First Impressions: How to Get Away with Murder (Netflix)

 I love courtroom dramas. 

I love non-linear storytelling.

I love thrillers.

I love tender love stories that embellish such series of grit, grime, and blood.

This series delivers on all counts, dips somewhat after a couple of seasons, gets uneven and predictable (when it is less courtroom and more drama) and then finishes strong.

The series centers around Annalise Keating who is a fierce, black criminal lawyer who also teaches a class in criminal law (which she calls 'How to Get Away with Murder'). As a teaching methodology, she gets her class to weigh in on her live cases. Part of her strategy also involves picking a handful of promising students and have them work in her 'lab' where they get to help her in strenuous arguments and civil suits, etc. The plot thickens, a murder happens, people get involved, incriminated, incarcerated, and dead.

I found a couple of characters in this cast to be really unlikeable - Michaela, Laurel, and Bonnie. After the first couple of seasons, the melodrama outweighs the courtroom drama. The cliffhangers become templatized...yet there's something about the sheer immenseness of Annalise that I loved. I was also moved by that tender love story between Connor and Oliver. In the beginning of the series, Connor is a self-serving selfish dazzlingly attractive man. He meets and gets together with Oliver who is steady and regular. They get married and there comes a time when they may be in a st situation. So Connor decides to leave. He says goodbye and tells Ollie, "Thank you. Now I know how to love." Very well done, I thought.

The cases themselves and courtroom sets themselves are rivetting. I wish they had more of those in the middle seasons. But Annalise...the way she traverses the same journey of being top, then being down and out and then soaring again... it's quite masterful. I think with a weaker actor it would have been quite one-note. She gave it heft and nuance.

It's on Netflix. (It was J's recco and it's not often we both like the same thing.)

So that's how it will go

I am feeling pretty defeated today. 

I think I hadn't counted on how ill-prepared I was to see my father helpless. I guess I never thought it would ever be my dad. He still is stubborn - not wanting anyone to help him up, not wanting anyone to hold his trembling hand, not reminding him that he said the same thing a few seconds ago. It's also strange that my brother seems to be handling this better than I am. I don't think I had ever thought I would witness a circumstance involving my father where my brother showed more composure than me...but there it is. 

And there's possibly going to be a lockdown again and in Vashi, the only fruits that were available were semi-soft melons. No bananas, no mangoes, no grapes...strange. R, my cook, told me that she had got really nice fruits from Pali Market - so could I go and get some. She's quite ditzy like that - ask me to get stuff from Bandra so she can make the fruit custard that Papa would like. I mean - that specificity is why I brought her to take care of my dad, sure - but for me to buy fruits from Bandra and return to Vashi in 1 hour before the curfew set in - that's quite a task.

This morning I was asking my father if there was anything worrying him. And he said, "No, everything is great!" And the way he said it reminded me when I was stressed about something in college and he would ask me if I was okay. And I'd say that everything was great when it really wasn't. But I wouldn't talk about it with my father - because I thought he would worry or not understand or stress or do something rash to protect me but hurt himself or he would judge or just get sad. It occurred to me that he might be doing the same this time around. 

They say this about kids, right - that no two kids are the same and you must treat them differently according to their nature. It's the same with parents also. (None of this is news to the more soft-hearted and wise of you - but for the navel-gazing creature that I am, I'm only just realizing it.) My mom could (and would) tell me anything. If she wasn't telling me something because she thought I was being an idiot, she would even say that. And my mom always asked for help if she needed it. In a crowded movie hall or in an airport, if she felt weak and trembled and if for some reason one of us was not around her, she would straight-away hold the hand of a stranger and say, "I'm losing balance." And they would all very sweetly oblige. At the airport once, a young boy even bought her a cold drink which she sipped happily while inviting him to stay at our place.

My father, I realize today, won't ask. Rather, I think he won't ask me that. It's funny. I can see the scales balancing or the story almost coming full-circle. It's like I have to build a bond with him all over again...this time as a patient, responsible adult. 

