Why can't I write?

It was in third grade - in Sr Gracy's class that I discovered my love for writing, ever since it was nurtured by many good teachers that crossed my path and of course with my own appetite for writing. I used to look for topics to write and ponder upon, often getting cues from my older sister and her home work. The first time I learned about picture essays - I was thrilled to no end. It just intrigued the thinker in me to weave words around a picture. Often in mid term exams when we used to be shuffled to different classes to write our tests, I used to find myself amid seniors - and then, peep into their language question papers to see what they were asked to write about. I knew it as a child, that I was born to imagine, to write and to articulate the many thoughts that crossed my grey matter. It was easy back then, almost effortless to write, since I was borderline over confident, considered myself an ace writer and had an immense interest for books. I would write limericks on the go, amuse my friends with my verses and boy was it great for my ego when the little girls and boys clamored around me before language exams to get some jump- start openings for possible essay topics that would be asked in the exam. I was a celebrity in my own right - a little soul that basked in the glory of self love.
When my sixth grade language teacher asked for me in the class after reading the original essay that I wrote in my mid term test, it put a whole new life into my love for being original. "except for a couple of spelling mistakes" she said "you did so good on the essay" - it was about books that I pondered upon, keeping the words in the limits of good grammar and structure. It was in a class of 54 that I alone wrote this essay, the rest of them wrote what they committed to their memory form the notes the teacher gave.

Then the yearning to describe, to write more and to express emerged. I used to describe faces - from Albert Einstein  to Amithab Bachchan. I used to write essays about fur babies and summer vacations. In that phase, I used to collect quotes - examined them and tried to give them my own take. I was greatly influenced by the excerpts from classics that unfolded in my English texts. Character analysis was my forte. I remember writing in detail about the introspection Dr. Christian Bernard goes through while performing the first heart transplant surgery. The line between thoughts and words was obliterated and to an extent, I guess, the line between words and wisdom. I used to interpret poetry, write my own utterly crappy lines in an effortless, incessant flow and somehow, it all seemed to be nothing less than masterpieces.

And then, I grew up - I majored in Literature and owing to a full time job, never really had a chance to attend any of the correspondence classes that were conducted by the university. I took aid of school teachers, study guides and my own language intuition to face the tests of knowledge. Somehow, miraculously, I completed my undergrad in literature with decent scores. In the meanwhile, my writing was confined to letters - the snail mail version of the nineties. Letters to my high school from another city, a few to my local friends (I think it helps when you are a teenager and you love writing) and to a cousin that was a pen friend of sorts. Writing letters was a ritual that I took immense pride in. I would buy eclectic note pads, use fine felt tip markers and etch my feelings in perfect cursive - another part of my writing that I loved to pieces. I know, I am probably sounding like a borderline egotist - or may be a full fledged one - but all in the name of "love for writing"

So, the blog came into being post matrimony. But somehow the spontaneity to write depleted as I grew older. I would wait for the perfect idea to cross my mind - sometime for months together  - since I became more conscious of what I would write about. May be it was lack of confidence in my own thoughts or an ambition to sound sophisticated, I looked to write about profound, thought provoking things. Often, ideas come to me in the most unlikely moments - the short phase of semi consciousness before sleep, while backing up my car in a school parking lot or while shopping for green groceries in the local store. Something totally unrelated would come and hit my mind and then a wonderful idea would bloom - "Today I'd write about parenting" I'd make a mental note "Today I'd write a steamy love story filled with passion" "Today I'd write about negotiation" -  my mind would jump from one empty thought to another and finally when I log into my virtual space to record my thoughts - an endless abyss of emptiness shrouds my mind. In the meanwhile, the love affair with the word building blocks continues. Finally, after hitting a good two and a half decades of calling writing my passion, I think, I am making an attempt to give it my best. A thought might hit, and the thought might not really be a hit but I still vow to write - be it about endless egotistic chatter in the name of writing, or just meaningless words, strung in a desperate attempt to look lovely. "WHY CAN"T I WRITE?" my mind shouts back at me - I'll shut that question off for now - and for a good time to come. Here's hoping, while drifting into the infinite loop of thinking, that, this question would always find an answer when ever the non-writer attempts to over come the writer's block.

Jan 26

Republic days were fun when I was a kid. The school used to have flag hoisting and back at home, we used to religiously clamor around our portable black and white television with present always static to watch the parade near India Gate, Delhi. The capital city used to unfold it's idyllic charm on me with fog filled skies and everything around it seemed to be in great harmony, just like the parade itself. It was fun to be patriotic and serious business. There were a few songs I learned during that period of time that sung about the glory of Mother India - and even at an age under ten, it used to give me goose bumps and an adrenaline rush to my brain with the unmistakable sensation of patriotism. The week's Chitrahaar used to air all such songs and me with my limited knowledge in Hindi used to grapple hard to remember the lyrics for my bathroom singing - with the same set of reactions from my body - the goose bumps et al. 


