Ode to a tentative forever

Image from www.pexels.com

October and red halves of dried leaves. 

Pockets of ponds from retreating rains and mighty ships made of cellophane. Poetry scribbled in backs of books. 

Flashing numbers of forgotten friends. They come from times that are now ghost towns. 

October and blue shadows on playgrounds. Sweet children with lollies and slices of oranges. 

A sun that seems to melt and harden into a North Star against a theatrical blank canvas. The sky is bizarre. The sky is the sky. 

October and deep loves. October and deep memories of deep loves. October and deep wounds caused by the deep memories of deep loves. 

October and music. October and hope. October and the year has not yet ended. 

October and the year has not yet begun. Yet October and a returning of some kind is happening. October and hope’s final address. October and hope’s last destination. 

October and the lost gypsy of our dreams and the tribe of nomadic fears have finally come home. October the cemetery of a careless summer. 

October and red halves of dried leaves. 

452

Today has been good so far.

Out of the blue, I got a text from someone I knew a long time ago. Or it wasn't a really long time ago. But we'd gone our different ways and I think we both had seemingly changed far too much to be considered friends...because I wonder if were even the same people who started out.

Anyway, I'm in Bombay now and hope to be in Pune on Friday or Saturday morning. Need to pay my electricity bill. But Saturday night, I intend to go out some place nice.

I wonder if you can still be equally warm towards people who have shown you that they'll have a tough time accepting if good things happen in your life. I suppose it is possible. If the person has been good to you overall but then a situation in your life started to change, get better, and that's when they started resenting you for it. But how do you continue being frank and open with them?

I think maybe it's a part of the human experience - to offer encouragement and then to start feeling bad if the other person's situation starts to improve. And since it's part of the human experience, it's better to accept it.

But I don't know. My heart is not in it yet. I don't want the bad vibes or the speculation or the scrutiny. I also don't want to think ill of people I was fond of. So, maybe, in the interest of the love and fondness, I should stay away.

That's why perhaps the day was good. I figured something out.

457, 456, 455, 454, 453: A train gets canceled and other events where you miss a sliding door (more points to you if you get the Gwyneth Paltrow reference here)

It's a hot afternoon.

I've just run home after having my nails freshly painted because I'm going away on a holiday to Delhi. I'll meet my friends there, walk around in Lodhi gardens until my purple sneakers get scuffed some more, and eat copiously with some favorite people at an assortment of fine places in Gurgaon.

The sky in Delhi has made a lover of the most cynical of hearts so I'm charging my camera to click away at the gorgeous sunsets and teal-pink sunrises and this crazy pallette of the afternoon sky where, if you are lucky, you see specks of green.

I stuff a notebook in my bag and shove some Pune namkeens in the suitcase (gifts they are) and hurry to Mumbai Central. All excited to be traveling in a train, I almost double over as I enter the station. Elbow a lady with an unwieldy suitcase and a coolie chewing paan.

I find out that the train has been canceled. That many trains have been canceled.

I could have met someone on the train who'd tell me about a buried treasure near Red Fort. I'd have taken a picnic basket with moong dal halwa and desi ghee parathas and located the treasure. That could have led me to assist William Darlymple to figure out which irresponsible Mughal king had committed that oversight.

In the metro, while getting off at Hauz Khas station, I could've tripped over a beautiful silver locket. I'd open it up and see the history of Delhi moving along in dulcet shades in miniature.


So many things could have happened. But the train got canceled and I'm back home and who knows what William Darlymple is up to!

518

Last night two friends came over. We sat in the balcony and opened a bottle of whiskey and I had a lot and I felt really bad, sad, and crappy today. But last night - was nice. We had lit three candles in the balcony. It was really pretty. I don't have too much recollection of what exactly we talked about but somewhere I just felt that there is too much information. Too many thoughts. Too much thinking about the thoughts and sharing those thoughts and changing those thoughts and then thinking about the change and whatever else. At some point, I slept in the children's room. The guys slept in the other bedroom - the one that was messy because it had all my clothes piled up on the bed. The poor guys had to clear all that to find the bed and then sleep on it.

It was quite nice to wake up in the morning and to find the bed cleared.

But I am done with whiskey, I think. Done with drinking. It is just not suiting me anymore.

Mom is better at times and not so good at other times. I think I was hoping the whiskey to numb this uncertainty. (I know, rookie mistake.) But never mind. I'll stick to Red Bull.

