Random Reading Project: Day 6

 So this is from a reel by Thera.find whom I follow on Instagram.

It made me think that this is one of the lessons we all have to learn in life, sooner or later.

Holidays

The Puja vacations...

Once I used to plan so much to do during vacations and then ended up doing very little. Except maybe catch up with friends, spend lazy mornings reading on the bed or sunning myself after a bath on an easy chair in the late afternoon sun in the verandah and watching TV in the evenings.

Now I don't plan. I take things as they come. Like when I spent an hour every evening last week in Salt Lake out in our local park with my school cum para friend Juieen. We ambled along at a leisurely pace, sometimes pacing up when we remembered we were actually supposed to be exercising. We caught up on old times, friends and foes, introspection and analysis about almost everything under the sun. It felt nice to relive old times, contemplate the ways in which we've changed over the past few years, how marriage has affected our lives and so on.

Similarly, I'm enjoying my quiet hours at home. Experimenting slightly with breakfast options, tidying up my wardrobe, curling up in the afternoon with one or the other of the Twilight Saga books, watching some random movie being aired at the very time that I've chosen to surf channels on the TV, exercising on our terrace in the evening, a leisurely reading of the newspaper that encompasses almost the whole day (!), clearing the backlog on my reading of other blogs, Facebooking, practising my Spanish grammar and well...it's a long list really.

I'm enjoying my me-time. And the fact that I don't have to meet any deadline or go through the daily routine at a breakneck pace so that I'm punctual for ... um, almost everything that needs you to be on time.

I now realise how stressed out our life has become. And how teaching in a school has its own little compensations. Like these holidays.

Love All

I've often wondered why people bother to hate when they can have an easier way out : love. I know Gandhiji isn't around any more and it's easier to preach than to practise in todays' world but I've tried in my own way to believe in the force of love. A positive emotion is always easier to act on than a negative one, I've found. And no one's asking you to forget after all, just to forgive and move on.

But I find it increasingly hard to nurture this streak of benevolence within me. When words become weapons and someone else's weakness your strength, then the very axis of your mental sphere collapses. The hurt, the bitterness, the resentment become so overwhelming a lump that there is a sense of agony that is almost physical. Your self-esteem takes a nosedive, your confidence suffers a blow and your darkest side comes to the fore. All that is repressed in the unconsciousness then returns with a vengeance.

How can I then love ? I have no love with which to defeat the hate in me.

But as James Baldwin says, "I imagine one of the reasons people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain."

So I shall love again. Come what may.

And yes, let us consider what Somerset Maugham says : "We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person. "

Makes sense, methinks.

What about you ?

Functional Literacy

This Saturday weekend, we were on our way to visit a friend's father who had recently been hospitalised for a complicated lung condition. We were not sure what we should take for him by way of wishing him health, so we decided to play safe and buy a card (we finally ended up buying a stick of mauve orchid as well). We were on our way to the closest mall, where there is an Archies, but spotted an unassuming gift-shop on our way by the Unnayan Commercial Complex nearby. We walked in and were pleasantly surprised to find that it stocked quite a variety of greetings cards. We told the owner that we wanted a 'Get Well Soon' card. I soon gathered that he could not read, by the way he held the cards close to his eyes and peered at them and ran his fingers over the writing slowly, as children do when they have just picked up letters of the alphabet and are trying to put them together to make sense. I pointed out the relevant card but my heart was filled with an indescribable sense of sadness. Here was a man who ran a shop in a posh area but didn't have the skills to master his possessions and sell them. It reminded me of the concept of functional literacy we had learned in our Education classes.
Mere signing one's name didn't qualify one as literate. One needed to master the 3 R-s (Reading, Writing, Arithmetic) to be able to apply one's literacy productively in daily life.
I think I bought the flowers after that more out of a sense of collective guilt, somehow.

Beauty and Reality

Beauty is highly overrated, I think.

