...Miles to go...

Back with the bookies - Jaipur Literature Festival - 2010

2010-01-29T15:08:00.002+05:30

After a stupid goof-up with my air tickets, I was able to attend just two days of the festival. But they were two happy days!

Jaipur Lit Fest – Day 2

My first hour in Jaipur Literary Festival 2010 passed in a daze. Partly because I could not believe that I was back among the people who I had fled from seven years back because I could not stand the pretentiousness for even one more day. But also because I was busy orienting myself and recovering from spotting celebrities every five minutes. Anyway it was colourful and warm in the sunlight and I scrutinised the much-rearranged schedule and finally wandered into the Baithak for a session on Language and Identity.

Is it Hindi or English that forms the main identity of India—was the main question discussed. All the customary (valid) arguments were made, and all the standard (convincing) refutations were heard on both sides. But the most riveting aspect of the entire session surely was listening to Gulzar speak in his beautiful Urdu-heavy Hindi to the slightly surreal accompaniment of neighing horses. (The stables of Diggi Palace were a few feet away from the Baithak tent.) Here are some of the points that were made.

- Pavan Varma expressed the fear that we are becoming a nation of linguistic half–castes. Because we are rapidly forgetting our heritage and language and yet still not really comfortable with English.

- Gulzar was of the opinion that English was the language that introduced him to many texts by famous writers. And that there is really no language in India that can act as a pan-Indian language.

- Varma - There has been no culture audit after Independence

- There was a discussion on the appropriateness of Jawaharlal Nehru delivering the freedom speech in English. But Gulzar pointed out that that too is a result of the reality that there was no language that would not antagonise one or the other section of the country.

Soon after I found a cosy spot at the back, I realised that I had been lucky to find even standing room. Politician Vasundhara Raje as well as the queen of Bhutan Queen Wangchuck caused a diversion and a scramble when they walked in to no place to sit or even stand.

The Jaipur Literary Festival 2010 in a word—crowded! Found myself mobbed in by school girls in an afternoon session on Social Activism in the Arts in the Mughal Darbar. Was unable to ascertain if Shabana Azmi was the main attraction or Rahul Bose; but these kids were right there on the front row to make sure they didn’t miss a word. In general, the number of school kids attending the Lit Fest was pretty heartening.

The evening session on Can The Internet Save Books moderated by Barkha Dutt and consisting of a number of very promising panellists like Vikram Chandra, Gulzar and Tina Brown threatened to meander at first but was salvaged and turned out to be fun. Not least because of some pertinent points and questions raised by members of the audience.

Day 3

Even outside of the discussions, there were a number of delights for the idle wanderer.

The exhibition of a few well-chosen photographs of Jaipur city put up in the dining area of the Diggi Palace unexpectedly occupied me for the larger part of an hour.

Another pleasant occupation was to sun your self on the front lawns. You could compare notes with friends on the discussions attended, what sensible or absurd points were said by whom, and who looked cute.

For there was plenty of eye candy to look at: However lost and other-worldly writers and academicians may be, the joys of being smartly turned out was certainly not lost on this crowd. The weather at Jaipur was perfect for all the coats and scarves and woollen skirts with arty accessories to put in an appearance; and there was a spontaneous fashion parade taking place at all times.

Another trend that developed in the course of the festival was to listen to a discussion, and then rush to the book store to buy the writers that were discussed or read. The result was a constant jostling at the Full Circle stall that was put up. Many books were unavailable. Maybe next year more book stores could participate? After threatening myself with dire consequences, I managed to restrict myself to buying only six books. (Phew!) The sessions that I attended that day included Journey To Childhood – Writing For Young Readers, where the point was made that the story was the main thing. Regardless of whether it was written for adults or for kids.

Writing About Music saw an involved discussion on the nature of music in India, and the book readings in the next session Wanderlust resulted in roars of laughter in the Mughal tent.

At 2.30 in the afternoon, I walked once again into the Mughal tent, drowsy, tired and weighed down by little book parcels, my jacket and my inexplicably heavy bag. The only thing I asked from the discussion was that I would not be bored to sleep. But Blue, White and Red – readings and discussions by Alan Mabanku, Veronique Tadjo, turned out to be a superb session that threw a number of exciting points on African writing, within Africa as well as expat African writing. Everything from Barrack Obama to slavery was discussed and points were raised about the fate of the pan-African identity. “The concern right now is not a pan-African identity so much as how to link the diaspora with the motherland,” concluded Mabanku at the end.

Happy New Resolutions

2009-01-03T17:10:00.002+05:30

I love new year resolutions. There is something about the intent to improve one's self that suits me. The organisational detail of writing it all down in one neat list and starting at the beginning of the year is an added thrill. And being able to tick something off as soon as you have accomplished it is just the icing on the cake. Last year I made 21 resolutions (Fine! Snigger away!). And I neither keep all of them nor break all. That's OK. I don't pressurise myself too much. But it is something to work towards. And as long as I make some headway, I am OK. Many of them are, anyway, personality related and cannot be accomplished suddenly except in degrees. So here is my list for this year. Oh, and I keep making resolutions ... throughout the year ... even though I am not as kicked about them as in the beginning of the year. I just decide to start it from the beginning of the following month. So this list might grow.

So beginning Jan 1, 2009, I resolve to
1 - Constantly watch over myself to check if I am giving my best shot at whatever I may be doing at the moment.
2 - Learn a new skill.
3 - Watch out for interesting events that happen around the city - especially events that are cheap or inexpensive or totally worth the money spent.
4 - Buy more second hand books.
5 - Don't buy any books at all until I finish 50 books that I have bought with great enthusiasm but have not read still.
6 - Try my best not to let outside elements (colleagues, boss, weather, friends) define my attitude towards work and myself and my outlook towards life. Basically screw everything and everyone; I'll do and think what I want.
7 - Don't procrastinate.
8 - Think of myself as I would want others to think of me.
9 - make a list of thins every night to be accomplished the next day.
10 - Go to two places in India that I have not previously gone to and if possible, one place outside India.
11 - Lose 10 kilos. (How can I help it!?)
12 - Read more magazines and newspapers and informative books other than fiction.

Shine

2008-11-30T16:20:00.000+05:30

I am listening to Pink Floyd's Shine on you Crazy Diamond. I feel like I am flying! I have goose pimples. I love the intensity, the escape that this song offers! I want to sit on the edge of land and sea.... where I cannot disturb or be disturbed... where I can be still... and be high and listen to this music and let it fill my ears and my being. I want to be able to forget and escape... and tear apart the claustrophobic darkness and the never ending cacophony of the waves.
But first I need to walk on the street and add my cry to the thousands of cries of anguish and frustration that my city is filled with right now.

Mindblowing

2008-08-26T17:52:00.000+05:30

Aubade

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Philip Larkin

Delusion

2008-04-24T17:02:00.002+05:30

If you think
giving
without expectation
of return
is selfless and pure,
then
think again!

