Of butterflies: these and those

These winged creatures seem to be dominating my life right now: the nectar-feeding, garden-fluttering, fiancé-favourite variety and the tummy tickling ones. Myriads of butterflies touch and go my insides as I sit here waiting and worrying and imagining how everyone must be practicing their ‘helloes’. V is meeting babu (dad) today, and to say the least, babu’s meeting V. The two most important men in my life will have an interface today. I can only hope they emerge on the other side unscathed and open…

Everyone’s scared. No one knows anything and everyone’s trying to appear educated. God knows we can put out the largest butterfly garden…if we put together everybody’s: V’s, his parents’, my parents’ and mine. The only real fear is of first impressions; especially when the cultural contexts are impossibly different. Knowing, though, that all the people involved are educated, civilized, etc.; the knowledge of the damage potential of one wrong statement made, even in the most innocent of intents, is what is scaring the hell out of me. These relationships are for life and it is only the least that one hopes for the best, at least to begin with.

I am getting married (deep breath). I now even know when. I mean I know precisely when – the 11^th of February 2008. But of the many dualities that mark and will continue to mark this relationship, a doubt of whether I will be ‘allowed’ to remember this date as my marriage anniversary remains; because the 11^th of Feb is only the first of our weddings – the Hindu/Bong one. A Catholic wedding (date still undecided) that will ensue the Hindu one will almost always demand to be considered for equal candidature as the anniversary.

Choosing V as my life partner was as simple as the rest of it is complicated. Bypassing the argument that simplicity or complication are both just states of the mind, I’ve often sat considering what this relationship entails…and omigosh, for the rest of my life!!!

V and I had this conversation yesterday which led me to notice that no one had asked anyone whether or not they wanted to get married. I was moving along my decided course and V just seemed to have blended in. I had marked my timelines and I wanted to get married. Tick in the first social checkbox – post graduated at 23; tick in the second social checkbox – work for a year; third in the third – marry at 24 and four- a kid (preferably a girl) at 25.

Through my acquaintance-friendship-dependence-unity with V, and my simultaneous break up with A, we never even had what can qualify to be called a courtship. What started out as a virtual acquaintance, transitioned easily into an alliance marked by interminable phone calls of confession and heart-to-hearts to quickly yet un-ostentatiously to this day when we stand engaged.

Its weird and wonderful how these decisions were made pat, in complete doubtlessness. Even as I discovered his love of creepy-crawlies and his mulish ways, the feeling of correctness pervaded. If, as I believe, God speaks through the gut (heart actually… but God and gut are alliterative), I know this is right, and bright and beautiful…just like those butterflies V’s trying to teach me to appreciate.

The Curse of Goodness

(written sometime back)

I am home now for sometime and back to doing what I do best here - talking to Ma. Hour after hour of talking - those platters of thought:made up of experiences, replete with the flavours of love, hatred, humour, joy, sorrow and such other familiars. Our tete-a-tete got us to look back at may last year as we sat over a cup of tea this morning.

The months of May-June are the foot loose months for us. That time of the year when the mountains beckon and take us backpacking from one hill station to another on a family holiday. They always made for wonderful memories...until May last year (2006).

The trips always begin with Delhi and end with it. The trip last year also ended with the capital and so did a life. R kakima (bong for aunty) committed suicide...

Our family had befriended the S's on a March eight years ago. They almost instantly won approval from all of us (Ma, Pa and I); and before long, congenial family dinners became a weekly ritual. S kaku (bong for uncle), was, of course, the biggest hit among us. But then again, he always is one with everyone. An IPS (postal) officer of a high rank, extremely humble, educated, soft-spoken, cultured - polish and finesse personified. What could stop us mere mortals from being bewitched?

His wife was of a slightly different strain - on the outside and a different tune altogether on the inside. R kakima was also educated, intelligent, cultured, and all that jazz. For some reason, she cooked chana almost each time she invited us for dinner. Besotted by her son, mildly indifferent to her daughter and quite unhappy with her husband. And yes, chronically depressed.

The son, A, could be described completely in one word - 'eccentric' and the daughter D as 'mild'.

We socialised with happy fervour with this 'nice' family during their three years in Nagpur and intermittently after their transfer to Delhi. Of our personal little triumphs during their stint in Nagpur was having slightly lightened that dark cloud of depression that always loomed large over R kakima. She seemed to have learned to smile more and needed her anti-dep pills less. S kaku constantly kept up his diplomatic stance; and we never quite understood what R aunty had against such a 'good' man as her husband.

S kaku was my ideal - the seemingly perfect son, husband, father, friend, professional and all other roles he cared to get into.

One could worship him, but not love him for he didn't love back. With all his honey words and good intentions, he kept his distance. Ever the diplomat/bureaucrat, patient and controlled; an impossibility of an entity to love, to be thought of as ones own. But we kept brushing the lovelessness under the carpet, so overwhelmed we were by his perfection; and kept pretending to not understand why R was unhappy despite her 'good' husband's 'goodnesses'.

Over the cups of tea this morning, in retrospection, a flash of insight made the truth appear as it always was - as we had never seen it. His 'goodness' had killed her.

He'd always refused to fight her. No denial could have been crueler. His lack of acknowledgment was the greatest of insults that one human could inflict on another - a human, otherwise equal on all counts. His was the cruelest way of torture- that of being so good that one couldn't take it. He was no wife-beater after all - how could she or we or anyone blame him? All the silent violence she kept turning inside - sinking deeper into the dark depths of depression while he kept collecting kudos for being the good husband with a difficult wife. No one understood her. Not until she made that final statement last summer.

As we thought about it, a wave of guilt swept over us as we realised that we were just as much partners in crime. Not only did we not understand, but we failed to acknowledge as well. We took sides with the good and forgot the humane. The curse of goodness claimed a life and a handful of consciences.