No, I wasn't always so progressive in my thoughts. In fact, I shed copious amount of tears when in class X because of the dubious power of this strange myth of beauty. I was very much in love with a classmate and he didn't reciprocate. A close common friend consoled me by what now seems like a most unappropriate piece of wisdom. That I should get used early to the fact that only beautiful people are always going to be in demand. Moral of the story : I wasn't beautiful.

I was silly enough to believe in what she said and withdraw into a shell. It took me many years, a very dear friend (whom I might almost have married, he was so kind to me), several marriage photographs and a lot of adoring youngsters to convince me that I was actually beautiful.

Mind you, that beauty has not been conventional, nor merely physical. I often wondered why so many people have called me beautiful when I myself saw nothing in the mirror to allow me to agree with them. I realised that much later when I wondered why so many people either loved me or hated me, but certainly couldn't overlook me. They saw in me what I failed to see myself : confidence, sincerity, charisma, dignity, goodwill, optimism, hope, contentment, potential, happiness. In short, it was what I felt inside that lent that radiant glow to my face. In other words, I had then looked as if life suited me. And that made me beautiful to them.

It makes sense, I've realised since. Don't we all consider our mothers the most beautiful women in the world ? In most cases, their features are neither the most symmetrical, nor the most regular in the world nor their smiles as dazzling as those of Madhuri Dixit or Julia Roberts. And yet, we insist on considering them beautiful enough to light up our lives and hearts. What is it, then, that makes us feel that way ?

And what about our partners ? My husband doesn't know whether to laugh or cry when I tell him he's the most handsome man in my life. He insists that he's tall and dark, but that the last adjective is something my enormously fertile imagination has conjured up out of my lingering adolescent attachment to Mills and Boons-esque heroes. I persist and believe me, I still think that way after three years of marriage.

That accounts for a lot, I would say. I have often called beautiful a lot of people in whom acquaintances saw nothing worth eulogising. Naturally, that has often perplexed me. Later I reasoned that it was probably because I had seen a side of these people that the pessimists around me hadn't. A flash of kindness, a streak of sunshine, a tang of truthfulness that had eluded the kaleidoscopic attention of impatient passers-by. Some little iridescence that had branded them as beautiful to me forever.

Labels have always evoked negative emotions in me. Even when they have not affected me on a personal basis. However, if a label brings a smile to someone's face, it's worth it. So go on, call the people in your life beautiful. But please don't do it because of the wrong reasons. Do it because you believe that it's true. Your soul should show through.

This post is an entry for the Yahoo! India and Dove 'I Believe in Real Beauty' contest. So do drop by at



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Koffee, anyone ?

What is it about 'Koffee with Karan' that makes even the most reticent of celebrities open up like they've been waiting all their lives for this one hour's worth of national showtime to share the deepest secrets from their innermost being ? And how is it that Karan Johar has this incredible effect on everyone...someone as forthright as Kareena to someone as discreet as Bipasha ?

I have been thinking. And I suppose the answer's really simple. Everyone can distinguish between a genuinely interested and concerned friend as opposed to a garrulous busybody. We all feel like sharing the most intimate secrets of our life but are scared of being judged as arrogant, vulnerable, whimsical, eccentric, volatile, vicious, biased etc. In short, we are afraid of being our own spontaneous self. And yet, these celebrities are opening up on National TV ! That speaks much for the goodwill of Karan in the industry. He doesn't really belong to any camp. He's genuinely interested in other people, be it their trials and suffering or their little joys and jealousies. All that distinguishes them as individuals.

And people understand that. Especially in Bollywood, where acting is as much of a survival skill in everyday life as it is a professional activity. He's nice to everyone not because he's on a chat show but because that's him. The stars see the Karan they themselves know as a person before them and they give up their inhibitions and armour of diplomatic restraint and no longer feel the need to tread the tactful middle path. Indeed, there's the feel of a typical living room adda going on, one where you are being your simple self, turning on the logical and rational democratic citizen in you instead of prickly, pried into, peeped on and perennially paparazzied !

It strikes me that some people have to enrol in a PR course while it's as easy as breathing or eating or singing to a few lucky ones.

