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Saturday, 15 March 2014

Life inside my mind

Often one wonders, why do people write, paint or act? It all seems so magnificent, so divine like the hand of god rested directly on the artist’s shoulders to do great things and leave the rest of us in a permanent state of awe. The people with these talents seem a cut above the rest in their awesomeness. Maybe they are. Somehow a good writer’s sentences are more lyrical, profound and end up meaning more in a few words than we could convey in a few thousand. From our point of view, these artists could dance circles around us and not break a sweat.  What ticks a person to write, barring the whole shenanigan of selling books and making a lot of money? (Neither of which I particularly mind).
A movie dialogue struck the right cord where the monk said “Our reality is what we hide the most from other people”.  I think that all these wonderful artists we are in awe of, use their medium of art to convey their hidden self which they normally would not portray in front of people.

As much as I would like to sit and do a discourse on the sketch lines of Degas or expound on the theory of one word by Frost or Kafka, I fancy writing something more personal. I cannot claim to know or understand an artist dead a thousand years so to speak, when I cannot claim to know each and every facet of my own self in entirety.

 At university one early morning, I wrote a letter to someone I thought I had deep affection for, and wrote it with the earnestness of one who would be writing a masterpiece. The setting was perfect, I can still recall it. It was almost dawn, the air was crisp and promising, there was quiet everywhere, and I was sitting by myself by the swimming pool, penning away what I thought was my truest emotion, sheer poetry. I didn’t ever give the letter to the person I had intended it for, something inside me made me not to. Several years later, I happened to come by it whilst cleaning my wardrobe and I read it again. 4 pages long, in curly handwriting, the letter was utter tosh. I mean seriously, if I could go back in time and smack myself for being a simpering, lyrical ninny I would do so. I felt every emotion surging through me as it did that crisp morning, but this time it made me nauseous. Thank heavens I didn’t give the letter, I would surely have been laughed at. But that right there is the point. If we write every random thing that comes into our head, which we feel might be a revelation to the rest of the civilization; it might end up being tosh like my letter. 
Fair enough. Maybe random thoughts in our head don’t hold commercial value and would be laughed at by people who have the very same silly or sillier thoughts in their own heads. That said having an outlet for our thoughts in a creative manner is great therapy. Not only that, it is imperative to have an outlet for those thoughts rather than allowing them to fester in our minds and become a disease of sorts which might spill onto our speech and alienate us.

Maybe on the inside we are all ugly, crude and colorless. Expressing those factors in a creative manner can render the very same ugliness, beautiful. And even if it doesn’t, it will make one realize that over a period of time if we don’t check the ugliness that is all one will end up being. Crude and ugly inside and out.

I was always fond of writing, loved the flow of words on paper. It was exciting. Writing personal blogs was an expression which appealed to me at quite a low point in my life. I could have spewed filth, anger and resentment at the world at large. I believed I had every right to. I didn’t have the courage to hurt the people I felt had hurt me, so I wanted to use my words as blows. I wrote in anger, and read what I had written. I didn’t like it. The negativity and heaviness that weighed my words down was very unappealing and I did not want to read it, so how can I expect another to? At times like this one questions oneself, “Should my entire life experience be summed up in negativity, is that all”? The thought is frightening, because thoughts on paper are far more real than in one’s mind, and to be reduced to something so banal as hatred, that too in black and white is loathsome.

No, my words shall not let spew forth filth, I cannot allow my circumstances to change me so. We take words for granted, that they can be thrown around willy-nilly. If one starts writing to achieve the purpose of making sense and attain some inner peace, one will realize that this is what separates the masters from others. The words of masters can move people to love, hate, fight wars and celebrate victory. That is the power of words. These words coax feelings to manifest themselves in a way which reflects our true self, even though we might not like it.

“We live and breathe words. .... It was books that made me feel that perhaps I was not completely alone. They could be honest with me, and I with them. Reading your words, what you wrote, how you were lonely sometimes and afraid, but always brave; the way you saw the world, its colors and textures and sounds, I felt--I felt the way you thought, hoped, felt, dreamt. I felt I was dreaming and thinking and feeling with you. I dreamed what you dreamed, wanted what you wanted--and then I realized that truly I just wanted you.” 
 
Cassandra Clare

To write requires courage. One should always try to pen down words. Not only will it help to sift through logical and illogical thoughts, it will save a lot of money spent otherwise on the psychiatrist!