Getting dumped

2008-04-24T16:52:00.002+05:30

When some one leaves you, apart from missing them, apart from the face that the whole little world you've created together collapses, and that everything you see or do reminds you of them, the worst is the thought that they tried you out and in the end the whole sum of parts which adds up to you got stamped REJECT by the one you love. How can you not be left with the self confidence of a passed over British rail sandwich? - Bridget Jones - Bridget Jones' Diary by Helen Fielding.

The lesson

2008-04-24T12:53:00.000+05:30

'He, who was still a boy as regards love and was inclined to plunge to the depths of it blindly and insatiably, was taught by her that one cannot have pleasure without giving it, and that every gesture, every caress, every touch, every glance, every single part of the body has its secret which can give pleasure to one who can understand. She taught him that lovers should not separate from each other after making love without admiring each other, without being conquered as well as conquering, so that no feeling of satiation or desolation arises nor the horrid feeling of misusing or having been misused.' - 'Siddhartha' by Hermann Hesse.

Pimple

2008-01-27T12:28:00.000+05:30

'Tis amazing. When I have a large pimple in the middle of my right cheek, at least 20 people in three days will look at me and say in a tone of extreme astonishment, "Heyyy! You have a pimple on your face!" And then pause meaningfully and stare at me as if expecting me to participate in their surprise. How am I supposed to respond? Do they really imagine it would have completely escaped my notice?

Touch

2007-11-05T15:36:00.000+05:30

Head spinning,
heart sinking,
mouth dry,
I asked him.
Fearing not just refusal,
but also consequences.
Never daring
To hope.
Knowing,
that I have no right.
Waters splashed around us,
the darkness waited.
Had I actually asked?
"Of course"
I thought
he whispered.
Speechless,
I reached out
and picked up
his palm.
What if
I had only imagined
his acquiesce?
Would he
shake off
my touch
in shock
and disgust?
But his hand stayed
cradled within my fingers.
Soft,
small.
I was careful
not to hold
too tight.
I felt
the touch
of my precious gift.
and I cherished
the moment
while it lasted.
And I didn't think
of tomorrow
or yesterday,
of right
or wrong,
of love
or pain.
I only felt
his hand
touching mine
his skin
touching mine.
I only wished
that these minutes
would last
till I ran out of breath.
But the moment,
indifferent as ever,
blundered on
with its treasured cargo.
And he,
following it,
walked on after a few moments,
tossing
my hand aside.

Life in a song!

2007-09-09T22:55:00.000+05:30

This is one of my favourite songs... how can any woman resist the man who sings this for her ... and means it?

The song is by Bharathiyar and the blog that I found this particular translation on is http://samadrishti.blogspot.com/

The more popular version of the song is the one that appeared in a Tamil film called "Kandukondein kandukondein". The song has been set to many tunes and I love all of them!

For many years now I have been searching for some book of Bharathiyar poems along with the translation. If the tamil poem is in the Roman script, even better ... otherwise Tamil script will also do ... does anyone know where I can find one?

Suttum vizhi sudar than Kannamma
Suriye chandiraro?
Vattakkariye vizhi - Kannamma!
Vanakkarumai kollo?

Your gaze has the brightness of the sun and moon
Your eyes reflect the darkness of the skies

Pattu karuneela - pudavai
Padhittha nalviram
Natta nadunisiyil - Therium
Natchathirangalladi!

The diamonds on your dark silk saree,
show me the stars in broad daylight.

Solai malaroliyo -Unathu
Sundarapunnagai than?
Neela kadalalaiye - Unathu
Nenjin alaigaladi !
Kolak kuyil oosai - Unathu
Kuralin inimaiyadi!
Valai kumariyadi - Kannamma
Maruvak kadhal kondain.

Your smile is the bloom of the garden,
Your heart, the waves of the sea,
Your voice , sweet like the koel's
My love longs for union, Kannamma

Sathiram pesugirai - Kannamma
Sathiram yedhukkadi?
Athiram kondavarke - Kannamma
Sathiram undodi!

You talk of Rules, Kannamma
What rules do paramours follow?

Moothavar sammadhiyil - Vadhuvai
Muraigal pinbhu saivom
Kathiruppenodi! - Ithupar

Elders , marriage and rituals can wait,
Can I ? Come now,

Kannatthu muttham ondru!
Let me kiss you.

Madness

2007-08-23T23:48:00.000+05:30

It comes, I think, from a deep-set insecurity, this need to please everyone around me. I feel guilty if a person around me is disappointed. Even if it is a person who I do not know, even if it is a person whom I detest, even if the disappointment has nothing to do with me and even if the person is being unreasonable. I need to feel that they are happy, they are content. I feel upset even if someone complains about the weather! I feel responsible for the bad weather and would do anything possible at that moment to change the weather. It is a helplessness that is hard to explain. I cannot rest in peace if someone around me is unhappy. If a friend or a close family member is depressed, I take on the responsibility for it. Don’t get me wrong, this is not out of love or concern for them (although, my friends, I love you all dearly.) This is a compulsive mania. I CAN NOT be happy if a friend is miserable. It affects me deeply and I let his/ her blackness seep into my system and control me. I cannot detach myself and say to myself that this is not my problem, not my life. I feel this even if the person is not emotionally close to me but merely in my geographical proximity. It is as if I am a giant receiver programmed to tune out all the good vibes and catch and imbibe all the discontent and distress. I feel relieved if a close one is happy but only momentarily before I start worrying about another close one. I feel that all the positivity is drained out of me and dread that everyone (even I) will do best to avoid me for fear of catching the negativity. Was I like this before? Is this the first step to madness?