Thank you, Karan. I'm glad that you ask so many questions (especially for the sensation that is the rapid fire round !). But also for the fact that you know when it's right to stop. And let go.

I wish there were more sensitive people like you around these days.

For those interested, this site contains videos of all former episodes.

'Autograph' vs 'Angshuman er Chhobi'

Well, we've just finished watching 'Autograph' and 'Angshumaner Chhobi' back to back. A happy coincidence, since both films deal (although in drastically different ways) with the Bengali film industry and the inner lives of its fraternity. I am not planning a comparative review of the two, though. Just jotting down a few things that struck me while watching each of them.

'Autograph' was technically sound. Not that I'm the last word when it comes to the former. But yes, being an avid cinema-goer since God knows when in the past, I can distinguish a good film from a mediocre one. Mediocrity being a relative term and one that in my dictionary, deals exclusively with the gulf between the potential and the actual. The treatment also matters. I watch from a layman's viewpoint and often think in a similar manner. I only note the tightness of the story, the smartness of execution and the ability to involve the spectator. Not too much to ask for, what say ?

Well then. 'Autograph' scores everywhere. Simple storyline. Great music, meaningful lyrics, poetic thought. Well-etched characters, solidly structured, effectively executed. The inner life vis-a-vis the outer life reflected in dialogues, dreams, sets, songs and the cinematography in general. Sharp editing, leading to a slow exploration of the characters' minds and emotions, without any painful slowing down of the pace of the film. A great homage to Ray's 'Nayak', as it claims to be.

'Angshumaner Chhobi' is inconsistent. There is enough to make a good story but the treatment is flaccid in parts. There are bits and pieces that don't hold the fabric together tightly, after all. Places are unnamed, incidents half-heartedly depicted and a lot of things never logically accounted for. Who is the supposed gym health-products salesperson after all ? Is Neel's love really perversely intense enough to kill Madhura's husband ? Why is the CID lady dressed like a corporate executive. with bizarrely heavy eye make-up ? How does the film direct the course of its director's life ? Where is the development in the Neel-Madhura relationship portrayed ? And the worst part is the stilted, hesitant acting of most of the characters. It is as if they are into an episodic understanding of the scenes but never able to weave everything together into a consistent whole because of an inability to grasp the director's totality of vision.

And if you are someone to whom music is the food of love, you must listen to the songs of 'Autograph'. They inspire. They bring back the poet in the Bengalee.

Ayodhyas et al

K came home at 4 pm yesterday . He informed a stupefied me that IBM had even declared a holiday for their employees, fearing the worst that might result from the Ayodhya verdict.

An English daily doesn't mince words today when it comes to Advani and the BJP. Apparently, they have invited the Muslims of the country, out of sheer pity, it seems, to help in building a grand temple for Ram on the disputed site. Apparently other parties like the Congress are too embarrassed to even react to their celebratory ardour and ridiculous press releases.

Hello ? What's happening ? I must be very dumb if I am one of the minority who, after scouring through several news channels and reading the newspapers from end-to-end, feel that the verdict of the three judges is mind-numbingly indecipherable. They seem to differ on quite a few important issues pertaining to the whole case and that's only quite natural, the three being three individuals of varied background and education.

Then why the urge to invite more trouble by making irresponsible statements ? If political parties don't show restraint, then how will this country ever heal from the horrors of its past ? People like Advani pose a menace to society. I'm ashamed on his behalf.

On the other hand, it has been a refreshing change to read Aveek Sen's article in The Telegraph, where he recounts first-hand how the Jama Masjid, on the day of the verdict, inspired all gathered within its premises to behave with maturity and dignity. Although the article itself ends with dark undertones, the optimism remains to haunt. Thank goodness we have sensible people too around us.

Introspection

Someone close tells me I overreact to and over-analyse every situation in life. A B.Ed. batchmate and colleague tells me that I'm too straightforward to survive life.

Well, now. I'm totally confused !

Peepli [Live]

Watched 'Peepli [Live]' last Sunday. The film's still going housefull. But somehow I'm still brooding over it.