Friday, 24 January 2014

Her

There are these stairs in her house, which have been there as far as she can remember. She climbed them one at a time in her diapies ages ago. Most times when she is climbing them now she tends to make a continuing sound which is quite akin to what children make when they are walking in the dark and the sound makes them feel less uncomfortable. Come to think of think of it, she has a whole series of these infantile sounds she has for different occasions and people in her life. When she makes them whilst talking with him, he laughs affectionately, and cajoles her. Unconsciously at these times she presents herself as an infant to appeal to his protective instincts, and he responds with affection, resulting in a feeling which is very sweet, a delicate sensation;  fragile to touch.

As a small cheeky little thing, she was her daddy's girl. When he would be praying on his mat every evening, towards the end she would squat in front of him to speak with him. He would laugh, and call her silly,  requesting her to get up so he can complete his prayers. Last  night she did the same thing. Not quite so little anymore , she now can face her father eye to eye yet he laughed like he used to years ago. Maybe he too misses those times of her childhood.

From the typical standard of things, she hasn't really grown up, not because she doesn't want to, but as far she is concerned she doesn't know how to. The other day she spent quite a while being fascinated with the fact that people are cruel. Its like a repetitive reality, which she has seen since she understood what reality means, yet she still doesn't "understand" it. The explanation given to her was that adults have pressures to deal with and as a result of those pressures they tend to be mean at times. By mean she understood that they throw words like sharp knives to pierce the heart of the listener, they turn a blind eye to the misery they are causing, yet in the eyes of the world they are holy and striving to be good. She listened to what was told to her, it made no sense. Is this the kind of adult she is expected to be? Because if that were true, she doesn't stand a chance.What a lot of rubbish people say by way of an explanation! Children are clear and true, that is why they are cruel. They have yet to learn the art of being diplomatic and hurt with words. They at least have an excuse of not knowing. Then what pray tell is the excuse that these self professed adults use as an alibi?

On the beach that warm day, she was asked " Are you always like this"? That question could signify a lot of doubts in the mind of the questioner. She thought about it for a second and answered "Yes". It was true. To amuse herself even at this age is something of a habit for her. As a kid she used to play by herself a lot, and was really irritated whilst playing with her cousins because they wouldn't follow her instructions. So now whenever she is by herself, her feet and hands are a source of constant interest to her, and the sky littered with little puffy clouds the other day cheered her up to no end. She is not simple, in the strictest sense, she is a smart person who thinks a lot. Maybe thinks a bit too much, and when that finite thought is exhausted, she flat lines and for some reason starts humming Christmas hymns. Don't ask why.

“Why should you want to give up a child's wise not-understanding in exchange for defensiveness and scorn, since not-understanding is, after all, a way of being alone, whereas defensiveness and scorn are a participation in precisely what, by these means, you want to separate yourself from.” 
― Rainer Maria Rilk

What is being an adult? Really,what does it mean? To cut a long story short, it merely means one does what one has to do and learns to live with its consequences. So what is the harm in doing all of that whilst still being fascinated by new things, being mesmerized by shiny things, spending time by oneself or simply laughing out loud! Let the world see those cavities, hear the heartfelt laughter punctuated by tears and snorts. Its a fascinating thing to see someone really laugh all the way from the depths of their soul.

She thought about it like she does about most things and came to the conclusion that either she could be the sort of person who explains her maturity by way of displaying her degrees and accomplishments to everyone who will hear so that they recognize that she has worked hard to make something of herself, that in the process she has become disillusioned, packed a lot of emotional baggage and regrets and has a strong tinge of malice like they have, so she could blend in as one in this huge pot of misery. Or, she could keep all that to herself and sit quiet at big gatherings and be fascinated about how people talk, and how their eyes talk. What their words convey and what they are really trying to convey, and surmise that in the scheme of things whatever one achieves is really personal and doesn't amount to much. There is still so much left undone. 

She could be any kind of person, but the choice had never really been hers. She behaved as felt right to her, even at the risk of being judged as the misfit. The queer glances confused her. Still do. The truth of the matter is, being anything other than what she felt she really was, was an effort which never amounted to much. Every time she strayed from her gypsy path, she was hurt and it all felt like a tissue of lies. As she is, is her truth. The selective hypocrisy, returning gifts when she is mad at someone, really biting her tongue when a particularly horrific comment is on her lips one time, and saying completely socially unacceptable things the other, lighting up like a Christmas tree when a new idea or a plan presents itself or feeling really upset if she so much as hears a low in a loved ones voice. Such is life.

