Happiness v/s Contentment

A fleeting remark about "happiness" brought up the following line of thought. Probably incredibly convoluted as are most of my (il) logical thoughts, but I couldn't help but question whether I'd be "happy" if I had absolute enduring happiness. Utopic, but wouldn't that be artificial and some how take away from my own levels of endurance and make me a rather bland person? So oft have I fervently wished for happiness and lamented when the fleeting moments of happiness have slipped through my fingers like loose sand, leaving behind that awful sinking feeling in my heart and endless days of dark, cold depression...

But would a life full of undiluted happiness, ideal as it sounds, have any character at all? How would I measure my state of happiness if I knew no other state of being? And how would I then, deal with a calamity if I've never seen a dark cloud shadowing my horizons?

Minutes later, I realised that it isn't enduring happiness I crave, it's enduring contentment and peace. Happiness after all is ephemeral and defined by a certain evanescence and shallowness, isn't it? What I wouldn't do to go to bed at night, my heart and mind at peace, content with my life. I can only cross my fingers that I have that some day and that it lasts...

Amen...

Rakhi...

I never gave much importance to the festival and the custom of the obligatory gift given to the sister in exchange for the Rakhi has made me frown even more on the festival. My screwed up brain sees it as a materialistic custom and questions why a gift must be given in exchange for the Rakhi...it drives me up the wall when on Rakhi and each Bhai Dooj we hunt (sometimes almost frantically) for gifts for my cousins and nieces...would they not tie a Rakhi or do tika if a gift was not given? And if so, what does that say about the relationship? I know I'm probably complicating it for nothing, but then that's me. I specialise in complicating things, especially relationships with my wierd ideas and high expectactions.
But then, this year, for the first time Rakhi took on a new meaning. It's been 3 years and 3 Rakhis since Papa has not been here...but choti Bua still sends the Rakhis for Papa (and Ma) and the tika on each Bhai Dooj. For Bua, her relationship with her Nanu is still alive, even if he is not. Just this simple gesture has changed the way I perceive the festival and the relationship between a brother and sister.

Rooted

(Taken at the University of Pune, on the way to the Main building. After having walked up to the Y-point and beyond to the main canteen, I took the shaded path that comes up right in front of the lawns of the Main building. It's a path I love, perhaps my favourite part of the University campus and brings back many fond memories and a smile to accompany the faint heart ache...)

I like Chopin - Gazebo

Remember that piano
So delightful unusual
That classic sensation
Sentimental confusion

Used to say
I like Chopin
Love me now
and again

Rainy days never say goodbye
To desire when we are together
Rainy days growing in your eyes
Tell me where's my way

Imagine your face
In a sunshine reflection
A vision of blue skies
Forever distractions
A song that has kept me company over the years, long after we lost it from our once enviable collection of music, I've waited years to hear this song again. Access to Broadband and Limewire open source and a week later it is finally playing on my laptop. The first time the song came back to me was at the airport at Berlin when I was leaving behind my main suitcase and it is the song that kept me sane and kept up my hope till I finally saw my suitcase with all its contents intact. The song, try as I might refused to play in my head last year in Barcelona and later in Paris. I remember the look of disbelief given to me by P and K when I told them this - it sounds really screwed up and illogical I know. Yet the song represents in some manner of speaking things finally working out and falling into place. I had to have it, even if just to offer me superficial comfort. Heh and I thought I wasn't superstitious!

Souvenirs...

A chapter I've been waiting to close almost as soon as it started. The souvenirs are plenty but for a change I am just waiting to lose them...this one is particular chaffed me greatly through out the duration of the class, unaccustomed as I am to have any kind of identification tag decorating my person! I would wear it at the last possible moment and be in the process of removing it as I walked out of the gate!

Crucified?

Every finger in the room is pointing at me
I wanna spit in their faces then
I get afraid of what that could bring
I got a bowling ball in my stomach, I got a desert in my mouth
Figures that my courage would choose to sell out now

I've been looking for a savior in these dirty streets
Looking for a savior beneath these dirty sheets
I've been raising up my hands- drive another nail in
Just what God needs, one more victim

Why do we crucify ourselves
Everyday I crucify myself
Nothing I do is good enough for you
Crucify myself
Everyday I crucify myself
And my heart is sick of being in chains
....