There's something curiously detached about the film. It touches a chord and you have that 'this is so true-to-life' feeling several times, which makes you nod gently to yourself. But it's very Dev D in its execution, by which I mean 'no nyakami and no out-to-grab-the-eyeballs-by-in-your-face-realism'. I had received feedback that it was a 'sad' film but surprisingly, I remained unmoved. I was touched, of course by the maturity of the art and the brilliant directorial vision that brought the media and political world together in their larger-than-life roles. But the fact remained that it was exactly what it sought to be : something sad and stoic. sober and subtle. Almost Tolstoy in its breadth of vision and range of characters but very Shirshendu-like in the portrayal of their foibles and eccentricities. The note on farmer suicides at the end anchored it in grim reality and ironically extrapolated any compassion it might have aroused onto yourself. It shook you with the realisation that there was nothing to enlighten us about, nothing that the print and broadcast media had not already told you. And yet, you hadn't done your bit to remedy whatever you could have. Instead, you came to a multiplex, paying for a Rs 180-worth ticket to watch a film that made you feel that you were part of the 'thinking' middleclass.

A slap on the face. Yup. That's what the film was for me.

Alzheimer's

I'm halfway through Iris. And scared.

What if it happens to me ?

John Bayleys are hard to find nowadays, you know.

Inception : The film

The review of Inception by Time magazine's Richard Corliss echoes my first thoughts while watching the closing credits roll :

"Finally, its noble intent is to implant one man's vision in the mind of a vast audience ... The idea of moviegoing as communal dreaming is a century old. With Inception, viewers have a chance to see that notion get a state-of-the-art update".

After a long time, I think I watched a film that actually challenged my intellect and stimulated it and even caused me to struggle to keep up with the intensity and complexity of perception that went into structuring it. Of course, it's true that I was so conversant with dreams , the unconscious and their interpretation in my psychoanalysis phase in JU that I was mentally equipped to interpret the dream world and its logic (or lack of it). Which is not the case now. But yes, I could recognise the fact that years of research and reading had gone into planning and perfecting the aesthetics of Inception and much hard work underlay its deceptively fluid appearance. And at points, take delight and pride in the fact that my months of non-purposive (and to all appearances, esoteric) reading was finally finding importance somewhere : namely, in understanding the film.

Not that the film wasn't lucid at the level of narration. Although not having had any previous notion of what the film might be about, I did struggle with the opening dream sequences and was as perplexed as Ariadne (Ellen Page) might be when her practical knowledge of architecture had to be restructured radically following the stringent and often logically irreconcilable demands of Cobb's mission. But I learned with her and almost at her pace. By the time she was about to suggest the unplanned and risky fourth level of dream terrain, I had mentally predicted it and was only wondering whether the time differences at the respective levels and the strength of Yusuf's sedative would allow it to be implemented without the danger of limbo overtaking the dreamers.

There were mental hurdles, of course. The appearance of the dream-box (the technical equipment of Cobb's team, stored in a briefcase-like container) at each and every level was too solid and concrete a possibility as well as a coincidence, even for lucid dreaming. And of course, the forging of identity by Earnes (Tom Hardy) to assume that of Browning (Tom Berenger) was very sci-fi like in that it strained credulity to an extreme. And yet, not once did it seem that the entire film was an exercise in suspension of disbelief, despite the awe-inspiring amount of theoretical knowhow it drew on, be it Freud or Jung or Borges. There were only multiple narratives and the Lacanian premise of the truth that is never true - altered, filtered and faltering as it is in entering the perceptive level of each individual. And why not ? What is reality but our constant adjustment to our environment and its immediate demands ? Nolan must be lauded not merely for his film, a work of art, but also for the questions, theories and discussions it should necessarily trigger off. The trajectory of the film is a remarkable one, moving on from one certainty to another and yet, beginning and ending in ambivalence - suggesting rather than telling tales, the true-blue mark of a classic.