A patchwork quilt. That's what she is. All the different pieces, people, unmatched experiences and mis matched stitching make her who she is. She doesn't really mind being stuck in a mid Peter Pan stage. Before, in the audacity of youth she did say " I am who I am, to hell with everyone". Funnily enough the sentiment is the same but now she'd rather say " I am who I am, because I do not know how to be anyone else". Potato, Potaato. 

Poignant or not this piece is her truth, and whether it is accepted or not, its existence is hard to extinguish. As far as she is concerned, her quilt is yet incomplete, maybe it will never be complete. Who knows, maybe it wont be hers if it was complete.

Monday, 2 December 2013

Reason for nothing

“The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong.” 
 C.S.Jung



He asked her why she loved him. Why him, with all his “bad” traits and history. She just looked at him and thought back at her history and how she manifested various reasons for her right and wrong, good and bad choices, and felt compelled to come up with a reason. And in spite of that compulsion, could merely say, “ Because- I just feel I love you”, and for the first time that seemed reason enough to her, not requiring a justification, because in its existence alone, it was absolute.

Looking back and forth, I have come to realize that reason alone can validate so many factors rational and irrational, that the nonsense in one second can take the form of sense for no apparent reason. Seeing people close to me, seeing how self-absorbed and full of farce they tend to be, I have actually sat and thought why they are the way they are, thinking maybe a reason can provide me with a crutch to being with these people without resenting their existence in my life. Funny thing having found a few of them, I am no-where close to accepting it.

We get twitchy and restless, make mistakes and then at some point regret them, then Google the symptom’s to justify them and come with complicated acronyms with scarier explanations, all of this hard work and big words only to find a reason which isn't so much to explain it to someone else, but its more to provide us with a life support to give meaning to our little existence. We question, oh how we question about a million things:
*      Why are we on this earth?
*      What does our life mean?
*      Why do all bad things happen to good people?
*      Why did this hardship fall on us when we are law abiding,      god abiding and society abiding and not on them heathens?
*      Why is everything so difficult?
*      Why does love hurt?
*      Why do Indian men insist on wearing the ugliest shoes available to men?
*      Or my nephews favorite why- Why do I have to force him to have milk when I don’t ever drink it myself?

Fair questions all these to be honest. And if one actually sits down and gives it a second, the entire gamut of Sciences, Religion, Self-help books, Life coaches, Disney movies, Terry Pratchett and Politics is structured to provide a reason for one or the other. Now if our entire civilization is working so hard creating such massive institutions to provide a reason, there must be a reason to it. Innit?

Maybe Kurt Vonnegut was right when he said- Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why.” 

Maybe sometimes we just have to believe in God, trust in love and hold onto ourselves to survive. I mean, isn't it being too narcissistic when we flatter ourselves in thinking we ought to know the reason to everything? Does it not also entail that we ought to provide a reason for everything we do? Which creates a bigger problem because then we have to be honest all the time, admit to our insecurities and fears and display before others that which we fear to admit to ourselves. Oh what a paradox we live in.

Why do we look for reasons? It’s not like finding one will makes things all rosy, or would facilitate ending it all. Maybe we look for it because for that moment there and further on when we look back, it makes things a little easier. So my nephew would find it the height of injustice to be made to have milk twice a day, but seeing my brother and me as tall, healthy adults, provides him enough of a reason to quell his rebellion in that matter, At least for now.

Another funny thing about reason is we always cry “Why me?”, when things are going pear shaped. Didn't ever hear anyone crying “Why me?”, when receiving a big gift, going for a holiday or rolling in cash. Another justification in favor of the theory that reason in adversity provides a balm, cushions the blow so to speak. This is why the presence of the almighty is never felt more clearly than when in pain.

We are here, we are alive and we will only close our eyes when the time comes. Till then, if a little reason here or there makes living a tad easier, why not? And to be quite frank ,  I think this is why our ability to rationalize every nonsense is in a never ending supply.

So shit happens, it happens, because ……….it just does.