  

523

Pune has started to feel stifling now. I am very grateful to this city for allowing me to live a beautiful life drenched in peace and quietude. It perhaps was the closest I could have come to being a hermit, in the circumstances that were handed to me. In fact, during my second stint, I did believe that there was some unfinished business here and so I had to come back. I also felt exiled from Bombay and Delhi was no place to go. So, yes, Pune. Pune was the bandage I wrapped around my heart and being and it was good. But now, I think, it is not serving its purpose any more.

I don’t know but what is it with the women here? Why are they always going on and on about age and getting older and what else is there in life and clothes and colors that don’t suit your skin tone if you get a particular age or whatever. Sometimes, the best thing that they find about me is that I don’t look my age. (I look younger…and apparently that is supposed to be a good thing.) But I am not sure if I got the memo on what a 36 year old should look like. Or be like. These women are much younger – they are in their 20s or early 30s and yet…that fear, the judgment of age is just really tough to take. I don’t know…people say Bombay and Delhi are very superficial cities where only looks matter. But I suppose I just met very different people. Where wearing a bright pink nail-polish was still okay if you weren’t 24 years old and no one really gave a damn. I may be wrong and it may be projection but there is a tendency for women (or men too) to get really bitter here. This reminds me of something an Ayurvedic/ Homeopathic doctor had once told me – that the weather in cities like Pune and Bangalore is such that any ailments are drawn out in their fullness, especially related to skin and bones. So, a skin allergy will be worse here than in Bombay (even though the latter city is more polluted) or a bone problem will be more acute here (even though Delhi may have more extreme climate), etc. So even though one may suffer here, it’s a good thing because then the core reason for the ailment can be treated.

Not sure if that is accurate but maybe it’s the same for mental and emotional discomforts also. I think this city has shown me more emotional upheavals than anywhere else I’ve lived. Also, I don’t know. I can’t connect with the people here. Especially the women. I would like to. I would love to. But…off and on…we talk and it’s nice and then…all that distance.

I don’t know. Even though I really just want to get out of the city, I still feel some unfinished business here. I don’t know what that is. And until I figure that out, I ought to figure out a way to live here with peace and joy. Who knows? Maybe something more needs to be drawn out to be mended and healed. Maybe something more needs to be sandpapered for me to be kind. Because this much is sure - more than any other place, I have felt the need and the calling to be kind in Pune.

Fingers crossed that it will all be good. In the end also. In the meantime also.

532

Maybe ultimately everything because this portrait in watercolors where you're sweet and thankful for all that happened. When the art is done and it's put out to dry.  But just before that, a step before that, maybe it's about keeping a clean, neat audit of why one was not quite right for the other.

Audit to art - the two step process of a break-up. 

535, 534

1. Does it ever get easier? Maybe, maybe not. All my plants are dying. There had been a sweet personal development and now that is in a soup of uncertainty. Memories of those dark days come by and wave hello from time to time. And did I mention that all my plants are dying?

2. Tough project. Tougher clients. This will be hard.

3. But, and it is a huge BUT, I reconnected with J. After a really long time, I called her up in panic and despair and she woke up and soothed me. J is in Delhi now and is a hypnotherapist and sound healer. And on the phone she helped me calm down. It's freaky how she did it. She mentioned that my root chakra is off and one indication of that is my plants dying suddenly. Then she guided me through meditation. It was so peaceful - it felt like wading in a cool lake after an arduous walk on a bumpy road. I had always known this about J - ever since we'd met in Pune - that she was a natural healer. She is kind and patient and funny. Also, many times annoying...but often the best kind of listener. I hadn't met her for a while or connected with her for some time. But this time when I spoke to her, even through my rather distraught state, I sensed her evolution. It was so velvety and durable. If anyone's looking for a healer in Delhi, look up J. Not because she's my friend. But because she's a natural. And kind. And kindness, I have come to realize, is my favorite type of perfection.

4. There are just so many ways to improve one's life. I tried affirmations which worked for the area I was hoping for. That now is also presenting challenges but that's okay. I think it's fair to say that one does get what one wants. But then handling what one has asked for may be challenging. Because I feel when one asks for something, one will get it. So now I intend to make myself stronger internally. J recommended that I do chakra meditation everyday, take deep breaths and voluntarily, consciously, just.let.go. So, now, that's the plan.

Edited to add: J's email is: jagdeep.kaur@gmail.com; number: 08826150876

543

This is all a little bit funky. I don't know why I am feeling so distracted and overwhelmed and upset and weepy today when yesterday it was a little bit fine and it is all just so horrible. When does this exactly get easier? When does the stomach stop churning and when does the heart relax no matter what is happening all around? My phone is out of charge. I feel so scattered that I can barely manage to work. My parents are away and home seems to be on another planet. And I don't even have a kandeel tonight. The list of why I should be at home and sobbing is endless. Anyway, let's try to change things around a little bit:

1.) I had an idea to write a story. Which I will write now.

