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.
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!
“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.
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.:)
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.
