I never seem to be content.
When I have purple, I want green.
When I have green, I want orange.
And when I fight the whole world just to attain orange, I realise that all along I wanted purple.
This is the kind of dilemma that can enter your brain and fry it.
And eat it too.
My brain is burning, and so is peace.
Peace burns before my eyes.
While I stand and wish I could've touched it just once before the flames embraced it.
Maybe nothing in this world is right.
Maybe a dilemma is simply a conflict between neutral ideas. And because they seem neutral, it becomes all the more difficult to choose. And sometimes, I can't choose because I know that whatever I do choose, will not keep me happy for long. That I will run out of contentment.
I'm tired. Really.
Especially of this temporary contentment that sets in with great gusto.
Before I move on to cribbing and grousing, making myself utterly miserable by my hopeless pursuit of perfection.
And this is what keeps me miles away from happiness.
This pursuit of perfection.
Practice makes perfect. And perfect makes life hell.
For me and everybody who has to endure me.
I wish I could live on an island and teach myself what many have sought to learn before.
This search is not new.
It is for that elusive bunny.
Who bounds and cackles and hops away.
Amused by me.
As I clutch at it with anxious and hopeful hands.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Songs of the Past
Walking down the street,
Colours of the day seem familiar,
They were the same when we were together,
That very fragrance surfing upon the breeze.
And to top it all,
That song.
When it begins playing now, you say to yourself,
"Nah it couldn't be....or could it....oh....yes, that's the one!"
The notes are back,
And like dancing artists,
They sketch the face of someone to who the song belongs, forever.
Flashes of times long gone,
And then a smile,
Happy that it happened,
Sad that it's over.
But the song remains, painting,
Filling in the colours of that melodious moment into the present.
The mind remembers the music,
And how it brought close people,
Who may not be close anymore.
It could be anyone,
A billion songs for a billion people,
Everyone has a song they'll be remembered by,
You may fade from memory when you're gone,
But the song will bring you back,
It is the only thing you leave behind in this world.
Colours of the day seem familiar,
They were the same when we were together,
That very fragrance surfing upon the breeze.
And to top it all,
That song.
When it begins playing now, you say to yourself,
"Nah it couldn't be....or could it....oh....yes, that's the one!"
The notes are back,
And like dancing artists,
They sketch the face of someone to who the song belongs, forever.
Flashes of times long gone,
And then a smile,
Happy that it happened,
Sad that it's over.
But the song remains, painting,
Filling in the colours of that melodious moment into the present.
The mind remembers the music,
And how it brought close people,
Who may not be close anymore.
It could be anyone,
A billion songs for a billion people,
Everyone has a song they'll be remembered by,
You may fade from memory when you're gone,
But the song will bring you back,
It is the only thing you leave behind in this world.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
I hate 'Needing'
It's not good to want and need things. It leaves you very discontented with yourself.
What you already have in your life, starts seeming little and insignificant.
This is not good.
There is so much to complain about!
But why?? I'm now complaining about complaining. How silly I am!
Early morning dragged myself out of bed after a late night of two beers and blaring music.
Got to write. And it's important. This is something I 'need' to do. But this need is alright. It's probably attached to a purpose which is what makes it justified.
What about the other needs but? How do I solve that puzzle. I can live without a lot of things. I've done it before and I can do it again, but it's getting harder with age I presume.
At 18 I was impatient, at 25 I'm anxious.
I wish I could be a Chris Mccandless, wild and free of want and need. He taught himself to live without 'needing', which is why he could detach himself so easily from people and things. He was truly free. But it's a tough one, this situation, where you need, but you don't want to need. You know what I mean? You want to live without but a part of you feels you cannot.
And all that remains is that need. Unfulfilled.
What you already have in your life, starts seeming little and insignificant.
This is not good.
There is so much to complain about!
But why?? I'm now complaining about complaining. How silly I am!
Early morning dragged myself out of bed after a late night of two beers and blaring music.
Got to write. And it's important. This is something I 'need' to do. But this need is alright. It's probably attached to a purpose which is what makes it justified.
What about the other needs but? How do I solve that puzzle. I can live without a lot of things. I've done it before and I can do it again, but it's getting harder with age I presume.
At 18 I was impatient, at 25 I'm anxious.
I wish I could be a Chris Mccandless, wild and free of want and need. He taught himself to live without 'needing', which is why he could detach himself so easily from people and things. He was truly free. But it's a tough one, this situation, where you need, but you don't want to need. You know what I mean? You want to live without but a part of you feels you cannot.
