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...