the self

I

time does not concern itself with expectations anymore...the days are happy losing themselves in one another...status quo is finally adjusting to the prolonged moment of crisis...resignation is metamorphing into resolve (until cinderella time)...dreams are blaspheming against reality...hope is back in fashion (with the world)...silence continues to be overrated...the myth of love stays enchanting...weather still makes for conversation (and how)...smiles on so many of these faces seem cheesy... the picture is moving out from the frames and settling elsewhere...make believe happens all the time...a room of one's own remains worth it (whatever it takes)...age shows itself in the cracks of the heels...(grey hair doesn’t count anymore)...health insurance is definitely a good idea...too much comfort is not...settling down has got to do with state of mind...rather than marital status...winter smoke is recommended...summer...ummm...maybe sunscreen...taking the easy way out was never easier...15 seconds are still tempting...apparently 140 characters is all it takes...less may be more, but its still about "more"...deadpan is acceptable...nay advisable...veil the void by choking up spaces...for empty spaces will find mirrors...and reflection is an absolute no-no! meaning is constantly being dissected...but not deciphered...the choice to not make a choice is still a choice...television is enlightening (self discovery within and outside of the labels is possible… much practiced…nevertheless Faustian)...the self is shifting...

 II

the koyal’s at it all day long…drowning noises never quite do…there is still comfort in the written word…the spoken remains suspect…golden silence has considerably gone down in market value…it is imprisonment, either way…uplifting, the thoughts of men (and women)…your apathy is much unwelcome, but accepted nevertheless…flossing never quite caught on in this part of the world…the in betweens never tried the datun either…didn’t think they missed anything… loss of the real needn’t be couched in theoretical terms…look away…staring at the phone won’t make it ring…shutting your ears won’t make it stop…never act despite yourself…don’t be too hard on yourself, if you do…freedom will remain elusive…love, illusive…reading the constitutive document of your country is a good idea…whether it enchants you, or not…must one believe in something? (after the post modernists’ tryst with metanarratives, is it even possible?)…empty words flash on a screen...erased once the favor is returned…its alright to be a bit slow on the uptake…keeping pace is good, if only with yourself…or perhaps, most importantly, with yourself…agony aunts need no qualifications…the reward principle might need reworking…appealing to reason is passé…appealing to emotion, more so…do you find what you look for in the mirror? Its easy, when you define yourself according to another’s dictionary…then all you are looking for in the mirror is acne…once again, the self is shifting…this time…into the mirror…

 III

never underestimate the power of a hug…or a kind word…timing is everything…there will always be one blanks too many, that will never get filled…the disconnect will grow out of seemingly inconsequential things…drink plenty of water, irrespective of season…appreciate its availability (think of some famished African country with no drinkable water, if you want to go by popular western imagination)…marvel at the ingenuity of the neighborhood slum kids…or your mother’s, when she churns out delightful supper despite being out of groceries…keep talking, even if it is to yourself…you will save yourself the shock of helpless muteness when the world reaches out to you…sometimes it does…know however that reaching out is not a sign of concern…practice choice…start with choosing what you want to eat from the menu…don’t be afraid of getting it wrong…slowly move on to informed choices…try all ways of preparing eggs, and decide which one you like the most…its alright to stick by preferred choices, but every once in a while, explore…traveling is not about the daily commute to the work place…get acquainted with your own history…you will always be under-read, don’t let that bother you… don’t be apologetic about sentimentalizing…your past will never get unhinged, learn to live with it…its alright if you can’t sing, or dance, or play something…eventually the mosquito repellant becomes ineffective…but the illusion is still comforting…move out of your comfort zone…think of the other…as you walk in his shoes, you will find, the self is shifting…