And all that remains is that need. Unfulfilled.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Moving On
It's possible.
I've seen it happen, too often than I'd like to, but yeah. Everyone does it. All it takes is a huge padlock on the door to that part of your mind. Once the door is locked, no thoughts come out, no thoughts go in. It's locked forever. And then the wait begins. The wait for the day when you can go back, courageously unlock the door, pull it open on its rusty hinges and stand and stare defiantly at the several corpses shrivelled in the corners of the room. They gnaw at you no more. Mission accomplished. The thoughts are dead and that part of your mind will never breathe again.
This death is called moving on....
I've seen it happen, too often than I'd like to, but yeah. Everyone does it. All it takes is a huge padlock on the door to that part of your mind. Once the door is locked, no thoughts come out, no thoughts go in. It's locked forever. And then the wait begins. The wait for the day when you can go back, courageously unlock the door, pull it open on its rusty hinges and stand and stare defiantly at the several corpses shrivelled in the corners of the room. They gnaw at you no more. Mission accomplished. The thoughts are dead and that part of your mind will never breathe again.
This death is called moving on....
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Moving Out
I did it!
And hell it wasn't easy!
Indian women aren't supposed to do that you know. I found out. But somehow, anything that has a "supposed to" attached to it loses my interest faster that a jet plane. So I'm the black sheep now, ousted from the family for taking my life in my own hands and paving a path for myself which wasn't trimmed by others. They don't want me back. Well, I say, you can't get rid of me that easily! I may have gone, but I certainly haven't gone.
Tell me, why do you have to wage a world war to get what makes you happy? And most unfortunately, against people you love and who claim to love you??? Why do you have to fight so hard to be free, to just let be? I always knew that freedom came at a price, but I see a lot of other people enjoying it without paying a dime. A wise man often told me, "Good things in life never come easy." You're damn right! So far, nothing's been coming easy to me for a long long time. Or maybe it just seems long because it's tough and tough times just seem so long. Ah well, you know what I mean.
I have a small place. Nothing fancy. It's not even completely my own because the landlord and lady live nextdoor and there's no way I can avoid bumping into them everyday. They've been rather sweet so far. But that scares me too. What if that sweetness becomes stifling someday and the same things that I was seeking to escape cling on to me with a vengeance??
There's a lot of work to do to make the little space I call home, a home. The personal touch needs to come and the rules of privacy need to be established and understood by people around me. But I'm tired. However, the only thing that has kept me going are my friends. If it hadn't been for this wonderful gang of insane women, I'd be so alone. You need an alternate support system when your first one walks away in anger.
Sometimes, I'm too tired to even feel sad or maybe it's the other way around.
All I know is....I'm free. And at the end of the day, in spite of my occasional loneliness, my perpetual impoverishment, my struggles, dejection and constant rejection by the family, I am happy. For myself. And that's all that matters. Because if I don't look out for myself, who will?
It keeps playing, in the back of my mind......"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose..."
And hell it wasn't easy!
Indian women aren't supposed to do that you know. I found out. But somehow, anything that has a "supposed to" attached to it loses my interest faster that a jet plane. So I'm the black sheep now, ousted from the family for taking my life in my own hands and paving a path for myself which wasn't trimmed by others. They don't want me back. Well, I say, you can't get rid of me that easily! I may have gone, but I certainly haven't gone.
Tell me, why do you have to wage a world war to get what makes you happy? And most unfortunately, against people you love and who claim to love you??? Why do you have to fight so hard to be free, to just let be? I always knew that freedom came at a price, but I see a lot of other people enjoying it without paying a dime. A wise man often told me, "Good things in life never come easy." You're damn right! So far, nothing's been coming easy to me for a long long time. Or maybe it just seems long because it's tough and tough times just seem so long. Ah well, you know what I mean.
I have a small place. Nothing fancy. It's not even completely my own because the landlord and lady live nextdoor and there's no way I can avoid bumping into them everyday. They've been rather sweet so far. But that scares me too. What if that sweetness becomes stifling someday and the same things that I was seeking to escape cling on to me with a vengeance??
There's a lot of work to do to make the little space I call home, a home. The personal touch needs to come and the rules of privacy need to be established and understood by people around me. But I'm tired. However, the only thing that has kept me going are my friends. If it hadn't been for this wonderful gang of insane women, I'd be so alone. You need an alternate support system when your first one walks away in anger.