Stories of life

2007-07-13T13:27:00.000+05:30

Sometimes paati calls to me and says, "Listen." When this happens, if I am getting late for work, I fret, but listen anyway for some time. At other times, I settle down willingly. If I am engaged in some minor activity like helping amma with some household chore, then I am quite happy to abandon it and listen, or rather watch paati as she spins out a web of stories from what, to me, is the distant past. Sometimes the story is about gods and saints. She narrates stories related to festivals or curses and blessings or well known devotees of some god or the other. I listen with interest even though she has often repeated the same stories before. Sometimes I correct her and help her with facts that she has forgotten because I know these myths better than she does. At other times, she speaks of distant relatives of her past, her childhood or her married life. These are her achievements, her failures, things that people have said to her, and how people she knew have behaved with her and with each other. For many reasons, these stories fascinate me more then the former sort. One of the reasons for this is that it often occurs to me that these stories are in fact the sum total of her life. As she speaks, the stories branch out like the delicate silver web of her hair and I move with her from thread to thread with hardly any connections between them. The characters of these stories are her children, who are her life’s triumph, her husband, my grandfather who is now no more, her relatives, her husband’s relatives and the people who she has come across in the 87 years (she insists that she is only 84 even though she claims she has forgotten the year of her birth) of her life. The stories revolve around minor day to day incidences or major events all of which give me an insight into how life has changed since when she was a child. Like an intricately woven carpet, the stories start at one point and spin further and further away and then come back. This back and forth of the long intricate tale goes on until the colors and the patters emerge. And then there is a final repetition in order to finish it with firmness.
As she tells the story, you are left in no doubt as to how you are supposed to react. All you have to do is to follow her lead, because as she tells the stories, her frail frame sometimes shakes with laughter, or quivers with self righteous indignation or her voice trembles and tears trickle down her intriately wrinkled face. I feel amazed listening to her stories and the way she narrates them, because the world that she describes is so sure. There is no doubt about her place in that world. Because there is no doubt about the values that are used for measurement. I have tried arguing with her about some of the axioms in her world.
For example,
If you don’t have male children, it is a shame that lasts for the rest of your life.
The role of a woman is to be dutiful towards all even at the risk of being a doormat.
If you are married without an adequate amount of gold as dowry, you are bound to be mocked in the house that you go into. You do not get sympathy because you are from a poor family. However you can redem yourself slightly if you prove to be a doormat.
Fair is beautiful. Dark is ugly.
To my politically correct self, these (and other such) axioms seem so easy to knock down, but try as I might I have never been able to shake paati’s faith in them. When one tries to argue, she merely shakes her head and repeats what she has already said, pretending that you were unable to hear what she said. Lately, however, I have given up arguing with her. I have begun to realize that these value systems are in fact the essence of her personality. Taking them away will leave her with nothing at all to show for her long and (to her) eventful life. That would be far too cruel.
another reason that the stories interest me is that they are glimpses of another world that has pased away for ever. She is among the last few people who remember a world that was far slower than it can ever be again. Her stories are bits of real history that actually happned. They are my secret windows to the way people lived at that time. What also amazes me is the nonchalance with which she views the way the world has changed around her from the time she grew up till today.
Last week was paaati’s 87th b’day. Some of her grandchildren remembered. Others didnt. She grumbled a bit that everyone has forgotten her, and then went off to eat the sweet payasam that the doctor has forbidden her to eat. Happy b’day paati!

Epiphany

2007-07-13T12:35:00.000+05:30

There are some things that you just dont get in life. The sooner you make your peace with this fact, the sooner you can start enjoying what you do have.

Blowing in the wind

2007-04-14T21:24:00.000+05:30

To me, the beauty of reading is that the vague unarticulated thoughts and feelings that I have, suddenly find solid ground when I find other people who also feel the same way. I was reading a story on clotheslines and was amazed to find that there are other people to whom this simple act of daily living means as much as it does to me. I love the sense of planning, order and neatness that is involved in the process. Making sure that the thicker and heavier parts of a dress get more sun and wind; the dash of middle class propriety exemplified in making sure that the underwear was always hung out of plain sight; the always tricky way to hang a long saree without it dragging in the dirt; squeezing as much water out of the clothes with my hands before hanging them so that they wont be stiff when they dry; making sure that there was a clothes peg on each one of them; feeling the cool water vapour as they dried in the hot sun; once the clothes dried, folding them impeccably so that edge met with edge, sorting and putting them in their proper shelves. I remember my mother scolding me and telling me how to perform all these ceremonies. I remember the pride when the hard won approval came. I loved all the conversations we have had in the evenings when the sun was golden and we were folding clothes. Most of all I remember the smell of wind and contentment on clothes dried on the line, I still love that smell.

Haircut

2007-02-11T14:24:00.000+05:30

The minute I decide that it is time for a haircut, and I fix up an appointment, after that moment… it seems totally impossible to appear in public with current state of hair! Even one moment seems too much to bear…even one stranger looking at current state of hair is intolerable. I want to tell everyone… I know! … I know! ... It looks horrible! But I have a hair appointment for Tuesday... don’t judge me before that!

Yellow

2007-02-09T19:21:00.000+05:30

Tis tiresome … this habit of infusing others’ childhoods with the glow of romance that I miss in my own … these futile attempts to rescue my childhood self from mediocrity. Upon the bits of reminiscence received from others, I pour the golden yellow honey of heroism and decorate it to shine competitively with the yellow of my own past. This yellow of my nostalgia that doesn’t shine or gleam, I attribute to a lack of the brightness of inspiration and the dust of indolence that lies on parched leaves awaiting the first shower that came a childhood too late.
Tis refreshing at such moments to get a glimpse into other lives, differently similar… when realisation dawns that each of us have in fact had the same past, however different. There is no escaping the typicalness of a journey from ignorance to arrogance.

Living in a bubble

2007-02-01T21:52:00.000+05:30

My cousin had just gone to Singapore and had sent me an email. When I told my 85-year-old grandmother that there was a letter from her grandson and read it out to her from a computer screen, she was confused at there being no paper letter that was actually delivered, but she didn’t really say much. I sent off the reply that she dictated, informed her that I had sent it and she asked me when it would reach him. When I told her that it had already reached him, she simple refused to believe me! I explained over and over again how the internet works, frantically trying to convince her and describe to her what even I had only a dim idea about. She just kept on repeating ‘how can that be possible?’ As it dawned on her that I might be actually telling the truth, there were some moments of shocked silence and then she began to laugh. She covered her face and rocked back and forth shaking with laughter and barely able to breathe and made me collapse into a fit of giggling as well. When her laughter stopped, she told me the story of her uncle who had gone to Singapore when she was a small girl had had not been heard from for 35 years. Later when she had been married and my father was an infant in her arms, she saw a man walking towards the house. Tired, thin though he was, and wearing rags, she still recognised him. Promptly abandoning my wailing father in his cradle, she ran across the road to her grandmother’s house to announce the unexpected arrival. Chaos ensued and her grandmother (the uncle’s mother) fainted and recovered and there was much laughing and crying and general confusion and incredulity. Within minutes the entire village was gathered in the house and were being regaled with the story of how he had made his fortunes and how finally when he missed his home, he found that he could not bring any of his money home due to the Second World War that was going on. He took whatever cash he could but was robbed and beaten on the ship and had somehow managed to find his way back on a ship full of stowaways. Few weeks after he had tasted the comforts of the home, he set out once more to make his fortune in Singapore and has never been heard of since.
The two incidents came to my mind when I met Prof. Kevin Warwick from University of Reading, England on Saturday. He is the Professor of Cybernetics there. He is also best known for being the first human to have a chip implanted in his arm, thus making him half robot. The chip was later removed, but soon there will be another one that will be implanted. The professor’s wife Irela Warwick who has also assisted in many of his experiments is also in town with him. The almost school-boyish excitement that he has for robots and technology and what they hold for the future, made me think about the complete bubble like existence that I live in. There is actually not much difference between my grandmother and me in this aspect. Technology does not excite me. I don’t follow the latest mobiles, or watch the reaction to the newest gaming consol. When I met this man, it just struck me that there is no getting away from it. Sooner or later, regardless of whether you watch it coming or not, it overtakes you. Prof. Warwick has some pretty startling views. “This is the future,” he told me. “Man can either be beaten by the machines, or become half a machine himself. I don’t want to remain merely a man. Man has come a long way from the use of only words for communication. The telephone was faster than the letter. Now direct thought to thought communication is possible.” The possibilities that he outlined sent a chill of excitement. All these things that appear to be part of science fiction now could soon be part of our day to day lives. The cell phones that we use so casually, the email that we check mindlessly every half hour, the chat messages that we exchange every minute over a distance of thousands of miles, how many of us actually appreciate the technology that goes into all this? How much do we wonder at the fact that some years before… even when we were toddlers …these things would have been unthinkable…liable to be scoffed at.
So many things that would have been called magic are now part of our lives. I’m damn excited… and ready for some magic now.