I look back and see that I don't seem to love my country as much as I did as a child. I mean, I am proud to be Indian, proud of it's rich culture but the innocent and sincere pride that housed in my heart every time I read about a freedom fighter or heard patriotic music is no where to be seen in my adulthood. I sit and ponder as to why! Is it because we get to take things for granted as we grow up or does the exposure to the world make us more out of tune with the things around us? I don't know if it is making sense - my pointless ponder and questions there of, but do we really take things for granted as we grow old? - do things change or do we change? 


I am out of touch with the kind of hoopla they have in the current day to celebrate National holidays so I wishfully think that there is still the same kind of patriotism that the current generation experiences watching the parade and hoisting the flag in educational institutions. Are Gandhi, Patel and Bhagat Singh still the glorious heroes of our past or did we substitute them? Does the telly still play retro reels of a black and white era hero singing the praise of "mere desh ki dharti sona ugle, ugle heere moti" and does such kind of music still give goose bumps to kids in the maiden decade of their lives? I can only wonder on the other side of the hemisphere. 


Love for country apart - The republic day of my 20th year got me a surprise that I can never ever forget. Towards the end of noon on Jan 26th, the post man came and knocked on our door with a telegram addressed to me. I got the door, signed for it and tore it with trembling hands as to why and who had the urgency to send me a telegram out of the blue. To my relief I discovered it was a greeting telegram and wondered who was sending me birthday wishes in January. The telegram read 


Sincere greetings for the republic day. Long live the  Republic.




And under it was a name that rang a bell...not a name that jumped at me and said - "okay, it is such and such person". It took me a couple of seconds to recognize the not so familiar name to surface to my active memory. It was from a high school class mate. Needless to say, me and my whole gang of friends (come to think of it, I always had very few friends in life - I had a lot of acquaintances but only a very few friends) had a hearty laugh. The same republic day that brought lofty thoughts and raised heart beats became a mere "National holiday" in the matter of a decade! And, in my defense, I can just say that the friend in question is not a die hard "Desh Bhakt" himself - he just took the advice of a mischief maker to keep sending greetings to the one you love just so she doesn't forget you while she is back at her home town. Sometimes it is a wonder how people look at us - we don't even know they are looking at us in a certain way be it with love or with loathe - but we do leave imprints - perhaps surface scratches or even deeper wounds on the hearts who take us to heart with varied emotions. We can only wonder why! 


And sometimes I wonder, if we just take all kinds of things for granted as we age. At that point in time, I'd just laughed the telegram off - but I look back and think if it made sense just to reciprocate the greeting and the thought behind it without ridiculing it. 


May be, We seem to change. The things around us remain the same! :-)

Bag it!

When I was in fourth grade, my grandparents visited Shirdi, the temple town of SaiBaba, which wasn't as popular then as it is now. (Their prayer room used to have a life size framed art of the spiritual guru in a mystical, monochromatic look.) When they came back, they bought me and my cousins little gifts. My brother got a wooden bullock cart toy and my little sister got wooden utensils for her kitchen role play and my older sister and I got Bags - brightly striped ones, made with canvas like cotton material in red and yellow! It was then that the 'seed' of my fascination for bags came into being. In that bag, I used to carry my books to school. Often times I used to wonder how the stripes were quilted together, also introducing me to the awe of color and pattern. I did, ever since, continue my very committed fling with bags. During my school days, when I used to visit my grandparents in their town, I used to sit in the front porch of their busy street looking longingly at cotton handbags that hung in the windows of the hand loom store that was bang opposite my grandparents' house. "Haryana Handlooms" the hoarding read. Knowing the place from my geography lessons the shop sold me dreams of owing a colorful, thick and luscious bag made of the softest natural fibers in a distant land up north that had fancy salwar suits and light skinned ladies with long, healthy braids. As I grew older, into a teenager and moved out of town to attend high school, my mom bought me an oversized purse like book bag in  a stiff PVC material. I loved it then, only to realize a back pack would have been more age appropriate. I still love it though! :) Then the annual visit to the industrial exhibition in Hyderabad used to up my hopes for acquiring handbags in the same enthusiasm as an art connoisseur would acquire antiques. I remember falling flat for a fur (hopefully faux) bag in one of those stalls and bargaining for it till I crossed the sensitive limits of bargaining and got told off by the shop keeper. I remember muttering an apology and flashing the meager contents of my purse in an attempt to tell him that my bargaining skills weren't meant to disgrace his business acumen. It was not until I landed my prized job before I turned eighteen that I could fund my pretty petty love for bags - even then, sparingly. Mid nineties weren't today definitely, where a hundred rupee not still carried a lot of value. Having a steady income as a central government employee did do wonders to my confidence and love for bags and thus, bags were acquired in periodic intervals. I remember buying a beautifully embroidered velvet bag with resin trim that created a little tempest in the ticket booking office of the railway station in that little town - Lady colleagues swooning over the design, men colleagues inquiring about the shop I bought it at. I did end up giving it away to a cousin that fell for it. I seemed to like off beat bags, shapeless sacks, often over sized ones that overpowered my then lanky frame. I was told by numerous young men that my bags attempt at making me look a) old, b) odd, c) fashion challenged d) all of the above! But I guess I'd been the off beat minimalist all my life that liked organic looking stuff. I used to craft envelope like bags out of burlap, sew formless sacks out of soft cotton fabric (thanks to the sewing skills I picked up in my mom's craft school) and then tote them around like a model with attitude on a sizzling ramp - except that my choice of bags made people notice me for the wrong reasons. Like any other young and available woman might do, I did attract my share of prospective suitors that used to make calls on my office phone to try their luck at putting me down by making funny remarks about my then dull, jaded and distressed looking bag made of the muddiest possible earth toned suede patches. I took tremendous pride in that bag. It carried my sketch pad, a magazine, a book and other paraphernalia, mostly chewing gum, lip balm and a little coin purse. It was supposed to be a cross body bag. Since I didn't really like wearing it like a messenger bag, I remember making a knot at the top of the handle to shorten it's length. I think, that alteration didn't really help with the general look of it anyway ;-)