Sometimes, I'm too tired to even feel sad or maybe it's the other way around.
All I know is....I'm free. And at the end of the day, in spite of my occasional loneliness, my perpetual impoverishment, my struggles, dejection and constant rejection by the family, I am happy. For myself. And that's all that matters. Because if I don't look out for myself, who will?
It keeps playing, in the back of my mind......"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose..."
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
25
The quarter life crisis as they call it. What does it mean? Is my life really divided in parts? Has anything changed since I leapt from the other side of the cliff to this one? Have I become older? Will the aging process that most of us live in dread of, begin showing its ugly signs? Will I lose my youthfulness, my spirit, that spring in my step, my valued spontaneity? Will I now start thinking twice before doing what I like doing? Is now the time for marriage proposals to come streaming in, making me uncomfortable? Am I marked out more visibly now as a ripe (soon to be over-ripe) product in the market? Is my new name 'aunty' till the day I die? Will my pride in my sexuality and the expression of it now be seen as horny, sleazy and slutty?
I ponder. It frightens me sometimes, thinking of how things will tranform. How my skin will sag, how my knees will give in and I will be able to run or dance no more. How I shall be expected to dress according to my age - in dull pastel shades of sarees and salwar kameezs - whether I like it or not. If I don't marry till I'm 30, will I be shoved into the 'unwanted woman' drawer, where perhaps many files will be lying just like mine? If I flirt with boys younger to me, will I be called 'Desperate Aunty' and if they flirt with me and I welcome their interest, will I be tagged as a paedophile? If I squeeze into that tight dress and go clubbing, dancing with a glass of rum in my hand, will I seem disgraceful and dishonourable? What if I'm 35 and alone? No love, no companionship, and most of all, no space for a grown up woman to be herself and to hold on to her youth, slipping from her wrinkly fingers. What if being young is a characteristic trait and not a phase of life? What if she can still enjoy an ice cream at 40 and yearn for it like a child? How can you extract that trait as you age when it's a part of you? Then it probably just trickles down to a battle against societal norms to defend something that it savours taking away from you - the privileges of the young.
I am scared. But what comforts me is that I'm not the only one out here.
I ponder. It frightens me sometimes, thinking of how things will tranform. How my skin will sag, how my knees will give in and I will be able to run or dance no more. How I shall be expected to dress according to my age - in dull pastel shades of sarees and salwar kameezs - whether I like it or not. If I don't marry till I'm 30, will I be shoved into the 'unwanted woman' drawer, where perhaps many files will be lying just like mine? If I flirt with boys younger to me, will I be called 'Desperate Aunty' and if they flirt with me and I welcome their interest, will I be tagged as a paedophile? If I squeeze into that tight dress and go clubbing, dancing with a glass of rum in my hand, will I seem disgraceful and dishonourable? What if I'm 35 and alone? No love, no companionship, and most of all, no space for a grown up woman to be herself and to hold on to her youth, slipping from her wrinkly fingers. What if being young is a characteristic trait and not a phase of life? What if she can still enjoy an ice cream at 40 and yearn for it like a child? How can you extract that trait as you age when it's a part of you? Then it probably just trickles down to a battle against societal norms to defend something that it savours taking away from you - the privileges of the young.
I am scared. But what comforts me is that I'm not the only one out here.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Tra lala lala lala
It's returning.
Slowly.......
I can hear it in the distance.
The tingling bells, the vibration of the beats, the symphony.
Soon it will be at my doorstep.
The window panes rattle in their frames.
My foot begins to tap under the table.
The spoons begin to chime.
The water sits still no more.
It's coming.
In full blast.
The music.
It will be home soon.
Slowly.......
I can hear it in the distance.
The tingling bells, the vibration of the beats, the symphony.
Soon it will be at my doorstep.
The window panes rattle in their frames.
My foot begins to tap under the table.
The spoons begin to chime.
The water sits still no more.
It's coming.
In full blast.
The music.
It will be home soon.
Monday, November 23, 2009
The Green Monster
You don't want me. He does.
He doesn't want me. You do.
You both don't want me.
But you do want me.
And you hate each other because you both want me.
Slice me into pieces and share the spoils.
But no. You want complete and he doesn't.
Fight, stab, kill.
Push and pull me in empty spaces.
Decide and undecide in a minute.
