I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

"I have climbed highest mountain

I have run through the fields

Only to be with you

Only to be with you

I have run

I have crawled

I have scaled these city walls

These city walls

Only to be with you

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for..."

U2 (Read complete lyrics here...)

Woke up early this morning - partly because I slept so badly last night, partly because I'd already set the alarm with intentions of practicising those grey cells before the sun rose over the horizon; something I used to be good at. I've always been a person who preferred getting up early to study, rather than studying late. But with this new lethargy I seem to have forgotten the pleasures of waking up early, listening to music of my choice on Rewind or on one of my old CDs...brewing my own coffee even while it's still dark outside and then sipping it slowly while standing on the terrace/balcony cradling my big yellow with blue trim mug in my hands...and then sitting and doing some mental exercises that kick-start the day and keep those grey cells active all day, not to mention keep the angsty emotions at bay, providing a sense of calm, peace and order inside my cauldron of a head....

This was the first song I heard this morning, moving onto other 80s classics and then some Blazing Drums and now it's Trilok Gurtu. It's 9.41 a.m and I can feel the weight on my heart lifting and a smile teasing at the corners of my lips, as the music takes over and weaves it's magic spell over me.

P.S A new story is up on Literary Mosaic - waiting to be read and reviewed! :-)

Cold

It's snowing in Kasmir - freak weather they say. It's snowing elsewhere in the world also, like never before. Temperatures are falling all over the world. It's cold outside.

And so am I. Cold from inside.

Just cold.

So cold.

Ruminations...

Friendships mean a lot to me. So much that sometimes I give them more importance than family relationships and that it is my friends who know me better than my family. I don’t open up easily to people – am extremely choosy about the people I associate with and befriend. Not being of the rude and blunt nature I often end up being nice to people I don’t think much of, and would rather they stay as far from me as possible, but these ‘acquaintances’ never become friends. So it is, that when I open my heart out to someone, it’s with complete trust that they will not hurt me. And so it is, that when they do hurt me, I feel the prick of the wound sharper than expected in normal circumstances. With almost every friendship of mine that has meant something to me, I’ve erred in expecting too much from the other person and at some time or the other, they have inadvertently hurt me. :-(

Someone recently said that relationships should not become a burden, a liability and a responsibility towards the other – wherein you fear hurting them or letting them down. That there should be freedom in a relationship – freedom to be who you are without the need to explain anything. Yes there should be. But does the freedom to be true to your own self imply that you have the right to be callous about other’s feelings? Does the freedom to be true to your convictions and beliefs and attitudes imply that you have the right to squash any other opposing thought and not even give it a fair hearing? Does an occasional compromise for the one you care about, really have to be such a pain?

Currently :-

• Planning the week ahead of me – it’s going to be a busy one with Dr.M in town with wife – so there are corporate dinners to look forward to, and the delightful role of the MD’s daughter to live upto! Plus I have to get myself back into the groove of studies.
• Disciplining my mind and body – started with the body a fortnight ago. Ab dimaag ki baari hai.
• Listening to Come Undone by Duran Duran – sexy song! Incredibly sexy!

Alzheimer's Disease

Alzheimer’s Disease.

To me, it’s the one of the most humiliating and crippling diseases to be afflicted by. To be afflicted by a disease that leads to the debilitation of the mind, is so much more painful than being inflicted by a disease that affects the body. Seeing your body rot away and being racked with pain day-in and day-out is a torture, but to not even know what “pain” is?

I finally saw Black this weekend – needless to say, the performances are superlative and if the actors don’t sweep away all the awards next year, it’s going to be a disgrace, for I don’t think anyone can top these performances for the next few years. I’d been told that it’s a heart-breaking and touching movie, but I didn’t expect it to move me so much. To say that I had tears in my eyes is an understatement – they flowed down my cheeks and at one point I was sniffling quite loudly. I don’t normally cry in movies so this left me shocked – either I’m more of a softy than I let on, or those oscillating hormones were at work again – I was pre-disposed to the mood anyway, so the movie seemed to just let the dam down! While most people have raved about the movie, there are some who have given it the absolute thumbs-down, which leaves me a little rattled. I don’t get it. I mean so the movie is “depressing” (I think “serious” is more apt) and doesn’t provide mass-entertainment by means of wild song-n-dance routines, but what about the treatment of subject, performances, direction? Does that not count?