I disagree with Barnali's review ("it fails to show the profundity of human emotion") at certain points, although it is a brilliantly graphic one. I couldn't but be moved at Ariadne's growing and obsessive fascination with the compelling projection of Mal (Marion Cotillard) in her dreams and by extrapolation, with the 'real' nature of Cobb's relationship with his invincible-even-in-death wife. Similarly, the need for Cobb to accomplish 'inception' as a special ("it's not exactly legal", as he prosaically informs Ariadne) assignment with a definite goal in mind is a poignant parallel exercise in self-justification, scarred and sobered as he is by the guilt of fashioning his wife's death. There is nothing as sad as the anagnorisis of the tragic hero and Dom Cobb is no less than one, wracked in an unrelenting remorse, although his exile isn't exactly self-imposed (or is it ?) The playful banter between Eames and Arthur (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) is also an endearing instance of a pair of incisive minds, each trying to outdo but secretly in awe of the complementary other. Further, I cannot but beg to differ on the topic of the other characters being "mere shadows with exceptional ability". Surely we cannot have multiple focal points in a narrative already taking risks with multiple levels of reality and dreams and shifting, mutating viewpoints and dreamscapes. It is commendable that Nolan creates memorable characters with true-to-life eccentricities and foibles, including the almost ethereal Mal whose character could easily have lapsed into cliched idealism.

As for the sets, I'm still lost in wonder at the sheer sweep and scale of it all. A lot of informed visualisation has resulted in the sets that we can only gape at. The wikipedia entry tantalises one's curiosity in this aspect but doesn't quite exhaust it. I need to surf around diligently to satiate my own particular interest in it all. Even the background score was brilliant, still playing in my head insistently, unobtrusive yet unmistakably there.

Much has been said about how The Matrix provides a substantial starting point for the film. It might, of course, since the former is as much of our collective consciousness as we would allow it to be. But from the maker of The Prestige, you cannot but expect an original. He is only moving from strength to strength.

Nolan reminds me of Hamlet's soliloquy (used somewhere in the film, if my memory isn't at fault) :

"What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how/ infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and/ admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like/ a god! the beauty of the world, the paragon of animals..."

Indeed.

Losing Weight

I've just lost 8 kg.

Yes, thank you, I appreciate the applause. Especially since losing weight has never been a piece of cake for me or for anyone else, I gather. At least as easy as piling on the kilos.

Everyone is asking me
1) How I lost so much weight (which I interpret as "How can you be so consistent in exercise or diet or whatever it is you do ?")
2) Why you need to lose 6 kg more ( which means "Being 5 ft 9 inches, you look quite presentable after losing all that weight. So why do you want to put us all into a complex by seeking to lose some more ?")

I have a few things to say about losing weight at all :

I've realised in the last couple of years that health is wealth. If you're not well, you aren't in a position to enjoy the pleasure or comforts of life, even if you're stinking rich. You need to be physically and mentally at peace with yourself to appreciate life at all.

Exercise is not an option. It's a must. It's as important as eating or sleeping or recreation is to our well-being. Just as a door long shut will creak when you finally open it, your body will protest when after years of inertia of rest, you suddenly decide to explore its possibilities. Do you want to be self-sufficient in your old age ? Then you have to exercise.

Losing weight is not just about looking good. It's also about feeling good. If you exercise, your body is toned and conditioned and that shows in your face. Your circulation improves, you sleep better, your digestive system works optimally, your face has the glow that not even a Rs 500 worth cream can buy.

Losing weight means you can carry off any and every fashion with confidence and charisma. Even make up becomes superfluous when people stare at you with awe. After all, let's be honest. All we want at the end of the day is to stand out in a crowd. Try exercising for rapid results !

I love food. And yet, I've never found it a depressing challenge to lose weight. That's because I don't believe in starving my body or being unkind to it in any way. You need to understand the needs of your own body to help it fight the flab.

I'm lucky in that I'm partial by preference to most healthy 'diet foods' like salad, most vegetables (I hate potol or pointed gourd, though) and fruits, grilled and steamed dishes, soups and dairy products, and abhor the usual Bangali spicy and overfried stuff, I do have my own particular weakness for eggs, desserts, salad dressings and Indian Chinese. Naturally, that has to be taken into consideration when I am determined to lose weight. So I've researched and found out the ways in which I can cheat a little. It's fun :-)

To lose weight , you need to motivate yourself. Others can't help you if you're lazy and a glutton.