In the meanwhile, I did yearn and long for a genuine leather hand bag. Once during my visit to the city, I went around the bustling busy streets looking for a genuine leather handbag. On that fateful trip, I learnt all I could about PVC, the vinyl that was sold in most places as genuine leather. I learned how it smelled, like artificial something as opposed to the rich, intense smell of leather (Did anyone check out the new Fendi fragrance? wasn't it supposed to have a leather note? - don't quote me on that though :-P) And finally, when I found the perfect shade of the perfect leather bag in a perfect little store, I walked out sans the bag as it was only four times the price of what I intended or afforded to spend on it. Not until my hubby bought me my first little flap bag by Nine west did I own something in leather. 


My migrating to the USA put a whole new life into my handbag fetish - thankfully, I never really looked
 at an LV or even a  Hermes Berkin, ( except the beautiful black one carried by Hina rabbari Khar, Pakistan's looker of a minister) as something drool worthy. I have some branded bags, mostly the ones I'd strategically purchased during sales and in outlets but as I grow older, I realize that a brand is just a hype around a name. I would still get attracted to the burlap sacs that bring in my rice from the grocery store. Once in a while, I save the bags in a hope to transform them into a handbag  adorned with some abstract cross stitching in bright yarn. I pick up the bargain deals in handmade bags embellished with mirrors and shells on the busy streets of Mumbai and wear them proudly on my trips to the mall, grocery store and the school pick up and drop off. A bag has come to mean a lot to me - a lot of symbolism, like the baggage I choose to carry. It makes me feel prepared to face the world, to feel self equipped. It symbolizes to me the very different take I have on accessories in particular and fashion sense in general. I might one day, very soon, renounce leather - one of my favorite materials along with silk only as a vegetarian that doesn't want to kill life for vanity. I might do it one day, I might not! But my burlap fascination will last me a long time to come. I know, I know - it might not make a particularly great statement about my style - but it does, hopefully make a unique one.  

Fiction

Here's a little piece of a characterization that dawned upon me in one of those Eureka moments;-) This is going to be an utterly cr@PPy first draft - so please bare with any mistakes:)

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     She looks through the window of the passing train that comes to a gradual halt on the platform. The tinted windows of the compartment lends its jaded color to the scene outside. Licensed porters running and boarding the train, chai wallahs, newspaper vendors - the whole world seems to be concise into that narrow and long strip of concrete. She gets up absentmindedly, lifting her handbag and small suitcase. Her young face shows signs of fatigue from the long journey. A beautifully dull red dress drapes her like a silk valance on a sunny window. She grabs her book by one hand. "Anna Karenina" the title reads. One could say she is a forlorn soul from the inside though her bright face with acne scars that replace a blusher begs to differ. Her intense gaze looks like it is protected by a pair of thick, pronounced eye brows. Her hair is pulled back into a neat braid without even a wisp falling on to her face. She is effortlessly pretty - perhaps beautiful!
   
      She carefully places a foot on the platform, walking briskly and disappearing into the crowd. The place doesn't seem to have changed in the past couple of years. She was eighteen when she left this place, now she is all grown up pushing on 21. She walks out of the station, looking past a sea of faces - she doesn't seem to notice any of those. An auto wallah comes to offer his services. She gets into the auto and gives him some precise directions. The auto lumbers forward with a few jerks and merges into the bedlam of the cosmopolitan traffic that seems to embrace two wheelers, expensive auto mobiles and generously sprinkled pedestrians with dirty, noisy and open arms. A constant and loud sounding of random horns from random vehicles interrupt her thoughts. She looks out peacefully, and stuffs the book into her over sized quilted cotton handbag. 