2.) I had some really nice food today from the canteen.

3.) A colleague treated me to a really tasty meal at McDonald's. I tried there paneer squares and the french fries with the piri-piri masala for the first time. It was gorgeous!

4.) I am reading Elizabeth Gilbert's 'Big Magic'. It is really well-written. I suggest you get it.

5.) I think I will wear my new blue dress from Zara tomorrow. That should be nice.

6.) My office looks so pretty with all the nice, sparkling twinkling lights.

7.) Some clarity on what needs to be done with respect to the next block of work that I will begin to tackle at midnight.

8.) Somewhere out there someone's love story is unfolding. A poem is being written or recited. Or a song is being sung or created. Or people are freefalling and feeling safe. Just to think that such things happen in a world with beef ban and visa regulations - it's enchanting.

The enchantment is the wealth. And it's Dhanteras today. May the goddess Lakshmi make us feel full. Really, happily, crazily, brilliantly, buoyantly full.

601, 600, 599, 598, 597

From www.pexels.com

Returned from Bangalore and it was a really good trip.

1. Got a superb haircut. Went to Mirror and You at UB City on a whim. A lady called Neelima cut my hair. She worked in Kit and Sam in Bombay earlier and is very very good and very very swift. Was in an out of the parlor in under 30 minutes...and this includes hair wash.

2. Took the metro. It's so great and convenient and cheap - considering the autofares and cab fares in Bangalore.

3. Ate seriously good food.

4. Had lots to drink. Toit on Indranagar brews its own beer and I tried something called the Tintin which was excellent and a variety brewed from Basmati rice - which was awesome. (I just heard that they're opening in Pune and Bombay, which is something I will very closely watch out for.) The Long Island Iced Tea at Lemon Tree topped up with Jasmine tea instead of Cola is lovely!

5. Church Street, Brigade Road, and MG Road - in that order - feel like Christmas. You walk down one of those small lanes and all the coffee shops are blaring music. They are cheery places, all in all.

6. Blossoms from where I got an armful of Barbara Cartland for a friend. She's also written a cookbook!

7. Very smart black skirt - it has pockets and a brown braided belt. And a cream top with a beaded pattern and slouchy shoulders. I got these from Chemistry opposite UB City.

8. Wisdom. I was really sad for a few days when I reached Bangalore and my pal's leaves got canceled. I was supposed to hang out with her but in any case, I generally roamed about and it just seemed very acute to me that I was by myself. With no way out. It just felt that I was invisible and irrelevant. What did I matter and what did my opinion or my feelings or anything matter? It was making me all weepy and stuff. So I used to look forward to traveling for long distances by bus - where I'd be tending to a really tender wounded heart in the comfortable anonymity that a big city allows. But I did get some time with my pals - some real quality time. Either before they got to work or during an evening when we were waiting for our dishes to arrive. It helped me. A lot.

9. Thalasserie, a Kerala joint, makes superb pepper fry. I wish I'd had more food there.

10. Lalbaugh - magical and mysterious and just very inspiring.

11. Have come back with a plan to return.

617

This British astrologer talks about his personal experience about curses. I found it very moving, especially when he talks about how he empathizes with whoever feels cursed.

Here is the link:https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qOjvB1oRnk

It feels very genuine. He lay out how much his own charges are, how he gets nervous when he talks about the kind of backlash he's expecting or the kind that came his way earlier.
 

622: Wines, dessert at Malaka Spice, getting stranded and other things

Today, there were four glasses of some mediocre merlot and a nice dessert wine. There were two glasses of chilled white wine. There were three desserts - jaggery pudding, jaggery ice-cream, and  jaggery tart - all at Malaka Spice. There was a late night drive with someone we just met. The car ran out of fuel on the highway. Then even later my friend and I went for a drive by ourselves. There was a near-enough accident with a car with two boys who chased and followed our cars until they had shouted an abuse and showed the finger.


That was the day today.


Add caption

 

638, 637, 636, 635: Books I read (Part 1)

Maus by Art Spiegelman

This is a graphic novel and a fable of the Holocaust. The Jews are mice, the cats are Germans, and the Polish are pigs. It is also a memoir of sorts because it’s told from Art Spiegelman’s point of view (who is Jew – so, he’s a mouse). It is a record of his father’s memories of the Holocaust, and a portrait of how even the broad strokes of history shape the smallest details of our lives – how we might have breakfast or how our father may bolt the door.

