What's new

The new year began on a little shaky note.

A few unforeseen things, some lurking uneasiness, along with a little apprehension and confusion thrown in.

However, on the positive side:

• I'm riding on a new Activa. No more haggling with autowallahs, hopefully.
• I'm going for walks in the mornings. Don't know how long I'll be able to continue, but I feel good that I've made a beginning.
• I'm waiting for the Pune International Film Festival, which begins on 10th January. Hope to catch some interesting films.
• I'm proving myself to be a decent cook.

Year-ender

I don’t think I have any reasons to write a year-end post. I don’t have any lists of books or movies. I don’t have any learning to share. I don’t have any important events to talk about. There’s really nothing to fill up a year-end post.

Yet, I think I owe a last post for the year that was, to sum up, indeed a happy year. So what if I don’t have any achievements to show off, the joy and contentment I found this year, more than compensates that.

I had a laidback and pleasant year. Just the way I would have liked it to be.

Have a happy time ahead.

Happy 2008!

Another realization

One of the most romantic things to possess is a secret pain. We somehow like this idea that, unknown to the world, we secretly carry a pain deep within us. There’s something utterly romantic about suffering alone. We like to believe that there’s more to us than meets the eye, that our pains make us special, that there’s something heroic about our efforts to endure our pains secretly. If we have a secret pain, we supposedly acquire more depth. And who would not like to be described as a person of some depth, after all?

To possess a secret pain is also helpful otherwise. There are ample evidences that, fuelled by their secret pains, people have written books and poems, created immortal sculptures and paintings, went on voyages around the world, made amazing discoveries, reshaped history, and became famous in general. Every artist worth his/her salt needs a secret pain as a muse, it seems. The more the magnitude of your pain, the more is your chance of doing something prolific. Plain happiness has never really created anything noteworthy, isn’t it?

Of late, I have realized with some regret that I don’t really have a secret pain in my life. Leave alone happiness, can't I even have a secret pain? What a pitiful life I live, indeed!

Realization

It is a painful moment when we realize that probably we don't have the talent to do what we really want to do. (I mean, of course we can always dabble into something; but I'm talking about the real talent here.) It is also a very lonely moment and nothing in the world seems to ameliorate the excruciating pain that comes with this realization. We struggle between hope and despair, we struggle with all our might to come to terms with it, but nothing seems to fill in the enormous emotional void.

Faced with such a moment of crisis, not everybody can accept the cruel fact with a sane head. Indeed, some even try to find an escape with guns, drugs, or alcohol. (Remember the motto "it's better to burn out, than to fade away"!) But, thankfully, these people are few in number; and most of us, with time, quietly accept the fact without much fuss. "Let's not take our life and work so seriously after all," we seem to remind ourselves and move ahead. Of course, at some weak moments, we lament at not being born a genius, but we do overcome such moments soon enough.

The age-old Indian philosophy says that we only have the right to do our work, and not on the outcome of it; so work your part with detachment and don't desire for a result. Maybe, it's not a very practical thought. Or maybe it is. I really don't know. As for me, I'll occasionally keep writing a few stray posts, even though I've already realized the truth. After all, a race is never a race without those who 'also ran'.

I think I'm getting too wise for my age! Or maybe I'm plain lazy. Who knows!

Walking home

• The old woman sits on the pavement, in an obscure corner, with two baskets of vegetables. She's chosen the most unlikely place to sell vegetables, it seems. I wonder who buys vegetables from her. I've never seen anyone buying.

• In the chic coffee shop, a bunch of giggly young girls are enjoying the evening over cups of coffee. Their faces are flushed with laughter and their eyes are brimming with happiness.

• The new swanky mall that has recently come up, is a buzzing place. As I walk by, I remember that when I came here last year, it was still an empty space.

• Two migrant laborers, probably from a nearby construction site, are walking home with their daily provisions. It's the end of their day and they seem relieved. They chatter animatedly in their native dialect and walk past me.

• As I turn left and enter the building, I see an old lady sitting quietly on the watchman's chair. Which is very odd, because I have previously seen the watchman, and he doesn't remotely look like an old lady. Probably this old lady came down for a walk and feeling tired sat down on the chair, I assume. I know it's an uninteresting assumption, but the most likely.
  

Each evening, I walk the same path to reach home.

