Mountains or Beaches ? - Writing with the kid #3

 Where are we to stroll if given a choice between mountains and beaches? The prompt that's worth its weight in words looms over my head as my nine year old and I plonk in the couch and write away! 

Long back, in the kingdom of Vijayanagaram, lived a wise and just king named Krishnadevaraya. The said king was a super hero of sorts - He did everything. He slayed the enemies by the day and by night, he swooned over the literary prowess of his prized eight Poets - called as the 'Ashtadhiggajas" Meaning the eight powerful Elephants. Now each of the eight had their claim to fame with their illustrious  works, but one of them inspired generation after generation with his wit, humor and extraordinary spontaneity.

Legend has it that Tenali Ramarishna - fondly know as Ramakrishna Kavi in the court of Vijayanagara, was once approached by the Goddess almighty herself and was offered a choice between picking enormous knowledge  or copious wealth. The catch, mind you - was this or that! And our mischevious hero, asking to see the symbolic elixirs of weatlth and wisdom upclose, mixes them both and gulps them before one could have blinked.

The flustered Goddess was perhaps charmed by his sly, but outwardly blesses - curses him to be a Vikatakavi - a Palindrome - of a title that is supposed to keep Ramakrishna kavi in a seesaw of the aforementioned boons of wealth and wisdom.

I know, I drag RamakrishnaKavi out of nowhere into a subject matter that is supposed to stroll along a seashore or a mountain trail. It is probably because the nature lover in me cannot choose one over the other. I'd take the trail and tread down gently from a higher altitude while admiring the view and reach the beach to find some seashells and enjoy as the tepid waters lick my barefeet.

Mountains raise my spirits and make me soar in spiritual highs while the beach grounds me and anchors my human turbulence. How am I to choose one?

This n That (Writing with the kid #2)

Last December, I made a work trip to India. I swapped staying for Christmas with family for a work trip and went all the way to be a part of the workplace I so long to be a part of. The added perks were to fend for myself and myself alone and to live the life of a loner. "But loner sounds so doom and gloom" One might argue. To the closeted introvert, the word is music to the ears. 

So on one such alone trips that was anything but lonely, I met this man from Kashmir. I am a die hard fan of everything Sufi, and to Sufi fans, the name Rumi might be more music to the ears. So when the shopkeeper said "Hello Sister, my name is Rumi" in his sing song voice, I was held captive at the sound of the name. "And may I show you some exclusive pieces all the way from Kashmir?"

I didn't have time. I was just browsing through the isles of a local handicraft hub that is a Mecca of sorts for me - especially during those single work trips I make to my Motherland. And I very well knew how these shopkeepers had a trick or two up their sleeves to convince customers like me to buy things they don't really need with the money they don't really intend to spend. 

I knew it was a slow day. Besides, I was promised the dekko of some intricately hand embroidered shawls. Now shawls and I are an extension of one another. Stoles, scarves, shawls - no matter what I choose to call them, one of those thingies coiled around my neck feels like a mother's hug, and a daughter’s caress. And any self respecting art lover worth his/ her salt would pay some homage to handcrafted goods - won't they? At least  by taking a pause and smelling the proverbial roses on the busy hub-dub of the daily grind.

Rumi pulled a little cabin-bag  to his side and sat down on the cushioned floor of his shack like store structure. He paused, opened the zipper and looked up at me with a smile. "Sister, you are going to catch your breath looking at these pieces. Each one is painstakingly done by old and experienced gentlemen and ladies who are experts at this craft"

I was already transformed into the mountains - Glaciers in the background, grazing the clear teal skyes and birds chirping away while old men with long, cotton like beards and kind, soulful eyes would look down into their emroidery frames, sewing magic with their nimble fingers. 

Rumi kept whipping one out shawl after the other, with reverence, and opening them like he had held the most precious thing known to human race. "Look at this piece" - he unleashed a full size shawl before me, holding on to the edges and gently tossing the delicate garment out - where in beautiful and stunningly arranged colors burst out on fine cashmere in assorted florals and avifauna. And at that very moment, I felt not just the holding of my breath, but a feeling akin to falling in love. My gut felt fluffy like little critters were prancing around inside it and my heart raced like a gazelle. 

"How much is this one?" I asked, like I had found the one and am not interested to look further. At this point Rumi insisted that I went through his whole stash and I did. Only to flip the stack back and look at the one that caught my attention.

What ensued was gasps, horror, insistence of how pretty the artwork is and how not a millionaire I am to fund such purchases. 

Rumi persisted. Or may be the glaciers and the old artisans persisted, or may be the art lover in me persisted. Or it probably was a meant to be moment. 

I came home with the shawl tucked into my tote with utmost reverence. I opened it, clicked pics, flaunted it to close friends and folded it back into a neat rectangle and tucked it into a soft kora garment bag - and I don't recollect carrying any material possession  as carefully as I had carried home the shawl. One day I dream of a great grand kid that would hold an heirloom shawl in his/her hands and wonder whether he/ she should wear it, preserve it, or frame it and hang it on a wall - so it blesses everyone that passes that way with a viewing!

And that perhaps, would be the best thing my money bought so far, unless some other Rumi in some other handicraft hub would indulge the unassuming me into thinking that by buying the work of art, I'd made the universe smile, and an artisan live and let their art go on to posterity  

Cause I had to write..

(..Otherwise my child wouldn't)

Recently I read something. 

Someone asked Stephen King how he writes so much, so fast. 