 IV

television will not come to the rescue, every time…light will hurt just enough…people are getting used to suffering…distance is being measured in chewing gums…silences are speaking up…and talking down…everyone likes being proved right…you will invariably be proved wrong, even about yourself…fantasies have filed for bankruptcy; their flight operations have long since ceased…khichdi – mom made – is still the best…there’ll always be that one song you don’t want to hear when someone decides to play it all over…when you look back, life is just that handful of stories…the ones that stayed, and with which you will regale your grandchildren someday…there’s no going back…forgetful time feels the need to leave its imprints…you can trace, but never return…you will lose what kept you afloat all of your life…habit will replace passion…words will stop vying for depth…blabber is the only conversation you can have with some people…childish meaning is still hung up on hide and seek…dire straits will always be a rock band for some…there are no free lunches, but unsolicited advice is free and floating all around…loneliness will have to be lived out…solitude better be got used to…words will fail you, like much else…the world may be prettier in black and white…color may begin to offend…every discovery is but a self discovery…essences may be comforting, but long undone…no wonder then, you will find, the self shifting…but always…always already…

madwoman in the attic

The madwoman in the attic is at it again…once again trying to find herself in words that make no sense to them…words dismissed as easily as her existence…diminished…the loss of an entire being means nothing to their world…she was not ever one of them…though she tried…but little did she know that once condemned, perhaps the Gods might still reconsider, but there is a reason men are not Gods! 

And so it must be…the solitude must be lived with…the questions, the cries must be stifled…the fears, the anxieties must be hidden from their ever suspecting, cruel eyes…the onslaughts of love must be borne…acknowledgment there shall be – but only of a certain denial…weave your stories Bertha, for that is all that you have…to call your own…absolve them, if you find it in your crazy heart…fight, if you so choose…without the expectation of victory…they will get you…for your silence, as for your voice…but never, never Bertha, think of why you are in the attic…you will never know…for they will not tell you anything, except that you are mad…you scare them…madness in anything and almost everything…your violence will be the manifestation of that insanity…but their ways of holding your violence will always be looked at sympathetically...for they are ‘sane’, remember? They have judged you, and their verdict is all that matters…blood isn’t thicker than water, you realized the day they said ”She sucked the blood: she said she'd drain my heart”…if only they knew what that truly meant…they never ask you how it is in the attic…if you are lonely…and you wonder are monsters afraid of anything? If not, how will you tell them you are not the monster they make you out to be? 

The doors were closed and locked years ago…there is no way out…except a forced one…when you will burn down the walls of your prison…and fly away…amidst expressions of seeming affection and care…where were they when you needed them? You know the madness (their version of it) will need to come to an end…and you will give in for them to go on…their redemption will always be in your damnation…you will let them believe so…and give them what they want…they will not understand it, so give up that very last expectation you seem to have hidden in your closed fists…palms open, arms stretched, as you fall, remember, even in your death my dear, you shall, but remain, the madwoman in the attic. 

p.s. - Forgive me Antoinette...i call you by the name they gave you...but the prison walls never knew you, for you...the attic had always imprisoned the Bertha in you, never the Antoinette...

roads taken.more or less.

You go chasing a dream that can never be and lose sense of the realities that tether you to the very safety net you scramble for. You know the inappropriateness of your pursuits, and the heart is so many chambers, they never told you which part of it to follow… the road less taken was always the one the moral part of your head or heart or whatever that be is fine with…this base immoral fragile existence will not last forever you know that, but it will last long enough for you to shatter faith, to live a seasoned lifetime of guilt, and to hold yourself in perpetual contempt. The road less taken could be anything. It could be this guilt-ridden road. That the majority fears to tread… and you say this, despite the echoes in your head of – “fools rush in where angels fear to tread."

Many of us live our lives like there is no tomorrow. Many of us live it knowing there is one, and we are answerable for what we make of it. Some of us have the comfort of forgetting. The luxury of remembering just what they want to, and consigning the rest of it to the domain of fiction, the oblivion of non-existence. Reducing truth to the version that they choose to believe in. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

But somewhere on a lonely stretch, with no music pounding in your ears (maybe you always knew why it had to be so loud), or little yellow flowers on either side to distract you, or pending chore occupying your mind space, somewhere in between the silence and its deafening echo, maybe you would acknowledge, for a split second, if not more, of what really happened. Not what you choose to believe happened, nor what they thought happened. Just the fact of the matter, as they like to put it. That wasn’t a version. Comfortable or otherwise. Comforting or otherwise.