The book begins with a young Art crying about being teased by his friends. His father then tells him that he knows nothing about hardship.

Then begins the story of Holocaust and his father's survival through it. Although the descriptions of the Holocaust are in themselves troubling and poignant, it is the stubborn humanness that I found unnerving. Like the common decency one jailor may show a worker simply by not pelting him with stones on a snowy day. Or why someone who gets beaten and prodded and treated like an animal would still do push-ups. The part that really made me cringe was the aftermath of the Holocaust - beyond death and discrimination, when the Jews were free. The Jews, like Art's father, returned home to find that the Polish have taken over their lands and homes.

There is a portion where Art is deeply troubled by his father's expectations of him. His father wants Art and his girlfriend to move in with him. They don't want to. Although one may be sympathetic towards a Holocaust survivor, one may not be very tolerant of being related to him. Art's father displays incessant penny-pinching traits. He hoards groceries. His 'stranger-danger' alarm bells get sounded off everytime he sees an African-American (they live in the US.). Also exhausting is the guilt Art's annoyance with his father brings with it. In one sequence, Art visits a counsellor who helps him see that maybe Art feels that he is less of a man, or more of a loser, because he did not go through the Holocaust experience like his dad.

It is an exceptionally powerful book. Every little victory seems pyrrhic: people survived the concentration camp, and committed suicide within a matter of days of becoming free. Why do we keep going? Why do we stop? Between those points, maybe, lies the story and the reason.

Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole

(Spoiler in the write-up.) Ignatius J. Reilly, the protagonist, of this book is twisted. He is grossly overweight, Irish, 30 years-old, unemployed, and lives with his mother in New Orleans. He can never hold down a job and is working on some serious manifesto of the age throughout the book. Something as menial as getting a job is ridiculous and leads him to believe he lacks (in his words), 'some perversion that a contemporary employer seeks' (or something to that effect.) 

The turning point comes when his inebriated mother drives and crashes somewhere. (Ignatius, of course, doesn't drive.) To pay for damages, now, Ignatius must get a job. He becomes a hot dog vendor, gets embroiled with a stripper who seeks to boost her business by employing a ridiculous parakeet act. There's a policeman. There's his mother who you really feel sorry for because...imagine a child like him. She has a friend who is this fiesty woman who always goes dancing. Ignatius tries his hand at working at a Levy pants factory where he meets people, tries to stage an uprising which fails because people snicker at his heft or something. And then there's Myrna Minkoff, Ignatius' pet peeve - but a woman he may share 'something' with. 

Whew!

I read the book long back but I remember laughing out loud at the sub-plots. Ignatius' character is pretty much all-round iconic but the other secondary characters are so...I can't think of a word more apt than 'silly' - so specifically, deliciously, thankfully silly - that you want to belong to Ignatius' world. To be surrounded by that kind of naivete and pillowy, wholesome good-heartedness. 

Yet, towards the end - right at the  end, when Ignatius leaves home and is driven of by Myrna (who lands up unexpectedly), I felt sad. A melancholic, deflated kind of sad. In light of that ending, I went back through my favorite parts of the book and then, for some reason, I got the sense that maybe despite the snobbish slobbery of Ignatius J. Reilly, he just needed his mommy to hug him. This was before I read up about the author. He committed suicide and this work was published post-humously. His mother had met with several publishers to get this work out. 

Now, I'm not saying that the book really points to all this or whatever. But there's a fragility behind all that big humour that I found masterful.

Room by Emma Donoghue

This story is narrated by 5-year old Jack who has spent his whole life, thus far, in a small room. The reason it has worked out this way for our little boy is because his mother was held captive in that tiny room years ago. The kidnapper raped her repeatedly (and continues to) and Jack was born. He was born in that room and has lived in there ever since. 

The story begins with Jack's birthday. There are some treats in store for Jack - a pancake, a toy, a shirt. These are portions of the ration the kidnapper brings them periodically. Unless he is angry with the woman over something. That's when he stops bringing them food or does set the thermostat properly so that the mother and son have to freeze. Jack learned numbers and counting by going over each tile in the room. There's a wall where Jack's mother marks his height. There's a closet where Jack hides on nights the kidnapper comes to have sex with his mother. He only hears the man's grunts and groans, speculates on why his mum is so silent, and wonders when he'll be allowed out so he can snuggle with his mother. 

