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..

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.

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

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.

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.

Thought Bubbles

A trip to the doctor’s for me is always a horrifying experience, and it doesn’t get any better when the “doctor” attending to me takes one look at my hijab and in all sincerity of his ignorance asks me if I was wearing it because of the cold. Now one wonders why, oh why are we surrounded by stupid? As the state of this country’s heat is and in February, its proper hot, so why in the Holy Ghost’s name would I be wearing anything on my head because I was cold? Made me wonder what it would be like if we had these thought bubbles coming out of one’s head stating what the speaker was thinking ( akin to the dialogue bubbles in comics) . Would we be able to control the stupid in us before we say it loud? Would we then be able to tailor our responses and deal with situations in a better manner? Hmmm….

To be fair and honest (and I do hate both these virtues to the very core of my existence, but can’t help emulating them) this bubble concept is not really unique and not my own. When I was teensy weensy, I had read this story about a kid who wished for a perfect world where everyone’s thought bubbled into text and the others can read them. As with every utopian concept, the downside is more of a landslide than a subtle downward curve, and this one created more problems than imagined.

As in conversations, heated conversations (read arguments), and interviews or for that matter any human interaction, one tends to assess and evaluate the other persons thought process, reactions, arguments and what would one’s counter arguments be. Now how much easier would it be, that whilst one is getting fidgety during that awful pregnant pause, this sliver of thought materializes into a text bubble atop one’s head and the other party would know what they were “actually thinking”. How awesome would that be? Now if this were to really happen, one would improve their performance at the game of bluff, have the most mind boggling debates and probably win most arguments.

This music blasting in my head right now makes me think that we could get rather creative with these thought bubbles. Maybe we could have different channels with video clips! Hmmm…the possibilities are endless.

Most critics of fanciful ideas would frown at this one, yet I don’t think it is that farfetched. How many times have we looked at people across us and wished like our life depended on it, to really know what they were thinking and if the words coming out of their mouth were the ones they were really thinking. The thought bubble doesn’t sound too bad then does it?

Are we brave enough to face such base? See, basically we as evolutionary beings realize how fragile our understanding and ego is and to a certain extent can also estimate how much damage can be done to the same in the other person. Now that knowledge is the crux of all human interactions. We bolster, coax, play, manipulate and ignore that knowledge to suit our convenience. Methinks a dried, cut, sorted presentation of the verbatim thought process would hurt more than benefit. It’s like a catch 22 process. Kind of like when a woman is all dressed up and asks you if she is looking fat. Now the question is not if you thought she was looking fat. The question is would you admit it? That said; if more people admitted to how certain people looked in a specific attire, we would have lesser fashion faux- pas! Hah!
Unfortunately some things cannot be selective like morality. Either we accept a procedure as is, or we let go of it in its entirety. As wonderful as this utopian concept might sound, truth at times can be too bitter and harsh to take. So I propose another utopian alternative, which is –Remotes! Not suggesting that we walk around like chipped bots, but the remote gives us an option to read or not read the text bubble. Seems like a reasonable enough option isn’t it? Wives of cheating husbands will have a field day with this one!

Food, Glorious food

“We must have a pie. Stress cannot exist in the presence of a pie.”    -David Mamet, Boston Marriage

“Ask not what you can do for your country. Ask what’s for lunch.” -Orson Welles

So today I decided to make lady fingers (Indian-bhindi). Bless my sister in law, who reveals the most basic of recipes for me to try. This is not to say that I cannot cook ( which is my mother's constant belief- I vehemently disagree!), my level of interest to pursue a certain dish to its cooking stage is short lived. Though today's dish proved to be quite therapeutic, because it gave me the calm to feel myself think.

Food and I have a weird relationship, it's almost like a couple first going out. Thing is, we are still on the first date, so theres always a tiff. Now if I start sifting through my thoughts, which are aplenty (alas), the point that dominates most of my thoughts is food. I like thinking about it, it makes me very happy. No seriously, even after a hearty meal, I would be thinking what will I be having for the next meal. This right here wouldn't be my fault, its all the crazy genes Mum's passed me. She loves anyone who feeds her well. With me, its like the person has no choice. I physically disintegrate when I am hungry, I am a sight to see. I think its more for the fear of violating some serious Human Rights that my mates take it upon themselves to feed me....hmmm. Considering how easy it is for me to lose my appetite, I consider food like a well obese person running for the "The fat person" contest. Some picture I am painting here, but scouts honor my dears, it's all true.