There was an episode of this series, "Wonder Years" where the protagonist comes to terms after a rough issue with his family. The episode ends with his parents walking slowly into the sunset and his narration saying, "We don't blame our parents for getting older. We forgive ourselves for growing up."

Well, shouldn't be hard. Still - good luck to me.

The book that finds you for the life that finds you

 I just started reading 'Radical Acceptance' by Tara Brach. Am only a few pages in. It's a book about how to tune into a deep, wise and peaceful space in you to cope with a life that is being a little, shall we say, unexpected. 

She is also a psychologist who has studied Buddhist meditation practices and I think that the solution she presents is in the title of the book.

My father is not well and he is going to great lengths to not show that he is not well, especially around me. 

I think after you lose one parent, there's a lot of pressure on the other parent to stay alive and well. Am sure that can be exhausting.

Anyway, one gets through whatever one has to get through, I suppose, one way or another. Maybe this time I will try to cut out my kicking and screaming earlier.

First Impressions: The drama of the gifted child by Alice Miller

 I will dive right into the portion that gutted me: "I think that our childhood fate can indeed enable us to practice psychotherapy, but only if we have been given the chance, through our own therapy, to live with the reality of our past and to give up the most flagrant of our illusions.. This means tolerating the knowledge that, to avoid losing the "love" of our parents, we were compelled to gratify their unconscious needs at the cost of our own emotional development. It also means being able to experience the resentment and mourning aroused by our parents' failure to fulfill our primary needs."

Alice Miller is a psychoanalyst whose main work (or at least what she is known for) is parental child abuse. In this book, she covers various aspects of this abuse and, interestingly, how it relates to psychotherapists or healers or anyone who wants to 'help other people'. 

The book covers several broad themes. Parents themselves are prisoners of their own unhealed wounds. These wounds get projected onto their child - and this projection is even more dangerous because it seems to be 'sanctioned' by society. There is obviously a very skewed balance of power between a parent and child (Miller focuses a lot on the mother). The child, when abused or manipulated - often with good intentions or ignorance on part of the parent, has no say. Then this child grows up without having the emotional language to explain or understand that what happened to him or her was wrong. The child, now an adult, does not see the point of confronting the parent. And the lie becomes so deep that the person does not even entertain the possibility that the parent was using the child to feel important, safe, relevant, validated (everything that the child, in fact, should be expecting from the parent). The child internalizes this lie so completely that he starts believing that he had a great, happy childhood. 

In the book, Miller cites one of her patients who is 42 and seems to be exhausted in his search for his true self. He says," I lived in a glass house into which my mother could look at any time. In a glass house, however, you cannot conceal anything without giving yourself away, except by hiding it under the ground. And then you cannot see it yourself, either."

The book has several examples that are, frankly, a little creepy because they seem to be innocuous. 

A father enjoyed telling gruesome stories to his daughter. When she got scared and cried, he would cajole her by saying that it was only a story. This father is manipulating his daughter this way because he had a mom who was schizophrenic. He would himself be scared when she would have one of her attacks. But he was too small to know how to handle it and the adults in his life responded by hiding the truth from him. So he wants to take back control for that little boy by behaving a certain way with his daughter.

There's a mother who grew up in a very strict household where sex was taboo. She sees a penis for the first time after marriage, in the context of conjugal relations. She is scared. Later, when her baby boy is an infant, she explores his private parts - not as abuse or anything - but curiosity. She feels safe only around an infant to get the information she wants. This was denied to her as a kid and then later as a wife. So as a mother with absolute control over her child, she gets her way. Of course, such behavior has ramifications on the child's auto-erotic tendencies. (He can't get aroused unless there is some shame involved.)

Miller also presents some moving psychological portraits of great artists - Henry Miller, the painter, who had to rub iodine on his mother's back as a child. So a major part of his ouevre involves reclining ladies with exposed backs. 