And each evening, I find it to be different.

Ignorance

I just had to sign a cheque. When I finished signing, my colleague suggested, "Cross the cheque."

Without knowing what exactly I had to do, I put a cross mark on the cheque. I mean, a put a cross mark (×).

He almost fell down from his chair, laughing.

“To cross means, you have to mention Account Payee on the cheque, for safety reasons,” he informed me, with good humor.

I must say, there are so many things you learn in a day.

There is no limit to ignorance, really.

The last few days

• I decided to devote some more time and effort to improve my culinary skills, which, I must admit, is very preliminary at this moment. As a result of this unusual spurt of enthusiasm, I found myself experimenting in the kitchen each day after I got home from work. And the weekends were, of course, the ideal time to push the limits and try out something totally untried. While some results of these experiments were moderately palatable, some others were absolutely disastrous. But at the end, to paraphrase Edison, "I have not failed. I've just found several combinations that won't work."

• I found a dirt road the other morning, near the hillocks behind my building, that goes all the way to the highway. It was more of a trail than a road -- dusty, deserted, and mostly unused. The air was cool that morning and I just walked without caring to reach anywhere. Sometimes, it feels good to walk on a road without knowing where it might take me to.

• I took part in the city marathon. The first ever marathon of my life. (well, it's true that I just ran the first few kilometers. But the fact remains that I ran.)

• I realized, to my amazement, that one year has passed by since I landed in this city. And so far, it's been so good.

Meet Charlie Brown

"Charlie Brown wins your heart with his losing ways. It always rains on his parade, his baseball game, and his life. He's an inveterate worrier who frets over trifles (but who's to say they're trifles?). Although he is concerned with the true meaning of life, his friends sometimes call him "blockhead." Other than his knack for putting himself down, there are few sharp edges of wit in his repertoire; usually he's the butt of the joke, not the joker. He can be spotted a mile away in his sweater with the zig zag trim, head down, hands in pocket, headed for Lucy's psychiatric booth. He is considerate, friendly and polite and we love him knowing that he'll never win a baseball game or the heart of the little red-haired girl, kick the football Lucy is holding or fly a kite successfully. His friends call him "wishy-washy," but his spirit will never give up in his quest to triumph over adversity."

From Peanuts.

Misleading

I'm told that lack of social interaction has brought about telltale signs of a chronic loner in me -- I'm terribly tongue-tied when small talk is in progress, I goof up even when I have to say 'hi' or 'bye' to people, I make excuses to avoid crowded celebrations, I sleep away my weekend, etcetera, etcetera.

In short, I'm told that I should get a life.

Well, I don't tell them that I'm actually having the best time of my life. It will kill the fun, you see, if I reveal it. So, I carry a rather helpless/glum/morose expression on my face and enjoy all the 'oh-you-pathetic-soul' look from others.

It's good fun, I tell you!

Metamorphosis

We used to laugh at his stories; sometimes, even at his face while he was still narrating them. "Why do you have to keep telling these made up stories?" we used to tease him, "We don't even find them funny." But he never seemed to mind our sarcasm. A queer fellow he was.

Years later, we heard that he did manage to write a book or something, and also got it published. A strange book he wrote -- about talking animals, walking trees, humans with horns and tails, and all such bizarre things. We wonder how he got a publisher.

I saw him in the market the other day while he was buying tomatoes. "Hey," I said to him, "Why did you bother to write that book of yours? It's total trash." Hearing this, he paused upon the pile of tomatoes, picked up one and hurled it at my face. Then he chased me all through the market. It's only because I regularly go to the gym that I could outrun him.

Well, you tell me, how am I supposed to know that when you become a writer (an established writer, with your books published and all), you get the creative license to throw tantrums, and tomatoes as well.

Recent read (and watch)

Etgar Keret is my latest find. Keret's collection of short stories One Last Story and That's It, which I read during the Diwali holidays, contains some very clever, bizarre, and arresting short stories. As the title of the book suggests, the stories are indeed extremely short (on an average, running at 2-3 pages each). But within that short span, Keret is able to create and evoke moods -- often with a unique style laced with humor, fantasy, and unusual insights -- that remains with us even after the story ends (or, rather, the way it does not end). Keret's voice is urbane, his descriptions are sharp but detached, his characters are fantastically imagined, and his stories are full of craziness. Dark and disturbing at times, his tragicomic characters and plots are so terse and taut -- you end up finishing the stories even before you grasp it, and then you keep wondering about what it all was.