THEN, there's this other tiny piece of sky they see through the skylight. Jack doesn't know what that is, considering the room is in a basement and the only windows are really high up, beyond Jack's eye level. That place is 'outside', his mother explains. Jack narrates his possessiveness where he feels his mother seems is more besotted with 'the outside' than she is with him. 

Although the book's premise is grim , the first few chapters are cockles of sunshine. Jack is a happy child. His mother takes very good care of him and she's such a hero that you want to applaud. 

One day, certain events take place and Jack and his mother escape. (The portion where the escape happens is really thrilling.) That, at first, seems to be good news, except that it's not.

While the heart was heavy in the beginning, it positively breaks when Jack's mother tries to mesh back with her family. There comes a point when she commits suicide, after the escape. The onslaught of beneficence almost gets to her. Jack, on the other hand, was told the 'outside' is where freedom is. He finds, though, that you cannot walk on grass, take a toy in a store, clang your spoon, or do any number of things in the world. There's a part where he wonders whether his mother could have wrong about the 'Outside'. Then he resolutely decides 'No' because his mother could never be wrong. 

Like Maus and other horrific stories, I really wondered about the mother. How do people survive the worst periods of their lives and then somehow decide that it's time to get out? Is it because they feel that what they struggled for isn't worth it? Or that the banality is far more excruciating than a crisis?

This book is a very tender potrayal of how two broken people hobble along after a crisis. The goalpost, what everyone tells you, is normalcy. That goalpost keeps shifting. 

In the end, Jack's mother decides it's time to revisit the place where she was held hostage because it's time to make peace with her past. She returns with Jack. Jack's survey of the room is a sucker-punch. 

He feels the room is much smaller than what he remembered it. He says goodbye to the room. He says goodbye to the skylight. He simply sees the place as a spot where something had happened.

Jack has grown up. Jack has grown up?

644: Outgrowth

 

From www.pexels.com

 

Does anyone else feel this way? That the body is too small to contain anything? That something inside s squirming and roaring to tear out of you? Sometimes I wake up with this very weird feeling of not knowing how to dress. I look at all the clothes piled on the bed and dishes piled in the sink and I wonder how to get on top of all this. There is a huge part of me that wants to forgive a certain person but I can't. I wake up with this unforgiveness like a knot in my stomach - something hard and uncomfortable in my gut. It has been like that now for a while. Around me, people say 'move on already'. I think I want to. I think I have wanted to for a long time. But so far, it has not been possible. So I wonder whether I really want to or whether I want to hold on to the past because it is When I started writing this post, I'd felt a little hopeless but somehow this feeling of being too big and wieldy for one's environment makes one feel a little hopeful. Maybe after one outgrows whatever tightness the skin and bones comes with, the forgiveness will probably stretch out.

I think it was a line by Rilke, "I want to leave my body behind and walk under the stars."

 

649, 648, 647 - Here's what I think, all scepticism aside

It happened one morning. I was almost asleep…or almost awake, depending on how you look at it. The sun was up but just barely. Little squares of orange light filtered in through the curtains. It was cold. I was under two layers of blanket and had, as a pre-emptory measure, turned off my alarm. I’d be going  late to work.

Then the bell rang. It was the cook or the cleaning lady. Both are punctual on days I want to sleep in. So, here’s my hypothesis number 1: If you want house-help to come in on time in the mornings, have tough, sleepless nights before where you toss and turn and pace about the house. And then hit the bed around 5 a.m. They will arrive punctually (and very shrilly) at the appointed time.

Anyway, the bell rang and I just rolled over, put my pillow over my head and thought, “I wish someone just opened that goddamn door.” Someone did. I heard the maid outside say, “Didi, tomorrow I’ll come with my daughter. Can she use your table to study?”

I live alone so I found it weird. Very weird. I was on the bed still and someone had opened the door. From what I could gauge, it was me. So, here’s my hypothesis number 2: There is more than one of me. And it is not metaphorically speaking. It seems to be literally the case. I could urge myself to go and open the door when I’m still in bed. I feel that sort of communication with the many you’s happens when you’re in that stage between sleep and wakefulness, between dream and practicality, between night and day, when every kind of an in-between state gets coagulated. Something happens during that time – like the crystallized ball of your personality breaks at an intersection and each little bit rolls off in one direction. Then one day, it comes out – each bit of personality comes out. I have tried to capitalize on this and send this part of me to work. But that I haven’t been able to do that – so maybe some parts of the personality are smarter and less of a push-over.