There's Herman Hesse who was institutionalized by his family because they found him too 'difficult' - and 'difficult' mainly because he was different from his religious parents. There's Ingmar Bergmann who used to watch his father beat his older brother. He never really talked about whether he was subjected to such violence (chances are that he was). But his movies involve the theme of being powerless against authority. 

Speaking of power and authority, Miller postulates that a lot of people who have built the myth of a grand childhood in their heads (to avoid the pain of confronting just how mean their parents were) have staunch nationalistic ideologies. Their ideology will necessarily involve obedience, abject allegiance to a greater common good, etc. A lot of this stems from the fact that as kids, they were not allowed to stand out. They were not allowed to complain for basic things like food or attention or love without censure. These things build up.

The other side of the delusion coin is the psychotherapist itself (or, in my opinion, one of the many 'healers' one finds in the alternative healing space). They themselves are very deeply messed up. To avoid the work of ripping their identity to go to the truth of their pain, they decide to 'help others'. Consequently, much of their advice is a projection of their own pain and aspirations.

This book was a tough read. But an important one. I came across this book because I once chanced upon Miller's son's interview. Her son is also a psychoanalyst and he has written a book that basically states that his own mother subjected him to emotional neglect, the same things she articulates so well in her theories.

At some point in the book, I did feel that we are all just doomed. Who here has parents who were not in pain themselves? I am sure that every parent, unless they are really cruel, want a better life for their kids - or if not better, then one that is devoid of whatever trauma or pain they themselves went through. Yes, it's reasonable to assume that people rarely take the time or effort to truly work on themselves. It's easier to look at your baby and try to give the kid a blank slate. But then what? What's the way out? 

The book does indicate that one has to really confront one's parents, tell them that they were cruel or dominating, then feel whatever powerlessness or shame you went through to finally close one chapter. But I don't know. I was not entirely convinced. I am a little skeptical that this can become like a blame-game with nobody getting the peace or closure they need.

It's a valuable book, though. Made me question my own upbringing, made me think about my parents' childhood, their dynamics with their parents...It's fascinating to see how the genesis of an emotional wound you have now - the story of that wound would have begun somewhere else altogether.

In the book, Miller quotes Pestalozzi who neglected his own son but was very warm towards orphans. (We find that Pestalozzi himself was neglected by his parents). "You can drive the devil out of your garden but you will find him again in the garden of your son."

So, if the story has to change, there's that much brute force and courage to muster up.

Done

 One more week is done.

Since a couple of months now, I have been having bad dreams. They aren't even dreams. Just flashes of my hair pulled out of my scalp and a bloody scalp. I get tingly sensations on the top of my head. I usually ignore them. But since the last few days, my left arm has been paining and my palms feel like it's on pins and needles. I think it's connected to my dream. I called my doctor friend. She told me quite pointedly that there is no reason to reach for the esoteric when the issue could be quite easily related to my diet, nutrition, and blood pressure. I sullenly agreed to get my BP tested. But there's something about the dream and my bloody scalp. The only time I didn't feel it was when I was in Vashi... especially around my father. Then I was okay.

The other day V fixed my ACs (not really fixed...just turned them on...yes, I am that inept) and I have been noticing some strange things in the house. I feel that every time the AC is on, there's someone else in the house. V came over this afternoon and O had switched on the AC and set it to 16. When V came, the temperature had increased to 24. 24 is the temperature that V had told me to run the ACs at, by the way. I told him that this was spooky and he cracked some lame joke thst the real horror would be getting the electricity bill. 

Then he left. 

I finished reading 'The drama of the gifted child' and went to the AC room to take a nap. It had reset to 17 again. I felt like calling up V again but...not good to be scared.

I am not really scared. But...I started getting flashes of a bloody scalp again. 

This house was given on rent to several people before. I have a feeling that someone was abused within these walls. Pain remains.