If Keret's book is slim, A Suitable Boy, which I'm reading for the last six months or so, is mindbogglingly voluminous, full of numerous characters, elaborate descriptions, countless plots and sub-plots. with 1349 pages, it is also the biggest book I've ever read. But the size, surprisingly, isn't a deterrent; rather, one almost feels that it shouldn't have been told in any lesser pages. Vikram Seth, the author, weaves a sprawling tale, set in a nascent, independent India, describing not only the people and places associated with the four main families in the novel, but also goes on to describe, perhaps in immaculate details, the traditions and festivals, the nitty-gritties of law and political undercurrents, the customs of courtesans and common man, the caste equations, the conficts within universities and boardrooms, the characteristics of urbane and rustic milieu -- in short, he writes about a whole way of life, with a pace that's unhurried, and with a style that's pleasingly old-fashioned. The book is easy on the reader; it almost turns into a companion, humoring and entertaining you, when you need a respite from your own boring life.

Now, as for watching, besides the junk I watched on TV, I watched Majid Majidi's Baran. Iranian films, of late, seems to have captured everyone's attention, with their flair for saying complex things simply. Baran is also a simple story; a simple love story. An Iranian boy Latif, who works at a construction site, resents the intrusion of Afgan refugees who, he thinks, are a threat to his own job. So, when a young worker Rahmat, who comes to work as a replacement for his injured father, eventually takes over his tea-serving job, he is furious. He makes every effort to thwart his opponent. Until, one day, he finds that Rahmat is actually a young girl in the guise of a boy. Suddenly, Latif is filled with tenderness for this girl, whom he now wants to guard and protect in every way. The film ends with Latif watching the girl's family moving away to Afghanistan on a cold rainy morning. As the car moves away, Latif stands watching the footprint of the girl, which is now getting drowned in the falling raindrops.

On a Sunday

It's a bright sunny day of November -- a brilliant blue sky; fluffy white clouds; pleasant breeze; fluttering trees. You open the windows wide, sunshine streams in, and you break into a happy chuckle.

It's a day you want to spend alone. Lying on your back, with a book in your hand, occasionally looking out of the window. You don't have anything particular to do today; you can spend your time as you wish.

Lying still on the bed, you let your mind wander. You can also take a nap, by the way, probably hoping that you'll be taken over by a pleasant day-dream. But even if you have to keep awake, you might be pleasantly surprised to hear -- a few twittering birds from somewhere on the trees, a rhythmic hammering sound coming from a distance, the diffused sound of vehicles coming from the road outside, the faint shout of children playing somewhere, the hiss of a pressure cooker from a neighboring house, and many other indistinguishable sound -- a lot of which you do not catch on a busy day. You feel happy this way -- lying down, doing nothing, while the world passes you by.

There are a bunch of people who are compulsively active. Their calendars are always packed, they always have to rush somewhere, and they always need to keep doing something. To be idle, for them, is the most difficult thing to do.

And then, as if to balance things out, like all laws of nature, there's an exact opposite bunch of people -- those who can lie on their back for hours, simply do nothing, and still enjoy it.

On the road

The bus I'm travelling on comes to a halt amongst the din. The roads are blocked due to a strike, we're informed. No buses are going farther.

It's always horrible to get stuck up midway. More so if it's a obscure place and you don't know what to do. The crowds thronging outside the buses were of no help. They only added to the confusion and frustration.

Amidst all the suggestions that were flying around, I found two worth consideration. One: We cross the river by boat and try catching a bus from the other bank, where the strike is not effective. Two: We hire a cycle rickshaw at an exorbitant price and go cross the river by the bridge, which is a few kilometers away.

I decided for the second option. To cross the river Brahmaputra on a boat is not for the faint-hearted.

The cycle rickshaw takes us on a bumpy ride, through lonely winding roads along the bank of the river. We also traverse a few hillocks on our way and at times, when we're going up a particularly steep slope, we get down and push the rickshaw uphill. Needless to say, I curse the whole world and am angry like hell.

Finally, when we're up on the two-kilometer-long bridge (Naranarayan Setu), it's almost dusk. The setting sun is reflected on the flowing water below and the darkening hills on either bank looks eerily quiet. The river breeze, damp and heavy, touches us stealthily.