...

2006-11-11T20:54:00.000+05:30

To me 2006 will always be the year of going away. So many people whom I cherish and many others around me who I just took for granted have moved away this year … hopefully not from my life… but so far that I can no longer reach out and tug at their sleeve for comfort.

Ramblings of a loser

2006-11-04T21:02:00.000+05:30

How crushing it is when some one who you admire and look up to despises you! That is the one person whose approval you crave, whose opinion you think matters, and whose views you usually find yourself agreeing with. How difficult it is to value yourself when this person laughs at you or worse does not even think that you are significant enough to be noticed. When the only way to garner up your self-image is to fight the other person’s opinion of yourself and that is exactly what you do not want to do. What you want to do is to agree with whatever that person says, even if that opinion destroys you. Unable to shake off a feeling that you know perfectly well is loser-like and liable to be scoffed at. What an overwhelmingly final moment of bitter resignation when this person does not even notice that you have stopped calling… or existing.

Channel Surfing

2006-09-28T22:45:00.000+05:30

I have been listening to the radio on my way to work and back since the last few days and I find that I am unable to enjoy any music. This is only partially because of the fact that all the channels are playing crappy songs. Even if I find a song that I like to an extent, I seem to have this compulsive urge to change the channel and see what is playing on the other channel… what if there is something more interesting there? This is of course, an extension of the TV channel surfing. It has been many years now that I have been able to watch any TV at all. I am alarmed at the thought that a stage will come when I will never listen to any song without wanting to listen to another song. Isn’t this what we also do in life? We are always looking for better opportunities… even better job profiles… more flexible work timings … completely politics–free workplace and so on… with the result that we are becoming a race of perennially dissatisfied people. A prime example is my brother who is obsessed with owning the most cutting edge technology. Whether it is mobile phones or computer operating systems, his eyes are peeled on ‘the future’.
He begs, pleads and nags you to buy a particular model of phone and within a week of his getting it, his heart begins to ache for the next model that has just been announced by Nokia and all the flaws of the current model begin to surface one by one.
This evening I went to the salon. The radio was playing as always in the background. Every song that was played led to either instant approval and humming along and even a little jig by people who were not trapped in their chair, or triggered a round of abuse and a hope that the next song would not be so bad after which everyone would discuss other things and ignore the radio. Some would call it a defeatist attitude, an unwillingness to look for look for better things… tamely accepting what is doled out. Sure I have my moments of triumphant smugness when I change the channel and there is a far better song playing there. But these moments are so few! Most of the times, I am just getting more and more irritated and restless and more than once I switch back to the original one that I was listening to only to find a really good song just ending… one which I could have listened to if I had not changed the channel. What is one to do?
Finally I think I will just turn off the radio and start singing a song in my head.

pudchya varshi laukar ya!

2006-09-11T23:41:00.000+05:30

I still love the rains.
All around the city, in trains, in buses, even on the radio there is a collective sigh of relief that the monsoon is going away. It is as if a guest whose arrival was eagerly awaited has by now overstayed her welcome. The members of the family are now having secret discussions about when she will leave, hoping it will be soon, gleefully looking for signs of departure, forgetting the breathless impatience with which they waited for her and ungratefully forgetful of the gifts that she brought them. By now when the romance has worn off and most people are cursing the slush and longing to wear their white clothes and new shoes again; when light showers which were so enjoyable and ‘romantic’ some time back are now greeted with a collective clicking of tongues in exasperation; this is when I feel a terrible crushing realisation that she has nearly gone now, and won’t come back till next year.
The city is heartless. “No more, no more… I am so tired of rain!” cries the RJ on a popular radio channel, and the city nods in approval. This same city that waited for the monsoon in a way that only this city can. Just three months ago, the collective consciousness of the city dreamt of freshness, coolness and the wet smell of mud. Talk of potholes, humidity and undrying smelly clothes was the talk of the hardened unromantic, the pessimists, and the cynics. Rain was romance, roasted ears of corn and roadside chai.
Tired of the dusty relentless heat, all eyes turned heavenward hoping, praying for the ‘showers of blessings.’ Long hours, long days of hope - will it come today, or tomorrow? Heated speculation and even betting on the exact date, no other topic of conversation, astrologers and weather bureaus alike consulted. The city was stupefied by the sweat and the thirst. It is the same every year.
Like a man waiting for his woman. The hours seem impossibly long … listening to every tick of the clock in a charged silence. The mounting tension seems impossible to bear but there was no alternative but to wait and curse the blazing sun. Patience is a lesson that is never learnt voluntarily. Just as the suspense seemed impossible to bear, she arrives. She likes her drama. The first showers are just a teaser, to whet the appetite. She knows her worth. She will play and mock before she gives in, and then she pours and bestows her passion. She has waited for this too. Soon she enters the city’s very core and lets the city enter her. She licks up the dust, pulls a blanket over the sun, blows her cool breath into the veins of the city. The city welcomes her with arms wide open, enveloping her in its embrace. As they give and take in this orgasmic crescendo, the universe pauses to witness the drama and the dance.
Three months ago the people of this city opened up their palms and celebrated the rain. People laughed out loud, children shouted, madness became permissible. Today they talk of slush, inconvenience of umbrellas and an inefficient civic administration.
Three months ago they wanted her to come, she did. Now, they want her to go, ever obliging as she is, she will. This is when my long wait for the next monsoon starts.
I still love the rains.

Calculations

2006-08-12T19:57:00.000+05:30

Sometimes the sum of all the parts does not necessarily add up exactly to the total. This fact can be a blessing or a curse depending on whether the total that you receive is more or less than it should be. But in the end, I believe that the balance is zero. This is something that I firmly believe in. I need to believe this to justify my conscience and to keep myself on the right side of the ethical line. This is what I console myself with when I feel cheated. This is also what gives me the lurking feeling of guilt when I get more than what I deserve.