I think it's time to sage this place.

If the heat and deadlines and insufficient funds were not enough... there's THIS. Oh well, as a freelancer, I can safely say that ghostbusting is not a priority now.

My room in the morning

 I returned from Vashi early in the morning. The cab ride from Vashi to Bandra at around 7 am is soft with beauty, grace and mercy. It's a quieter world. A nicer life. 

Turned the key and saw my living room from the front door. It's beautiful. It had three perfect shards of golden light on the floor. There was a blush and shine of a fresh morning softening the shadows. It's a stunning little space.

Remembered the lines by Emily Dickinson, " The soul selects her own society...and then shuts the door."

Going once, going twice, going soft

This cupboard here is an indication of just how much my life has changed over the years. And in this cupboard, the bottom shelf is now seeming to be a cause for concern.

That's my laptop bag.

For much of my work life and certainly for my freelance years (up until I moved to Bandra), my laptop bag was an extension of me. I would have this bag and a small carry-on always on the ready. If I had to shuttle between Mumbai and Pune, I would stuff this with books or files, some cash, a Red Bull (always a Red Bull), and move.

Then I moved to Noida. Trips became inter-state. A smaller carry-on so I could move quicker. I was traveling to Mumbai at least once a month. 

Then I moved to Bangalore. Trips to Bombay became more frequent and more expensive. So there was only my handbag and my laptop bag, so I could take the bus from Electronic City to the airport instead of a cab. And move to the hospital directly from the airport once Ma was in the hospital.

Then I moved to Bandra. That's when I set up my laptop on my father's 150 year old study desk, unpacked my laptop bag, took out the plane stubs, the scarves for traveling in cold cabs or planes, the stationery, the books, the rolled up dresses for a quick change...and I put it away. Along with a couple of winter coats that will perhaps never see the light of day in Mumbai.

Now the days in Bandra are cushy. There's a little bit of savings I am ploughing through to make my space here. Eating way too much. Working way too little. Thinking a colossal amount. My laptop bag, the symbol of my hustle, my struggle, my frustration, and in a sense, my vigour, lies in a closet.

When I saw it today after months, o felt a tender loving restlessness. Keeping my laptop away in a sense for me was like dropping anchor or laying down roots. 

And yet...

 

Slightly silver

 In the extended season of fatigue that is my life, something nice happened. And I wanted to write this down before I crashed or devolved into the state I've been in.

I returned home from Vashi close to midnight. My key got stuck in the lock. And I got locked out of the door. There was fervent banging, pounding, abusing, and cajoling the said door, key, and lock. I even rang the bell in the weird hope that maybe my house was haunted and the ghost would open the door from inside to let me in. Either my house is not haunted or it is a very lazy, unhelpful ghost. 

Anyhoo, I found this number of Rafik the locksmith. I am sharing his number because he is available 24*7 and services Bandra and a few areas around it. Apparently, I have some kind of a digital lock or a digital key or whatever the shit this is - it is supposed to be safer than other types of locks and keys and therefore more inconvenient if you get stuck outside. 

Rafik is responsive and if you are in Bandra and are likely to find yourself in my kind of situation, here's his number: 09324439382. This is a recommendation that comes from a very grateful and relieved heart. To be stuck out of your home at midnight with a full bladder and nowhere to go...let's just say I have prayed for Rafiks entry into heaven after he helped me in.

Anyway, now that that is out of the way, I was really fascinated with his work. He came with a raggedy, muddy backpack with a few weird-looking contraptions, a slew of hangers with the chords straightened out and pointed. Then he twisted stuff, listened for clicks, jangled the keys with some kind of rhythm, and the key opened. It was so mesmerizing. 

Something is wrong with my lock apparently. And it will cost a lot to get that sorted. I feel like removing the door only. I don't have anything valuable anyway. Except for some special editions of Salman Rushdie novels. But if someone is interested in getting those, he or she is a kindred spirit anyway. We just might get along.