All these, to me, seem grotesquely fairytale-ish. The setting, although indescribably beautiful, invokes in me a feeling of gloom and fear.

To ease myself, I try to strike up a conversation with the rickshawallah.

Circle

There are times when self-doubt looms large over my life. You know, the time when one is unnecessarily troubled by questions like: "What am I doing?" or "Where am I heading?"

I'm going through such a phase.

And to add to my woes, everyone I talk to these days, talks about 'future plans', 'financial planning', or 'career advancements'. Or, some such meaningful stuff.

Some of these words bestirs me. I chalk out plans in my head. I make my own to-do list. I set a target for myself.

Then, I do nothing. Until I'm overwhelmed by self-doubt, sometime again.

Thus, the story continues...

Useless updates

• From my balcony, on Sundays, I can see a group of children play cricket. They play with a tennis ball and instead of stumps they use a concrete slab. It's a small patch of land, and not exactly a ground. So, to exercise restraint, they have devised a rule that if the batsman hits the ball over the fence, he's out.

• The 'Lucky Bamboo' plant I got two months back is thriving, sitting prettily above the TV set. I got it not because I am into Feng Shui or something; neither do I believe the 'luck' part (the fact is, it's not even bamboo). I bought it for the same reason people buy pets -- a bit of company.

• I pass the evening watching inordinate amount of TV. And before going to sleep I apologetically look at the pile of books lying by my bedside. "Mabe I'm a lousy reader," I say to myself.

• There are some last-minute things to take care of before I go today. I'm on leave for the next two weeks, you see. But procrastination is an old habit with me. So, instead of doing what I actually need to do I get down to write this post. Last-minute things are meant to be done in the last minute.

• Waking up this morning I feel a mild dip in temperature. The first taste of winter!

Let's talk again

"Are you saying... ?"

"Yes."

"But why? I mean, what has changed so suddenly?"

"Well, nothing has changed, really. And that, precisely, is the reason."

"I don't understand."

"You know, I'm fed up of waiting for things to change. I'm sick of getting disappointed with you over and over again."

"And you think this is the way to get over your disappointments?"

"I don't know. But, at least, I won't feel sorry for myself, I'm sure."

"You're quite determined, it seems."

"Yes. More than you can possibly imagine."

"You're right, probably. I've never really experienced such absolute determination."

"And you don't even regret that, as far as I know."

"Well, you always knew this. It's not something new. And it's surprising the way you are reacting, really. It's as if you have suddenly discovered that I was lying to you all along."

"I'm saying none of that."

"What exactly are you saying, then?"

"Forget it. If you still couldn't understand it, you'll never really understand."

"Then why are we continuing with this talk, may I ask, if none of us is understanding what each of us is saying?"

"Because you had been asking all the questions."

"And you had been giving all the cryptic answers."

"Look, I did try my best to have a sensible talk, but it seems it's not heading anywhere now."

"When you are determined to go your own way, you can't possibly expect everyone to follow."

"But having your own way is any day better than walking through a maze, where you never know where you are heading."

"Isn't life a maze in itself?"

"Cut your nonsense, will you? Now you're talking like a loser."

"Huh, to be a loser!"



* This sequel wasn't intended to be written when I wrote the last post. The last post was written on a whim. However, I later found out, it was easier when I wrote whimsically than when I tried a more methodical (or, serious) approach. I labored to write but I knew, I've failed. And I didn't want to publish this post and make my failure public. But then I thought, what the heck, it's better to post any damn thing rather than sit and rust. Isn't it?

Let's talk

"Perhaps," I said, not too convinced by your arguments.

"You should say yes or no. There can't be a middle path here."

"There's always a middle path. At least, there's one, in this case."

"You're a spineless creature, a vacillating moron."

"Thanks you."

"You're pathetic."

"Thanks, again."

"Look, this isn't funny anymore. Don't you realize the seriousness of the situation?"

"I do, probably..."

"Probably? You're still not certain?"

"..."

"This is so embarrassing. It was so foolish of me to expect that you'll change."

"Coffee?"

"Go to hell."

"Please don't make a scene. We can probably sort this out more amicably."

"There's nothing to sort out anymore, really. And thanks, by the way, for making me realize that."