In the movie, Mr.Sahay, Michelle’s teacher is afflicted by Alzheimer’s. For someone who has spent a lifetime teaching the blind and deaf the meaning of words, leading them to light, when all that surrounds them is darkness, there couldn’t be a worse fate. To forget who you are, what you are, to forget what words mean – I can’t even imagine it.

After the movie I was ruminating over this, and I remembered my post on Iris Murdoch, writer par excellence.From the mid-1990s Murdoch suffered from Alzheimer disease. First signs were seen on visits to Israel, where Murdoch, who always spoke slowly, had difficulties answering questions. Nissim Ezekiel, father of Modern Indian English poetry and a highly respected professor of English also suffered from the same till his death last year. It made me think about how an author/poet would deal with Alzheimer's Disease - how difficult it would be for them to face not being able to complete a sentence they started, suddenly not knowing what words meant and so on.

Iris, ofcourse is a movie that deals with this subject very well, interweaving the crippling effect of the disease with the biography of the writer. I’d strongly recommend the movie – apart from brilliant performances by Kate Winslet and Judi Dench, it has been made with great skill and feel for the subject.

And ofcourse – BLACK. It’s a MUST SEE!

C'est Moi

Riding the rollercoaster of life at neck-breaking speed should be fun me thinks sometimes. But it ain’t for me – I’ve always taken life one step at a time, cautiously, sensibly. The only time I tried to take large steps encompassing two tiles with each step, I exhausted myself and ended as drained as a dish-water rag once the job is done. That I felt like that, during that one year, used and ready to be tossed out of the window kinda added that essential ingredient in my exhaustion.

But I’m back to my take one step at a time – so I’m dog-headedly pursuing one thing, stubborn as a river intent on its destination. I may meander along the way, but I know where I’m headed. So what if the others think I’m just an aimless petite little thing who’s too frail and delicate for the real world, and needs others to make decisions for her. Ha. Little do they know how stubborn I am and who takes the decisions. Moi. Seulement moi. Personne autre.

I like to think they are mostly the right decisions and that when I err I learn from my mistakes. Once bitten, twice shy – yes that’s me. Not to mention my ego doesn’t permit me to fail, or compromise on perfection in goals yet to be achieved, in dreams yet to be realized. I shall settle for nothing less than what I first set my eyes on. Absit Omen.

So here I am plodding along steadily towards my goals – just took the next step towards it. For a while there was this huge hurdle, which I couldn’t remove from my path all alone – now it’s gone and am I pleased as punch! Wondering what I’m gassing about?:-)

Classes for Diplome Superieur at Alliance Francaise de Ponna finally started this week. Merci Bon Dieu! I was quite climbing walls in frustration – it’s all nice to be vella for a while, to indulge yourself in siestas, and lazy meanderings of the mind, to pamper one’s mind by giving it a rest, but believe me once the ennui sets in, little can prevent the eventual rusting. It’s inevitable. Ever wondered why house-wives have nothing to talk about but what they will cook for dinner tonight or what their neighbour wore to who’s party? It’s not because as a member of the female species they haven’t got the intelligence to discuss anything else. It’s not even because they do nothing – trust me a housewife’s job is the most tiring job around, not so much due to the physical/mental/emotional work involved but due to the thankless nature of the work. And that is what eventually makes a housewife feel she’s doing nothing worthwhile and then sets in the ennui towards the monotony of daily routines – and la voila la, the rust sets in.