His response was simple. He said he aims to write six pages a day, done and dusted. So if he was to write a 200/ 300 page novel that would be like finishing a novel in matter of weeks. 

That makes absolute sense. Doesn't it? Except procrastinators like me sit and wile away day after day, week after week, that runs into decades to end. 

So what's it with revamping our procrastination profile? Lately, when I work and see how the world works, I see that it is more common than we think - this habit to procrastinate. Another genius modern thinkers of our time - Robert Greene - opined that we need to have a sense of urgency to tackle life and what we intend to do, because life zooms past before we know and we also never know when we are called back.

As we speak, I sit here with my 9 yr old, trying to make her do what I had been absconding for a while now. "We need to write everyday" I tell her, It is very important to keep our commitments to learning. 

We were supposed to write about making our lives into a movie, with the plot intact, but add characters from fiction to enhance our plots. 

Like I would want Harry (potter) to be my best friend. Well, I wouldn't assume the role of Hermione. Let's leave her alone and not water her down. And may be I'd want Albus Dumbledore to be my mentor. Would it be safe to say that I'd want JK Rowling to write my life plot?

Oh wait - Let's approach Mani Ratnam. And make him sprinkle his leading men (and ladies) around me to enhance my procrastination laden excuse of a life. 

No - I should loiter around Imtiaz's characters. Aditya, Sejal, The Matargasti duo - forgot their names. I remember someone telling me that they would want Murakami to write their life story. Speaking of Haruki, I have to confessions  to make about my 'to read' hall of shame. I commence and re commence to read him and I stop around chapter 3 - like one would let go of the gym and eating healthy resolutions made on Jan 1st right around the time valentine’s day approaches. 

Yeah right. Write!

And read.

Life - is too short, to even be little!

Retrospect

 The other day, I was speaking with one of my friends, someone who's known me long enough to know me well - and told them that if there's a spirit character of mine, it has to be Geet from "Jab we met"

"Are you your favorite then?" the question came before I could blink. 

Except I went speechless. After a long pause came another question.

"Then why do you call her your spirit character?"

I didn't have an answer. I went into a thinking spiral and said "Yeah, I don't know why I identify with her the most of all the characters I watched"

The conversation drifted to other topics, Though My brain didn't. I wasn't sure why I thought Geet and I had the same spirt, albeit with surface differences. I am not as lively as her, and no I don't chat up random strangers and go on a talk marathon - but when I connect with someone, I have the tendencies to be a Geet.

Around 3am our time, the thought of "Why am I like Geet, if I am not like Geet" was on a loop in my nocturnal head. And then something happened.

I pulled up my phone, squinted in the dark. 

"Geet didn't love herself, she wasn't her favorite" I texted to my friend who resides in another time zone.

"Why so?" came the instant response with a surprise emoji in tow. 

And thus, triggered the subtext of what Imtiaz Ali would have meant when he morphed into Geet and made her say what she said. In the context of the dialogue, a morose Aditya is just warming up to the very extroverted  Geet. When she exclaims how she would have fallen for him, had she not been into a committed relationship and adds something in the lines of "Just imagine - me falling for you" Aditya says - "You love yourself don't you? and she responds in her characteristic enthusiasm saying "Main Apni Favorite hoon" - a tagline that probably launched a thousand memes, and that many more oohs and aahs, to a point where it arguably became the one liner that the film got identified with. 

So where did we miss the subtext bus with this line? What do people that love themselves do when they are faced with rejection? Do they become frail shadows of their former selves, forgetting to talk, smile or even think of the family that would coddle and comfort them in times of crisis? Then why did Geet say she is her favorite? Is it just an involuntary confirmation she offered to Aditya without meaning what she said? - quite possible right? 

The Geet that Aditya thought he saw would have done one of the following in the event of being dumped.

* Do a live session of the gaalis then and there, when Anshuman rejects her. 

* Move on, say nothing - just show her disappointment to him and return home by the next quickest transportation available , do a customary little grieving  if that and move on to her next adventure, with or without a guy on her arm. 

'That would not make the plot the plot' - you might argue. What if I said, it wasn't there for the plot but for real, and Geet didn't love herself all along! She was too vested into the world - She was concerned about the long face of a fellow traveller, she was bothered when someone she just met missed the train. She didn't shrug her shoulders and go on with her self love when Aditya didn't seem to be interested in her banter. Geet wore a mask of self love. For real, she had love for everyone and everything except herself. She needed another person to come pull her out of the slump of rejection. Geet didn't love herself. She didn't!

Imtiaz did put a little red herring in there, with that "Main apni favorite hoon" - it is probable that many givers like Geet are led to believe that they are indulging  in themselves when they give love. It is probably how the Geets of the world end up, in a slump when the love they project onto the world doesn't reflect back onto them. It is probably why the likes of me and many more identify with Geet though they don't gaslight themselves into believing that they are their own favorite. 

So what did Geet learn in the end? 

And as her spirit human, I aspire to learn it too!

 

Love is a superpower that saves the world. And when we give it all away and don't save even a little for ourselves, we render ourselves broke. We lose ourselves.

Let's be our favorites - all while saving the lost ones on the brim of giving up, while making sure others don't miss their trains. 

    Let's mean it while we say it!

Reminder

 

I lot of things got on to the back burner lately, and the cocoon that this little soliloquy of a blog is supposed to be, got off the burner all together. So as the sixth day of the ninth month arrives, the little caterpillar does a little wiggle inside - remembering that the metamorphosis is in progress.