- Tori Amos, Crucify

(Un)Professional

Professionalism, something so completely lacking at AFP keeps assuming new diminshed proportions with each passing day. I've given up questioning it but it sure got on my nerves today when "senior" colleague interrupted my class for a quick chit-chat session and kept rambling for 15 minutes while my poor hapless students stared on struck witless and dumb by the rapid-fire French exchange being carried on over their heads. Unprofessional. Impolite. Lacking in etiquette. Not done...and me, because of my lack of assertiveness was party to it. I'm so bloody appalled and disappointed in myself. She is much older than me, yes, but that doesn't mean I should allow her to do this and it definitely doesn't mean I should go along without objecting. Grrrr!!

Puisque je m'ennuie...

Bored out of my wits, I indulged in a few senseless photos and decided I quite like this one to go with my Plain Jane image...

No Rain

All I can say is that my life is pretty plain
I like watchin' the puddles gather rain
And all I can do is just pour some tea for two
and speak my point of view
But it's not sane, It's not sane
I just want some one to say to me
I'll always be there when you wake
Ya know I'd like to keep my cheeks dry today
So stay with me and I'll have it made
And I don't understand why I sleep all day
And I start to complain that there's no rain
And all I can do is read a book to stay awake
And it rips my life away, but it's a great escape
escape......escape......escape......
All I an say is that my life is pretty plain
Ya don't like my point of view
Ya think I'm insane
It's not sane......it's not sane

- Blind Melon

Bristling in Anger...

This morning as I left my colony I was greeted by a sight that made my stomach churn. A dog lay by the roadside curb, dead. I am no stranger to the sight of dead dogs (or even people) for that matter on the roads, having seen my fair share of gruesome accidents with brains splattered all over the tarmac. Then why did this dog lying unhurt by the roadside make me want to throw up? For starters, this was one of the three dogs that would greet me every morning, wagging their tails and accompanying me to the bus stop. This one, in particular was much more affectionate and has on several occasions come up bounding behind me and "hugged" me from behind! I will miss meeting him every morning...
But more than that, what got my blood boiling was that he hadn't died in a careless accident, nor of natural causes. Somebody had very obviously poisoned him (he still had traces of froth at his mouth)...and several others as I realised a few minutes later as I moved down the road. I accept that I never did anything for them. I don't feed street dogs nor do I get them vaccinated, nor do I get obviously diseased dogs treated by a veterinarian. Infact I have to admit that I have often complained about the nuisance of street dogs, despite being a dog lover. I agree that their increasing numbers can pose a problem especially when they get aggressive, but to "get rid" of them in this manner is disgusting. I won't deny thinking that a street dog which is obviously suffering from a disease should be put to sleep, but to "put to sleep" a seemingly healthy dog that wasn't in the least bit nasty nor aggressive by poisoning him is nothing short of the work of an extremely cruel and sick mind. Our country is crippled with its overwhelming population - do we go around poisoning and killing those that can not defend themselves? Then why the poor dogs who can't even speak up in their defense?

Violated

Walking the tight-rope, treading a fine balance between right and wrong, I’ve been torn apart in the last couple of months with personal decisions. What lies ahead I do not know and never before has the uncertainty and darkness ahead gnawed so much at my insides, leaving them a mangled aftermath of a rat’s meal. A year ago I would have turned blindly to my blog for catharsis, but I hesitated this time. I’ve always known that this was a public domain and anything I published in this space was open to the scrutiny, analysis and opinion of all and sundry, creeps included. But when the creeps actually visit, it leaves you feeling violated. And I was violated. In the last one year my blog has been visited by people who dislike/hate me and used my blog to make nasty comments about me, people who have changed their identities to comment and falsely befriend me in the attempt to creep under my defenses and hurt me, people who have wanted to keep track of my activities and that of my family (believe me we aren’t that important) so they could manipulate me/us for their own selfish purposes. It’s left a rather acrimonious taste in my mouth, disgusted at how low people can sink, upset that people harbour such feelings towards me and perhaps left me at a loss of words for this space, something that has never happened in the five odd years that I’ve been blogging. The physical violation that followed the violation of my space has left me feeling angrier with the world. Angry. Helpless. Upset. Lost. Violated. As I struggle to piece together my peace and self-confidence both of which have been shattered to shards in the last couple of years, as I tackle with new fears, recurring nightmares and insomnia I wonder if I’ll ever find my joie de vivre again. Standing alone as I am today, I wonder if any of this is worth it. Why do I continue to blog? Why do I keep up with the farce that everything is alright? Why do I hope that tomorrow will be better? I wonder if my existence has any meaning, my presence/absence any significance to anyone. And yes I wonder why I have been violated in such a ruthless manner. Why then? Why now? Why again? And again?

PS Pardon me for the repetitiveness…just wanted to drill home the point.