The book I recommend to all of you is Rujuta Diwekar's 'Don't Lose Your Mind, Lose Your Weight', published by Random House India, priced at Rs 199. She's the lady instrumental into leading Kareena into size zero mode. You'll find the necessary details in the book itself and it really makes for an interesting story. The book itself is an amazing read. It's lucid, layman-friendly and practical. It's transformed my thoughts on the subject of losing weight forever.

For those who aren't into reading anything as complicated as a book, I'll be here soon with another short (hopefully) article soon on the most important things to do or avoid. Till then, you'd better check out yourself on the scales ! ;-)

Just to show you that I'm not half as narcissistic as some of you may think, here are two of my own photos, gym-ad style ('before' and 'after') to show you the difference, especially since the first place where my excess weight shows up happens to be my face !

Me now :



Me then :

It was a pleasant surprise to read that Aamir Khan's thoughts run on lines similar to what Rujuta Diwekar's book suggests.


I can't help but be impressed.

Beauty and Beyond

From my window

I had gone out this morning to exchange some T-shirts I'd bought at an unbelievable discount (but had forgotten to check whether they fit, so very me) this morning. I got down from the auto and was walking the last bit home when I had a strange emotional experience.

It started with this purple-and-lavender painted house I was glancing at as I passed by. It looked so cool and fresh to the eyes in the middle of the floating waves of white hot heat all around. Then within a couple of minutes, I came across this blue-and-navy painted house, equally soft on the eyes. Yes, I am a bit eccentric that way ; I don't mind spending all my leisure hours ambling along the streets of Salt Lake, thinking and feeling and considering houses. They are as individualistic to me as human beings, maybe more so. When I see a house that really pleases my senses, I feel a strange sense of contentment, as if I had created a masterpiece myself. The right colours, the sense of symmetry, the pattern of the grille, the shape of the doors and windows, the positioning of the gates, the lazy climb of the bougainvillea along the balcony pillars, all these things give me an immense sense of bliss. Strangely enough, 9 out of 10 people wouldn't think of me as materialistic in the usual sense. I'm not too picky about my food or clothes. All my friends gift me books (yes, all of them) on my bithday each year. And yet, I am particular to the point of obsession when it comes to colours of walls, shades of tiles and hues of accessories like curtain fabrics or bedspreads or cushion covers. I can't function in a room painted in a colour I abhor or take too seriously a person who wears colour-uncoordinated clothes. Strange, isn't it ?

And yet, even as I was living the beauty of these houses, I was also thinking of how lucky I was to be able to have eyes that could appreciate the beauty of things around me, to have the time to stand and stare amidst a life full of care, to be able to afford an umbrella over my head to shade me from the merciless sun. And then, I looked at the woman fast asleep on the footpath in the heat of summer and I realised with a strange keenness how life, beauty and happiness are shortlived and essentially transitory in nature. Sobered and checked, I felt like giving it all up and giving all I had away and seeking sanctuary somewhere permanent, with someone omniscient.

Sometimes, life has more meaning than I can make sense of.

Looks and Lessons

Ma and me ;-)

Mitu the model :-)

Me :-)

My friend Sohini's back in town. And this time with an unexpected gift : a little baby boy, Soham :-)