Do and undo.
Till I feel like a pendulum.
Suspended into insignificance.
Does anybody know what I want?
I want out.
He doesn't want me. You do.
You both don't want me.
But you do want me.
And you hate each other because you both want me.
Slice me into pieces and share the spoils.
But no. You want complete and he doesn't.
Fight, stab, kill.
Push and pull me in empty spaces.
Decide and undecide in a minute.
Do and undo.
Till I feel like a pendulum.
Suspended into insignificance.
Does anybody know what I want?
I want out.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Forgetting in the Dark
A pin drops in the silence of the soul, Nothing stirs.
That music which stopped playing then, still doesn't play.
It probably will one day.
Till then, a long stretch of lonesome quiet.
Sounds in the head, pricking memories.
Echoes of forgotten laughter. And raised voices.
A voice so far away.
Quivering promises, raped and lifeless.
Flashes of a face in the endless distance.
A hopeful step forward.
A doubtful step backward.
A hopeful step forward.
A doubtful step backward.
Till hope is slaughtered in its sleep.
It is hard to forget love.
It is harder when love forgets you...
Monday, October 26, 2009
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Soundproof
Chatter chatter chatter,
Clip, toing, patter,
Boing, dushhhh, batter,
Laugh, chuckle, chatter.
Scream, squeak, screech,
Tinkle, buzzzz, speech,
Whizzz, mumble, phiiish,
Grumble, fumble, screech.
Flap, drop, drone,
Clap, whistle, moan,
Whimper, whisper, groan,
Bammmm, slam, drone.
Fill every crevice of the day,
Until it’s time to snuggle into the blackness,
With a heavy heart, where music plays no more.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Great Dane
Rain?
No rain.
Quite a pain.
Clouds refrain.
To drain.
We strain.
Bodies slain.
On dry plain.
None sane.
Life mundane.
Wait in vain.
Sheer disdain.
Damn rain.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Holier than thou
Yes I'm angry.
And why shouldn't I be?
I'm a normal person, with myriad shortcomings and defects. I don't pretend to be perfect.
But, did you know it's a crime? To be normal? In the books of the morally superior?
Stuck under the holy microscope, every slip of conduct is apparent and magnified; there is no escape. Or forgiveness.
And then they go on and stick needles into your flesh to make you realise and repent. Their purpose of life is to keep others from leaving the path of goodness and godliness. God himself has appointed these shepherds, presenting them special traits like paranoia, obsessiveness and a rule book for a mind.
Woe be to him who crosses their path, for he shall be shot down by the arrow of virtue.
These 'shepherds' should establish churches of their own to satisfy their love for the pulpit and goody talk. May they rise to heaven and get the better berths than the common people.
I don't need your cold breath stinking down my neck everytime I open my mouth or raise my fingers in action.
Stay far from my lane or I'll hold up a mirror to you.
And why shouldn't I be?
I'm a normal person, with myriad shortcomings and defects. I don't pretend to be perfect.
But, did you know it's a crime? To be normal? In the books of the morally superior?
Stuck under the holy microscope, every slip of conduct is apparent and magnified; there is no escape. Or forgiveness.
And then they go on and stick needles into your flesh to make you realise and repent. Their purpose of life is to keep others from leaving the path of goodness and godliness. God himself has appointed these shepherds, presenting them special traits like paranoia, obsessiveness and a rule book for a mind.
Woe be to him who crosses their path, for he shall be shot down by the arrow of virtue.
These 'shepherds' should establish churches of their own to satisfy their love for the pulpit and goody talk. May they rise to heaven and get the better berths than the common people.
I don't need your cold breath stinking down my neck everytime I open my mouth or raise my fingers in action.
Stay far from my lane or I'll hold up a mirror to you.
Thursday, July 09, 2009
Nothing
There's a breeze today.
The sun sleeps behind a cloud.
People love it. So do the pigeons and squirrels nibbling outside my window at the grains I scattered for their breakfast.
I'm alone in the big room. No one's here yet. Soon it'll be bustling. Phone calls, phone ring, meetings, discussions, informal chatter, the smell of tea and sandwiches.
I'm distracted by the squirrel who eats the most. It can gobble at an incredible rate for more than thirty minutes. I'm sure there's nothing called 'indigestion' in its world.
Papaya and cherries. I'll eat them when I feel like.
Right now, I'm too full of nothing.
It's flowing out of my ears and glistening in my eyes.