It was a good night overall. The neighbor uncle who stayed with me right until the end, until Rafik had finished his work...there's goodness in the world yet. The cold heart just may thaw yet.

But blaargh! Monday! I'm not getting out of bed.

Stupidity

 I have been avoiding all client interaction for a while now and today I just couldn't avoid it. I told people that I wasn't ready to talk to clients anymore. I wasn't ready to talk to anyone anymore. But they insisted. I complied. And sure enough, I snapped. Didn't make for a good conference call. 

Today I did the other joyous thing of looking up suicide rates in India. These are the 2019 numbers, in thousands:

Below 18 years	9.61
18 to 30 years	48.77
30 to 45 years	44.29
45 to 60 years	25.44
60 years and above	11.01

These numbers seem to be slightly different from the trends in the West where older people, above 65, kill themselves. Somewhere I had read that the loneliness in old age gets too hard to bear. It seems to be the reverse in India.

Could it be because we are a crowded place? When you are younger, you don't get the time and space you need to figure yourself out so you feel suffocated. So you go and you kill yourself. Or you feel scared at the prospect of spending your later years alone and you commit suicide. But as you get older, if you get through that rough and risky patch of 18 to 30, you start realizing that people are idiots and you are pretty blessed if they leave you alone.

My dhobi hasn't come and I miss my white dress. That is neither here nor there. But someone not showing up when they are supposed to show up...in light of what happened to Reggy...one wonders.

Those stats are from Statista, by the way.

Tim Ferriss, the author of the 4-hour series and the podcast guy, wanted to commit suicide once. I think he was in Princeton or some fancy Univ. He went about planning it meticulously and checked out a book, "How to commit suicide". He filled out the wrong address. Instead of his Univ address, the book got sent to his home address where his mum found it. She was horrified, called him up...and that's when he decided to not go through with it. He didn't want to cause pain to his family. 

Whenever I hear that story, I think of that author who wrote that book. I don't know if he or she committed suicide himself or herself...but that person obviously summoned up enough life force and discipline and purpose to write that book, get it edited, get it published. I wonder if there was a book tour. There's material for a dark comedy here.

Sometimes I think of that story, "Godaan" by Premchand. I don't remember the details but it's about a poor man, Hori, who is steeped in debt and in a lot of trouble. One day he goes to drown himself in the river. As he moves in deeper, he starts thinking of all the problems he will be rid off once he dies. Then his thoughts shift. He starts remembering the good times...his son's smile, his wife's love, his friends in the village, the lunch he has in the shade of the tree, the deep affection of the cow (that his brother poisoned)...and he realises that he doesn't want to die. That's exactly when the tide pulls him in and he drowns.

Apparently many people die of strangling themselves or jumping off a high floor. Apparently the way someone kills themselves may be a psychological indicator  of the reason they chose to die. Jumping or hanging means that you had high expectations of yourself and you could not live up to them. The 'lower level' was more comfortable, more appealing...and you wanted to get there faster. This information... THIS information...was covered in the first week in my college Psychology class. 

Anyway, feel like having chai now. Will stop this post for a while.

*******

It took me forever but I did 15 suryanamaskars today. Sure, I do these suryanamaskars at night but I am sure there's a sunrise somewhere. Then I ate rice and vegetables, two butter croissants lightly toasted and smeared with jam, a phirni, two pyaaz parathas made with rajgir aata (I don't know what that is but it is some kind of a millet-based flour that my cook unearthed from somewhere). There is still a croissant in the fridge. I think I will have that with coffee. And there's a chocolate croissant also. I will eat that maybe - depends on how late I stay up feeling sad, morose, and/ or guilty. 