It so happened that I got a bad headache while I was reading Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie. Not because it was bad or heavy. The book was very good and very vivid. It had a sub-plot that involved a character’s memories starting to weigh on him. Each of his memories had weight and he was unable to forget anything. So his memories kept piling up higher and higher and his brain had started to crumble. Things got meshed in his head – colors mingled with smells and songs mingled with touch. The headache I talked about earlier seemed to  cause some funny things to happen – I’d be running my fingers over a pretty silk stole and I’d start humming a tune – something I hadn’t hummed in a long, long time. Or a friend would say ‘cobalt blue’ and I’d smell soup. Another time, I had another experience with a book. I had just come to that part of Maximum City by Suketu Mehta where he writes about Bombay riots. I was on the page where the author has described the burning down of entire bastis. People were trapped in that fire and lost their lives. The next few days, I’d walk around with a sharp charred smell around me. So I just kept the book away. This brings me to my hypothesis number 3: Some people become permeable membranes when they read. The book gets inside them. It is different from those who have active imaginations, who create three-dimensional worlds behind their lids as they sleep. I’m talking about parts of the book entering you with a strong, physical strain and altering, maybe, even your DNA. Like your genetic code gets smudged somewhat based on what you read.

Speaking of memories, it seems like everything is a memory. Nothing is original because everything is a memory. Everything is a looking back, of sorts.  I had started having very bad dreams when I’d started yoga. The yoga I did was physical mainly – very little meditation or breathing exercises. So I stopped yoga. I started running instead. Bad dreams continued. So I stopped running. Then I did kick-boxing for a while and the dreams got so intense that I’d wake up with nail marks dug deep into my palms. So I stopped that also and went back to yoga. This time, it was a different set up and a different teacher. This teacher said that most of yoga is about making the spine strong because it’s the spine that stores the memories. When you bend it or you move it or you stretch it, the memories get released – this is what causes the bad dreams. So why doesn’t everyone have that problem? Because everyone may not have those kinds of memories that need the release. So, my hypothesis number 4 is this: Everything is a memory and a memory has size and shape and weight. The harder or bigger those memories are, the heavier you feel. I feel that people who are overweight or underweight, with fat around the stomach, have not been able to process their memories. There is a reason why fat around the stomach is a common problem now. So is insomnia and sleep deficit issues. There’s a reason weight gain is linked to lack of sleep. It’s because memories are not getting a release. A memory feels sharp and brittle – like a kidney stone. And you have to pass it when you are in a state of great tenderness and surrender– which is when you are sleeping. And the reason one doesn’t do it is because it is too painful. And something – some part of the aura – rips when you remember. Some energy bleeds off you. My yoga teacher had once mentioned that most people put on weight around their solar plexus area because that’s the energy zone or chakra that relates to personal power. And most people are living lives where their personal power is constantly diminished – whether it’s due to rising rents or dying pets or aging parents or unwritten books or unfulfilled potential or whatever else – that part gets clogged. And the memory of that weakening personal power is too hard to assimilate. This is why I feel getting to optimal health requires one to remember long and hard. Maybe somewhere a good gym or an exercise class will have sessions where you sweat it out and then sit somewhere and fill out a journal.

To carry that thread of memory further, I’ll talk about houses. That’s where memories get made. There’s a line in Tao Te Ching that goes something like this: ‘Even though a vessel has a form, it is the empty space that holds the water. Even though a house has walls, one lives in the empty space within the walls.’ (I have paraphrased here.) So, it’s the empty space that has the value, so to speak. I’ve lived in a lot of places in my life – a couple of homes that are owned by my parents – and some rented apartments. Based on my experience, here’s my hypothesis number 5. I feel that the space in which one lives is ‘alive’. It listens. It responds. And when a home has outlived its utility, it leaves signs for you to heed and move out. In a way, it drives you out. My home, right now, had throbbed with aliveness and joy when I’d first seen it. I had moved in place of a young man who was shifting out. I’d asked him about the place and he had grinned from ear to ear and said, “You will love it here!” And I had. My friends and family had come over and stayed for a long time. I’d tended plants and painted tables. My soul had expanded. Everything had seemed fresh. But lately, since the last few months, I’ve fallen ill. Around me, things go sour ever so often - it’s not the heat or the humidity. Corners seem to be crawling with spiders and insects, despite the cleaning. The home seems abandoned even though it is lived in. Maybe I ought to move. But I see now what comfort zone means. The thought of shifting everything to another space, to have another negotiation with a broker, to have to pay the deposit, to look for maids - all of that seems to be a lot of work. Last week, I checked out a couple of places in the neighborhood. They were bright and cosy, yet dulcet and roomy. I loved them - even though the houses were not for myself but for my parents. I came home and I felt that my home was sulking. It didn’t like the fact that I’d looked at another space and found it desirable. Fresh veggies in the fridge had gone bad. The repaired faucet had started dripping again. Cobwebs seemed to have grown larger and a fan that I’d had cleaned just recently seemed to be caked with dirt again. So I have decided to have a chat with this flat - in the non-mad way one would chat with a house - in silence, in my favorite corner. I’ll probably nurse a cup of tea and ask it, “What’s going on?” Maybe it will tell me. And if we must part, then maybe, hopefully, we will part as friends.