Flood

2006-07-02T18:13:00.000+05:30

I cannot stem this flood. This hotchpoch of emotions that refuse to walk in a line. I need some wine to lift me so I can reach my self.

Panic

2006-06-03T22:33:00.000+05:30

Sometimes panic creeps up on me and paralyses me, with no apparent reason… Just a nameless fear gripping my lungs so that I cannot breathe, making my eyelids drop and crave sleep to escape...A wave that threatens to smother me. I wish I knew why!

The last word

2006-05-29T16:18:00.000+05:30

This is the last word… the last word of the sentence of words that flow and trip behind each other. Like a bead chain… Running seamlessly, aimlessly through meaningless skyscrapers of thought… Insignificant as the sentence is, what is the worth of the last word?

Writing

2006-05-29T15:54:00.000+05:30

Why can’t I write? Why don’t I write on my blog? I write in my diary… although even this is now after many years. What is it that holds me back from putting down all these thoughts that crowd my head, all these ideas of passion and mediocrity? How come people write so effortlessly, so well? I wish I could let go of this diffidence, this contempt that I seem to have for anything that comes out of me.

Decision making

2006-04-16T17:15:00.000+05:30

some one forwarded this to me. found it rather thought provoking.

The story given below is quite interesting and
really gives us an insight into DECISION MAKING.
Which one will you choose?

A group of children were playing near two railway
tracks, one still in use while the other disused.
Only one child played on the disused track, the
rest on the operational track. The train came, and
you were just beside the track interchange.
You could make the train change its course to the
disused track and saved most of the kids.

However, that would also mean the lone child
playing by the disused track would be sacrificed.
Or would you rather let the train go its way?
Let's take a pause to think what kind of decision we could
make................

Most people might choose to divert the course of
the train, and sacrifice only one child.
You might think the same way, I guess.
Exactly, I thought the same way initially because to save
most of the children at the expense of only one child was
rational decision most people would make normally and emotionally.
But, have you ever thought that the child choosing to play on the disused
track had in fact made the right decision to play at a safe place?

Nevertheless, he had to be sacrificed because of his ignorant friends who
chose to play where the danger was. This kind of dilemma happens around
us everyday. In the office, community, in politics and especially in a
democratic society, the minority is often sacrificed for the interest of
the majority, no matter how foolish or ignorant the majority are, and how
farsighted and knowledgeable the minority are.

The child who chose not to play with the rest on the operational track was
sidelined. And in the case he was sacrificed, no one would shed a tear
for him.

The friend who forwarded me the story said he would not try to change the
course of the train because he believed that the kids playing on the
perational track should have known very well that track was still in
use,and that they should have run away if they heard the train's sirens.

If the train was diverted, that lone child would definitely die because he
never thought the train could come over to that track!

Moreover, that track was not in use probably because it was not safe.If the
train was diverted to the track, we could put the lives of all passengers
on board at stake! And in your attempt to save a few kids by sacrificing
one child, you might end up sacrificing hundreds of people to save these
few kids.

While we are all aware that life is full of tough decisions that need to be
made, we may not realize that hasty decisions may not always be the right
one.

"Remember that what's right isn't always popular...
and what's popular isn't always right."

Kashid

2006-04-13T17:21:00.000+05:30

Just want to record some memories of the Kashid trip before it gets lost in the garbage dump of my mind.
The overwhelming memory is of soft warm yellow sunshine, frilly white waves like delicate Victorian lace on sparkling pure water … and laughter. So much laughter! ... The sea’s endless laughter of the waves… gurgling, roaring laughter. Us... Laughing out loud … endlessly … at nothing...everything… At Vinod’s jokes… at our childish pranks in the water… at getting the others wet... At getting wet. Falling down laughing, doubling up with laughter. The sea brings out the child in everyone. You are no longer a dignified professional, a responsible parent or a careworn adult. You can’t help giggling when the waves push and pull you and play with you like a cat with a mouse. All of us squealing and screaming with surprise and delight like a baby in a bathtub. The sea takes away your dignity. There is no dignity before the dignity of the ocean. No ego before the wonder of the forces of the universe being played out before your eyes. You are a Nobody. And that is a liberating feeling. There is no pretence of dignity, no appearance to keep up. And with the loss of dignity, all the negativity within you is blown away by the wind. The guilt, the hurt, the bruised ego, the worries all seems immaterial. There is a wonderful lightness of being! Just peace and tranquility and laughter!
Another memory is of the seemingly endless drives. Anxiously looking for any signboards, any milestone to indicate that we are in the right direction, at the mercy of the very affable but completely directionless driver. A long black ribbon of road stretched out ahead of us as well as behind us. Sheltered by a welcoming canopy of trees. In between the banter, admiring the often breathtaking scenery around us. The rows of little villages that are not blessed with 24 hours of electricity as Bombay is. The darkening homes lighted with only pale emergency lights because we have stolen their electricity from them. The brownness of the afternoon. Brown crunching leaves, brown trunks and brown dusty mud. More shades of brown than I knew existed.
Excited gasps as we get sudden refreshing views of the sea and the long strips of sand.
At Janjira, we traveled by actual little sail boats with the sails billowing against the wind. Spent 15 minutes on the boat as a girl refuses to jump out of the boat into the steps. Finally we are all off and then after a brief haggle with the guide, we set off to see the fort. Why do people, especially men always haggle with the guide and make fun of him? I think it has something to do with the fact that they are dependent on him for information. They have to quietly listen to what he says. And in however small a way in the presence of other people and their family, they want to establish who the boss is. It’s an ego thing.
But we didn’t go to the beach at Murud. We had fallen in love with Kashid. We went back there and had an amazing afternoon lying on the hammocks and staring vacantly at the oh-so-blue sky through the trees and eating ice cream while waiting for the sun to cool so that we could head back into the frothy waters once more before we headed back home.