I am feeling a little bad for yelling at the client. Let me see how I can make amends. I mean I could say sorry but that won't cut it. I can't guarantee that it will not happen again...I wish everyone just listened to me. If I don't want to talk, I don't want to talk. And I wish that stupid Microsoft Teams is wiped out of the face of this earth. It is so irritating. I think I might even have been hold it together if it was Zoom or Google Meet. That stupid rash, Microsoft Teams, is what got my goat. Why the hell is it so difficult to log in there? I mean, the definition of stolid bunkering conferencing systems used to be Webex until this archaic doldrum of a software made its appearance. Stupid Microsoft Teams.

I can't believe that I did the 15 suryanamaskars. I'm feeling good about that. 

I like croissants. I love them actually. But I don't like chocolate croissants...at least the ones with too much chocolate. Okay, here's a list of the croissants that I really like listed in order of preference:

1. The soft, flaky plain butter croissants - where the crust is golden and brown and the inside is gentle and soft. When I was small, I used to dream of a blanket shaped like a croissant - imagine sleeping wrapped up in it. I like to have it basted with a spot of honey.

2. The almond croissant. It is slightly sweet and nutty and perfect to have by itself. This is such a beautiful thing to have in the house. It is the snack equivalent of a bottle of champagne. Lovely, elegant, and spreads cheer all around.

3. The chocolate croissant. I don't like chocolate. So for me to like a chocolate croissant, the chocolate has to be subtle. The chocolate must swirl into the folds of the croissant layers, emerging like strains of harmony in a piece of music. 

4. The olive croissant. I don't quite care for the savoury croissants (other than the gorgeous butter ones). But a good olive croissant is nice with a bit of salsa or pesto or avocado dip.

Wow! This really lifted my mood.I will make some coffee and get me a croissant!

***********************

I just realized that I have to wash the pan if I have to make coffee. So, waiting to feel more excited about that. Meanwhile I searched for that book, "How to Commit Suicide". The results are...well...funny. There is a book that is only a Kindle edition and it has 1 star with a review that reads, "It didn't help me." (This dark comedy practically writes itself.) Then there's another book, "How to Commit Suicide in Italy". That's a whole new dimension to 'Lonely Planet'. I was really curious to get that. I wonder if the majestic vistas of Cinque Terre were covered as one explained the precision of slashing the wrist. 

Am sleepy and tired now.

Reggy

Today is Thursday. It was nice, warm, and bright. 

I woke up. As usual, I had a knot in my stomach. As usual, I hadn't slept well. But unusually, I thought about Reggy. A college friend. A college acquaintance. Had shared some notes in school. We weren't close. We weren't even friends. But we were both shy in a college that celebrated the exuberance of the extroverts. But Reggy was confident in his shyness (and if you have been a shy person, you will know this when you see it.) But I wasn't. 

I graduated. He did too. Never met him. Until one day outside Bandra court and another time outside High Court. He was with a lady. Might have been a client. Regy was a practising lawyer by then. I had completed law but had dusted my books and kept them aside. Regy, the lady, and I had chai and samosa in the High Court canteen.

Regy told me that a very celebrated criminal lawyer was due to make an appearance later that afternoon. He told me to wait back and see the hearing if I could. I told him that it was too long to hang around the court for. He told me, "Trust the wait." The lady with him laughed and said that the phrase ought to be on a t-shirt.

We left. I never kept in touch. He didn't either. we weren't friends on LinkedIn or Facebook 

Reggy passed away. They say he committed suicide. By they, I mean a message on Whats App from a common friend.

I am sitting here, typing this, eating the phirni that V got me. It's comfortable in the flat. It's dark and twinkly in the house. The flowers in my vase have wilted but they still have a macabre, crumpled beauty to them. And I think of Regy and his 'Trust the wait' statement. He was confident. He was wise. He was someone I knew. 

Someone does that to themselves and it does make one wonder...whether you will escape.

Loads of peace, Reggy. In a cold, chaotic time, I used to watch you get along with people and felt a little bit safer. For that, and forever, thank you.

No it doesn't

 It doesn't get easier.

It doesn't get better.

It doesn't pass.