        Her face freezes when she sees him driving past her on a scooter.
"Had he seen me?" She ponders in her mind. He didn't seem to have changed much - the same hair style, cleanly shaven face and a under-confident look that is plastered onto his face like a permanent fixture. "Kalidas" his name flashes in her mind. She resists the urge to bend forward and look back not wanting to call for his attention. It seems pointless now. A young man of 20 may be he was? Layers of the past unfold in her heart. The same under confident, diffident lad that used to borderline stalk her. Walk behind her till she reached her class room. It took some time for her constantly pre-occupied mind to actually acknowledge the face that followed her like a shadow day in and day out. May be it helped that he used to study in the same campus - May be he just came to see her instead of doing what ever he was supposed to do. The fact that irked her more than his stalking was his tagging along with a friend while he was on his "silent admirer form a distance" stalking period. Besides she knew that the outward appearance of hers is only half as alluring as her mind. She took great pride in her thoughts, her views on life. She thrived more in the fact that her eighteen year old mind fathomed deep, thoughtful ponders. She would thus, generally disapprove any attraction that seemingly came from the way she looked. She wanted a man to talk to her, to be charmed by her gentle ways - her simplicity of thought and no nonsense approach towards everything.

      One day while she walked to the college, he stalked her the usual way with the usual clean shaven, under confident look on his face. She fought her urge to look back when she heard brisk steps past her shoulder. She increased her already march-past like gait. He jumped right in front of her holding a letter in his hands. her intense gaze pierced through his scared face - her eyebrows knotting in disapproval. She resisted the urge to open her mouth and reprimand him. But then he didn't budge. Against her own will she had to open her mouth and manage to say something clear and loud - she tries to recollect what she said to him and then lets it go. But he - the already, hopelessly infatuated lad had a new fond attraction towards her. Her voice - that sounded like a soothing waterfall - he perhaps had a glimpse into what she would have wanted him to fall for - her personality, her character and strength. She walked past him and hurried into a run to safely escape to the comfort of her classroom. She didn't look back to see the clean shaved, under confident face colored with an awe like never before. "You kill me" He exclaims under his breath and goes his way only to come back yet again with renewed love for the maiden!

     "Kalidas" - his name resonates in her mind that is  reminiscent of the past...."Wait a minute" Her mind questions her - "What's his real name?" "What is the name of the most sincerest, albeit irking admirer you had?" She lets out a little gasp..she had not known his name at all! "Kalidas" he was christened by her because he sends a book with the friend that he used to tag along to one of her friends. A book that was filled with juvenile, broken sentences in random languages that professed his sincere, undying love for her. She skims through it, letting out a little chuckle, a muffled laughter but not one bit of what he aims to get out of her - LOVE - she couldn't buy into any of those sentiments.

      The day she had to go talk to him, she had to ask another friend to come along - she didn't choose to talk to him - his friend came and begged her to come and say what she wanted to say directly to him. His anticipating eyes, slightly misty, were fixed on her gorgeous face - her full lips mouthed some seemingly distant and cold words "Leave me alone" "Why do you stalk me?" And then, an urge - a folding of hands before him to let her be in peace. She turned back without letting him react - suppressing a want to look back and watch for his reactions. She never saw him again - up until now. "What could his name be?" she wondered - What did his face tell his name was? Then she considered her own name - "Shanti" - she thought it was ironical of her uncle to have chosen that name for her -the restless soul that jumped from a ponder to another.  Her thoughts reflect back on her reactions to Kalidas - did she ridicule him since he was all over her? How else could she have dealt with a love that she could never return? More nicely? More softly? She couldn't find an answer to her questions.

     May be it shall take her some loving and some heart break to address some silly queries her mind pops up once in a while.

     
     

FAQs

Last night, just as the sleep goddess came to grace me by gently drifting me into divine slumber, a touch of brilliance flashed in my semi conscious grey matter - FAQs - frequently askable questions that is! I resisted the urge to get up and record my brilliance :-D and thankfully unlike most of the midnight profundities that come and go in semi sleep, this one spark stayed with me all the day, marinating in my endangered mind and thus, the pretext to skip blogging with something called "writer's block" doesn't happen todaySo back to where it is supposed to be - FAQs are the other version of the FAQs we have for others every where we go from businesses, to service organizations to individuals. These versions of the questions are the ones that we as people should keep asking to ourselves from time to time. My interaction with some specimens actually nudged me to think of why and how we need to do a little interrogation with ourselves time and time again, just to keep the stupidity quotient of ours in check. So here goes my desperate attempt to not be one of those specimens I encounter on a day to day basis - Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting  the Frequently Askable Questions. May be you can insert your own answers in the brackets.