672 - Tears will set you free?

Since last week, I have been very tired. So tired that I wanted to cry but I couldn't. I haven't felt this exhausted before. I don't know whether it was because of the heat or my increasing sleeplessness. But my body ached, the muscles and tendons in my legs feeling sore and tingly because I'd imagine a deep tissue massage even when I was half-asleep.

We have shifted our office space. It's a swankier location and it has yellow partitions which I like but I really preferred my old office. It was more warm. This place seems to buttoned-up a bit too much for my taste. But I suppose it will take time to settle in.

There has been a lot of work so I am reaching home really late. I'm not able to sleep so by the time  hit bed, it's six in the morning. Then I wake up by eight to let the cleaning lady in. So, it's been two hours of sleep for a long time now. I've been irritable and grouchy. My mind has been so slow and woolly. I need to really focus on a person's lips to get the full import of what they are saying. The afternoon slump is really cruel. I have absolutely no ounce of energy. I drag myself to the coffee machine to swallow some bitter stuff that coats my tongue such that I feel like there's a layer of cotton on it. An all through the weeks, I feel like some nerves in my hands and shoulder blades near the soles of my feet are balled up. I feel like I am constricted. When I become aware of how much tension I am holding on to, I remember to press the tips of my fingers or massage my shoulder blades. And the release of that tension feels so exquisite that it's painful. The only thing I can't massage or expand is this tiny hard lump of sadness I seem to carry around in my heart. It feels physical. Whatever gets through my gullet - water r candy or rice- seems to ricochet around this dark smooth shiny rock.

I feel that this rock could be blasted or dissolved through a really deep, intense, physical experience like maybe that kind of sex or weeping really hard - the kind that you hiccup and choke and cough through. Sex is not something I would consider but crying I would. In fact, crying even used to come easy. I can't imagine being so exhausted that I can't even cry.

Today it changed though. My folks are here and earlier in the evening I had a huge argument with them - at least my mom. And I cried and cried. Even though I was bawling through this whole thing rubbing my eyes fiercely and all that, I felt a little relieved. I could feel that tough little stone part of my heart blasted through.

But I'm feeling exhausted and really tender now. I want to be taken care of now for the next few months or so. But I've appointed a new cook who comes tomorrow morning at seven.





 

830, 829

Yesterday was a bit of a downer.

There's a bunch of us that meets periodically to discuss our writing - whatever we do of it - and throw around ideas. Although I really like the group, the last few weeks I was hoping for extensive feedback on my work. A critique. Something more than a nod or a 'Nice'. I suppose it is hard to give feedback to someone sitting directly opposite you...but we had met a few times and I thought we were in a place where we could comment on each other's work substantially - especially mine. What surprised me was a defensiveness or an unwillingness from the group when I asked for it. It annoyed me. Until I figured out that no feedback is a kind of feedback itself. My material didn't connect. And that somehow seemed worse.

There was someone in the group who thought that I was basically looking for people to say they liked my work. That I found a little irksome. I have been writing for a really long time. I do it for a living. I get feedback all the time - many times scathing. And I have not let it affect me. In fact, if there was any area of my life that I have been very sure about, it has been my writing. Not that it will always be good but that it will always be earnest. And most times, something good will come out of it. Yes, I like praise and don't like flak. When someone says something bad about my work, I breathe and mentally raise a middle finger. Because here's the thing. Most people give unsolicited advice. Most people who give unsolicited advice on my writing do not seem to write enough. They do not seem to read enough. They usually haven't demonstrated the discipline of actually writing something and sharing their own work. Most people who give unsolicited advice on my writing are weak and do not know what they are talking about. If the advice is favourable, there is some semblance of good taste. If the advice is unfavourable, there is no indication of it.

I must also lay down, perhaps, that I am not often receptive to feedback about my writing. Unless I ask for it. I know that there is a tendency, even when one asks for feedback, to seek only praise. But I'm not like that when I actually put my work out there and say, "What do you think?" (In a blog I just put stuff out there. There is no follow up question, "What do you think?" Because frankly what you think I don't really care.) So when I do ask for feedback and I don't get it, it upsets me.