It doesn't move on.

It doesn't let up.

It doesn't give in.

The RIP is not for the one that leaves.

The RIP is for who get left behind.

And the RIP is an impossible, cruel dream.

Suchness

 A day, a night, a life is gone

As dewy buds unfurled

And just like they all dissolved

A home, a city, a world. 

A Monday for my mom

 There comes a time when you get a chance to become a mother to your mother. And then you see it all - their petulance at being denied something, the sulking, the joy when you stop work early to spend time with them, the sneaking past bedtime, the eye-rolls when you suggest something proper and wise, high tempers over some non-issue with a friend, endless chats with siblings, excessive TV viewing, naughty smirks when they take your phone to scroll through Instagram or order something random on Amazon...or wake you in the middle of the night on the pretext of telling you a bad dream when they really just want to stay up late and chat, or throw medicines down the sink, pass their bowls of sugar-free vegan icecreams to father (who shows uncharacteristic self-restraint regarding desserts only then), tell you that you look like a turnip when you wear a rather nice sweatshirt, eat berries on the sly, bribe the help to buy gulab jamuns, take over your laptop when you're away, share opinions on your work (nothing complimentary), pretend to be so hurt when you scold them, only be placated when you take them out for chocolate milkshakes and fries...and you see in that wilful, beautiful face, a little girl who wants to play. 

All said and done, Mumsy - you were a brat. (My brat...but still.)

Today went by

Little bald babies with hair accessories are a few of my favourite things. An ode...

 Rise and shine, my flowery friend!

I don't think my camera captured the way this magenta bloom climbed up...but it would make a lovely print on a saree.

If you're NOT looking for a watchdog, here's a selection on Carter Road.

Mornings are reminders why Carter Road is where it's at...

So, the other day I had gone to buy broccoli. And a floret of brocolli was nearly 185 bucks. I realised that I might have to work a few hours more every day if I want to be able to afford Thai curry rice. (One either needs both kidneys or sell one to buy galangal, rocket spinach, lemon grass, kafir limes, etc.) Maybe living in Bandra will require me to eat once every alternate day, I think. Speaking of luscious luxuries, here's a lovely silk yellow polka dot kaftan at a boutique.

Yesterday, there was no electricity in my area for a few minutes. Since I only have induction stuff, my neighbour sent across masala puri, shrikhand, aaloo fry, and papad! It was so yummy!

I have so much to finish work-wise that I get paralyzed. So I took the flowers MK got me yesterday and kept looking at them for support as I plodded through one assignment. (There are tons more...but I think I will take some time out now and fill out some timesheets and invoices. All the while looking at the flowers of course. Veggies may be out of reach but happy summer flowers aren't...today.)

I got flowers today

 So, so, SO happy! 

A bookmarked time

 It seems like a lifetime ago that I was married today. It seems like a lifetime ago that it ended. Both happened...well, if not "OUT of the blue", both happened with the happy bizarreness of a snowstorm in a tropical city. 

I read this that reminded me of A...not because he was boring. In fact, he was anything but. He was in every way, my sparkling traveling hero. But this poet is reminiscent of my sweet, dulcet time in Delhi when the coziness of a regular life was beautiful. The 'ho-hum'ness was quite spectacular. 

Dear A, for whatever happened for whatever reasons...thank you for the memories. 