*What are the easiest things to have?
 (Opinions and excuses)

*Why are people  nice to me?
   (More often than not, I'd want to believe that I deserve it - but the actual reason is that people are nice to me because they are well mannered and nice people to begin with and it is good if I respect that  fact and reciprocate that niceness.)

* Why should I be nice to nice people?

    (Because nice people are getting fewer and fewer and being nice to them encourages them to continue to be nice and shall probably inspire many others to take the same road.)

* Why should I not shout at soft people?

   (For obvious reasons. If you are a submissive person, it doesn't mean that you have a tattoo on your forehead that says "come and walk allover me" - it is not an accomplishment to vent your frustrations on nice people - if we are humans enough, we should use that energies to bully bullies :-D

*Why is it much easier to pass judgement on others while being blissfully unaware of my own faults?

  (Because, I as human am susceptible to a self love called "Ego". My ego rules my world and makes me blind to my own shortcomings, and just because I don't notice my faults, they don't cease to exist)

* Am I a hypocrite

(Yes, I probably am)

*Why do I extend my judgement skills to little kids?

(well, just because I don't discriminate)

*What is my statement mannerism?

(smile? ignoring others? rolling eyes ever so slightly when I see someone in good clothing, cars or homes?)

*Why am I curious about other people's lives?

(Probably because I am a miserable low life myself and I can know more about others and a) judge them as show offs b) be jealous of them and make lowly remarks to put them down  c) I don't have anything better to do with my time)

*Why do I take all the efforts to make someone feel bad?

( because I am jealous of them)

*What stops me from recognizing someone's accomplishments and paying a genuine compliment?

(a) My self love which warns me that saying something nice to others will make them look down upon me b) I just don't see much of appreciable work around me c) ignoring others' good qualities makes me deal with my own lack of them.)

*Why don't I say sorry or thanks as often as I am supposed to say?

( a) I am impeccable and I don't need anyone's favors  b) I don't have a habit of apologizing for others' mistakes and thanking for what I rightly deserve to get.)

* If there is one thing I can do - what will it be? Will it be for myself? for my family and friends? or for the world? Will it be for revenge and hatred or for love and kindness?

*Why do I behave like I am here to stay and I why don't I realize that I cannot take anything that I accumulate with me?

  ( Because I am a fool!)

*Why do I rewrite rules for myself?

   ( for my own convenience.)

* Why do I overly defend something I do or say?

 (May be the pesky conscience is flashing a "guilty" flag!)

* Why do I see negative things around me more than the positives?

(because I am a negative person)

Well, there are some more that skip the mind at the moment - but I shall one day, make a laundry list of positive FAQs inspired by the wonderful people I ran into :-D

Keep the FAQs rising and keep finding the answers. God Bless.

Newness

Honestly, 2012 doesn't feel like a New Year. My family was here last night - we waited till 12 midnight, cut the cake and did the celebratory kick off of the year with something sweet and then everything magically seemed to have settled into a harmony. There were no resolutions made, since I know I am very prone to breaking them - instead I thought I'd approach the New year with a normalcy and a little effort to be as productive as I can be. So, internet time should be curtailed to blogging instead of Facebooking or Youtubing! The biggest challenge of my day to day chores is to scour the dishes - I seem to enjoy the chopping and cooking, but cleaning is a totally different animal - and when the cleaning involves dishing, it is a nightmare of the first order. I have a momentary block to reach out for the dirty dishes - and then I ignore it and reach for them - pumping foam onto the scouring pad and wiping away the pots and pans - Boring I know - both dishing and blogging about it like it is para sailing where you get to see an awesome view of the world below while defying gravity! :-D Okay, back on track - I had to mention dishing because, today I seemed to have consciously not let any of them pile up in the sink - the moment something hits the sink to be cleaned - it is cleaned. And considering the fact that I cooked three meals for 8 people today - I am awfully proud of the "operation dishing". As mundane as boring this exercise seems to be, it did drive home a point to me - when you do things when they are to be done, the effort taken to do them seems to cut into a fraction of how much tedious it gets when you procrastinate it. Imagine - one deep sink, piled up with pots, pans, dinner plates, water cups, mugs, cutlery - some of them tilting and overflowing the sink in an odd angle - the sight seems to make the whole surrounding a mess - forget the surrounding - the whole house a mess. When they are promptly attended to and put away, I was amazed at how vast the whole counter top and the kitchen looked and how well kept the home seemed. So, the very obvious lesson reinstated itself into my little brain today. Do what needs to be done when it needs to be done. Did I tell you, I am always preoccupied. ALWAYS - my mind is so volatile, extremely infidel if I could say so. It keeps jumping from a branch of thought to another - almost like a monkey haywire in a banana grove. Thoughts keep coming into my mind without a break - so I do have an attention span of a five year old when it comes to staying in the moment. Sometimes I drag my grey cells to be in the moment. It tires me since that is going against my core. So, I thought - may be all connoisseurs  of  arts like reading, writing, sculpting, singing, painting and the whole nine yards are actually thinkers? Okay, why should I be partial to arts? All science professionals as well are thinkers - the architects, scientists, programmers, mathematicians, teachers - you get the idea! The other day, I had this funny thought that crossed my mind - I wanted to say out loud that I am a "Thinker" - and just for a flash of a second I paused and thought about what being a thinker actually means. And, to my disbelief, I immediately discovered that being a thinker doesn't mean much at all - being a Doer is what walks away with the cake. The other day I was pitching in my language love saying that the best of ideas are futile if they are not articulated! - may be the best of ideas are futile even when they are articulated - not until and unless they are executed. So from dishing to blogging - my expectation for 2012 is as simple and complicated as it can get - "Keep thinking, and keep executing what you are thinking as you are thinking. The heap of teaspoons that end up in the dish don't end up there anymore. I slather them with soap, rinse them to a shine and place them in the caddy to dry -  only hoping that the debris of thoughts that pile up in the mind would be handled in a similar fashion.

