Searching for a Meaningful Subject

For someone who can talk almost incessantly and suffers from a perennial verbal diarrhoea of sorts, it troubles me greatly when people constantly seek to have "meaningful" conversations. It is true that we communicate with greater ease in the modern world, thanks to modern technology which has rendered the task so much simpler and perhaps lent to the superficiality of most communication today and I am quite opposed to the idea of conversing for the sake of conversing, i.e talking to fill the silence, the void as it were. I would rather endure a (heavy) silence than endure an inane and superficial conversation and am quite a failure when it comes to making small talk. Yet, when someone pushes me to have an "intelligent" conversation and insists on always having a meaningful issue to discuss, especially in an informal relationship where the contact has moved beyond the more obvious symbiotic nature of all relationships, I find myself balking and withdrawing. I believe in sharing my experiences, however little and inconsequential they may be. I believe in sharing the small thoughts and emotions. I believe that is what builds a friendship and is the basis of most enduring relationships. Debates and profound discussions have their own place. And the everyday banality has its own. Must we really negate one for the other?

Painfully and Irrevocably (?) Stereotyped...

Having a strong dislike towards even the faintest pigeon-holing of people and their personality traits, I’d like to believe I am above stereotypes. But the unfortunate truth is that I am not and that I indulge often enough in stereotyping people, conveniently placing them in neat little categories. It is easier isn’t it, to refer to people by the label you have stuck on their forehead and not make an effort to understand them individually and get to the core of what makes them tick? But the easiest ways are not always the best ways of doing things and I must also admit that there have been several opportunities when I have been ashamed and regretted having judged someone on the basis of stereotypes. I followed the guidelines set by society, but I wonder how those guidelines come into existence in the first place?

On an anecdotal tangent, a few weeks ago I was in centre-ville and meandering through the streets as is my wont. Despite the fact that Grenoble is a more polluted city than other European cities where I have previously stayed, the air is still much more fresh and pure than the one I’m accustomed to breathing. Combined with the brisk chill, my nose is often quivering in excitement like a mouse in the presence of cheese and I pick up almost every odour I encounter, much alike the main character in Perfume (or so I like to imagine and I’m providing extremely redundant and pointless details here)…

…so there I was walking along this deserted street and heard someone walking up behind me. My nose picked up the faint smell of alcohol and tobacco mixed with a certain element of stagnation, perspiration and a certain rough dusty quality which I would associate with someone who does a lot of physical work. My mind prepared itself to see a black person walk past me and indeed it was a tall, bulky black man in a heavy overcoat which looked like it hadn’t been washed in several years. A little later I walked past a cinema hall and two minutes later a man ran out of the door I’d passed. As he approached me from behind, I was assailed by the strong and distinct smell of expensive male cologne and I imagined a white man, tall and lean, probably wearing a smart shirt and well-fitting jeans. I was not disappointed. He was blond as well and really fit perfectly into the little box in which I had placed him.

Finally, standing at the bus stop I watched as an Indian man crossed the street – as he came closer my nose quivered in irritation at the strong smell of coconut oil and annoyingly enough the smell of garam masala…(don’t get me wrong – I love the smell of garam masala, but in my food, not on people!) and I found myself thinking that he could not have underlined his national identity any stronger and that he was one of those “typical desis” you encounter abroad! And it suddenly hit me – had I just walked out of the kitchen I might have smelt very similar, ergo like a “typical desi.” What was I doing looking down my haughty and apparently more sophisticated nose at just another being, as much my equal as anybody else?