Tuesday, 12 November 2013

Holiday pics

A quick post to show my recent holiday to Jaipur, Rajasthan, India.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/101295696@N03/

Post to follow:)

Thursday, 29 August 2013

Mini clueless Adults

The spectrum of this blog seems massive and I suppose is a long time coming. Don’t quite know where to start, but I will give it a shot anyways. I like to say I get along with kids way better than I get along with adults. The rationale behind this is that kids are non-judgmental, quite un-materialistic, absorbent of new ideas and generally more fun to be with than adults. This theory was put to a slight test this time around.

So I quit my god awful job, gathered by failing health and rushed home for some serious R&R. My nephew all of 5 years became my responsibility during meal times and I ended up learning a lot of things from him. Patience, being one mammoth lesson that I still haven’t mastered, but more so, he became a mirror of everyone around him, including me. It comes as quite a scary revelation, but if one wishes to know about a set of people, pay attention to the kids they are bringing up. I don’t believe in this Asian nonsense of blaming the mother if the kid messes about, it is the parents responsibility at the outset and then the rest of the adults around the kid. My nephew reminded me of a clean slate that added words to its surface every day, in various hand writings.

Mid Ramadan my cousins came to visit with my Grandad. Now these cousins are the ones that I was closest to since ages, and have always gotten along with, they are like my babies and I have always treated them so. Spending time with them this time around reflected a lot of new traits in them and the elders around them, which for quite some time I found difficult to deal with. Now there were 4 kids in the house, ages ranging from 5 to 12. Sharp as tack, observant, slightly spoilt, growing up but still kids, they ended up in my “taking care” basket, a prospect that I quite looked forward to. We watched a lot of movies together, prayed during Ramadan, did calligraphy, had a mini holiday in the City of Nawabs, sorted out quite a few temper tantrums, but in all this fun, a despicable streak of materialism was rearing its ugly head in the kids demeanor  This was new territory for me. The thing is when my brother and I were growing up; we were not familiar with the concept of money or who paid for what. We were literally coerced into appreciating a gift and not valuing it by how much money was paid for it.(Thank you mum for that) 
Coming to these kids, every single thing we did or bought was questioned by “Who paid for this”? Somehow the payer was of utmost importance and that burned me up, and this was not a one off incident. Amongst the 3 cousins, the eldest 2 were relentless in knowing, and would talk of nothing but how much the new video game costed, and shockingly the 2nd eldest went so far as to describe how the will of her father ought to be divided. She is 11!! Things came to head when I had ordered a book and had to borrow money from my granddad to pay for it, and then paid him back straightaway. The youngest one questioned me about it 2 weeks later with proper righteous inquisition. I felt ashamed to even have asked my granddad to pay then. As much as my temper flared then and hurt for having seen the kids not be kids anymore but mini clueless adults, I came to realize it is not their fault. They are echoing what is said around them. My money, my property, my share in the will, these are the words of adults, with kids as mouth pieces. The very same kids throwing a fit over a pack of Oreos, were also capable of saying “Single kids are spoilt, that’s why a couple should never have just one kid”.  Wow, and I mean it. Kids are cute in their audacity which has the potential to amuse as well as shock.

Speaking about anyone’s kid is a very touchy topic and the immediate retort would be “Look at your-self first”. That’s exactly what I did. I looked at myself and saw I don’t care much for money, and I really appreciate gifts given to me. Stubbornness aside I am still absorbing things around me, and have an almost vehement streak of not conforming to the herd instinct. 
That said, age has taught me to sift (well kind of) between the right and wrong, because I alone am responsible for the repercussions.  What we adults need to appreciate, is that kids don’t have a sifter yet. They merely absorb. To load ones biases, weakness and pettiness on kids one is responsible for is akin to a crime because one is not just destroying a moment, but destroying a being for life. Just because an adult has had a hard life making money, doesn’t mean he needs to thrust it on his kids. Just because an adult might have issues with a family member, it is not called for to talk ill of him/her in-front of the kids.

Why is it ok to discuss the wonders of money and ill of family members, but racial hatred and homosexuality are an absolute no no. How do we decide to what extent we let children around us grow? If as an adult I am utterly confused, what must the state of these poor kids be? We are stealing their childhood like a jigsaw puzzle, and allowing school yard, Wikipedia, horror of horrors Youtube , and whatsapp fill in the blanks. Its true, I saw it not a week ago!

I am not a parent, and don’t intend on writing any parenting skills. What I do intend on doing is damage control, or as much as I can possibly do. All I request and wish is this- ‘Elders please don’t use your kids as a punching bag and instil in them all your negativity, bias and pettiness. Kids look to their elders for example and approval all their lives. Don’t misuse this reliance to misguide them.’