I don't do the dishwasher - (LOL) sounds funny but what I meant to say is that the dishwasher somehow complicates the already complicated task of dishing.  :-D

Here's wishing a wonderful 2012 and may 12/12/12 come and go - making a ridicule of itself!

God Bless.

DeGeneration.

The disdainful walk,

The chewing of gum

As a statement of rebellion.

Bullying their way

Through discussions

Opinions and observations.

Monkeys on hormone high

Making rudeness their language.

Vandalizing etiquette

Walking over manners.

Are these attributes of Juvenileness

Or just a general Attitude

That cusses with profanities

And calls it the language of coolness?

From when did politeness and respect towards others become so outdated??

Nostalgia

Being a small towner had its great advantages. Almost every one I ran into knew my father. People were friendly, neighborhoods were closely knit and the peace and quiet of being in a suburb prevailed. going to school in a manually pulled rickshaw was a lesson of life too..though it seems almost inhuman now to think of one man riding a carriage of half a dozen kids back and forth from the school that was in the literal outskirts of the town :-) I used to sit at the end of the coupe, looking out longingly at wall posters of movies, graffiti and the random cattle grazing on the sides of the road. Streets were not as busy, people weren't either. School was the crux of excitement - it opened me to a vastness that figuratively found place in my heart. Huge campus, neatly stacked building and a portico overlooking a painstakingly nurtured garden of roses and lilies. The one thing that held my attention for the biggest point of time was the statue of Mother Mary, holding Jesus Christ. It was built with great aesthetics, looked like a shallow cave paved with stone bricks on the outside almost feeling like a shell in which Baby Jesus was cradled. I used to walk into the premises, eyes fixated on the statue - observing the Anglo Indian teacher and sisters that stopped by to say a silent prayer. They used to close their eyes, move their lips in a hushed prayer and bring their wrists upto their shoulders in a mesmerizing movement. The little girl in me was endlessly charmed, to a point where I used to do a funny and incorrect copy of the movement. I was too young to understand religion but Jesus was making his impact on me surely and slowly.

There used to be random questions to my parents - how do you guys look at sending your kids to a Christian Missionary School? Don't you think they'd be brainwashed? etectera...I am eternally thankful to my parents for not letting narrow outlook curb our development as human beings. I was raised as a staunch brahmin kid moderately following all the rituals of Hinduism but that didn't curb my love for a foreign faith that unfolded in the school campus. A dainty and long cross with Jesus adorned the wall, above the blackboard - and I subconsciously used to gaze at that cross while thinking about a math problem or cooking up an imaginative essay. Christ felt like a person in the class without actually being there all the time. I started believing that he existed in the little chapel, in the nooks and crannies of the campus and the Christmas season only reinstated that belief. The fattest of the kids used to get into Santa grab, there used to be hours of entertainment after the much dreaded half-yearly tests and the follow up of a substantial vacation always got the kids excited. The nativity scene used to be played with tennis rackets tied up at the back , cascading with sheer fabrics. A Jesus doll used to be placed in the center with the whole entourage performing in a trance. I used to get goose bumps just like I get now as I go back the memory lane. There were readings from the Bible, songs sung in the praise of the Son of God - the sound and the silence resonated with pure bliss - the bliss of faith. Christmas was a world of its own in the school in the little town. It was a phenomenon that enthralled a little girl to no end. It was a celebration of faith and love, it was indeed the most wonderful time of the year.