Juieen and I are still debating whether the little fellow looks like his mother or whether that is something we shouldn't be losing sleep over so early in the day; after all children's faces change so much as they grow. Me for instance. When I was young, most people would observe me carefully and then almost unanimously declare that I had inherited Baba's looks. Let me tell you, that seriously dampened my spirits. My father, I was aware of even at that tender age, was not good-looking, even by the wildest stretch of imagination. I reacted to the former observations with prolonged fits of sulking. My looks kept on changing over the years but big awkward glasses, domestic haircuts and a severe inferiority complex in terms of physiognomy contributed much in retarding any possible progress in the confidence sector. It was only when I went for a radical revamping of my image in college with contact lenses, a real haircut and a wardrobe subdued in colour but smart in cuts that I felt I was finally at par with my peers. And yes, when I went to my mamar baadi (mother's parents' place) during my summer holidays sometime around that period, everyone finally decided that I was a xerox copy of Ma. That was one helluva compliment since my mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, well at least in my eyes (see photo above). I still recall Pooja asking me why Ma had not joined the Bengali film industry when she was young ; it seemed a big shame that her looks had never drawn public attention in the way it deserved to. I didn't have a reply of course. Ma just smiled when I repeated Pooja's words to her. Anyway, Mitu, my younger sibling, is modelling big-time nowadays (photo above) and I think Ma derives some sort of satisfaction, however vicarious, from that.

As for me, I'm just happy the way I am nowadays. I 've learned not to overdo it. One celebrity in the family is enough ;-) No make up for me, no loud colours or flashy cuts. No brands, no coloured hair, no fairness creams...nothing that makes me look into the mirror and stare silently at a stranger. I prefer to keep myself low-maintenance and recognisable.

Returning to where it all started out from : I just hope little Soham grows up to be as good as he can be in his own eyes. The rest doesn't matter. Really.

But you have to grow up a lot to believe in the truth about brains scoring over beauty. That's the sad part.

Nirvana

We all need wings to fly. But what happens when the wings become vestigial and our torpor makes us forget the sky and its infinite solace ?

It is then time we wake up and weigh ourselves and find what is wanting. Realise that just living for others has no reward, sometimes we need to live for our own dreams. For the others may leave you to lead their own lives but your self remains, always to inspire you to the noblest grain of your character or to intermittently sound that wary note of time flowing by and so much work yet to be done.

For life is so much more than just family and money and partying. There is so much ignorance and illness about us, so much sorrow and weariness of heart. We forget the greater world around us and get immersed in our own narcissistic misery once in a while. But nature is a good teacher : with enough time and peace of mind at our disposal, she enlightens us to the wisdom that centuries of quest have distilled for us. That we are here to serve interests much greater than our own. To heal all the wounds that selfishness has ever sown. That our lives are one of millions and no one is here to stay. That the road to salvation is calling us and we must surrender our selves and remorselessly, come away.

So be it.

Pilgrimage of the Soul

STAR-CROSSED

He did not harbour regrets :
A scapegoat would do the job.
Memories were just pretty leaflets
One could sweep indoors and turn the knob.

Departing for the sake of worth and value
All that stoked the fire in her soul,
She nursed the past with a halo...
Autumn leaves that echoed in her bowl.

He travelled in the heat of summer
To lands shrouded by the age of trees ;
Unseeing of the silent star who would glimmer,
Crafting light and summoning the breeze.

She would strive in secret splendour,
Living lives doomed never to be whole ;
He would drive on and on, beyond her,
Stopping only to pay some obscure toll.

GARGI MANDAL

From 'Shirley', Part I, Chapter 7

"A lover masculine so disappointed can speak and urge explanation, a lover feminine can say nothing; if she did, the result would be shame and anguish, inward remorse for self-treachery. Nature would brand such demonstration as a rebellion against her instincts, and would vindictively repay it afterwards by the thunderbolt of self-contempt smiting suddenly in secret. Take the matter as you find it ask no questions, utter no remonstrances; it is your best wisdom. You expected bread and you have got a stone: break your teeth on it, and don't shriek because the nerves are martyrised; do not doubt that your mental stomach - if you have such a thing - is strong as an ostrich's; the stone will digest. You held out your hand for an egg, and fate put into it a scorpion. Show no consternation; close your fingers firmly upon the gift; let it sting through your palm. Never mind; in time, after your hand and arm have swelled and quivered long with torture, the squeezed scorpion will die, and you will have learned the great lesson how to endure without a sob. For the whole remnant of your life, if you survive the test - some, it is said, die under it - you will be stronger, wiser, less sensitive. This you are not aware of, perhaps, at the time, and so cannot borrow courage of that hope. Nature, however, as has been intimated, is an excellent friend in such cases, sealing the lips, interdicting utterance, commanding a placid dissimulation - a dissimulation often wearing an easy and gay mien at first, settling down to sorrow and paleness in time, then passing away, and leaving a convenient stoicism, not the less fortifying because it is half-bitter.