The Alphabet Tag – since I’m not otherwise blogging...

...which deserves a seperate post.

A – Available?
Depends for what…

B – Best Friend(s)
Several, none close enough when I need them. And I need them so desperately right now.

C – Cake or Pie?
Is this going to be one of those Karan Johar rapid fire session? Argh…I don’t know? Both? So kill me, I have a sweet tooth.

D – Drink of Choice
Non-alcoholic : Fresh Lime Soda (Sweet)
Alcoholic : Wine – preferably White or a good Rosé like Montbazillac. Also Cognac - Remy Martin ofcourse.

E – Essential things used everyday
Hygiene and Skin Care paraphernalia, Mobile phone, Watch, Laptop, Wallet (with Money)…this is making me sound materialistic!

F – Favourite Colour
Blue

G - Gummi Bears or Worms?
Ugh. Neither. Thank you.

H – Hometown
Bombay

I – Indulgence
Don’t think I have any…no wait, there is one. Stolen evenings, or days for that matter!

J – January or February
January 2008.

K – Kids and names
Let me update this after a few years?

L – Life
…is screwing with me in a big way these days.

M – Marriage Date
Haven’t the faintest clue. I’ll let you know when I have one!

N – Number of Siblings
1. Elder brother.

O – Oranges or Apples
Apples. Haven’t you heard? An apple a day keeps the doctor away.

P – Phobias
Heights. Elevators. Loneliness. Losing the one I love.

Q – Quote.
"Ask yourself if you are happy, and you cease to be." - J. S. Mill

R – Reason to Smile
Sunrises. Flowers. A good class. a good book. A good meal. A rainy day. Afternoons spent soaking in the sun at the University. Evenings with my closest friend(s). Indulgence.

S – Season
Winter. Monsoons.

T – Tagged
Those who actually took up the tag last time as well…plus Madusa and Kitana if they read this.

U – Unknown fact about me
I’ve been molested. Twice.

V – Vegetable you do not like.
Bitter Gourd…can I please add a lentil? I abhor Chane ki daal – can’t get it down my throat. The “only” occasion I have both of these is on Ganesh Chaturthi at best friend’s home since it is part of Prasad.

W – Worst Habit(s)
I bite my finger nail when I’m depressed. It’s a give-away about my emotional state.
I believe people when they say they won’t let me down. I hurt. Easily.

X – X-rays you’ve had
Chest – as a child, many, since I had many issues related to my heart. They gave way to more serious and painful tests later…
Mouth – for dental problems I’ve often ignored and left untreated (recently – which reminds me, a visit to the torture chamber is due!!!)

Y – Your favourite food(s)
Canneloni Florentine. Vegetable au Gratin. Dum Aloo. Dahi wale aloo. Lauki ke kofte. Reshmi Kebabs. Vegetable Stew prepared in coconut milk. Lotus stems the way Amma makes them, and the way they are served at Whispering Bamboos, Blue Diamond. Hakka noodles. Pineapple pastry. Lemon tart. Lemon soufflé. Malpua. Bengali mithai.
For someone who eats to live, and not the other way around, that’s quite a list!

Z – Zodiac
Libra – the balance. Wise. (They say). Calm. (Not these days, believe me) Diplomatic. (Unfortunately so much so at times, people don’t realise when I would give anything to see them guillotined!)

By My Bedside...

The queen has spoken and when she does what choice does the humble subject have but to scramble to obey ;-) IdleMind tagged me last week to make a list of what lies next to my bed, so here goes:

On the bedside console, which has 2 drawers filled with assorted junk like heating pad, a home tool kit and torches, apart from my childhood LEGO sets which I refuse to give away, you will find:

1. 3 Bande Dessinées (French Comics), 2 of which are mine and 1 has been borrowed from the AFP library.
2. A collection of poems by Paul Verlaine, again borrowed from the library.
3. A copy of My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead a collection of love stories from Chekov to Munro, edited by Jeffrey Eugenides.
4. A copy of Isaac Asimov’s Foundation, borrowed from the Amnesiac who is trying hard to change my reading habits and make me a more prolific and regular consumer of books.
5. A red frame with a photograph of Ma with my nephew when he was barely 4 months old
6. A bed-side alarm clock, set to 5:40 which wakes me up faithfully from Monday to Friday, which is removed from there and shifted to the dressing table every morning.
7. My cell phone joins the alarm clock, every night, with a back-alarm set incase the alarm clock fails!
8. Occasionally a pile of clothes that have to be transferred to the cupboard and have been ignored all day

Sigh, not very interesting na? But then, there's Plain Jane for you :-)

I hereby tab all the people on my Blog Addictions, except for IdleMind who tagged me and GenDD who has already been tagged…

Confused...