Fast forward a couple of decades - it almost feels like Christmas chased me and unfolds to me its many facets and angles. This experience is worlds away form that little idyllic setting but the spirit that it rekindles gets back a part of my childhood. Shopping malls and parking lots overflowing with patrons of Jesus, in the spirit of giving - under all the glitz and glamour of oversized Xmas trees and holiday grab - the spirit of the season seeps into my heart, magically transforming me into an eight year old that moved her hand clumsily around her shoulders. I stuff my shopping cart with random presents - toys, activity pads and a teddy bear for my little one, a hand written note for my love, Espresso maker for my best friend, skincare for my girlfriends on the wrong side of thirty, cook books and baking paraphernalia for my budding star chef God Niece, digital picture frame for a elder brother figure of a friend, Hello Kitty accesories for the kid's best friend, Lightning McQueen for her little brother, Ornate costume jewelry for the bracelet lover friend and odds and ends for the house keeper, the ballet teacher and the neighbor. I pause and think - what has Christmas come to mean for me? Did it really change much from many years ago? I ponder for an answer. I walk out of the cozy mall, busting at seams with the spirit of giving disguised as merchandise. I see volunteers ringing bells and making small talk at the entrance as they open door for Patrons that come to shop. Bits and pieces of the stories of generosity that flash on my comp screen around this time of the season pop up in my heart. I tuck a few dollars in the collection bin, and walk out only to see an overflowing bin of brand new toys donated for the toy drive at ToysRus. A warm feeling floods my entire being - the blinking lights shine in the background with busy shoppers hauling loads - I see them all in red and white and as slightly over weight - with kind smiles and loving gazes...Christmas emerges as more than a religious holiday, The spirit shines through, the trail of thoughts halt - a smile breaks on my pensive face - What do you want for Christmas? Pick something for under the tree, the significant other says...I politely turn down the offer, I seem to get more than I ever ask for during this time of the year - I get to sense the love, the spirit and most importantly, the feeling of being a child again:-)

To be continued.

I grew in a time age and place when being nerdy was the best thing a kid could do. Geeky kids who scored the most marks were teacher's pets and the envy and admiration of classmates. The first ranker would get the highest pedestal of respect in the class. So, it is given that a good report card and place in the top 5 ranks was every parent's dream. I do not recollect my mom sitting with me and making me do my homework - she would just check it at the end of the day, and that too till I was in middle school. Good result on the report card was mandatory though or else the kid would be lectured clear and loud about starting a cottage industry to sell appadams which is equivalent to the present day mom's threat of working in Mc Donalds. Running around in the streets with the pretext of playing was the recreation. There was no ballet, art or tennis involved in our day to day routine and hauling a bag load of books back and forth from home to school was the only activity - amid all this expectation on academics, I strayed on to the path of color, sketch and paint. One fateful afternoon in my second grade, it clicked to my little grey cells that I could actually recreate, or attempt to recreate the painting of a little girl in a frilly dress and a bonnet that adorned my notebook cover. I promptly began to draw on a piece of paper - the teacher, who was filling in for an absent colleague, walked to my table, looked at the picture and asked if I drew it. My hazy, unformed ego was flattered and thus the self taught, mediocre, imitation of an artist came into being. Ever since, I tried to copy the images of Gods and goddesses on the complimentary calendars that decorated our blah walls. Sometimes they turned out good, sometimes bad and at other times they were down right ugly - but who was paying heed anyway about the quality of those sketches? Art was my escape, it was my fulfillment. It was a bonafied testimonial to my self discovered talent. I was at it consciously, subconsciously and every level of consciousness in between.

In the meanwhile, many assessments came and went and there was the pressing pressure of academics as usual. I think somewhere down the line, the integral part of art in a child's life was totally undermined. Actually, it did go unnoticed till it dawned upon me that, though I am a self taught artist, I had it in me to teach the same technique to my child and see her appreciate art if not excel at it. Now I started teaching little kids - as little as 3 something and it does sound very ambitious and pressing to teach a barely 4 year old the nuances of art - but believe me,