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So ZP and I consider ourselves novice food connoisseurs. It's a nice warm feeling to relish a plate of a good meal infront of oneself. We are kindred spirits in that respect. Whatever limited financial abilities we at present possess (ahem), we have decided to eat at fancy pants place rather than merely eating out. So whether it is ogling at a massive 16 inch pizza and counting the chicken pieces on it, or relishing garlic butter with oven fresh dough balls, we take our food seriously ( Well I do, ZP is just happy to eat)

One place that does come up in my mind, which recently sent us in a serious food coma zone was Le pain quotidien (http://www.lepainquotidien.us/#/en_US/menu). I had been to the one by the South Bank in London with SMW, and was pleasantly surprised to find one open in this city as well. So come new year's we were plenty psyched to try the new place and the twist and turn of events ( another story for another blog) which finally landed us a table did not disappoint. The relish with which we eyed our meal was reminiscent of the kids ogling at a loaf of bread in Oliver. I know its not the same thing, but you get the picture. I do believe that we did the chef an honor. I mean seriously, how many times would you go to a restaurant and only eye your food and giggle like a fool at your dinner companion, who by the way is doing the same! The ridiculous taxes slapped on us in the bill didn't deter us from going there a second time. Such is the call of good food, served by servile servers.

For the fear of this sounding very much like that episode of Frasier's where they open a restaurant because they feel they are well versed with good cuisine and can run an eatery, I think I would like a tiny restaurant. Hmmm, now what would that be like? One things for sure, it would be an awesome place to laze around. It would have soul music, lots and lots of books, mismatched furniture and servers whose smile muscles are not sprained or strained! It would have lots of small plants, purple orchids, guitars being played by dread locked musicians, foreign film screenings and Sunday afternoon discussions.

Oh how grand!

As adorable at that flight of fancy is, I need to get back to my lady fingers. They-be-a-calling I suppose.:)

Cotton swab

So its that time again when I am staring at a blank writing sheet trying to give some coherence to my thoughts. As my readers would have figured out by now, I like shiny. So, all shiny and bike fans would remember the zooming of some pretty sick rides in Tron 2. Basically what I am trying to get at is, the thoughts that zoom past in my head kind of remind me of the zooming bikes in Tron with a hint of a Lava lamp ( Colors -thoughts merging into one another ...you get?) . As is obvious from the description above, I am still in the process of streamlining what I want to say.

What is it that one really wants to say? Whether it be an argument, or trying to make someone understand what is really going on in ones head seems like a mammoth task. It seems so over whelming at times, that it brings upon some weird weariness, that maybe saying nothing at all would be better than trying to formulate ones thoughts in words. I saw an interesting movie a few days ago, its called Silver Linings Playbook, starring a very eye candied Bradley Cooper and my favorite De Niro. It is an amazing movie because Cooper's character cannot quite explain himself and then there is a clash of what he is about and how people see him. This ball, this fragile, mass of emotions one has inside oneself of pain, anger, disappointment and weariness is delicate, and its not easy for one to lay it all open. There isn't only a persistent fear of this ball being prodded and poked, but most of all there's a fear of whether the one looking at the ball would appreciate its delicacy and fragility. To listen unbiased is a very big thing I suppose. I'm trying my hand at it with respect to certain changes in my life, and given that I might not really understand the speakers perspective at the outset, I am glad that at least I am making an effort.

To put it simply, we are but weak, small people. Dont get me wrong, I have no intention of downplaying our achievements or how far we have come along, but then again a single harsh word from a loved one hurts way more than a failed mission to the mars. A slightly abstract analogy, but read it again, in the greater scheme of things, it'll make sense.

I digress.

So, last weekend a few of us were sitting and "chillin" and one of us opened up about the pain she was feeling. I was sitting on the floor, looking at her, her body language was defensive, eyes welled up in tears, but none fell. None fell, because she couldn't afford for them to fall. I was looking at her, and couldn't come fathom the pain, the ball of pain she was toying with. She kept talking, repeating herself, laying bare her emotions, knowing nothing would come of it, not quite listening to the intermittent words of support from the others. Funny thing that, I got it. I got the defiance when pain bulges into anger and one will face whatever there is, no matter how unprepared. Her pain wont end by some random comfort words, and wouldn't really stop talking about it because the ball of pain has a life of its own. What could be done? I apologized for my intrusion since I was the one who knew her for the shortest time, and said a few words. It seemed to do the trick, she wiped her tears. The thing is we all have our mess of pain, but just giving someone a really tight hug and not saying anything or saying stuff to make it slightly bearable, makes ones own pain slightly bearable as well.

Sabr, Arabic word literally meaning patience. If this soft cotton swab of sabr were not there to soften the blow so to speak, we'd all be jumping of bridges, one after the other like a pack of dominoes.

Clowns are the saddest people on earth. One doesn't know the churning behind that smile one wears to get by. A single word of love, a show of support or even a hug could make things so much better. I don't know why we are so stingy, judgmental and scared of reaching out, somehow when one does reach out, ones own ball of pain seems to shrink in comparison, becomes insignificant so to speak.