I guess this is what shocked me about the kids this time around. I loved being with them because they were not as clueless as adults (back then), but this time around they seemed to be so and that scared me.

To sum up, being all agitated I asked my mum if all this did not annoy her, and she said simply, “Kids this age can be improved upon and made into better people. What irritates me is adults who do the same things and are incapable of being improved upon”. Well said. We all are constantly evolving and need tweaking and polishing, and I intend on trying my best to avoid instilling those values I despise in kids around me and in turn, myself.

Tuesday, 2 April 2013

Idiots guide to nothingness



This idea about the idiots guide to whatchamacallit has been swishing around in my head for a while now. The thing is, open the newspaper and there are a million advice columns there listing the “Ten ways to know your man is cheating”, “How to lose weight without losing your smile” and all this depending upon what season it is. When its valentine’s season, gods forbid if you are single, the advice columns are preachy enough to want to kill one self. If its summer, one is always too fat because everyone out there isn’t, and the favourite is relationship and life advice. If one is to take these advice columns seriously, then our men are always cheating, and whatever we have done, are doing or contemplate doing in the future is wrong, with a capital W.

Seems like there is no dearth of bullet points about how to life one’s life. In my fine country there are plenty of gods and ideologies to choose from about how to do things. If that’s not enough, then one just needs to type “How to” in Google, and it can explain everything from chewing your food right to attaining nirvana and sorting the afterlife.

When things are down in the dumps, and one acts the way one feels is right, or expects to be right, more often than not, such expectations are wrong. Now it’s not a static principle that our reactions or understanding of such situations will always be wrong. So we can’t read the advice columns because, well they are just god awful and terribly depressing! Cannot always count on friends because they are ruled by their own bias and being the same age group, their understanding of the situation wouldn’t be much different from one’s own. So what ought one to do? I thought about it and the following are a few fanciful suggestions:

  • People should come with an easy to read manual on how to deal with them and situations related to them. (This seems futile even whilst I am writing it, because of the cumbersome reading involved and well it is just impractical).
  • One should have a pixie thingi whispering to do the right thing when our words and actions are obviously doing the wrong thing.
  • We should enrol into a politically correct program which brainwashes us into neutral, proper beings.
  • Whence we are talking to the other person and obviously suffering from a foot in the mouth disease, the other should raise a tiny red flag and the intensity with which it is waived is proportional to the stupidity of our reactions.
  • One should learn from past mistakes and never ever make them again.
Now even I find the last one the most ridiculous option!

Fact of the matter is, there is no manual on how to deal with one’s life and situations. As perplexing as that is, one can create as much of a hue and cry as one wants, but there is really only one way (I believe) to actually deal with it. Hope. Hope that we might not fall as hard as before, hope that there will be someone to cushion the blow, hope that our mutual ability of looking past the mess ups and moving forward will not be in short supply.

So yes, it might appear that the rest of the world has figured it all right and has dotted the “I’s” and crossed the “t’s”, it is maybe not that bad an idea to stumble and fall, and maybe pick up a few pebbles of self-wisdom along the way.

Our own little lives cannot be tailored, or fashioned on the lines of cosmopolitan (God awful magazine), and maybe, because we continue to survive, our perspective cannot be all that wrong.

Hmmmm just maybe, at the end of it all, sick and tired of all the preaching and self criticism there is only one thing left to say..

Thursday, 14 March 2013

Hisab


The iconic Rekha (Indian movie superstar of yesteryears) sparkled and did one of her best work in Umrao Jan, a movie based on Mirza Hadi Ruswa’s book by the same name. My mum one time compared me to the Umrao Jan’s transitory nature, but I digress.

So, in the movie there is this one song when UJ travels back to her home town and is performing a mujra (private dance performance for the royalty back in the day) and there is a verse in the song that has always haunted me no matter where I have been. “ Tamaam umr ka hisaab, mangti he zindagi……” I don’t remember and don’t care much for the following stanza. The verse means that the life we live will ask for the accountability of what we have done with it. This might not be the most accurate of translations, but Urdu to English is not my forte, so what the hey!
“ Tamaam umr ka hisaab, mangti he zindagi……”, I think of this verse and I have to gaze into space and sigh. This accountability owed to none other than ourselves for what we have done and have allowed to be done unto us is such a herculean effort. WOW!