That’s not going to happen to me. Don’t get me wrong here. I’m not saying I don’t respect housewives – home-makers, I think is less pejorative a term. Infact I sometimes think we women are lucky to have this choice – no one thinks less of us if we choose to stay home, putting our homes and our families first, instead of going out into the battle-field to fight for the daily bread. We can actually even do both – quite well, if we set our minds to it. The other half of humanity doesn’t have that one choice (the only choice perhaps that they don’t have, apart from that of giving birth) nor, is it capable of balancing the two worlds as skillfully as we are. But I don’t think I could sit at home and cook meals for someone who will come home fagged out at the end of the day and think that only he has had a difficult day – nopes that won’t happen to me. I know that I need to be gainfully employed in something that brings me a feeling of accomplishment and contentment and fulfillment. I need to important for the few people I am surrounded with. And I need to be able to be there for them, and do for them, what others can’t. I have no grand ambitions mind you. I don’t see my name writ up there with the immortals of humankind – but I don’t want my epitaph to read “She lived…She died.” In place of the elision, I’d like it to read “She lived her life fully. She died content. She won’t be remembered by the entire mankind. But we sure as hell will remember her for what she was.”

Ah oui, c’est moi. Egoistic petite little moi. And you know what? I quite like me :-)

• Current Music :- Beautiful Girl – INXS
• Current Mood :- Cheerful. Naughty. Wicked.

Ranting Bitch

Rant.

I want to rant today.

I’ve become quite accustomed to life in this hamlet, to the idea of living far-away from the main city (far by Pune standards) in an area where the roads are nearly non-existent for most of the year and rickshaw-wallahs disappear in the afternoon for a siesta so even if you don’t wanna risk your life in a PMT bus you really have no choice but to wait at the nukkad for the next bus going to Corporation. I’ve become accustomed to people arching their eyebrows in shock and disbelief when I tell them where I live in Pune, to rickshaw-wallahs laughing in my face when I ask them to go there after sundown and if I’m lucky to find one who’s willing to go, then to haggle with them over the fare! I’ve gotten accustomed to the utter peace and quiet of the colony, for once you enter in, you are quite isolated from the hustle-bustle of the outside world. It’s nice to fall asleep to the sound of the wind outside, hammering wildly at the windows begging to be let in so it can force my curtains to fly high up. It’s nice to walk into a colony kept clean by an army of sweepers, with plants and trees lining the long avenue that leads up to the bungalows at the end of the colony, nice to go for walks in the evening around the bungalows, wondering at the obscene amount of wealth people have that they can maintain Ekta-Kapoor-show-type bungalows and not stay in them!

But I have not become accustomed to the antics of the gaon-wallahs. I used to think noisy baraats were a custom of the rather loud and noisy Punjabis, and even though the custom seems to have pilferated into other communities, Maharashtrians still didn’t have this ridiculous custom. I was wrong. So incredibly, terribly wrong. For the Keshavnagar-wasis sure have very loud, very noisy and very long drawn-out baraats. And to make it worse, for some god-forsaken reason the Maharashtrians here don’t have weddings in the morning (as is normal in their community) but in the middle of the night. So their god-damned baraats are arriving in all their zor-shor close to midnight and they continue to revel in their noise till atleast 1 am. And it sure doesn’t help that they position of the buildings is such that all this noise ricochetes wildly and echoes like nobody’s business!

ARGH!

And oh did I mention that there seem to be way too many people in this bloody gaon, getting married, like perenially? The cacophony outside persists almost through-out the year. A few weeks of peace in January and it’s peak wedding season again!

GRRR!

Why can’t we Indians learn to conduct ourselves in a more dignified, sober manner and show some consideration for others? You wanna have a garish wedding, go have it – but why make my life miserable at the same time?

ICK!

• Current mood :- Grumpy as a sleep deprived bear. Tired. Thirsting for some blood and longing to sink my fangs into the next available victim.
• Current music:- Runaway Train – Soul Asylum. Listening to my favorites from the 80s and 90s – they made real music back then! :-)
• Current read :- Rushdie’s Haroun and the Sea of Stories and Ill-made Mute by Cecelia Dart-Thornton. After a long time, I’m reading again and enjoying the sheer magic words can spin, c’est vrai, authors are magicians!