Not the most cheerful post I accept, but such is life. We can dance all around our little ball of pain but its there. So whilst I'm nursing my own insignificant threads of melancholy, my only comfort is that in spite of all, I can still reach out to someone who is scared of letting go of that single tear, and that alone makes all the mess worth while.

The Nougaty centre

Animated movies have always held my interest, way more than normal movies. An interesting one, which sparked last night’s conversation with ZP was Rise of the Guardians which I happened to watch twice! (Shiny, sparky things that Sandman works with held me in wonder throughout. I like shiny)

So there is this one aspect of the movie where Santa (in Alec Baldwin’s awesome booming baritone) asks Jack Frost what his center was? What was it in him to make the man he was? Coming back to the topic at hand, ZP and I were talking about life as we know it and how we deal with it and the conversation came to how do we deal with what we need to deal with, as in what makes us the people we are? It brings a wry smile to my lips when I realize and now accept, we don’t really know what life will throw at us, and when; so when the shock really hits us, and for that moment the breath is literally knocked out of us, what do we do?

I don’t know to be honest.

My way of thinking is everyone has their formula of dealing with what they need to deal with, thus defining themselves. Having met a massive number of people over the years I call my age, I am amazed at how different they are and their reactions were. Fact of the matter is I could not, and cannot determine and control how they would react in situations related to me, or just situations in general. My little formula, wrong or right has been is that most things in life are variables. They change, evolve, merge and create new patterns, much like a kaleidoscope. In all of these variables, a constant is required, a form of controlled chaos so to speak. So my 3 pointer, my anchor is my faith that I will survive, the knowledge that my mother will always support me and give me the correct advice no matter how bitter, and that my Allah will never forgo me. It’s kind of like dodge ball, this dealing with situations. It’s almost like one is standing and balls of all shapes and feelings are thrown at us and we need to dodge them and not be hurt. This three pointer has been my armor. My faith in myself might have at times dwindled, yet my faith in my mother and my Allah has never disappointed me. Recent conversations has made me more conscious how important it is to have that kind of unquestionable support. I personally don’t think that we as people are meant to deal with everything on our own. The cavemen hunted far and wide, yet returned to their little hut, to their loved ones as that comprised their center. My mother’s infallible faith is almost a force to reckon with. It’s at times comforting and scary to see how in instances of adversity she will not say a word but start praying.

Why I am speaking of myself and my mother, is because these two entities I am sure of, and well versed with. I shall not pretend to be knowledgeable and make a generalization and speak of people at large. What I do want to mention here, is that one’s center is ones strength, an anchor to a ship in a wild storm, because at the end of that storm that anchor alone can save the ship, whilst the little boats perish like toy paper boats.

In the history of civilization, we survived, whilst other races perished, because it is in our nature to survive against adversity, and we have done whatever it took to make sure that tomorrow would bring us a new day to live again.

I can’t take on such huge battles, living one’s own life whilst living with oneself is war enough, but it’s always an immense comfort to know that when everything that can go wrong and probably will go wrong, there are some factors which will be constant, and that’s cause enough to fight for.

Of living rooms and work desks!

I love buying toilet paper. The thought of deciding that I need to buy a second batch, gets me all excited.

As odd as that line would sound to most of you, I believe it makes perfect sense. The thing is we are all merely hunters and gatherers (http://www.brainpickings.org/index.php/2011/05/17/the-human-animal-bbc/). It is in our nature to make every place we spend some amount of time in as homely as possible. Given that most of these places are transitory in nature, it still does not deter us from adding our own little touches, kind of like the drawings on the wall to say “I was here”.

It is not just that woman are into it, men indulge in it as well. Although a woman’s personalisation can be more aesthetically pleasing, than the cigarette stubs and dirty socks lying around belonging to a man…enough said. You get the picture.

So in my own little way, I decided to add a personal touch to my new room by adding little shiny glow in the dark star thingies. They look cute. Kind of make me feel like a kid lying down on the terrace and gazing at the stars. I also added a new calligraphy to the wall, which is proper shiny. (I like shiny).

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Collectively we are Bedouins. Not literally, but by way of how we live our lives, we are not much different. We move from one place to another, for a variety of reasons. That movement involves one in acclimatizing to the new place, familiarising with the changes around ones person. We as people acclimatize, but not in the blink of eye. It takes time to blend in, and in that period one needs something familiar to hold on and have a sense of balance. Kind of like ragged old blanky kids might hold onto, though if they do the same when well past into their 30’s, red flags ought to go up!