Throughout the day I had classified people correctly but rather arbitrarily on the basis of what my olfactory senses picked up and believe me, I may have a cute nose, but I really don’t have “the” nose…and I had unwittingly placed the white man on the highest rung. Why? The dusty, tobacco and alcohol smell could just as well have come from a white man as the irresistible and sexy cologne could have come from a black man and I have encountered enough of both to have known better than to stereotype. The co-incidence that my stereotyped imagination proved to be right was just that – a co-incidence, and I knew that. Imagine then the extent of the social conditioning that made me indulge in such stereotypes despite knowing and recognising them as faulty classifications of people. If this is how I function despite my apparent resistance to stereotypes, how then do people who do not resist them behave? It makes me shudder indeed to think of it…

Currently listening to Kandisa by Indian Ocean, feeling very pleasantly mellow and content after eating an entire bar of chocolate and dreaming with anticipation about my upcoming trip to Bordeaux, instead of concentrating at the task in hand. :-)

Dawning Realisations (Ahem?)

After a very productive day, spent reading, completing class assignments, and updating my budget excel sheet (it helps keep track of money – don’t look at me like that!) and diary, I decided to step out for a short walk to get some fresh air and encourage the blood to circulate with a little more energy in my legs ;-)

When I stepped out, it was still light and by the time I returned to the Résidence it was already getting dark and the lights had started coming on…and that’s when it struck me. I’ve been here for nearly three weeks now and I haven’t seen a single sunrise or sunset. I was initially rather disconcerting with this sudden realisation of mine, till it dawned on my rather dim mind that the overcast weather probably plays a role in my having missed the sunsets – I must admit I haven’t been active enough to seek a sunrise since I’m either still burrowed under my blanket or running around getting ready for class at sunrise, instead of sitting with a mug of steaming coffee in my hand, awaiting the sight of the sun’s magnificent ascent. I hope I get to see the sunrise or sunset before I leave – with these mountains all around me, it must be a sight to behold...

Europe. Before Sunrise. Paris. Before Sunset.

That is my definition of the most perfect romantic escapade. They are also titles of two of my favourite films. I have seen them so many times and each time I see them I fall in love all over again with Ethan Hawke and Europe. Every time I see the film a different section appeals and lingers in my mind. I do not know what there is about these films, but they have stayed with me all these years. I’ve seen them both once already since I’ve come here and have a feeling I’ll be seeing them again before these four months are over…damn, but if only they didn’t make me yearn for my own dawns and twilights! :-)

The Icarus in Me?

Icarus didn’t pay heed to his father and flew too close to the sun, on his way out of the seemingly inescapable labyrinth. He burnt himself and fell.

The Icarus myth, is a myth well known to me, yet I did the same thing. In my desperation to flee the endless labyrinth of despair, I didn’t pay heed to my parents’ voices whispering words of caution in my ears and flew too close to the sun and burnt myself. Badly. And I fell as well. Badly. Once again. I want to blame the exhilaration the wings gave me. I want to blame the wings. I want to blame the sun most of all. But it’s really me who was at fault. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have closed my eyes and trusted the flight so blindly. It isn’t going to be easy getting back on my feet and putting myself together with fingers that still sting, but I’ll be damned if I don’t get there.
Wiser this time.

Amen.

A Personal Touch

I sit and stare at my room – it’s a really nice room and in comparison to that tiny, unremarkable room I had in 2007 in Montpellier, this is almost a three star hotel room. It’s spacious enough for me, pleasant and has the most splendid view. A fortnight in the room and it’s already marked with signs of my personality. I don’t really have anything with which I can decorate the room in my own way and have to make do with the bed linen and curtains provided by the Résidence, but the board has things tacked up and notes all over. The shelves have my books and jewellery and other knick-knacks and the room has that unmistakable aura of me stamped all over it. From the crowded wash basin counter with my skin care and dental paraphernelia to the organised disorder on the study table…the minute I enter the room I feel like I’ve returned home. Well home away from home, for the bag lying on the shelf above the door, the first thing I see every morning when I open my eyes is a constant reminder that this is only a very short stay. I wonder how people who are here for longer durations, who have already stayed here for over 6 months and intend to be here for at least another 2 years can continue to live out of their suitcases and not want to add that personal touch to their living quarters which can transform it from a room into a home, however transitory it may be…

Finally...