It is like theatre. For that short while, the props set, the costumes worn and the parts played are so life like. We convince ourselves, we want to( so bad), as to how the drama played before our eyes is real, and then the play ends, and we need to head back into the real world. We all seem to have these different sets with props and extras at different stages of our life, hoping against hope for the play to be real and last forever. And when we need to move onto a new stage, we again put all our energies into a new act, a new farce. The thing is, this would all be well and dandy if only, oh woe begone, if only we did not have to account for the weight of these acts in our lives.

“ Tamaam umr ka hisaab, mangti he zindagi……”, and the gaze into space outlining each and every crease on the actors face in that play, the twinkling of the eye, god even the lighting on that day and one sighs. A deep, long quiet sigh. I think all these words are an endeavour to explain the gravity and answer of that deep long sigh. One feels disconnected, and isolated in that sigh. It is heavy because it is pregnant with accountability.

It is not really possible to outline or even explain the sigh. What would one explain? No really, what would one? Because in the end the explanations are made to oneself and not to another, and who are we kidding? We know, we speculate, we introspect, all to waste. It’s gone.

So then again one shall be standing at a point in ones life, another notch on the tree, and here goes..

Tamam Umr Ka Hisab Mangati Hai Zindagi 
Yeh Mera Dil Kahe To Kya, Yeh Khud Se Sharmasar Hai….

Private battles


The newspaper this morning is kind enough to inform us that Rekha (Bollywood superstar of yester years) has issues finding the right shade of Red and goes to great lengths to sort it out. Now considering I have never seen any picture of hers with a lipstick of any color but red, one wonders, why after so many years is it still an issue for her? More importantly, who gives a damn? She still ends up looking as Indian Rapunzel, not quite with it!

Any who, I guess it is her personal little battle she must fight, whether it makes an ounce of sense to another or not, and to be honest why should making sense to another matter? Since it is something one has to sort with oneself anyways, public opinion sort of seems to fade away. (This is not entirely true but I am going to get back to this point in a bit). We all have our little battles we set up and fight everyday. Perhaps these battles one sets up with oneself are harder to combat than with another. Maybe, just maybe it has something to do with being true to oneself and knowing what is good and bad, and rather clearly and having to admit it to oneself.

This one day, I must have been about 5 or 6 years old and it was the first time I had fasted in the month of Ramadan (The Islamic month long practise of fasting from sunrise to sunset).  It is apparently a big deal for a child to keep her first fast and my mum, bless her, in her excitement threw a huge party, and all the family attended and there was a huge feast to be had at sunset, with me dressed all pretty in shiny clothes (My mum went through her phase of dressing me in shiny and prickly clothes, till I had strength enough to protest). Now being that young and fasting for the first time, the entire point is self-control and abstinence and not quite putting their faith in either factor as far as I was concerned, I was warned that I shouldn’t mess about because Allah is watching. Now to a 5 year old, with a house full of expectant guests and the first fast of abstaining not only from all the food but water as well, self-control seemed impossible. But it had to be done, because I thought Allah was paying special attention to me that day and would smack me if I messed about, so I didn’t. I won a battle that day. It was a big achievement for me. Even if I did mess about, my family would have forgiven me, but in the quiet of my room, that little promise was a battle I had to win.

Dsc02846

Over the years, battles won and lost, and my recent trips to the hospital (nasty business), I am made aware of the fact that I hardly drink any water. I am also made aware that my body in its slow subtle way is rebelling, and how! So the troops need to be controlled, hence a battle plan was formed. The plan is to drink 3 or more litres of water every-day. Now it might sound easy, but it isn’t. Oh no. The bottle looks at me, I look at the bottle, there’s a standoff. My throat clenches, I bite the bullet and go for it. Now there is no one here right now, no one watching technically, but the battle is still on. There are two more bottles in the fridge I need to finish before dinner. I am loathing the thought.

My bottle battles are not alone in their sincerity or re-occurrence. ZP has been trying to cut down on the daily intake of cigarettes and to maintain 6 a day has been his own personal battle.  The trial and tribulations and excuses offered to win or even the losses of these battles are hilarious. So, does diluting juice in a ginormous glass constitute the water intake equal to a bottle or does having a cigarette post-midnight start a new roster of 6 a day or is it continuation of the same day since one is awake and all? What to do..hmmm.