I digress. So, we all have our little knick knacks to ease us through the transitory phase. Mine’s my little boofle mug and fetish for buying toilet paper. But I have to say this, nowhere in the world have I seen people so gung-ho about personal artefacts and comfort items as that in India. We Indians love to carry our world with us. Whether it is a jar of mango pickle aboard an international flight, or our multiple god figurines, we love our little India everywhere. In my last work place, I was still getting used to seeing all the gods, all the family pictures, stuffed animals, prayer books, lunch bags and over-night change of clothes-all at one desk for one person! So here comes a new joinee,  I walk past her desk, saying hi, being nice, and I walk back after 20 minutes and already she has made a mini shrine complete will bells and pink fluffy thingies around her computer. It was like the power puff girls attacked! I so wish I had taken a picture of that….hmmm..

As important as it is to hold onto something from the past to move into the present, sometimes it is more important to let go of a tiny bit to accept the new. A perfect balance is a utopian concept, yet we can but try.

So whilst I relish seeing mini living rooms on every desk I pass at work, I shall keep missing my little white and red boofle mug back home..hmm..

The hiatus

As experiences go, I think (to be read as “I know”) that I am great at procrastinating. I mean, not just great but I believe there’s some subtle excellence as to how imaginative I can actually be once I put my mind to it. Now don’t you be judgemental my dears, I know no one reading this can deny their own run in’s with the imminent foreboding of having to actually get something done. Somehow the means always seem long and arduous when compared to the end.

 Hrmph!

So having posted blogs almost on a daily basis and nurturing my new found hobby of a mental sieve, my computer decided to kick the bucket and hence the 2 month hiatus of not posting anything. Then further stretching of the hiatus by invented and innovated excuses to one self. Tragic! Apologies to all who asked me about it (warm glow), I appreciate your support. Much has happened in these odd months, and my thoughts at present are like them pretty shiny streams in the whatchamacallit Dumbledoor picks memories from and shows them to Harry the Potter! 

One that does come forth, or rather solidifies into a tangible experience is how seriously we take ourselves and our paltry situations. If one were to actually write them all down on these little sticky notes and spread it all on the table, I can bet, not only will they not amount to more than 5, but more often than not, can easily be tackled with a different approach.

Misery begets company. There is this romanticism about self-pity and making oneself out as a martyr of circumstances which one feels is above all pain in the world and which is pushing us down, deeper into earth, which by itself is almost like our pain being fossilized!

Pshaw! Tish Tosh!

The fact of the matter is we haven’t seen what real worry and pain really feels like. It is because we haven’t seen what the “real” pain is like, that we sit and wallow in silly self-pity and ascribe words which sound oh so deep and meaningful. To talk of words, there is this one experience I shall never forget in my life. Back in the hostel days, I was having an insomniac night and upset with a few factors, hence I decided to pen down my very “unique” and “deep” problems because I wanted to flatter and exaggerate what I was going through, and feeling that I was the first and the last and lonesome in feeling the way I felt, I headed by the pool side and started writing, and continued to do so, till life started stirring around me. I read it and made myself feel the magnitude of my pain. It seemed so impressive and poignant, I was flattered. 6 years down the line, after serious consideration to spring cleaning, I happened to find the very same “poignant piece of literature” and realized- Man! What a load of hogwash! I can say that now because I have in those 6 years experienced such a varied variety of pain, that it never even occurred for me to write it down. No, I think one life time is enough to have experienced, writing it down would only be reliving it, and that’s a Hell to the NO!

The point here is not that I have experienced pain more or less than others, or that we should not give credence to pain. The point is not to take it so seriously that it ends up becoming all encompassing. I don’t do self-help books, they make no gosh darn sense to me! They are so upbeat and positive; that it almost feels as if the sheer positiveness of those words are strangulating me. But if it works for you, well hey ho!
Its only human to feel lonely in ones misery and to magnify it, but one must, for one’s own sake of sanity and for those who care of us, learn to pull oneself out of this self-loathing, criticism and extreme self-analysis. It’s a cul-de-sac.

We are but children learning to walk. We stumble, and we fall, but we rise again. Its nature,  quite simply. Just that one ought not to be so hard on oneself and take oneself so seriously. In the end, jokes on us!

Fact of the matter is, that apart from the small things we crib about, when the real shit hits the fan, the shock of it is so over whelming, that quite frankly,it would render us speechless, as only silence can carry the magnitude of the pain which it will inflict on one. I guess Rainer Maria Rilke, (Duino Elegies) says its best:

And we, who always think of happiness
rising, would feel the emotion
that almost baffles us
when a happy thing falls.” 

So lets hold on to what we have, and not make too big a deal of what we don’t, because we really, and I mean really, don’t want to know/experience what it feels like to not have anything at all.

Amen to that! 

Take it away Louis….