The forced upward curve of my lips gives it away.
Nothing occupies my mind and accompanies me everywhere.
I feel it growing inside.
Ah! Two Red-vented Bulbuls and nothing dissipated for a second. Just a second.
Nothing sticks to my skin and the insides of my head.
But wait. Nothing seems familiar. I know nothing. I'm sure we've met before.
But of course! We've met twice. The first time, in October 2005. An unplanned meeting. You sat around for quite a long time, refusing to leave. I'd to finally shrug you off and escape.
The second in March 2007. You made me sick. Sticking close to me till I had to run into the crowd to lose you. And lose me.
Now here we meet again. What do I do this time? We just met, you're not going to let me get away this time, are you? Giggle
You've studied me to learn my weaknesses, to find crevices where you could sneak in. And you're in. And multiplying. And laughing at your success.
I sit very still.
Nothing moves me.
The sun sleeps behind a cloud.
People love it. So do the pigeons and squirrels nibbling outside my window at the grains I scattered for their breakfast.
I'm alone in the big room. No one's here yet. Soon it'll be bustling. Phone calls, phone ring, meetings, discussions, informal chatter, the smell of tea and sandwiches.
I'm distracted by the squirrel who eats the most. It can gobble at an incredible rate for more than thirty minutes. I'm sure there's nothing called 'indigestion' in its world.
Papaya and cherries. I'll eat them when I feel like.
Right now, I'm too full of nothing.
It's flowing out of my ears and glistening in my eyes.
The forced upward curve of my lips gives it away.
Nothing occupies my mind and accompanies me everywhere.
I feel it growing inside.
Ah! Two Red-vented Bulbuls and nothing dissipated for a second. Just a second.
Nothing sticks to my skin and the insides of my head.
But wait. Nothing seems familiar. I know nothing. I'm sure we've met before.
But of course! We've met twice. The first time, in October 2005. An unplanned meeting. You sat around for quite a long time, refusing to leave. I'd to finally shrug you off and escape.
The second in March 2007. You made me sick. Sticking close to me till I had to run into the crowd to lose you. And lose me.
Now here we meet again. What do I do this time? We just met, you're not going to let me get away this time, are you? Giggle
You've studied me to learn my weaknesses, to find crevices where you could sneak in. And you're in. And multiplying. And laughing at your success.
I sit very still.
Nothing moves me.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Bandu
Ever bumped into the realisation that people you thought were close friends beg to differ on that one? Ever found out that 'the gang' just met up and you weren't even told? Ever learnt from 'other sources' what was happening in the lives of your 'friends'?
Yes, it happens. I don't know why and I wish I did. Because you're left wondering what you did wrong and how things changed without you ever noticing. You rack your brains anxiously to mark out that word or act that sent the whole house of cards tumbling down. You want to cry because that feeling of being left out is overwhelming. You feel furious and hastily decide not to let yourself care. But care you do....because you thought they were close friends.
It takes time to detach, to reach that delicious level of indifference from where nothing touches you, and you allow yourself that stolen share of serenity. But it takes time. You have to make yourself understand that you just cannot make someone like you or keep liking you. People change and with that, they like a change of friends too. Their criteria and priorities change, they probably don't see you as fun any more. And they'll die before admitting it if you confront them on this issue. They will say, "Nothing's wrong....it's all in your mind....of course you're one of us!" And you want to believe them since you've always believed them.
Friends come, friends go. Only those scrap books you so painstakingly sat and made remain...gathering dust.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Why women in India shouldn't get married
I could write a book on this. I truly could. But I won't. Because our traditional Indian woman who's an utter idiot will never read anything that might hint at "equality," "common sense" and "rights." She kinda likes the black, silk scarf tied across her eyes, as long as it's silk and not tied too tightly. So heck, what's the use?