Boredom

2006-04-03T20:41:00.000+05:30

Boredom

How can people exist who get bored so much? I can never be bored unless I am being made to do something that I don’t want to. There is so much to do in a day that I really wish that the days were at least twice as long as they are!... don’t get me wrong.. I am not one of those people who are overly active… its just that whatever it is that I do… even if it is lounging on the sofa with a book… or staring outside the window… I really enjoy doing it and wish that there was a lot more time to do it! Reading, writing, plays, going dancing, watching a concert, meeting with friends, just spending time with my books there are numberless things that I can think of doing that I never get time to do.
The other day, I was chatting with an acquaintance and she was telling me how she has taken a couple of days off from work but she is so bored at home that she wants to get back. I have heard similar sentiments voiced before and what is even worse, I have heard it form people who imagine that this shows a certain focus on their work or their dedication to their career or something of the sort… I think there is far too much said for ‘being focused’. I think that people who are too focused and too single minded end up becoming one dimensional beings, who I at least find extremely tiresome to be with. What is the point of being a CEO at 30 and earning many lakhs a month when you have no idea what is happening in the world outside your line of career? What really is the purpose of life? Is it to earn lots of money? How can that alone possibly make you happy when you have no interest to spend it on? Or do people wait till 50 to earn lots of money and then spend it by inculcating interests? But by then some of the greatest years of your life are already gone in pointless toil! It is like running blindfold towards a destination and not bothering to enjoy the breathtaking journey. What if after you reach the destination you find that it wasn’t really all that great and you might have as well gone somewhere else? The entire lifetime time of effort becomes a waste! In such a scenario I think I will be happier for at least having enjoyed the journey. And who knows somewhere along the way I might have found something far more precious and have changed my destination altogether!
Meanwhile, the conversation with my acquaintance went something like this.
My acquaintance – (for the 10th time) – I’m soo boored!
Me – so why don’t u read a book?
My acquaintance – no ya.. I cant sit and read… its so boring. I never read.
Me – write something
My acquaintance – no no I am not a writer
Me – ok.. So why don’t you listen to some music?
My acquaintance – no all the music I have is so boring… I feel bored listening to songs
Me – go and watch a play.
My acquaintance – tccha … I don’t like plays.
Me – go watch a movie
My acquaintance – which movie? There are no good movies. And I don’t want to go out.
Me – then why not hire a DVD and watch a movie at home?
My acquaintance – no ya.. Too boring to watch a movie alone
Me – go to a disc
My acquaintance – no ya.. I can’t go alone and I don’t want to meet anyone.
To cut a very long and tiresome conversation short, I suggested a lot of things that I would have done had I had the time to be at home. Unfortunately, none of the things that I suggested seemed to take her fancy. Ok… maybe my interests are just different from hers. Go to a chemistry exhibition, sign up for a stock market crash course… there are things that I would never do, but she just didn’t have any interests at all! Finally she joined back to office a week earlier than she was supposed to. … How dedicated!

This is the fairy tale that we should have been reading as little girls !!!!!

2006-04-02T18:15:00.000+05:30

Once upon a time,

~~~~~~~~

in a land far away,

~~~~~~~~

a beautiful, independent,

~~~~~~~~

self-assured princess

~~~~~~~~

happened upon a frog as she sat,

~~~~~~~~

contemplating ecological issues

~~~~~~~~

on the shores of an unpolluted pond

~~~~~~~~

in a verdant meadow near her castle.

~~~~~~~~

The frog hopped into the princess' lap

~~~~~~~~

and said: Elegant Lady,

~~~~~~~~

I was once a handsome prince,

~~~~~~~~

until an evil witch cast a spell upon me.

~~~~~~~~

One kiss from you, however,

~~~~~~~~

and I will turn back

~~~~~~~~

into the dapper, young prince that I am

~~~~~~~~

and then, my sweet, we can marry

~~~~~~~~

and set up housekeeping in your castle

~~~~~~~~

with my mother,

~~~~~~~~
where you can prepare my meals,

~~~~~~~~

clean my clothes, bear my children,

~~~~~~~~

and forever

~~~~~~~~

feel grateful and happy doing so.

~~~~~~~~

That night,

~~~~~~~~

as the princess dined sumptuously
~~~~~~~~

on lightly sautéed frog legs

~~~~~~~~

seasoned in a white wine

~~~~~~~

and onion cream sauce,

~~~~~~~~

she chuckled and thought to herself:
~~~~~~~~

I don't fucking think so.

Self doubt

2006-04-01T19:01:00.000+05:30

Self doubt

A free fall
into blackness
and unknown terror.
I need
a foothold,
some light.

I feel something
tightening
around my neck.
I’m clutching
at my last sliver
of hope.

I await
the lurch and the dive
of my stomach.
My heart being
wrenched out
through my throat.

Only I hear
the Fear
loud, booming,
echoing
within the brittle walls
of my cluttered mind.

I live in dread
of polite enquires,
gasps of concern,
vague assurances,
subtle hints
of conquered realms.

Struggling to resist
unsightly green eyes.
Horrified
at the need for struggle.
Battling to salvage
an oppressive conscience.

I hear
that crushing, breathless
persistant question
again.
Will I?
Will I?

Divya Subramaniam

… Psst!!

2006-04-01T18:43:00.000+05:30

… Psst!!

Have you done it yet?
Done?
Why? Not done?
Not done.
The specific reasons for not having done?
Just not done.
Not done? Why?
Not done… just!
Do you intend to get it done?
Do you think I should get it done?
Get it done.
Ok… then I might get it done
Done it?
Done now.
Done?
Done.

But the thing is not as easy as it sounds.

Divya Subramaniam

Dressing

2006-04-01T17:59:00.000+05:30

Dressing

Creeping up her toes,
her ankles, her legs
smoothly, swiftly
over her thighs,
her buttocks
to her waist.

Climbing down her face
her cheeks, her neck
touching her lips en route.
her hair disheveled
negotiating curves
over her back and breasts.

There is a Meeting
at the waist
and she is dressed.

Divya Subramaniam

The Return

2006-04-01T16:35:00.000+05:30

The Return

Dark room,
who is this
shadowlike
sitting here
crouching here
within you.
Trying to claw back
into the womb.
Once fallen here,
afraid
of light, laughter.
Her own, other’s.

Throw her out.
Blind her
with the light,
that she may
eventually
meet the gaze
of the sun.
Wrench her
from the dark,
that she may
once again
harness brightness
harness laughter
for herself, for others.

Divya Subramaniam
August 2002

Breeze

2006-04-01T16:21:00.001+05:30

Breeze

Blow
Cool wind
smooth
silky
Sudden splash
Having passed
Leaving me
With only memory
Of freshness.

Divya Subramaniam

Traveling

2006-04-01T16:13:00.000+05:30

Traveling

Ever wonder why
when
sitting in a train,
a drooling
lolling
sleeping head
falls
on your shoulder,
all the sniggers
are directed at
You!

Divya Subramaniam

Inertia

2006-04-01T16:02:00.000+05:30

Inertia

I am not dead yet.
I laugh.
I talk
not passively.
I am part
of the general tumult,
the crowd,
the routine
of life.
But throughout
I stand
outside
and watch myself
with pity
and distaste
but mostly boredom.
Overwhelmingly
craving sleep
above all else.
An escape
from the bother
of existence.
Isn’t that
some kind of dead?

Divya Subramaniam

Afternoon Class

2006-04-01T15:48:00.000+05:30

Afternoon Class

I hate sitting here.
My benumbed mind
stagnating, mossy.
Forced to listen
to the droning voice
repeating again
already known theories
to the accompaniment
of the noisy fan.
Hot,
still
oppressive air.
Mouth dry.
Sticky sweat
running down my back.
Stupefied faces
Glassy stares.