Half-bitter! Is that wrong? No; it should be bitter: bitterness is strength - it is a tonic. Sweet, mild force following acute suffering you find nowhere; to talk of it is delusion. There may be apathetic exhaustion after the rack. If energy remains, it will be rather a dangerous energy - deadly when confronted with injustice."

-------- CHARLOTTE BRONTE

Point

I was reading an interview of Nandita Das a couple of days ago in 'The Telegraph'. It ended with an interesting rhetorical. I can't recall her exact words, but summed up, they more or less ran as follows :

Why on earth would we do something in life unless it was something we really really wanted to do ?

She has a point. Why indeed ?

To Mother or Not to Mother

Several of my friends have become new mothers recently. At most get-togethers where we nowadays come across them, I feel like an outsider. The conversation mostly centres around the needs, eccentricities, trials & tribulations and the daily routine of the mother-and-child. The conversations are by themselves rather interesting and often give unexpected angles into the way a woman's life is transformed overnight when she becomes a mother. After sexual initiation, this is probably the second stage of life when you feel physically fulfilled as a woman. But me not being a mother, how do these conversations make me feel ?

To be honest, isolated would be the first emotion that comes to mind. I get the feeling that this is one of those Phi Beta kind of sororities where even the conversation is coded and elite. Well, of course it's not half as dramatic. But I do get that feeling and it's odd.

The next would be fear. The routine of a new mother sounds terribly intimidating. It makes me feel that I wouldn't be a good mother myself because I seem to lack the patience, the will to put up with n number of sleepless nights, the courage to brave the agony of being unable to pacify a bawling infant owing to not having been able to figure out what the current 'lack/need' is, the indefinite period of sacrifice of other pursuits that are dreadfully dear to my heart in general, the ability to overlook my own indispositions to focus on a being whose needs are more instinctive and sensitive than mine...the list is long and what's more, scary.

Then comes the terrible sense of a personal loss of freedom. The freedom to go anywhere, do anything at anytime, any which way I'd ike to. Marriage does bring its own natural restraints, but that seems nothing compared to what motherhood would demand. The thought of my wanting to just be by myself for a whole day without anyone tugging at my heart-strings and demanding constant care would just be a wistful lotus-eaters' dream once I plunged wholeheartedly into the cactus path to motherhood. I'm a loner by nature and the notion of not allowed to be one seems to endanger my sanity the very moment I start thinking about it.

Then there's the weight gain. Ever since my MA days, I've been struggling to keep my weight under strict surveillance, since my hypothyroidism problem demands that of me in order that I stay fit and fine. I'm not a celebrity like Malaika Arora who can work out with a trainer immediately after delivery and get back into shape at the snap of a finger. My gynaecologist has categorically advised me to lose weight for certain specific reasons. The sense of having to lose weight, gain it again in pregnancy and then begin the struggle to fight the flab all over again exhausts me mentally right now.

And with that finally comes the enormous burden of duty, responsibility and culpability. These are all spontaneous and I suppose would someday come to me as naturally as they have to generations of mothers. I'm secretly proud that I've always been wo(man) enough to stand up bravely and be answerable for my own flaws, lacks, offences or misdeeds in life. But what about taking the blame for mistakes my child might make, often knowing that I was involved all along in the very process of making them ? It menaces me, looms over me like a nightmare that is destined to be fulfilled.

There is one good thing that however stands out star-bright, in this senseless saga of formless fears. I finally realise what it means to be a mother. Maybe that itself heralds a positive, more meaningful, futuristic note. My frequent disagreements with my mother might lessen as life strives to school me in the language of motherhood, a legacy that must be passed on. A dream that must be realised, even if it must go through the painful metamorphosis of the glorious vision into a checkered reality.