Furor Scribendi?

I’d like call myself a writer – a writer who has a way with words, a natural flair and a style that is unmistakable. Not to mention content worth reading – more than once. I’m nowhere near that today, I know, but one day I hope to be there. As of now, as a writer, I’m erratic. I can’t bind myself to the practice, for I bore of it soon if there’s an obligation to write. Yet at times I feel a ‘furor scribendi’ and what I must say comes out of me like an out-pouring of sorts, almost a cathartic vomiting. As for style – I can’t really say I have a marked style of my own. Like Pune’s voltage system it fluctuates like nobody’s business and is yet to grow and mature into something I can proudly identify as distinctly and quintessentially mine.

Lately I’ve been finding myself impatient and lazy with the words – I can’t bring myself to write anything remotely worthwhile and actually complete it. The year began with a bang that left me strapped to the bed, and then proceeded to race crazily down the track with no sense of direction and purpose. I thought a hiatus from the monotony of my purpose-less long vacation would do me good, so I took off to Bbay for a rushed trip, returning to Pune only to pack my bags and set off for Bangalore.

A week away from Pune did me some good, especially since I spent the time mostly ruminating and allowing the mind to drift aimlessly as I sat in my cousins’ balcony looking over the tree-tops at the clear skies dotted with pristine clouds. The sounds of quotidian activities would drift up to my ears keeping me connected yet not really jarring my reverie. It was a nice and pleasant break – anti social, for I didn’t meet anyone but my cousins with whom I stayed (had no choice there, did I? ;-) ) and Bua-Phuphaji who also stay in the Garden city.

The city has changed drastically since I went there in summer 2000 with Aprajita, transforming Bua-Phuphaji’s quiet, residential Indira Nagar into a bustling, active, very noisy and traffic-congested area that left me at quite a loss of words. As for the traffic in the city on the whole – they aren’t far from Bombay when it comes to mindless traffic jams. I still find the city nice in terms of weather, having experienced pleasant weather and sweet breezes during my stay, not to mention the usual Bangalore showers that brought back the breezes and forced down the rising temperatures.

And the shopping in the city never fails to please me – I stepped out just once to shop and visited just one mall (didn’t even hit M.G road/Brigade Road and the quintessentially Banglore Commercial Street, leave alone the much-famed new mall in Koramangala), yet I came back pleased with my purchases. Few, terribly so for my usual shopping habits, but good buys.

Creatively speaking the holiday was good, for I splashed some paint on my cousins’ wall adorning it with Berger paint (Rangoli – Brick Red) and then some Warli painting to add that dash of drama and ethno-chic to their living room. Apart from restoring my confidence in my ‘artistic’ inclinations, it also set free my rather dormant creativity, giving rise to a panoramic gamut of ideas and projects in my mind; enough to keep me and my brushes busy in the next few months. :-)

I came back several days ago, but yet that apathetic ennui dogs me – there is a disturbing desultoriness in my thoughts and ways, that I have resolved to break free off, before it worms its way into my system for good. Amen to that! :-)

We are Feminists...

Because
woman's work is under paid or unpaid &
what we look like is
more important than what we do &
if we love women it's
because we can't get a real
man & if we expect community care for
our family we are selfish & if we stand up
for our rights we are loud & if we don't
we are typical weak females &
if we want to get married we are out to trap a man &
if we don't we are unnatural &
because we aren't deemed responsible enough
to decide if, when and
how we give birth,
we are feminists

- Joyce Stevens (an activist over many years in the left, union and feminist movements, starting with her membership in the Eureka Youth League in 1942 and in the Communist Party of Australia (CPA) in 1945). This was written in 1975 for an International Women's Day broadsheet; the words which followed have been republished on postcards, stickers, posters and t-shirts in Australia and overseas. She has also worked for environmental, Aboriginal and mulit-cultural issues.