But the one thing that brings out the most pathetic side of a traditional Indian woman is 'holy' matrimony. She plunges from bad to super pathetic. She already allowed her whole world to tread on her, now with marriage, a new bunch of people provide a change of footwear marks. She was a 'helpless', 'taken for granted' doormat then, she's a wife/sister-in-law/daughter-in-law/maami/chaachi and the whole list now. And the responsibilities and obligations never end. Suddenly, your husband's home becomes paradise and your parents' - where your nappies were changed, you learnt your ABC and learnt how to feed yourself without spilling - a strange roof. Parents, siblings, old associations - all have to be broken just so that new ones can be formed. Is it worth it? And why does it require distancing yourself from your past to compromise for your future? It makes no sense to me and I say so quite vocally. Strangely, everyone turns around with disapproving faces, shaking heads and a resigned sighs, as if I'm the fool in the picture. I'm the fool? Really? I wonder why.... for believing that a woman's old house is just as important as the one she establishes after marriage? For believing that she belongs as much to her old parents as to her new? For believing that they have equal rights over her? For believing that the woman should not be stopped from taking independent decisions as to where she wants to stay, when she wants to stay and for how long she wants to stay? For all this, I'm a fool? Well, so be it. I'd rather be an independent, reasonable fool than a cloth puppet with one string in everyone's hand. Call me rebellious, call me idealist, call me headstrong, call me feminist. The name doesn't matter. It's what I think that does.
But the one thing that brings out the most pathetic side of a traditional Indian woman is 'holy' matrimony. She plunges from bad to super pathetic. She already allowed her whole world to tread on her, now with marriage, a new bunch of people provide a change of footwear marks. She was a 'helpless', 'taken for granted' doormat then, she's a wife/sister-in-law/daughter-in-law/maami/chaachi and the whole list now. And the responsibilities and obligations never end. Suddenly, your husband's home becomes paradise and your parents' - where your nappies were changed, you learnt your ABC and learnt how to feed yourself without spilling - a strange roof. Parents, siblings, old associations - all have to be broken just so that new ones can be formed. Is it worth it? And why does it require distancing yourself from your past to compromise for your future? It makes no sense to me and I say so quite vocally. Strangely, everyone turns around with disapproving faces, shaking heads and a resigned sighs, as if I'm the fool in the picture. I'm the fool? Really? I wonder why.... for believing that a woman's old house is just as important as the one she establishes after marriage? For believing that she belongs as much to her old parents as to her new? For believing that they have equal rights over her? For believing that the woman should not be stopped from taking independent decisions as to where she wants to stay, when she wants to stay and for how long she wants to stay? For all this, I'm a fool? Well, so be it. I'd rather be an independent, reasonable fool than a cloth puppet with one string in everyone's hand. Call me rebellious, call me idealist, call me headstrong, call me feminist. The name doesn't matter. It's what I think that does.
Angry young woman
Oh yes! It takes an external stimulant and I can feel the heat rise from my chest to my head only to vomit out my acidic fire on to another moving being. Sometimes, it doesn't even take an external stimulant to do that. The truth is, there is a lot of anger within. It struggles to find outlets so it can escape from the system but something clogs the holes and it comes out at bad bad times. Oh yes! I've become quite the 'angry young woman' of the present era as opposed to my erstwhile pleasant, smiley, sweet natured self. I'm bitter, irritable, frustrated, exasperated, impatient, snappy, sarcastic, curt, cynical, unforgiving, relentless, extremely critical, mean, immature, rude, petulant and a lot more unpleasant things. I'm so different now that I fail to recognise myself sometimes, and I wonder if I'll ever get back to what I was. What made me like this is unclear and unknown. There could be several factors but nothing that could be a sure winner. Life wouldn't be life if things were that simple.
I am quick to anger and when at the peak, all get the feel of the raging whip. It spares few. And the funny thing is, I detest myself for being like that. It feels like the pleasant side of me is trapped and watching and yelling out to not be such a bitch, but the dark side just doesn't listen. Well, dark sides seldom listen.
I am quick to anger and when at the peak, all get the feel of the raging whip. It spares few. And the funny thing is, I detest myself for being like that. It feels like the pleasant side of me is trapped and watching and yelling out to not be such a bitch, but the dark side just doesn't listen. Well, dark sides seldom listen.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
No space for my red cruiser
I remember a time when sighting a car in my locality was rare. People depended largely on bicycles, cycle rickshaws and their own two feet to get around, and an occasional scooter thrown in. Houses were scattered far apart and you could see green fields and the skyline till as far as the eye took you. Herds of sheep, goats, horses, donkeys and buffaloes made daily rounds with their human keepers lending the whole scene a very pastoral feel. Sunsets were blazing and vivid and when the sun rose in the mornings, nothing escaped the loving rays. All was tranquil and I fondly remember many a hot mustard oil body massages out in the sun, better than any damn beach in Florida!
