's crescent shape...I have realized that I love making conversations with people and that I love making new friends...and I am sniffing adventure in every corner, as I used to do of yore...and my imagination insists on running wild, though I keep it in firm check...and I love so many things...every tree is really a friend...
I have realized...
tHAT i KEEP REFERRING TO EVENINGS ALL OVER MY BLOG, IT Is a recurrent motif....why though? I ask myself...I love evenings, the time of the most magical transition...as Light slowly slips us by, changes her garments, dons many hues and steals away, bidding adieu for the night...I really feel like Nature is throbbing with life, at this time...and the soft, black curtain of night unravels itself on us, like a rich cascade of raven-hair...
The articulation of Silence
As I was walking home this evening, a wonderful velvety, mellow one, I was just trying to compile the myriad thoughts which have been building up in my mind, over the past few days...And in the uninterrupted stillness, I found myself focusing on every breathing, palpable minute...My past few days have been a rush of activity...I've met so many new people, stumbled upon so many new perspectives and have felt more at peace with the world...I had an interview a few days ago, and just when my adrenaline was beginning to 'kick' me into a state of worried frenzy, I chanced to look upon this fish in an aquarium...and it seemed to be living only for the present moment...and all at once, something just seemed to flash inside me...that each moment should be enjoyed to the fullest as a unique experience...and no mistake you make will last forever...I don't know, perhaps my connection was random, but there it was, just there.
I don't know if I'm really making sense, but I have begun to really appreciate life for its minutest details...like every time I just inhale...I just feel soooo lucky, so blessed...and it has helped me become, or at least strive towards a greater level of acceptance, tolerance and understanding...Besides that...well, you know...
I don't know if I'm really making sense, but I have begun to really appreciate life for its minutest details...like every time I just inhale...I just feel soooo lucky, so blessed...and it has helped me become, or at least strive towards a greater level of acceptance, tolerance and understanding...Besides that...well, you know...
Saturday, September 3, 2011
...
The last time I looked, the flower was blooming,
It's thorns were young and green;
Life, like a ghost, was desultorily looming
It's real form yet unseen.
It's thorns were young and green;
Life, like a ghost, was desultorily looming
It's real form yet unseen.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thoughts
Some evenings, like this peach-pink one outseide my window, are reserved for thinking.
Thinking about the various goings-on in the world and MY COUNTRY.
The Jan Lokpal Bill has raised a stir in India, and a lot of eloquent commentary on it is flying around websites, newschannels, college campuses and possibly coffee houses. And it is very heartening to see so many Indian citizens taking such an active interest in the Bill. There might be people who actully whole-heartedly support this campaign, others who might detect flaws in it, and yet others who may feel the need to oppose it. There might be people who are still pondering over the Bill's efficacy, and the consequences which might arise if it is passed by the government. I must say that as an Indian citizen, it is heartening to see so many people so actively engaged in thinking about this movement, in critically scrutinising it...we should realise that apathy is never the answer, and the 'aam junta' always has a responsibility...to think, to be vocal, to analyse and to act...indifference will only breed danger for all...we must use our faculties to the best of our abilities, in times such as these. Whether the Bill is successful or not, if passed, is something only time can and will tell...it is not possible to make entirely accurate hypothetical predictions, though one may well draw upon similar historical incidents...but contexts are ever-changing things, and I do believe that any step towards a positive change should be ruminated upon, encouraged and yet scanned thoroughly for loop-holes, instead of being simply dismissed into the realm of apathy by those who believe that their lives will not be directly affected by it...such were my thoughts when returning home from the library today...out of all thoughts emerge ideas and actions, some of which may directly affect the society we inhabit.Let's hope for the BEST.
Thinking about the various goings-on in the world and MY COUNTRY.
The Jan Lokpal Bill has raised a stir in India, and a lot of eloquent commentary on it is flying around websites, newschannels, college campuses and possibly coffee houses. And it is very heartening to see so many Indian citizens taking such an active interest in the Bill. There might be people who actully whole-heartedly support this campaign, others who might detect flaws in it, and yet others who may feel the need to oppose it. There might be people who are still pondering over the Bill's efficacy, and the consequences which might arise if it is passed by the government. I must say that as an Indian citizen, it is heartening to see so many people so actively engaged in thinking about this movement, in critically scrutinising it...we should realise that apathy is never the answer, and the 'aam junta' always has a responsibility...to think, to be vocal, to analyse and to act...indifference will only breed danger for all...we must use our faculties to the best of our abilities, in times such as these. Whether the Bill is successful or not, if passed, is something only time can and will tell...it is not possible to make entirely accurate hypothetical predictions, though one may well draw upon similar historical incidents...but contexts are ever-changing things, and I do believe that any step towards a positive change should be ruminated upon, encouraged and yet scanned thoroughly for loop-holes, instead of being simply dismissed into the realm of apathy by those who believe that their lives will not be directly affected by it...such were my thoughts when returning home from the library today...out of all thoughts emerge ideas and actions, some of which may directly affect the society we inhabit.Let's hope for the BEST.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
What I miss most, not least...Part 2
I miss waiting for classes to begin, I miss waiting for classes to end. I miss wearing a new outfit to class, I miss feeling very apprehensive after a new haircut. I really miss resisting my friends' many attempts to coax me into having phuchka, and then finally resisting the temptation by yielding to it, to borrow from Wilde. I miss discussing books, analysing them for hours and coming up with bizarre interpretations. I miss reading poetry together with ma fiends, and making each other laugh with our weird comments...read:"balmy drops, " from A. Tennyson's IN. M...I miss studying together before our exams, shesher dike online, on gmail...and sending each other random links which we thought might be useful...What don't I miss...I miss those sudden trips to Dakshinapan, those stolen visits to The Dolly Tea House, those never ending walks of ours, our way back home via the Dhakuria Bridge, how my friend and I bid each other adieu on the steps...how I felt a gush of warmth when I saw the blue gates which spelt home.