But in the walk from the coffee shop to the main road, I thought long and hard about why getting solicited feedback is tough when unsolicited feedback is easy. Because of the nature of request. Because when I ask someone to read my work and give feedback, I am asking for that person's time and his or her application of thought. Those are tough things to ask for - even of people who are part of a group that is designed to help writers. Also, I realise that my work isn't very easy to get. It doesn't have the snap and crackle of personality and pop. It's more mood and vibe and season. It, I suppose, is not easy to connect with unless you give it time. Unless you read it in private. Unless you read it without expecting to give a snap opinion of it immediately. Like a friend of mine told me - that the fact you write well is probably a given. But what you write may not be what the group wants to read. If that's the case, I either leave the group or write what they will respond to. It is not the world's responsibility to like what I do. It is not even their responsibility to be interested in what I do. I just have to figure out how much I ought to let it affect me.

And yesterday, it affected me a fair bit.

But today's a new day. I walked up a hill in the evening with a friend. We had an encounter with a beautiful Siberian husky who stared at us with Arctic blue eyes. We saw car lights get lit on the narrow strip of road, looking like red bits of plump jelly. Today I decided that I will finish what I started. It's not a book. It's a script. I am not familiar with the format. But I will get it done. Whether it gets read or made or appreciated or denounced - I. Will. Do. It.

898, 897

Things have been good at home. It feels just so awesome to have Ma around. My house is blanketed with well-being. Not to mention the food...oh, the food! There's a kind of a pudding with's made with curd and condensed milk that I love. It was a childhood favorite and I think I haven't had it in ages. So, I've been having that. Then lauki cooked with a sesame paste that's pungent and tastes brilliant with hot rice. And dosas. And the Thai vegetable curry that Ma makes. Things have been so nice.

Then unfortunately, last night, I fell very ill. Really ill. Head and shoulders ached. Stomach was really tender. I was groggy and had fitful naps throughout the day. I woke up to a very dark world - mood was foul and the anxiety stayed knotted in my tummy. But one must feel better soon because there's a lot of work to be done. So my cook and I painted a couple of wine bottles. Hers came out really well and vibrant. Mine is a greyish, pink background with a quote attributed to Jim Morrison: "Where's your will to be weird?" The paint was runny so it's hard to decipher what the quote is but overall, the design is true to the sentiment of the message I think. Oh well.

Then we went out and bought flowers. Lots of them. Different coloured stalks and lots of roses. I got a bright orange - I don't know what its called. It has a long, fleshy stalk and its mainly orange but a few streaks of purple on it too. This funny orange flower went into the vase I painted - flora with a will to be weird. The gladiolas went into my cook's bright and colourful vases. The roses, though, there were so many of them. We put a single rose with some leaves in tequila shot glasses. And all these were lined up by the window sill. In my ill-health, I sipped spinach soup and admired this handiwork. 

Feeling a lot better today.

907

So much work. Just so much work. And just when I am almost getting suffocated with work is when my family will insist on visitng and having dinner and I will just have to have house guests who may or may not cancel at the last minute and of course, every shred of grocery will run out.

In the metaphysical realm, there may or may not be such a thing as 'time' but there sure is something tricky and minx-like like 'timing'.

Mine is skewed. 

Don't you sometimes feel...

...like your Mondays were directed by Ram Gopal Verma?

940 - About the sky and the clouds

Last few days, I have stopped yoga and going up a hill for a walk. My friend and I trudge slowly up, notice sometimes the origin of a waterfall that is still a thin stream. Sometimes we stop awhile to spot a snail snack on a mushroom. Then we reach the top of the hill and sit on  rock. The sky is open. I is always open, yes, but when you are sitting under an open sky, it looks open in a way that makes you quiet. It feels childish to say this but when I first climbed that hill and sat there, I thought to myself that the sky is so up. It's higher, much higher than the tallest tree, the tallest building, the tallest peak of the tallest mountain. Yes. The sky is high. I wonder if this is why a state of inebriation is referred to as being 'high', even though it might bring you to the depths of sorrow. If you are drunk, then you are high even if you feel 'low'.

Anyway, my friend and I chitchat a little but mostly look around. The clouds move slowly, inch in one direction, so unfettered but so steady and so, so soft. You can't hear a cloud. You don't listen to it scrape or shuffle across the sky. It just passes on.

What kind of a world is it that looks down on 'drifter'?