Then everyone tom, dick and harry decided to have three or four children each and little by little, slowly slowly, spaces began to diminish. Tall buildings, cars, honking, shouting, smoke - the whole package that is usually delivered to your doorstep once the purchase of development is complete. Today, I cannot recognise my colony. It used to be sprawled across a large area of industrially empty, green land - simple, happy, content and harmonious. Now every family needs a car or atleast two or three cars, everyone has kids, and everyone who got kicked out of Delhi came running here where land was cheaper. Unfortunately, too many came running to set up home here.
They've made a garbage dump of this place. Roads have narrowed since everyone holds claim to even a few inches off the roads. There is a car/bus/motorcycle every minute leaving behind smoke and shattered ear drums.
And why this sudden outbreak from me? Well, I have been thinking about this for a long time. The drastic transformation is confounding, but I was compelled to express because of the new man in my life - my red bicycle (which still needs christening).
I learnt in two days, after much loss of confidence and bruises that are still healing. Face it, I'm going to be 25 this year and here I am, struggling to learn an art that most normal kids master while they're toying with their GI Jos and Barbies (replaced in this generation by TV, you tube and video games). I conquered. Now I can ride without falling off or going into panic everytime I see a vehicle crawling towards me.
But where do I ride. With maniacs behind the wheels of 'harmful vehicles', a bicycle may as well be suicidal. Everytime I take out my bike to ride, I pray that I return home alive and undented. While I ride, I have five thousand vehicles going back and forth, passing me at distances from an inch to five inches. A slight loss of balance from either party and I'm a gonner. Some drivers are total jerks! They make the brush as close as possible to have their daily dose of sadistic fun (may they rot in hell!). A few are decent fellars, keeping their distances and letting me breathe.
What happened to all the spacious roads???? Will our country ever be able to contain its ridiculously inflating population to secure us bikers a safe bicycle lane? I might be fifty by the time they can. To escape the dirty traffic, I cleverly go out to ride on lazy Saturday and Sunday afternoons when the demons are asleep. It is then that I truly enjoy my ride, fresh cool air, the lovely winter sun, hardly anybody around and silence. How much I have waited for moments like these.
What worries me is - how much time left before bicycles are completely thrown off the road? Will there come a time when its insanely, certainly and obviously suicidal to make delicate tyres touch tar? Will bicycles be redundant one day, discarded as childish fancy and unnecessary since neither can it speed you to your destination nor is it socially enviable?
Today, children, electricians, plumbers, gardeners and factory workers are probably the only ones who venture out on these two-wheel drives run absolutely on human energy. Pathetic!
Then everyone tom, dick and harry decided to have three or four children each and little by little, slowly slowly, spaces began to diminish. Tall buildings, cars, honking, shouting, smoke - the whole package that is usually delivered to your doorstep once the purchase of development is complete. Today, I cannot recognise my colony. It used to be sprawled across a large area of industrially empty, green land - simple, happy, content and harmonious. Now every family needs a car or atleast two or three cars, everyone has kids, and everyone who got kicked out of Delhi came running here where land was cheaper. Unfortunately, too many came running to set up home here.
They've made a garbage dump of this place. Roads have narrowed since everyone holds claim to even a few inches off the roads. There is a car/bus/motorcycle every minute leaving behind smoke and shattered ear drums.
And why this sudden outbreak from me? Well, I have been thinking about this for a long time. The drastic transformation is confounding, but I was compelled to express because of the new man in my life - my red bicycle (which still needs christening).
I learnt in two days, after much loss of confidence and bruises that are still healing. Face it, I'm going to be 25 this year and here I am, struggling to learn an art that most normal kids master while they're toying with their GI Jos and Barbies (replaced in this generation by TV, you tube and video games). I conquered. Now I can ride without falling off or going into panic everytime I see a vehicle crawling towards me.
But where do I ride. With maniacs behind the wheels of 'harmful vehicles', a bicycle may as well be suicidal. Everytime I take out my bike to ride, I pray that I return home alive and undented. While I ride, I have five thousand vehicles going back and forth, passing me at distances from an inch to five inches. A slight loss of balance from either party and I'm a gonner. Some drivers are total jerks! They make the brush as close as possible to have their daily dose of sadistic fun (may they rot in hell!). A few are decent fellars, keeping their distances and letting me breathe.