Self worth

I once tagged a family member as the most intelligent person I'd known - this intelligent person in question is a one digit ranker in the famous IIT JEE, attended an Ivy league school on full scholarship and finished his PhD and went to become a very sought after researcher in his field - all from the humble beginnings of a small town boy from India. Now - this most intelligent person I know came back to me saying that he is not the most intelligent person I know - in fact one of his seniors from IIT who happened to go to school with me is the most intelligent person I know. Well, the person I'd mentioned as intelligent is a very straight forward no nonsense person and would not waste time in false humility. So that got me thinking! I had the good fortune to know another older person in my social circle who basically does not have any illustrious achievements to his kitty and barely talks sense in his egotistic conversations - I am sure, he would rate himself as the most intelligent person I or anyone who knows him knows! Complicated indeed! So what is up with how we rate ourselves? Well, my ponder attempts to unearth this mystery. Let's put it this way - I thought I was a good singer till I heard those little kids in the reality shows sing - I thought I was a good writer till I read the numerous talented bloggers on the world wide web and I thought I was a good artist till I saw some amazing works of art by budding students in an art gallery. When we are a the proverbial frogs in the well - we are the rulers of the well...but we are in such ignorance that there is a whole world that exists beyond our little well. Let me not boast too much about how mature I am for my thirty four year old head - but I do think that I's seen enough of the world to rate myself humbly - and truly humbly. As this special species of homo sapience, we are susceptible to immense self love. When my five year old plays 'angry birds' on TV - she talks about strategy - she blabbers in a mock sophisticated tone trying to teach me the strategy of knocking those 'green piggie thingies' (as she calls them) and every time I win - she duly takes all the credit - "Look" - she exclaims, her face beaming in all that self appreciation "Good, you listened to me - that is the advantage of following my strategy" (did I tell you she has a good blabbering vocab that the language loving momma is proud of) - the other day I told her that she needs to read bigger syllable words like a friend of hers - my point was not to pitch another little girl against her but to tell her that it is always a good practice in life to acknowledge someone who is better than us and try to learn from their example. The toddler got mighty upset. I had to explain it to her that we are not and we cannot be the best in every thing. Between my little girl and my most intelligent relative, I could pretty much figure it out - that it comes naturally to all of us - the art of appreciating ourselves and rating ourselves as the best human beings in all walks of life - but what we need to do is cultivate a sense of how legitimate our self determined self worth is - I only wish that comes naturally to us as well - but alas - it doesn't. When our vision of the world is smaller, our image of ourselves is larger than life - and as our vision of our words expand, we come to realize that we are not spinning the world and what we are is a bird dropping in an ocean:-) How we love ourselves is inversely proportional to how much world we have seen. So the next time we come across, a pompous, self loving egotist - we don't need to put him in his/her place -we should just take mental notes not to transform into those pompous, self loving egotists. After all - rising above the self love is what makes us live a better life and spread the love.

Ponder

This is going to be a very hilariously ironic blog for a overly verbal and vocal person like me, but just for the fun of it, I want to attempt to ponder on the 'expression in action' thought. I think it is a law of physics that opposites attract and to me, attractiveness lies in using fewer words and more actions. Years ago, as a student of language, I used to wonder why my writing instructor used to insist on "Show - Don't tell" exercise while writing. So, instead of saying a flower looks red, the writer should show the hue - probably by describing the hue and not using the word red - tricky isn't it? But then I ended up reading a short story by a creative director of a successful ad agency - The story deals with an abduction. The writer told the whole story without using the word abduction or any of its remote synonyms. I don't know how much of the craft of writing I picked up there - but I did end up being a good reader - my workshop had changed the way I read - not just mere words but the world around me as well. But like I said, this is going to be an ironical blog - so I should admit that I love finding words for people. I am usually the one who supplies words to people who stumble with finding the right word to describe or express something. But ironically, I also realized that in this super fast era of mobile phones and SMSing, we did end up being more about talk and less about action. There is eloquence every where - there is better copy being written for sales pitches. FB status messages baffle me for the kind of articulation this generation has. Just about every thing around me from user manuals to best sellers got better in the craft of words. Ever read Steinbeck? The first book I read of him left me so immensely charmed because of the choice of words. They are so simple and not as flowery or articulate as, say, J K Rowling - while I do not mean any disrespect to Ms. Rowling and her super human spin of imagination and craft of words, I just mean to drive home the point that sometimes, it is not how you say it - it is more about what you are saying. I just hope that this era of communication doesn't take away from the more profound 'action' part that is more essential than anything else. I used to write essays in grade school - we were graded more for the craft of words than the thought or the passion for a given topic. There are hundreds of people around us that do things for us - they might not really open their mouths and tell us how much they love us or what we mean to them - but in their most sincere way, they would pack our lunches, tip toe while we sleep or may be pray for our well being and bask in our smiles. There are millions of little expressions of love that are not captured and condensed into words that miss our notice. There are less articulate people with more intense emotions that bloom into simple actions of love and affection. In fact, there is more action in this world that goes unnoticed than the words that get the royal treatment. We as a generation, have bit into the 'articulation' so much that we are just shutting our minds to things that are unspoken. I think that all eloquence in the world cannot hold a candle to a sincere action. I am guilty as charged for talking more than acting - which I think is the down fall of the world today. May be, we should all focus more on doing things than talking about them - may be we should stop and feel the love that is being expressed in little acts. Helping hands are better than praying lips, thoughtful actions are better than beautiful words:-) Ironical? Indeed!!