Reiterating to what I said in the second parah, given that public opinion generally doesn’t matter when one is combating with oneself, surprisingly people are very supportive whence has made their mind to achieve a victory. It seems supporting a personal victory leaves an essence of accomplishment and positivity on people around oneself. So now my friends have taken upon themselves to keep me away from spicy food and coke and discussing its pros and cons in my presence like I wasn’t present there at all. Somehow this show of support makes pushing forth on the attainable or unattainable slightly easier.

It’s the promises we make to ourselves which are the hardest to keep. So once again Rekha with her right shade of red, ZP at his last drag and me with the thought that the two bottles from my 3 a day are staring at me silently and menacingly, (or maybe that’s in my head. Big deal, my battle my rules!), I shall annihilate them. And by tonight chuffed at winning another little battle of my own, hopefully I shall live to fight another day.

Yippie kai yay M******J

Tuesday, 19 February 2013

Express Yo’ Self

My only nephew is an adorable lil bugger. No, I will not do the doting aunt monologue here. The only reason I mention the munchkin here is because of his preference of expressing himself. I see a mini me in him. He has this habit of stroking the cheek of people he is really fond of, that’s his thing. So this one time I was in my ultimate rem sleep and I sensed my cheek being stroked. I woke up with a very unladylike scream and cuss word, not really knowing what in the blue blazes was happening. The fact that the lil bugger didn’t wet his pants shows the strong stuff he’s made of. He placated me saying it was just him. After I managed to reduce my pupils to their normal size and not look like a rabbit caught in headlights, I begged him never to do it again, saying “Baby, phua (his nick name for me) is not down with this. Never ever wake her up like this”! He took to announcing himself at a very high decibel henceforth, but that’s another story.

Evolution_biologia


Our actions of expressing ourselves are an extension of our very being. Irrespective of how eloquent we might be, sometimes words don’t cut it. Got me thinking about evolution. Now back in the day (and I mean way …….way back), as part of a herd, communication was needed to discuss day to day matters. Since the early man hadn’t the power of eloquent speech, they used actions and expressions to convey their speech. So the entire “speech” was made up of grunts, facial expressions, gesticulations and props. Maybe not the most accurate explanation but I think that when we indulge in our very basic acts, we revert to our very basic nature. Like Romans enjoying a good meal had to burp to appreciate the meal, failing which the host would take offence. Merely saying “My compliments to the chef” wasn’t enough. Ever seen a young child indulging in what it fancies? The little beings can’t articulate a decent sentence but can say plenty by their actions; they are like a walking talking pantomime. A ginormous bear hug crunching (or trying to merge as one being) every single bone in the body of a loved one, speaks volumes. Mum stroking my head whilst I am asleep, is the epitome of motherly affection for me.

The best example I can think of, depicting us going back to our roots is dancing. It is sheer pleasure to watch a person dance when they are really “feeling” the music. By dancing I don’t mean skanky girls grinding anything that moves on the dance floor; no. What I had in mind was, when the body of self almost becomes fluid, and ebbs and flows with the beats. It’s like when one of my Iranian friends was playing the Daf ( one sided Iranian music instrument with chains at the back, which clang to the leather surface of the Daf thus producing a metallic beat) in front of a packed auditorium and the way his body swayed with the music, oblivious to the eyes watching him, it was mesmerising to see him so raw, so basic. When I let the music blast in my ears, I feel compelled to close my eyes. My body feels the music and moves accordingly, I feel alive! Maybe it is highly amusing for someone else to watch me gyrate so, I couldn’t be least concerned. Though watching SW go Punjabi on the dance floor with a poofa fish pout is hilarious.

I love the fact that we are so physically expressive. The act of making love, expressing affection, music, dancing, and compulsive cleaning, amongst others, is so basic, so real. It is that moment when one is so broken down with grief and pain that no matter what is said, it still sounds meaningless; a hand on one’s shoulder, or a hug does more than all the fancy pants words combined.

Speaking for myself, sometimes I feel such a surge of emotions that I feel I am physically going to burst if I don’t find an outlet for it! Tis True. My mum tells me to calm down, to contain it, inner peace and all that jazz…I say thee nay! Not that I don’t fancy some inner peace, I try to channel all this crazy energy into trying a new dish, doing the swagger, doing calligraphy or singing out loud to my IPOD.

Can’t fight evolution I say.

Viva