After the most pathetic and unbelievable day, I'm finally where I should have been on Thursday evening. With an assignment safely delivered (not on time, mind you) and a weekend to look forward to...there's only sunday now, but toasting my own reflection in the laptop with what has luckily turned out to be a caraf of incredibly good of Rosé (bought from the closest 8 à Huit, if you please) and some excellent fromage du chèvre and a delicious salade with some baguette, I'm finally at peace. Not having sent the work on time was just completely eating me up and making me shed the tears by gallons and reprimand myself for my weakness every other minute! There is nothing I hate more than not being able to look myself in my own eyes and know I've done right and know that there are people who are glad they can rely on me...and today I couldn't. All day. I hope such days are not many more to come...

Idle Thoughts in Grenoble...

Sitting here in my neat and tidy room staring out of the window at the snow-capped mountains in front of me, cradling my glass of tea in my hand (I haven't gotten around to getting myself a mug yet) and letting the steam rising from the glass warm my face, my mind drifts idly...

I should have posted earlier - I've been here nearly a fortnight now and I've had plenty of time and opportunities to write, but something held me back each time. A certain lack of motivation, if you please. Or perhaps, a certain inquietude and inner conflict vis-à-vis what I really wanted to say and what I can really say...

When I got my passport in 2003 and left home for the first time to spend three months in Germany, I had never imagined how much the unmeasurable wealth of experiences would change me, and how much personal growth there would be in such an incredibly short span of time...or even that it was just the beginning of what now seems like a long-term relationship with Europe. I returned in 2007. More growth happened. Changes that were not really subtle. 2009. I'm here for the longest stay yet, after two tumultous years from which I'm still recovering . I wonder what lies ahead...

Boarding Pass

A year ago was when I first seriously considered taking things further. I hesitated, nervous, wondering if it was the right thing to do at this point in life. I questioned my sanity. I tried reasoning with myself that doing this without the safety net would be quite a risk. And then I knew that if I didn't take the plunge, I'd regret it for the rest of my life. I should have known I'd do it.

The final decision to go back to studies and fund it myself, even if it is only for a short course was a relief, even if I'm now extremely nervous about the whole deal. Nervous enough to have bitten two of my nails into half! Now sitting just a day away from the first day at Centre Universitaire d'Études de Français, Université Stendhal, Grenoble the import of my decision finally stamped on to my conscious and unconscious mind, I can only hope that this will bring to me everything I expect.

A Cinematic Journey

2005. My first edition of Pune International Film Festival, introduced to me by a then new acquaintance. I went for the festival, only because the focus that year was on French films and it would be an excellent opportunity for me to improve on my Compréhension Orale. Geek. I know. I hadn't expected to emerge from that dizzying week of films, films and more films with an extremely dear friend who has been responsible in many ways for the person I am today and a mind that had grown so much within seven days that I am almost ashamed to admit how ignorant and foolish I was before... Ever since then, PIFF has represented two things : seven days of excellent cinema, mind-fucking, intellectual, or just plain silly and the birth of one of the most precious friendships I have forged.

From 2005 to 2009...it's been one helluva journey for my friend and me, for cinema and me. Our friendship has weathered the worst and survived. My taste in cinema is far more defined and informed (and I'd like to believe, more intelligent), though I continue to stay ignorant about the technicalities of film-making. This year, there isn't single chance of my friend making it for PIFF and even though I have a free pass (I get around you know) I haven't seen a single film yet. It is no big deal I know. Film festivals happen. Work happens. Life happens. You have to miss film festivals. But I feel as though I'm committing blasphemy. It's almost a sacrilege to be in Pune, hold a pass and not go watch some uber-mind-fucking excellent cinema.

I haven't made any resolutions this year - but here's one today. I will watch at least one film at PIFF before it ends...and I embark on the next journey. Amen.

Vinaigrette

Taking advantage of my break, I decided to indulge in some spring-cleaning and re-organising of my cupboards. My wardrobe was an easy task, since it rarely gets disorganised and a cleaning mission merely means putting the already neat stacks of clothes into neater stacks so they do not cross the invisible frontiers between them (I know I'm a freak, don't look at me like that!).