Standing at the crossroads for not the first time in my life, my mind tremulous with confusion and fear of the wrong decision or wrong timing keeps returning to the same question. Should I take the plunge? Is it worth the risk?

Blast from the Past

Every evening, as the evening crumbles into dusk and night falls, the still silence of the colony is punctured every few minutes with the sound of a blow-horn. Not the staccato sound of the car horn, but the traditional air-filled rubber ball that makes a squeaky, almost cacophonous sound when pressed? Sometime later, in rides a man on a bicycle. He cuts a striking figure on his bicycle, despite the fact that he’s not very tall. As he swings his leg off the cycle, dressed in his customary white paithani, his head wrapped in a traditional red chequered scarf, his mehendi stained beard immaculately trimmed, he blows the horn to announce his arrival. It’s the baida-walla, who cycles up from the neighbouring locality every evening and goes from building to building selling eggs, bread, pav and biscuits made at his local bakery. Initially I was amused by the idea that a baida-walla would visit every evening and everyone in the society would come out of their homes, often in pyjamas to buy their eggs and bread, thinking it was true-blue “blast from the past” concept, finding it rather quaint that the vendor goes from door to door selling his wares! But over time, I've become accustomed to this sheer luxury of having someone come right up to your door-step for your daily supply of bread and eggs. No need to go to the neighbourhood grocery store or the supermarket, just run down the stairs and you have everything you need for the next day’s breakfast! But more than that, is the pleasure of exchanging a few words with some one with such a marvellously old-world charm, who hands over the change with a smile, acknowledging your thanks with a “mention not.” I must admit that over the last nine months, I’ve slowly come to welcome the sound of that horn, and that some things haven't changed…

PS The promised book review of The Robber Bride, is up on Literay Mosaic.

From the Death Bed...

Or so I certainly thought it was till this afternoon, what with my vision having blurred and voices reaching me as if they were emerging from a fog-horn, my thoughts reaching deliriously insane levels and my actions getting even more insane. It wasn’t the Grim Reaper alias Hades alias Yama who were knocking on the door; merely a burning fever brought on by the rising temperatures of the city. So I did the unthinkable – refused to take class the next two days, after having idiotically taught for nearly 4 hours while the fever took control of my already fatigue ridden body. The last time I was this miserable with fever, one friend asked me to leave my Mythology book to him and the other sent me an email parodying my blog post about my death! This time wasn’t much different with the former planning a party for the weekend when I could barely stand on my two feet without clutching the walls for support and the latter lecturing me constantly and scolding me about being out of bed – where went the nonsensical words of comfort? The joys of counting two men amongst your best friends! ;-)

After having spent the first day in bed, slipping in and out of a delirious slumber in which I mumbled a great deal, I woke up feeling amazingly human once again. Initially irate and almost frustrated with boredom, I discovered it's actually a delight to have these two days of “rest” imposed on me. I’ve made the most of it and spent the better part of the day finally copying out the poems I’d marked as worthy of having in my 'petit cahier des poèmes' for future reference and more delightfully, buried in my sixth Margaret Atwood :-). Having just taken over two months to slowly crawl through Cat’s Eye, I have been absolutely disgusted by my appalling lack of speed and concentration while reading. Not so today – The Robber Bride is being devoured with an almost insatiable hunger. Now since I’m so glad to have escaped the jaws of death I shall go back to my book and rendezvous with you soon, hopefully with a book review this time :-)

A Summer Evening at the Cinema

Sultry summer evenings should ideally be spent sipping chilled lemonade (or beer if the company prefers it) over lazily meandering conversations with someone who can keep your senses from slipping into a heat induced apathetic slumber. But paucity of such company prevents one from making the most of such evenings. Irate, when my attempts to spend the evening in the company of the one such person were thwarted, I chose instead to spend the evening in the air-conditioned environs of NFAI watching Pinocchio.

The Consulate General of Italy in Bombay in collaboration with NFAI had screened Gant Guilio Antamarro’s Pinocchio (1911), an absolutely wonderful experience. Restored by the Fondazione Cineteca Italiana (Italian Film Archive) as a part of an ongoing project to restore films and valorise the patrimony of cinematic culture, the film was preceded by a short documentary on the subject of film restoration. Even given the fact that we have burdened the earth with an immense amount of junk, I was quite horrified, to say the least, by the brutal massacre of films. Needless to say the need to restore and conserve this medium was impressed on me by the short film.