You can never avoid the truth, but you can avoid those who remind you of it. You can look away. Ignore. Pretend they don’t exist. For in the absence of witness, maybe truth will disintegrate, or in any case would be easier to dismiss. In the denunciation will be the freedom to choose belief, and circumstances, to draw up the canvas of memory with the colors you like. And then, there will always be more important things to do. More that demands, and perhaps would deserve your time, your attention, or even that split second glance. As yours lingers for just a second longer, you find yourself, yet again, on the verge of losing a grip that is so important to be held, and find yourself saved, if at all, by their decided denial of the fact of your existence. There is hope. In this anonymity. In this invisibility. In the knowledge of truth. Of both versions, theirs and yours.

And in the end, it never happened, they would say. Or perhaps, more appropriately, that nothing happened. The eyes might betray but in words, and intent, they will find you in agreement, with whatever is said. It will cease to matter perhaps, with some effort. Maybe more. Over time. In the course of things. With the repeated denial of your existence. With the benign and eager acknowledgment of other, new ones. Life will, slowly, go back to the way it was, in some ways. But only some. The losses will hurt. Was it worth it, you might ask yourself, for the hundredth time.

In the final analysis, its all the same.

post Wide Sargasso Sea

Sometimes even the stories don’t redeem. Leave you with memories of all that you wanted to forget…and lines that echo – with a meaning of their own… 

“I too can wait – for the day when she is only a memory to be avoided, locked away, and like all memories a legend. Or a lie…” 

“If I was bound for hell let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best. But first, first I will destroy your hatred. Now. My hate is colder, stronger, and you’ll have no hate to warm yourself. You will have nothing.” 

“As for my confused impressions they will never be written. There are blanks in my mind that cannot be filled up.” 

Perhaps it is always the same story. Who knows…who is to say, what truths you bare, what lies you hide. I know of you what you tell me. But I know you not. All of the fears come back to haunt you. 

The lines on my palm – hold the secret, I’m told. No matter how intently I look, I fail to decipher. I find myself believing that the secret keeps changing. Perhaps it passes on – with every handshake. 

I think I will turn off the dazzle of the lights – and find what I am looking for in the darkness of the night…bereft of the stars. The full moon would perhaps be too bright…so I will allow the clouds. Sometimes, they become rebellious. All of them. The lights shine brighter than usual – hurt my eyes. Even when they are closed. The stars and clouds collude. And conspire. Not the moon. I know. I have a friend in him. It could be a figment of my imagination – who is to say – there is much I say to delude myself. We are never so completely fooled, they say, as when we fool ourselves. 

I am not sure where the scratches on my body came from. The scars have held on to their memory though. They may fade with time, like the faded colors of the gold fish in the aquarium. I wonder if she recognizes herself anymore, patches of the resplendence could have served to remind of a colorful past, if they weren’t ugly. Is she sick, someone asked? No she’s not, I want to tell them. They knew her only in her glory, but the ignominy is her own. She swims, together with the others. All day. Perhaps they understand her. Or perhaps she has let all expectation fade away too. 

Much else falls into the theme. The chipped edges of the walls. The seepage on the ceiling. The pile of un-opened newspapers. 

Much else defies the theme. The fresh paint on the feature wall – textured. And deliberately red. The pictures, mostly of the past, but too alive to stay there. The painting of a rose – framed, gifted, cherished. The song playing on the laptop. 

There will always be much. On either side. Sitting on the fence, I am yet to decide which way I go.

meanderings

Coming back home. The mechanical turning of the key is not mechanical anymore. It is simply a turning of the key. Why must one invest it with emotion. Or burden with description.