Meanwhile elsewhere
I know
there exists
friendly silences,
animated eyes,
laughter.
The sensual thrill
of sprinting
on an empty seashore.
Mountain air,
smell of trees,
cool breeze.
Quest,
excitement of discovery
and realization.
I hate sitting here.
While elsewhere
there exists
Life.

Divya Subramaniam
17-12-2002

Quotes

2006-04-01T14:56:00.000+05:30

Quotes from alice in wonderland

• `Begin at the beginning,' the King said gravely, `and go on till you come to the end: then stop.'
• It was all very well to say `Drink me,' but the wise little Alice was not going to do that in a hurry. `No, I'll look first,' she said, `and see whether it's marked "poison" or not'; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they would not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger very deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked `poison,' it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.
• She ate a little bit, and said anxiously to herself, `Which way? Which way?', holding her hand on the top of her head to feel which way it was growing, and she was quite surprised to find that she remained the same size: to be sure, this generally happens when one eats cake, but Alice had got so much into the way of expecting nothing but out-of-the-way things to happen, that it seemed quite dull and stupid for life to go on in the common way.
• `I wish I hadn't cried so much!' said Alice, as she swam about, trying to find her way out. `I shall be punished for it now, I suppose, by being drowned in my own tears!
• `If everybody minded their own business,' the Duchess said in a hoarse growl, `the world would go round a deal faster than it does.'
• `Cheshire Puss,' she began, rather timidly, as she did not at all know whether it would like the name: however, it only grinned a little wider. `Come, it's pleased so far,' thought Alice, and she went on. `Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
`That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
`I don't much care where--' said Alice.
`Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
`--so long as I get SOMEWHERE,' Alice added as an explanation.
`Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, `if you only walk long enough.'
• `But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked.
`Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat: `we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'
`How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice.
`You must be,' said the Cat, `or you wouldn't have come here.'
• `Well! I've often seen a cat without a grin,' thought Alice; `but a grin without a cat! It's the most curious thing I ever say in my life!'
• `Tut, tut, child!' said the Duchess. `Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it.'
• `And how many hours a day did you do lessons?' said Alice, in a hurry to change the subject.
`Ten hours the first day,' said the Mock Turtle: `nine the next, and so on.'
`What a curious plan!' exclaimed Alice.
`That's the reason they're called lessons,' the Gryphon remarked: `because they lessen from day to day.'

I am not punctual because I do not feel the pains of waiting. I wait like an ox. For if I feel a purpose in my momentary existence, even a very uncertain one, I am so vain in my weakness that I would gladly bear anything for the sake of this purpose once it is before me. If I were in love, what couldn't I do then. How long I waited, years ago, under the arcades of the Ring until M. came by, even to see her walk with her lover. I have been late for appointments partly out of carelessness, partly out of ignorance of the pains of waiting, but also partly in order to attain new, complicated purposes through a renewed, uncertain search for the people with whom I had made the appointments, and so to achieve the possibility of long, uncertain waiting. From the fact that as a child I had a great nervous fear of waiting one could conclude that I was destined for something better and that I foresaw my future.

Franz Kafka

"We are passive onlookers in a world that moves perpetually. Our only moment of creation is that 1/125th of a second when the shutter clicks, the signal is given, and motion is stopped..."
henri cartier bresson

GREAT QUOTES BY GREAT LADIES
Inside every older person is a younger person -- wondering what the hell happened. -Cora Harvey Armstrong
Inside me lives a skinny woman crying to get out. But I can usually shut the witch up with cookies.
The hardest years in life are those between ten and seventy. -Helen Hayes (at 73)
I refuse to think of them as chin hairs. I think of them as stray eyebrows. - Janette Barber
Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse. - Lily Tomlin
A male gynecologist is like an auto mechanic who never owned a car. - Carrie Snow
Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry and you cry with your girlfriends.- Laurie Kuslansky
My second favorite household chore is ironing. My first being, hitting my head on the top bunk bed until I faint. - Erma Bombeck
Old age ain't no place for sissies.- Bette Davis
A man's got to do what a man's got to do. A woman must do what he can't. - Rhonda Hansome
The phrase "working mother" is redundant. - Jane Sellman
Every time I close the door on reality, it comes in through the windows. - Jennifer Unlimited
Whatever women must do they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult. - Charlotte Whitton
Thirty-five is when you finally get your head together and your body starts falling apart. - Caryn Leschen
I try to take one day at a time -- but sometimes several days attack me at once. -Jennifer Unlimited
If you can't be a good example -- then you'll just have to be a horrible warning. - Catherine
When I was young, I was put in a school for retarded kids for two years before they realized I actually had a hearing loss. And they called ME slow! - Kathy Buckley
I'm not offended by all the dumb blonde jokes because I know I'm not dumb -- and I'm also not blonde. - Dolly Parton
If high heels were so wonderful, men would still be wearing them. - Sue Grafton
I'm not going to vacuum 'til Sears makes one you can ride on. - Roseanne Barr
When women are depressed they either eat or go shopping. Men invade another country. - Elayne Boosler
Behind every successful man is a surprised woman. - Maryon Pearson
In politics, if you want anything said, ask a man. If you want anything done, ask a woman. - Margaret Thatcher
I have yet to hear a man ask for advice on how to combine marriage and a career. - Gloria Steinem
I am a marvelous housekeeper. Every time I leave a man, I keep his house. - Zsa Zsa Gabor
Nobody can make you feel inferior without your permission. - Eleanor Roosevelt

Rows and flows of angel's hair
And icecream castles in the air
And feathered canyons everywhere
I've looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and they snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way.

I've looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, but still somehow
It's cloud illusions I recall
I really don't know clouds at all.

Moon and Junes and Ferris wheels
That dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I've looked at love that way.

But now it's just another show
You leave them laughing when you go
And if you care, don't let them know
Don't give yourself away.

I've looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, but still somehow
It's love's illusions I recall
I really don't know love at all.

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say "I love you" right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I've looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I've changed
Well something's lost, but something's gained
In living every day.

I've looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose, but still somehow
It's life's illusions I recall
I really don't know life at all.

-- Joni Mitchell

" on Marginalia".
"We have all seized the white perimeter as our own and reached for a pen if only to show we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; we pressed a thought into the wayside, planted an impression along the verge,…
...Yet the one I think of most often,
the one that dangles from me like a locket,
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye
I borrowed from the local library
one slow, hot summer.
I was just beginning high school then,
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room,
and I cannot tell you
how vastly my loneliness was deepened,
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed,
when I found on one page
A few greasy looking smears
and next to them, written in soft pencil —
by a beautiful girl, I could tell,
whom I would never meet —
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

- Billy Collins

Whenever you're called on to make up your mind, and you're hampered by not
having any, the best way to solve the dilemma, you'll find, is simply by
spinning a penny.
No - not so that chance shall decide the affair while you're passively standing
there moping; but the moment the penny is up in the air, you suddenly know what you're hoping.