My study however is a different matter all together - it took me the better half of the day. A tiring task, but an extremely satisfying one, at the end of which I discovered treasures from my childhood. Stickers my father had brought back for me from Germany when I was ten years old - Papa would get back Staedtler colour pencils, felt-pens, stickers and other stationary for me on each of his trips to Europe. Back then, in the late 80s and early 90s such stuff was not easily available and I treasured each thing Papa brought back for me. The way I was brought up, the stuff was not given to me directly. They used to be kept in the cupboard in our living room which housed all the stationary used in the house. Whenever I wanted to use the stickers, I would ask Amma and she would open the cupboard, a treasure trove in my eyes, and let me choose. There were no restrictions, but I knew I couldn't waste them and I shouldn't go around randomly sticking them just anywhere I so pleased.

There are at least five complete sheets left and a couple more with a few stickers remaining. My bhabhi was shocked when I told her how long back Papa had bought them for me and even more when I calmly told her that I still have the Caran D'Ache felt-pens he got me from Switzerland when I was 14. Assuming I had kept them as a souvenir, as I have with several things Papa had gifted me over the years, she shrugged it off, only to stare at me with her jaws dropped when I pulled them out and proceeded to use them a little later in the evening. I wouldn't say I was a frugal and miserly child who did not use the stuff because of its "special" value. I used them - I've always enjoyed doing creative stuff so all the things I had were put to their maximum use, but I was also taught how to take care of my things and to use them in the right way so they lasted long and were not wasted. My parents firmly believed that creativity was tested not by using in carefree abundance the resources at hand, but by making the most of what one had and learning to recycle and produce something beautiful...something that has stayed with me till date.

This evening after giving some of those stickers to my nephew, I watched in horror as he immediately and carelessly stuck them on his cupboard. He is still very young and the notions of making things last and taking care of his belongings haven't really formed completely in his head, but I wondered if he will ever be taught to use things the way I was taught by my parents and the way most of my contemporaries were taught by theirs. I wondered if I'll be able to pass on the same habits to my nephews and (possible) children...and then wondered if the habits have the same value today, as they did in my childhood...

Musing over how times have changed, I wondered whether I envy my nephew his childhood...and close on the heels of the realisation that I do not envy him the least bit, came the realisation that slowly and steadily I am ageing. I'd like to think like good wine, but I sometimes wonder if it isn't more like sour vinegar!

The New Age Martyr - The Modern Mother!

It is quite a traumatising affair to hear an infant cry almost incessantly especially when you can’t fathom what is troubling the child so much and can do scant little to make him stop crying! It is little wonder that post-partum depression is so common in the West, where women have absolutely no relief from their baby’s wailing and the consequent stress.

Yet, I find myself rather uncompromising and unforgiving towards women who think their only duty lies in giving birth to the baby and they have little responsibility towards bringing up the child, leaving it to the grandparents to run after the child. Why should the grandparents be responsible for the child’s upbringing? Haven’t they already done their fair share of work when they brought up their own children? I am not saying that new mothers do not need or deserve help – they do. But "help" is different from handing the baby over to the mother or expecting the mother-in-law to run the house for you because you are now otherwise occupied! In an age, when we are so eager to claim credit for every thing we achieve and beat our chests in triumphant independance as soon as we can, is it fair to drag our parents back into the realm of family responsibilities just because we haven’t planned our lives properly and don’t want to compromise or sacrifice anything? It is hardly taboo any more to not have children at all or have just one child, then why must people produce children when they have neither the time nor inclination to look after them?

Perhaps I’m being unreasonable and harsh but I also fail to see light when women these days make it seem like the fact that they’ve given birth to a child and are making adjustments in their life, makes them worthy of an award. Our mothers have all done it, sometimes with far greater responsibilities to shoulder and much lesser help, facilities and knowledge at hand. I don’t see any of them queuing up for the Padma Vibhushan. There are few women these days who I can truly admire as mothers, where I see a certain balance and sense being applied to the whole process of pregnancy, post-natal adjustment and then bringing the child up (J and S being two of them)…and them I truly admire, because I also admit that bringing up a child is no easy task at all! Having said all of this, I must admit that I hope I never live to see the day where I am forced to eat these words and retract my statements.