After a point you realize its just not worth it…you’re worn out of the decadence, the drudgery, the damned nuisance that life has become. The point in time where you’ve tired of the solace that memory has to offer. The day when you wake up not wanting nor working towards redemption. Or meaning. Or purpose. 

Breathing. But that’s all. 

You pick up and spread out that old dusting cloth. And start dumping. Stuff it with all the gratitude, the ill will, the telephone numbers, even photographs - of a time you could recognize yourself, and of later ones when you couldn’t, and the semi-tattered book of ‘thought for the day’ that you’ve been fooling yourself with for years now – and then tie it up and keep it outside the gate for the garbage van. Yes, as a last minute thought, run out and shove the word “deserve” into the bundle! 

There’s more back breaking to do. A broken spirit might not have been up for it, but a deadened one doesn’t mind.

The cell phone needs a new number. Or a new owner. Either way.

The bed will go. Mattress on the floor seems just fine. The bare floor – even better. Your sprawling new bed will keep you ‘grounded’ in more ways than one.

There’s the television. The kids at the orphanage would love a 40 inch Plasma TV with surround sound, 200 Hz motion picture speed, deep contrast and USB compatibility (which none of them may be concerned with, but then again who knows!). The fellows should be here to take it away any time now. When you had been there yesterday, the warden had told you of the tremendous amount of good grace you had earned for yourself. That’s one more thing going into that bundle!

The whiteness of the walls has jaded. There are portions of the cement chipping off and patches of rotting seepage within seemingly empty frames (the remnants of more artistically inclined days). If you look closer, you’d spot the fungi dotting the landscape. Sometimes in the evenings, the flickering lights make it come alive (you really don’t know whether to feel bad for the fungus that needs validation of its existence from a struggling bulb that was never asked if it liked being placed where it was). May be ugly is the new pretty. Who is to say.

There’s a red hope buried somewhere in the much abused (for being unused) thesaurus. Jammed between Pages 228 and 229. Pages that might’ve meant something, but don’t. Today that hope must go as well. Where it belongs. With that one sepia toned photograph. In the bundle.

The books will get distributed, though you have chosen to retain the teakwood book shelves. You look forward to the bare book shelves (without books, would they be just another set of shelves, you wonder). The dust on them will not be cleaned. Layer upon layer shall be allowed to pile up. Until there’s enough to get into your eyes and stick to your face when you blow on it. 

The maid has been given instructions. She is to come this afternoon, so she can take with her all the groceries before they rot themselves out of utility. You will let her take a few utensils as well. Give away some of those clothes, not just the ones you will never wear, but you intend to shut your eyes and let your roving hands pick out a few of your favorites too! She will take the battery operated water purifier. And the wall clocks, even the customized one with the family pictures (though she may refuse to take it, who’d want pictures of strangers in their one room house). 

(Strangely) the Gods will not be displaced. Nor relocated. (Unless divine intervention convinces you otherwise). The music will stay. Whether or not it plays. The marks will stay. Long after the scars have healed. You shall have moved on to another kind of existence. But before that you realize that there’s one last thing left to be consigned to the bundle. So you walk out the door, and to the gate. Look out to see the bundle gone, and the garbage van disappearing at the end of the road. Alas! Your dreams shall remain with you.

the averageness of being

i am your average person. average = stereotypical, sometimes. average = mediocre, perhaps. average = usual/ ordinary, very much so. i am a standard packet of dreams, ideas and hopes that fill a million other hearts, and occupy mind space across the spectrum. nothing different. (and don't we all seem to strive to be that? your biggest selling point in this world is what makes you *different*, unlike the rest, worthy of attention...) 

someone once told me that its good to be average. because it'd make you strive to be better. whats the fun in being perfect (and i use the term fairly loosely here)...perhaps. my only reason for buying that argument would be because of the person who said it. there i go being average again - for doesn't your average person let sentiment intrude into judgment?