Words to Write By

2006-04-01T14:48:00.000+05:30

Words to Write By

By Chip Scanlan

"Taped to my hard drive is this: 'Too many of us wait to do the perfect thing, with the result we do nothing.' U.S. Publisher William Feather (1889-1981). That is there to remind me to get writing!"
That bit of feedback, from Katie Spanuello, to a recent column on writer's block, reminded me of the words I write by.
Over the years, I've taped various mottoes, exhortations, calls to arms on my writing instruments. Some were reminders to myself. "Don't fight it, write it" used to adorn my old IBM Selectric Typewriter.
A piece of paper with the reminder "Leave the judging 'til later" made the move through several computer upgrades in the 1980s.
But most of these banners bear the words of other writers whose advice seemed ideally suited to help me cope with the perennial challenges of the writing life. Like a personal trainer or a cheerleading squad, their voices urge me on, refusing to let me quit, providing that extra jolt of motivation.

In the mid-'90s, this quotation from Samuel Beckett served as a billboard behind my desk, helping me cope with rejection slips and the fear of failure that haunts every effort to transfer wisps of thought into words.
EVER TRIED?
EVER FAILED?
NO MATTER.
TRY AGAIN.
FAIL AGAIN.
FAIL BETTER.
When an assignment looms like the Alps, this advice from Richard Rhodes -- encased in a picture frame by my desktop at work -- starts me climbing one step at a time:
If writing a book is impossible, write a chapter. If writing a chapter is impossible, write a page. If writing a page is impossible, write a paragraph. If writing a paragraph is impossible, write a sentence. If writing a sentence is impossible, write a word and teach yourself everything there is to know about that word and then write another, connected word and see where the connection leads.
That framed quote was a gift from my friend Don Murray, who has been a steady source of inspirational words for my writing desk, often laminated into bumper-sticker format. Propped up on my keyboard, these words from Horace (65-8 BC) rarely fail to get my fingers moving:
Nulla dies sine linea. Never a day without a line.
And when my fingers remain paralyzed by doubt, I can look over at these words from poet William Stafford:
I believe that the so-called "writing block" is a product of some kind of disproportion between your standards and your performance .. one should lower his standards until there is no felt threshold to go over in writing. It's easy to write. You just shouldn't have standards that inhibit you from writing ... I can imagine a person beginning to feel he's not able to write up to that standard he imagines the world has set for him. But to me that's surrealistic. The only standard I can rationally have is the standard I'm meeting right now ... You should be more willing to forgive yourself. It doesn't make any difference if you are good or bad today. The assessment of the product is something that happens after you've done it.
Writers spend a lot of time by themselves. You're never alone when you've got another writer by your side, even if it's only in the typographical sense.

Some more of my favourite poems

2006-03-27T19:56:00.000+05:30

The Shield of Archilles – W H Auden

She looked over his shoulder

For vines and olive trees,

Marble well-governed cities

And ships upon untamed seas,

But there on the shining metal

His hands had put instead

An artificial wilderness

And a sky like lead.

A plain without a feature, bare and brown,

No blade of grass, no sign of neighborhood,

Nothing to eat and nowhere to sit down,

Yet, congregated on its blankness, stood

An unintelligible multitude,

A million eyes, a million boots in line,

Without expression, waiting for a sign

The Tiger – William Blake

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies 5
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 10
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp 15
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee? 20

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

The Lake Isle of Innisfree – W B Yeats
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.

Ode on a Grecian Urn
THOU still unravish’d bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring’d legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
II.

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear’d,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
III.

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy’d,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
IV.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.
V.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
«Beauty is truth, truth beauty,»- that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

John Keats
Poems (published 1820)

Sonnet 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
William Shakesphere

Ties that bind ... and gag

2005-11-20T22:06:00.000+05:30

I cannot understand family. I cannot understand the give and take, the responsibility and the fun, the ties that bind… and gag. I do not know how these trapped feelings that I get can co exist with the overwhelming gratitude that I feel for my family. I want to break free of the bonds. I want to be just myself. This is something that most people seem to consider a right, but somehow now it seems to have become selfishness. So should I be selfish? Or should I sacrifice my dreams, my personality and my very thoughts to what seems to be considered duty? My family has given me so much… is this time to repay? Where do I draw the line?

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

2005-10-21T18:59:00.000+05:30

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock

LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …

Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?

And how should I begin? . . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

TS Eliot

how does he know how i feel?!! and say it so brilliantly! I LOVE him!

Time to rant

2005-10-21T17:52:00.000+05:30

Ever since I remember I have battling this thing that every one calls laziness. I don’t quite know if it is laziness though. I distinctly know the feeling of reluctance for working, I have felt it and this is not it. This is a different numbness … an inability to move. Despite knowing fully well that I must work; I must do what ever it is that I have to… NOW … not later. I have no illusions about the terrible consequence of postponement. I know that serious damage is being done to my credibility, confidence and image. It has happened enough times for me to learn the lesson. But there is such an overwhelming feeling of lack of energy. It feels like there is something physical holding me back. My limbs refuse to move… and in my head the feeling of sickness grows and festers and finally overwhelms me making me even more immobile. I can’t do it. I can’t take the first step. I know that the first step is all it takes. But it is impossible… and then it is too late. The moments have passed “never to come back again’ as my dad says. (This is turning out to be quite a gloomy post … but what the hell, its how I am feeling now…)
It is not that I am relaxing… it is not that I am shirking work and having fun…there is no relaxation … no fun … I am agonizing over work not done … the piling load… the waste and the wrongness of it all.
So the days slip past … secretly turning into weeks… while I watch passively… impotently panicking. Sometimes there is a sudden burst of activity… mostly triggered by guilt… or panic…but the low energy phase keeps coming back … and continuing. I hate being like, this! I HATE it! I want to be like those people who are always on the go… I should be always on the go… I certainly have enough work to be always on the go… instead I sit and fret that I am not working the way I should and others are getting ahead and achieving things ... Making a difference…. While I lie sprawled on the sofa, my sluggish mind refusing to turn its wheels.

2005-10-14T19:11:00.000+05:30

there i go again!... looks like i am back to my annoying habit of starting something with great enthusiasm and then dumping it

Some poems i love

2005-09-28T18:49:00.000+05:30

ROBERT FROST

STOPPING BY WOODS ON A SNOWY EVENING

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

ACQUAINTED WITH THE NIGHT

I have been one acquainted with the night.

I have walked out in rain -- and back in rain.

I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet

When far away an interrupted cry

Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-bye;

And further still at an unearthly height,

O luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.

I have been one acquainted with the night.

beginnings

2005-09-28T18:41:00.000+05:30

the scarist thing about making a blog is that i never know what i 'll end up writing and who will read it. nevertheless, a beginning has been made... after hajaar confusions and messing ups... and i am looking forward to a lot of fun... hurrah!