Coming back to Pinocchio – from an era, when films were still silent, the scenario being explained by way of intertitles, the film had an enchanting appeal. The narrative, digressing a little from the original to incorporate encounters with Red Indian and the Canadians, was most delightfully and eccentrically fun. In fact I’d say that the film was one of the cutest films I’ve seen. The icing on the cake was the background music. Wait a minute, you say, background music? Didn’t I say it was a silent film? Yes indeed it was – the background score was provided a live band. The Antonio Zambrini trio, widely recognised for their jazz music not only in Italy, but elsewhere in Europe, provided a live score for the film. I was extremely impressed by their evocative composition and the attention to detail that made the film come alive in front of us. But what moved me the most was the piece they played at the end, which made an already beautiful evening, almost sublime.

I could have asked for more – dinner with the said person since my evening plans hadn’t worked out. But compromises must be made and the summer has just begun. There shall be other evenings and other opportunities. Insha Allah.

I Don't Know...

The excuses are plenty – confusion, fatigue, loneliness, melancholy, tumult. I could spin a gossamer fine tale of how the quagmire of life sucked the very life force out of me, infusing me with apathy towards everything. Would I be lying – not really. The life sure as hell has kept me (pre)occupied, but is that why I didn’t speak for so long? Not really. The real reason is that I simply didn’t feel like it. I had nothing I wanted to say to the world – to indulge in scatological imagery, I was suffering from acute constipation and it doesn’t seem like I’ve completely recovered. There’s plenty inside that has been swirling around, clamouring to get out, but I find myself unable to express it. Is it time to shut shop? I won’t lie. The idea has been considered and it has been dismissed. When will I bounce back into form? I don’t know. Perhaps this week. Perhaps not. I don’t know. I am not a clairvoyant. I wish I was. I could have answered so many questions. Mine ofcourse, not yours. I am not here to run some kind of services. Coming back to the point – why am I being so belligerent about it? I don’t have the answer to that either. Perhaps I’m tired of always doing the right thing, of living upto everyone's expectations, of being so nice and accommodating. Perhaps Plain Jane is tired of being Plain. I think I like that idea. Yes, I’m warming up to the idea. I quite like the idea of wrecking pure havoc around me. Will I really do it? I don’t know. Didn’t I tell you that I’m not a clairvoyant?

Leaving you with an image from the past – a blast from the past if you will. A portrait made by a friend who I seem to have lost in the madding crowd.

Lonely

While I largely cherish my soltitude, far from the madding as it were, there are days when the loneliness comes creeping along like a cold chill up my spine, its cold fingers slipping around my heart making it contract in pain and I feel myself sinking back into the black void. Missing my friends. Muchly.

Questioning Mode

While this month has been intellectually fulfilling, with the aftermath of PIFF that has made me read much more than usual and thus the slowed down pace of posts/reviews and the recently started literature course at AFP that has my grey cells charged and scrambling to work over-time, it has been professionally exhausting, with one of my two groups being way-too talkative and distracted, expecting to be entertained and amused every day and a free-lance project that may bring in extra money but is extremely boring and emotionally volatile with me having reached the highest highs and the lowest lows, wanting to bring a club down on one person and grab and smother the other with hugs and kisses.

A completely arbitrary stray comment made by a dear friend made me step down the questioning path once again – does my basically introvert nature and extreme selectiveness when it comes to friends, mean I’m a snob? Does my having high expectations from friends, which means that I can count my true friends on the fingers of one hand, mean that I’m a snob? Does my incapability of socialising and indulging in small-talk with random people and drawing them to me like a moth is drawn to light, mean that I’m a snob? Am I a snob, just because I am not on back-slapping terms with everybody and tend to hold myself away from the crowd, preferring not be drawn into the fore? Doesn’t it count that I am nice to everyone including those who talk to me only when they find me useful and that I don’t make snubbing, bitchy comments about people I don’t consider “in” or cool? Or that I have never looked down my nose at those who don’t patronise big brands, (considering I myself rarely do so) and don’t drop names? Or that I can eat at a roadside tapri with just as much pleasure as at a five star hotel? Or that I don’t really consider myself to be above others and can talk to people from all walks of life? But then, on second thoughts is it really so bad to be a snob?

So while I have been indulging in introspection and riding the emotional roller-coaster, juggling work and trying to widen my horizons by reading more and learning more, this place has been rather desolate and ignored – haven’t bowed out yet, worry not folks, there is a lot that’s to come in this space...