Adieu 2008...

2008. I stepped into the year on the phone with one of my closest friends who I love immensely, hoping to spend the next new year's eve together. Typing this in the fading light of the year in my of my favourite places in the city, I smile at the irony of failed dreams. Far from spending the last day of the year together, my friend is sitting thousands of miles away and I can only hope we will be able to talk tonight!

It's been a strange year by all counts - a year in which I've known the purest of happiness, the incredible joy of complete harmony and perfection and the satisfaction of personal and professional fulfillment. But it's also been a year of the most bitter realisations, disappointments and dark despair. There were times when I did not think I'd come through, but I have and it's a strange kind of content that fills my hungry soul tonight. It's been a year that has tested my closest relationships and I feel fortunate to have emerged with those I love and cherish the most still by my side, closer than ever. I have drifted away from some but also found some new friends, each of whom I connect with at a different level...what will the new year bring I wonder?

On that rather uncertain and timorous note, I wish thee all a Happy New Year, hoping it ushers in times of much happiness for everyone!

Reflections...

I have never been as proud of my mother, as I have in the last three weeks. The pride and respect I have for Papa has never been a secret but my mother’s strength, endless perseverance and resilience despite the bypass surgery and her 62 years have left me rather amazed. I wonder if I’ll have the same will power and strength of character at her age. Seeing how she has taken into stride everything has made me admire her so much. I know some of my decisions have hurt her and that is probably why I try not to let her down on other fronts. All I’ve ever wanted is for my parents to be proud of me and for them to be able to say that their daughter is a person of character. I really hope that they will be able to say that some day. Amen...

Beaming with Contentment

Unbelievable moments of mad mischief, endless chatter, annoyed frustration and nail biting nervousness later, I've finally managed to reach the end of the session...

There were times when I wondered if I was doing anything right, especially with one rather errant group. I'm still not sure how those zozos will fare and if my track record will suffer immensely or stay intact, but I am sure that I couldn't have done too badly...and once again my complete faith in what I'm doing has been reconfirmed. The elated satisfaction and the contented pride I glean from students' performances match litte else...and I must admit there is no better self-validation I harbour so often and so hungrily at times, than the one I get from students' appreciations.

One of the two batches passing out from my "regime" gave me the hugest and cutest card today - one that has warmed every little corner of my heart and spread across the length and breadth of me, a smile that refuses to fade. A hand-made card, they've put in it every silly thing uttered by them, all their insane gaffes, all my eccentric utterances and expressions and even one sentence I uttered while unleashing my ire on one of them...of all the gestures made by my students over the last 3 years, this will go down as one of the most memorable and special ones.

Rambling Away...

Random thoughts at four in the morning, when I should have been working and trying to deliver an assignment on my own time, instead of pushing it aside to be completed on time begged and borrowed…

• It is an extremely humbling experience to know people and have friends who are so much more intelligent and accomplished than one self…
• I don’t really mind the work; just wish there weren’t deadlines to meet every week! I’d never thought I’d live to see the day I worked almost unceasingly relying on a meagre four to five hours of sleep daily!
• Drumming music into my system after years – aeons actually! I’m counting on Trilok Gurtu to get the adrenaline flowing so I can meet the deadline looming large over me!
• Inching closer and closer to realizing a dream and an experience that I’m awaiting with a curious mix of excited eagerness coupled with wary nervousness – it’s funny how the last few centimeters seem the longest and the most arduous!

Forget Me Not, For Alive I Am...