Bored by Margaret Atwood

All those times I was bored
out of my mind. Holding the log
while he sawed it. Holding
the string while he measured, boards,
distances between things, or pounded
stakes into the ground for rows and rows
of lettuces and beets, which I then (bored)
weeded. Or sat in the back
of the car, or sat still in boats,
sat, sat, while at the prow, stern, wheel
he drove, steered, paddled. It
wasn't even boredom, it was looking,
looking hard and up close at the small
details. Myopia. The worn gunwales,
the intricate twill of the seat
cover. The acid crumbs of loam, the granular
pink rock, its igneous veins, the sea-fans
of dry moss, the blackish and then the graying
bristles on the back of his neck.
Sometimes he would whistle, sometimes
I would. The boring rhythm of doing
things over and over, carrying
the wood, drying
the dishes. Such minutiae. It's what
the animals spend most of their time at,
ferrying the sand, grain by grain, from their tunnels,
shuffling the leaves in their burrows. He pointed
such things out, and I would look
at the whorled texture of his square finger, earth under
the nail. Why do I remember it as sunnier
all the time then, although it more often
rained, and more birdsong?
I could hardly wait to get
the hell out of there to
anywhere else. Perhaps though
boredom is happier. It is for dogs or
groundhogs. Now I wouldn't be bored.
Now I would know too much.
Now I would know.

Margaret Atwood

Un peu

 

I felt like writing a poem

In the middle of the night

The ideas came scrambling

But soon after, took flight.

A molting nomad came along

In time and delayed

It flit about and went away

Yet gave me words that stayed. 

Pochette of a few hours

Sketched these. Most of these are from Pinterest, except for the third one. I have a very heavy heart since the last few days...when I meditate, I feel as if a very old wound is trying to emerge. Or like a thorn or a shard of glass or a pebble that has wedged itself in my flesh can't be pulled out now because the wound has become crusty. The only way the pebble can come out is if the surrounding muscles soften. And the only way to soften them is by weeping out the truth.

I hadn't intended it this way but maybe there is a story in all these pictures. Maybe it's the story of a person's transformation...a person's reluctant transformation.

Maybe becoming the butterfly is all very well...but the caterpillar had more fun. 

Couple of tales

R was telling me about this jungle in Orissa, somewhere close to where she is from where people see large snakes that look like brass and copper tubes, depending on how the light falls on them. People get attracted to these and try to steal them because brass and copper are expensive metals. But as they approach these snakes, they retract, get thin and small like earthworms. Then they fly out in full force and size and attach.

She was also telling me of this beautiful and tasty fruit called 'Kendu'. Apparently it is bright orange on the inside (yellow when raw) and has a seed like an avocado. Its covering is as thin as an egg-shell. One breaks it open and scoops out the soft flesh and eats. She says that the trees from which these fruits hang are beautiful. 

A day in pictures

 I am getting a little exhausted from all the pain I am waking up to every day. So today, thought, I would get a little stubborn about joy. Sketched myself a little rabbit with a little carrot. Image courtesy: Pinterest

Last couple of days have realised that I am still very emotionally fragile (and therefore potentially harmful) regarding an issue I thought I had left behind. So I decided to start a regular meditation practice again. Today, did it for 30 minutes morning and evening.

I am just an ordinary person trying to catch a break. So I decided to have myself a Diwali in March. 

I love candles. Tealights. Diyas. I don't see flames as objects. They are friends. If I ever feel scared or unsupported or low, I light a candle. Or however many I can. Everytime a flame is lit, I feel a conversation has begun. With a strong and steady flame, it's one kind of talk. With a flickering, jumpy flame, it's another sort of chit-chat. I don't quite but that philosophy that a flame drives away darkness. It feels more like the flame moved to make place for a stranger on a crowded bus seat. 

Light in the dark, darkness around the light... it's a lovely piece of coexistence. 

I sketched and painted the following picture because I thought of the tag line first: "Deep inside, I am really old-fashioned."

Blunk

 Well, I managed to cope today. It's still hard but I had a few good moments. Cook had made aaloo parathas and she had grated some potatoes along with the mash (which is the traditional stuffing). It was a really good twist. Added some body to the parathas. 

I have a long, long way to go...to even understand what I am going through, why, and how do I put it behind me once and for all. But I don't know. Feeling really lost. But I did manage to sit through a few calls, read a couple of pages of the Gita (when I didn't feel like), and completed something on time. 

Not too much done. But not too shabby either. 

Let's see what the rest of the night brings.