"Let me..."

"Please don't."

Loneliness

Miss Violet Stoneham is an ageing anglo-indian school teacher who lives alone in her two-room flat. Life, for her, chiefly consists of teaching Shakespeare to her class of giggly schoolchildren and a weekly visit to her her brother Eddie at the old-age home. Being a spinster, she worries about her lonely future but is unwilling to leave the country of her birth, despite requests form her niece Rosemary. The monotony of Miss Violet's life breaks with the sudden intrusion of a couple (Nandita, Miss Violet's ex-student, and her boyfriend Samaresh) who, wary of wandering on the streets and looking for some privacy, manipulates the old woman to borrow her flat with the pretext that Samaresh needs a place to write (after all, he claims to be James Joyce in the making). Miss Violet, oblivious of the real intention of the couple, happily lends her flat and welcomes the couple in the hope of a company she desperately seeks. Her happiness is, however, shortlived and she finds herself lonely again when the couple gets married and drifts away from her life.

Well, this is in short the story of 36 Chowringhee Lane, a film I was watching this morning. And I was, strangely, reminded of one of my school teachers, after I watched Miss Violet's character. Not that there was any resemblance in the story but, yes, I felt the same loneliness in both cases.

Anyways, What makes this film a poignant story is the way Jennifer Kendal portrays the role of Violet, a sensitive, susceptible, timid old woman who never speaks loud and who cannot even shout and discipline her own students. The details that show her lonely humdrum life is beautifully captured in the way she checks her letter-box everyday, the way she talks to her cat Sir Toby, the way she eats lonely dinners, and the way she cannot protest even when she's pained. There are many subtexts in the story as well: the fall of once-priviledged anglo-indians, the rise of dissent among them as they are losing out to a new breed of Indians, but Violet's life is tranquil and is untouched by all the turmoil. What remains after watching the film is the palpable sense of loneliness. And of course, there's the ending scene of Miss Violet reciting Shakespeare on a lonely street on the Christmas Night, after discovering that she's ignored and she's no longer wanted in the life of the couple.

The end of something

There are times when everything seems to be going fine -- no real tragedy, no impending bankruptcy, no severe illness. In short, a happy time.

If you've noticed that I've not written for the last few weeks, it was because I was having such a happy time. And one of the problems (at least with me) of happy times is that it spoils me and makes me utterly inactive. Not that I can claim to be active otherwise, but a little bit of unhappiness (like a nagging thought at the back of mind) helps me to be on my toes.

Now, I guess I might have offended some of you by boasting, in not such a subtle way, about my happiness. It's not my intention to show off, really. On the contrary, I wish to tell how this newly acquired happiness has adversely affected me. It has made me sluggish with its placidty. It has made my senses go blunt with its smoothness. You see, in my happiness, my laziness flourished -- I didn't feel like writing, nor reading. It was annoying to see what happiness has reduced me to.

TV channels and newspapers, despite all the hideous and ominous things they show and write, failed to suppress my happiness. I was impervious to the plight I saw or read. In fact, I started enjoying them.

I understand I'm taking this a little too far, but maybe, you can offer me some help by leaving a nasty comment or something. Who knows, it might actually do the trick.

Cynically

For a change, I'm a little busy these days. At work, as well as at home.

So my normal routine has somewhat suffered. I'm not keeping myself awake at unearthly hours to watch nonsense on TV. And I'm no longer eating Maggi noodles for dinner. Also, not reading anything (except newspapers) for almost a week.

Well, it took some effort to get accustomed to all these. No wonder, I was absent from blogging for quite some time. And even as I write today, I don't have any substantial things to say. (Did I really have any substantial things to say anytime in past?) It's more of a self-appeasing exercise.

Anyway, I think I pretended to be more busy than I actually was. For, as the saying goes, "A busy person is never short of time."

It's just that I was going through a phase when 'nothing happened.' Apparently, there were more things happening to me -- I was busier at work; I had more things to take care at home. But, somehow, everything I did, my mind drifted elsewhere. I think I'm indeed turning out to be a too difficult person, even for myself.

A saying comes to mind at this point. I don't remember where I read it, neither do I remember the exact words, but it expresses something like this:

"There are only two real grief in the world: one is not getting what you want, the other is getting it."

So, which one do you prefer?