....just terribly busy and buried under an avalance of work! The days don't seem to get any less tiring and the work doesn't seem to stop pouring in...but I have no complaints really. I haven't been this much at peace since a very long time and any work that comes my way is more than welcome if it brings with it peace of mind! :-)
Blog I shall - a far more interesting post, which is lying in the drafts waiting to be edited, polished and posted. I promise thee, my dear friends...just give me some time! Patience I demand of thee...prithee forget not, that patient I too have been in the past ;-)

Impression - Le Reveillon

I have, ever since I started understanding what little I understand about art, been an ardent admirer of the Impressionists, especially Edgar Degas and Claude Monet. My joy and delight was absolutely undiluted and unbriddled when I went for the Impressionist exhibition last year at the Museum in Montpellier, so much so that at one point I had the guard following me suspiciously! Even now when I recall the moment when I walked into the hall which housed Monet's biggest works, my skin breaks into goosebumps. It is strange then, that I haven't blogged at all about Claude Monet (1840-1926) whose painting, Impression, Soleil Levant (Sunrise) gave the name to the school of artists who primarily painted in plein air, making the most of the natural light and atmosphere and allowing it to reflect in their oeuvre along with their own individual perceptions and sensations vis-à-vis the subject. Last night as I revisited some of my favourite poems and browsed through the poems archive discovering previously unknown treasures, I found myself reading Oscar Wilde's Impression - Le Reveillon, which beautifully encapsulates my very own thoughts on the sublime beauty of a sunrise, the natural and the artistic interpretation. Since I find myself incapable of expressing the beauty of Claude Monet's oeuvre in my own words, I am shamelessly borrowing Wilde's words...

The sky is laced with fitful red,
The circling mists and shadows flee,
The dawn is rising from the sea,
Like a white lady from her bed.

And jagged brazen arrows fall
Athwart the feathers of the night,
And a long wave of yellow light
Breaks silently on tower and hall,

And spreading wide across the wold
Wakes into flight some fluttering bird,
And all the chestnut tops are stirred,
And all the branches streaked with gold.

Diwali is in the Air...

There's a nip in the air and a song in my heart ever since I got back from Bombay and despite some incredibly frustratingly annoying events and people and the fact that I constantly look for Papa to fulfill certain traditions, I feel a certain content inside of me that, for me, is synonymous with Diwali :-) Sure I love getting new outfits and I enjoy buying gifts for our family and friends, but what I really treasure are the simple rituals of cleaning the house, stringing the Diwali lights and Akashdeep Kandils, making the Diwali sweets, feasting on gujiyas, kheer and malpua made by Ma, lighting the hand-made diyas for धनतेरस and नरकचौदस, preparing for the Diwali pooja and finally the pooja itself...tomorrow is Diwali. May it usher in a year filled with joys and all that is right.

Keeping Traditions Alive...

I've been writing out the Diwali cards - an annual Diwali ritual and something I did with Papa. Some of my earliest memories of Diwali involve helping him choose the cards at a card shop or in a gift expo we'd visit before Diwali, and then sitting by his side at the dinner table, licking the stamps and painstakingly sticking them on the envelopes. I soon graduated to dictating the addresses to him, then writing the addresses on the envelopes...and over the years as his handwriting got worse and he got busier, the task of writing the cards shifted to me. But I never did it without him - whenever I took it up, he was there beside me, even if he was working...

I refused to write or send cards in 2006, still furious at the cruel twist of fate that had left me without him. It was only sometime during the Diwali pooja that it struck me that he would have wanted me to continue the tradition of sending the Diwali cards and he would have been disappointed with my juvenile and selfish behaviour. So last year, for the first time I sat alone and wrote cards to the whole family. Fortunately there were some cards remaining from the 2005, the last time I'd written Diwali cards. There was no pleasure in it at all; just a mechanical process, ...and I asked Papa if I had to keep this tradition alive.

Last night, nearly a year later I had my answer. It wasn't just about keeping the tradition alive, it was about making it mine. This morning, before running other errands, I bought the Diwali cards. For the first time, alone, without Papa to discuss which designs to choose and how many cards we'd need. I started writing the cards this evening. Papa was right there with me through out...and as I ticked off the last name in our usual list and then pulled out some more cards to send to my own set of friends and colleagues, I could see him smiling in approval.