sometimes it is hard to live with this averageness of being. and you go seeking refuge in the supposed brightness of intellect and maturity of thought the world attributes to you (until the moment comes when you realize that such attributes are less (if any) about you and more about a benevolent spirit, a generous heart and above all a happy mood...)

often you realize your averageness lies in exactly what you thought was unique to you...like crying in the washroom. apparently, half the world does that. of course, men just don't cry, so we all know which half of the world i am talking about. an emotional scene in a movie or a song may see me going sniff! sniff! much like half the world. 

i used to have your average hopes of the future, some of us like to call them dreams...that the pursuit of happiness shall be complete...and one is happy and doing everything we were ever meant to do! you want to think your relationships, including but not limited to the family, are special. and then you reach the stage where you deliberately make plans for the evening to reach home as late as possible, because you just dont feel like being home, lest it turn out to be another slugfest! one can gloat on that until someone comes along to tell you - 'dude, what are you cribbing about? you are the average family. its not perfect for anyone. (not that you were expecting perfection!) and for many people, normal has always been abnormal, its always been troublesome.' true. so mine is the average happy, sometimes not so happy family. and the fact that i have seen better days makes me oh so average that i cannot begin to describe!!

and as this goes on you wonder whether to live with this averageness, or to rise above it so to speak. strive and all that. like you tell a hundred others. once again, the average preacher. i am also the average fool - the one who knows better, but doesn't help their own cause. 

do i detest the tag? i can't say for sure. i admit to fighting it sometimes. do i give up? yes. do i try again? yes. do i care? sometimes. does it matter? no.

the average in me seeks redemption just as feverishly as the non-average part of me (which is but a fignment of my imagination, and i let the illusion be)...i am still trying to figure out whether salvation lies in giving one's whole self to either one of these categories. until then, i remind myself:

Alice: Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?

The Cat: That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.

Alice: I don't much care where.

The Cat: Then it doesn't much matter which way you go.

Alice: …so long as I get somewhere.

The Cat: Oh, you're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.

My daddy's BIIIIIIIGG car!

Over the last 4-5 years since my dad bought what was den advertised as "the big car"... the realization of that tag has hit one many times, and thrice in particular...

the first time, was when he bought it...i don't recall the date or the year even...but yes, we were pretty thrilled about it...i suppose most of us are, about anything new...especially smthn this size...

the second time was, and continues to be, everytime i go about trying to find parking space for this baby...or navigating it through streets narrowed down by cars mindlessly stopped (i refuse to use the term "parked", because one look at that which i describe ought to tell you that term is inappropriate!) on either side...

the third time, however, was the BIG realization...heading to a friend's place for dinner on my way back home from work, i had one last traffic signal to cross before i reached my destination...unsurprisingly, by the time i made it to the signal, it'd turned red (murphy!!)...as i stopped there, and took a look around, my realization came on its two wheels and stopped to my left, waiting like so many of us (traffic, the great equalizer!!)...the father was on the driver's seat, with a kid almost squatting between the father and the handle. 2 more kids sat sandwiched between their dad on one side, and the mom at the back with a baby on her lap. i looked at them. intently. one of the kids looked back. i smiled. and she seemed to wonder why, before she looked away. i looked inside my car. sprawling luxury. (yes, no wonder you're smiling - is that what the kid was thinking??) the traffic signal turned green. i paused, saw the scooter ride away, slowly but surely. my fellow car drivers let their impatience show with the shower of honking, and forced me to stash away that *realization*, until i found a quiet little corner to dwell on it. I managed to reach my friend's place, and find parking soon enough. Turned off the radio. Sat for two minutes, wondering. Traffic, in so many ways, the mirror to the world we live in. Turned off the airconditioner. the engine. And as i locked my car, and walked away from it, i looked back at it and thought to myself - My daddy's BIIIIIG car...may just be too big for me.