Friday, August 12, 2011
A STROLL DOWN A LANE OF RAMBLING NOSTALGIA
What is it that I miss the most about my days in JU? I think I miss the smell of the rain-drenched grass by the jheel. I miss the slowly approaching summer evenings,the mellow and sudden winter evenings, the pink and violet evenings of spring, the clear and bright Shorot evenings, the stormy and tempestuous monsoon evenings... the time reserved for twilight and friends, the steaming cups of sugary coffee at Milonda's dear canteen, our cups of tea from the cha-walla near Char (4) Nombor Gate, our rant against the mosquitoes and red ants, our endless conversations about endless things. I can vividly recall our dissected dreams, our myriad littlw hopes, our comfortable fears and our feelings of togetherness, when the sun had set. I miss running into people from University, and having the most random, mostly interesting and sometimes very profound conversations. I miss sitting near Vivekananda Hall, dodging the cigarette smoke, listening to other people play the guitar and sing undecipherable songs. I miss popping into the book-store and occasionally hopping out with a treasured buy. I miss the sudden greenness, I miss the random chaos, I miss the undeniable order of things, which insisted on structuring our lives, despite all our liberty.
I miss my classes, I miss the Ledge, ((never sat on it, though.))I miss getting sudden glimpses of people, I miss discussing our lessons together. I miss so many things, and yet I am not sad...I remember more than I yearn...a lot of misunderstandings can occur among friends, but one should not let that freeze up, or embitter one's memories, should it? The good times must always be remembered in fond and charming fondness.
I miss coming in late for a class and feeling terrible about it, I miss exchanging glances with friends, I miss our pointless debates, which ALWAAAYS had a point, I miss missing the point totally, mostly in relation to innuendos, ahhem, I miss ambling around, I miss complainin' about term papers and tests, and the secret sessions of SparkNotes we all completed...I miss the frantic phone calls before end sems., trying to figure out how much choice we had in the question paper, and which texts we might very, very safely leave out. I miss our group study sessions. I miss the feeling of being attached to a place which had suddenly, and unknowingly become my own. And i miss going HOME at the end of a day...
I might as well enjoy my time now, before it slips me by, and I begin to miss a new episode...
I miss my classes, I miss the Ledge, ((never sat on it, though.))I miss getting sudden glimpses of people, I miss discussing our lessons together. I miss so many things, and yet I am not sad...I remember more than I yearn...a lot of misunderstandings can occur among friends, but one should not let that freeze up, or embitter one's memories, should it? The good times must always be remembered in fond and charming fondness.
I miss coming in late for a class and feeling terrible about it, I miss exchanging glances with friends, I miss our pointless debates, which ALWAAAYS had a point, I miss missing the point totally, mostly in relation to innuendos, ahhem, I miss ambling around, I miss complainin' about term papers and tests, and the secret sessions of SparkNotes we all completed...I miss the frantic phone calls before end sems., trying to figure out how much choice we had in the question paper, and which texts we might very, very safely leave out. I miss our group study sessions. I miss the feeling of being attached to a place which had suddenly, and unknowingly become my own. And i miss going HOME at the end of a day...
I might as well enjoy my time now, before it slips me by, and I begin to miss a new episode...
A Story to Tell
As the evening unfolds, so does my story. It begins in the bylanes of a small locality, which shall remain unnamed. I must begin at the very end. The chapter of the unseen planets. But how did I get there? Must you know? Well, I began the story, I know that, but must I articulate every inch of my tale by myself? I could use some help, for sure....
Friday, August 5, 2011
Dear Diary.........!
Dear Diary,
I am infinitely grateful for ever so many things. I've always wished to 'study' in another country for a spell. It has been one of my most ardent, deep and long-lasting dreams. I had imagined a life so different, so full of infinite possibilities and unknown potential. I love interacting with people from different cultures, and engaging in enriching symbiotic relationships. All those dreams are blooming like a mysterious flower, petal by petal, each new day. I am happy, to the say the least. But something, I can't quite say what, seems to be missing...oh, the campus is lovely, a verdant wonder, ....more later...
I am infinitely grateful for ever so many things. I've always wished to 'study' in another country for a spell. It has been one of my most ardent, deep and long-lasting dreams. I had imagined a life so different, so full of infinite possibilities and unknown potential. I love interacting with people from different cultures, and engaging in enriching symbiotic relationships. All those dreams are blooming like a mysterious flower, petal by petal, each new day. I am happy, to the say the least. But something, I can't quite say what, seems to be missing...oh, the campus is lovely, a verdant wonder, ....more later...
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