What happened to all the spacious roads???? Will our country ever be able to contain its ridiculously inflating population to secure us bikers a safe bicycle lane? I might be fifty by the time they can. To escape the dirty traffic, I cleverly go out to ride on lazy Saturday and Sunday afternoons when the demons are asleep. It is then that I truly enjoy my ride, fresh cool air, the lovely winter sun, hardly anybody around and silence. How much I have waited for moments like these.
What worries me is - how much time left before bicycles are completely thrown off the road? Will there come a time when its insanely, certainly and obviously suicidal to make delicate tyres touch tar? Will bicycles be redundant one day, discarded as childish fancy and unnecessary since neither can it speed you to your destination nor is it socially enviable?
Today, children, electricians, plumbers, gardeners and factory workers are probably the only ones who venture out on these two-wheel drives run absolutely on human energy. Pathetic!
Friday, January 02, 2009
I
I’ve been watching the sun on its way down. Strange that it reminds me of me. When it rose, the world was filled with hope of a bright, sunny, warm day. It shone inspite of the cold, grey clouds and when it came overhead, it was at its best. The fall from the high is the toughest. It sunk lower and lower and lower, and perhaps it cried. But I saw no tears, only sadness, stark sadness in the dim orange which once was blazing. It hid behind a tree as it descended from its throne. Everyone needs something to hide behind when they’re sad. No one likes to be seen crying, at least I don’t. First I saw it hovering over the top branches. Five minutes later, it was lost somewhere amidst the intricate form of the tree, from where I lost it behind the massive trunk. It’s gone. I cannot see its definite shape any longer. What remains is the light it still manages to emanate. How can an invisible sun still leave behind light? Is that the magnificent power of the great giver of life on Earth? Amazing.
I am this sun. They all saw great things in me. Plans were made, my future was drafted and the words “winner” and “leader” were engraved onto my forehead. I kept it up with great pride and efficiency, giving way to the shortcomings of my being now and then. I was loved, revered and respected. They all thought I knew what had to be done all the time and I’d tell them too. I was the ‘doer’. I had plans too. I started believing them. “Hey, they think I’m wonderful…maybe I am…maybe I can do great things…maybe I am meant to do great things….maybe I was especially created for a mission….maybe I just need to settle on my cause and the way will light up on its own…” I wonder if confidence really is a good thing.
I am lost. I managed to keep standing while the earthquake rocked the world around me. But what’s so terrific about still standing? Stand? I can barely stand. I’m tottering. Unstable. Disconnected with myself and the outer world. I don’t know what’s happening inside me. People smile and ask me, “What’s happening with you?” I look blank. I’d pay them to find out what’s happening with me, it’d give me a clue. I’m on a skateboard fast wheeling downhill. Managed to keep myself on it, but a nasty fall stares me in the face. I’m waving my arms around to regain balance and control, even reaching out to clutch at something that might help me survive. But it all slips from my fingers. The icy air gives me blows in the face while my hair flies around wildly, out of control, just like me.
I want out. I do. I don’t want to be stuck in the pit forever. Other people seem to solve their mazes pretty easily, for some it isn’t that easy, but they do find their path in the end. I wonder if I’ll do too. Right now, the picture is bleak. I cannot control my anger, it engulfs me completely and I hate the whole world who’s out there to persecute me (largely imaginary). I lash out at others when it’s totally uncalled for, refuse to bury quarrels and others’ mistakes, and find cruel relief in punishing them. And I seem to punish them by tormenting myself, which leaves me more miserable than before and hence, I’m back where I started, only worse this time. I’ve caught myself in this crazy circle. Can I dig myself out of it?
Optimism irritates me. “Everything will be alright” has got to be the most over-used and least meaningful expression of the century and I have a rifle ready for anyone who sums up my situation with that. Its annoying how every tom, dick and harry has been sending me ‘Happy New Year’, quite obvious that it was sent out as a group email or SMS, nothing personalized about it, just an obligation, a formality. Do they even mean what they’re saying? Is it such a big reason to be happy and dance about like a kangaroo? The only thing it brings about is a change of calendar. Nothing else changes – poverty, pollution, wildlife extinction, crime, unemployment, cultural deterioration, sexism. Oh yeah, it’s also the time to take down Christmas decorations, an activity I keep miles away from. What could be more depressing than the end of celebration, back to dull life which has nothing worth celebrating anymore?
I am brain dead. Nothing motivates me. Nothing interests me. Nothing makes me completely happy. Even if I smile for a moment, sadness paces the ground of my mind in the background. I am not wholesome. I am dead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)