Taller than all

There are the many glories of nature and men that inspire awe; that force one to acknowledge that ‘greatness’ really is not easy to court and definitely not easy to conquer. All celebrations of the heroic in man can well be counteracted upon by still greater heroics; but it is death that takes the cake. Almost always successful in humbling men, death fails not even with the most realised of men, to humble. Whether it is wailing women with beating chests, brave tears, sympathy and solace or turning to the divine or philosophy for comfort, death surely makes itself manifest. Of all beings – good and bad, poor or rich, vain or humble, winners or losers, the big or small – death stands tall - taller than the reaches of most human vanities. For a while, it shattered mine too…today.

One of my students from MIT-SOG died today. He’d been in the hospital in coma for a while due to brain haemorrhage and passed away this morning after unsuccessfully battling for life for ten days. Death is mightier than all weaponry of all the life support systems of the world put together. Even the strong arm of Robert Svoboda (author of the book Aghora III – The Law of Karma that I’m reading now) hasn’t been of much help for my psychological leaning. I’m not as ‘objective’ as I thought I was on the way to becoming.

A young guy he was – called J K. The kind of stuff that rural backgrounds, big dreams, low self confidences and much lower than average looks are made of. Twenty five odd years and the pride of being the only barrister in his family - all gone to the dust in a matter of days.

Of my limited memories of him, one scene keeps flashing again and again before my eyes. It was one of my counselling sessions with him. Like most Marathi-medium students, he was terrified of English and I was trying to boost his confidence with English speaking. I remember I was telling him, “There are a million possible personas in an individual. Each time you find that the fumbling and nervous J is taking over, rouse the powerful J in you and kick ass.” He smiled the smile of confidence and I returned it with a smile of contentment.

I believe this one incident keeps coming back to me because it was the only real exchange of honour – much greater than words. In the following classes, I saw him internally kick his fears as he rose to face the class and speak in wrong yet brave English. There could be no greater tribute paid to a teacher. It’s time I return those tributes. These words I write for you J, as those words that you spoke for me.

I am my Roark

Looks like Ayn Rand’s novel – the Fountainhead and its protagonist, no hero, Howard Roark have really affected me in ways deeper than I fathomed. Had it not been for the novel, I would not have found the strength with which I’ve embarked on my personal Roark-like crusade – the crusade to be me. It will be just the first of my life-long fights for the preservation of identity, for being allowed to be an individual. I’m going to go out today and proudly proclaim all that I was, I am and that I will be and say that I’ve no need to hide. I’m going to refuse to stuff skeletons in my closet just because ‘others’ don’t like the sight of them. They can gossip their voices hoarse or close their eyes. I’m not going to feign shame to satiate their superegos. I am going to be my own Howard Roark in this trial and play both – the defence and the defendant. Only there is no just cause to fight for. Trivial issues need no attention; so I’ll rest my case.

Let them not like me – it isn’t necessary that everybody I meet on the face of this earth must. I’m not here to win popularity contests. At least, no; the greatest fact of all remains that I’ll sleep easy; I’ll like myself. Let those who’ve condemned themselves to hatred for me seethe inside. Let them carry their fake, yet heavy, moral thrones of judgement till they’re crushed by the weight of their very consciences someday.

I’ll forgive them and set myself free. I’ll laugh the last laugh.

Just another guy?

Something’s not quite right. Am beginning to wonder if people who claim to be unperturbed by truths really remain so. A certain relationship has started veering towards the undesirable; and by ‘undesirable’ I most certainly mean the ‘usual’. The usual beginnings of expectations and the natural consequence of disappointments are taking place. Ego tussles and proud silences are appearing on the horizon. This is the first sign of danger – the first premonitions of its mortality. What I walked along believing to be special is turning out to be yet another false start.

The eight months of growth of this relationship have been a dream; and now when the entity has taken a discernable shape, it’s time to wake up - time to feel guilty if you do not feel concern; time to feel insensitive if you state too many hurtful truths.

This is where it begins – that dreadful process of ‘normalization’. NORMAL is SCARY.
Normal is a stream of Zombies with faces and ideas unchanged for centuries. Just another relationship with just another guy – that is content for a horror story!

As I fight time and again to preserve that element of the ‘elusive’, I see it slipping away. Interacting in one way or another brings about familiarity; and needless to say, familiarity breeds contempt. But can I contemptuously keep discarding one person after another just because I’ve understood the ‘mysterious’ in them all too soon? It is selfish – and that’s alright; but it’s also unfair, and is that?

Guess not; but what is the other way about it? Is being familiar – bored – contemptuous – duty bound – false – tired the better than to cause ‘temporary’ heartbreaks? Whether it is just another guy or a very special one, letting things be, surely seems to be the more rational of choices, for time heals, whether wants to be healed or not. I must not be scared of ‘hurting’. Hurts will be healed and dissolved sooner or later. A scar is better than the permanent raw gash of a false relationship.

Think…think…

Conceit Unlimited!

Today I asked myself what right I had to call someone ‘conceited’ when I am the very embodiment of that adjective. I’ve just finished with the novel, The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand – 33 days after I started it – and ended with some rather profound reflections. I felt like writing something about it, and suddenly an urge to use an ink pen after so many years grabbed me. The desire to see lines written on crisp white sheets of paper in blue ink was so intense, that, I rushed to buy one – 9:20 in the night! At the store, I chose the costliest – a Parker – without a moment’s hesitation; as if my words deserved no less…As if a humble Rs. 20 pen wouldn’t be worth my words - these words.

But justifications abound- as always.

The Fountainhead has impressed me; enough to be written about with a ParkerJ.
It impressed me so, for in it, I saw a near perfect description of me. Ayn Rand has articulated my innermosts with the precision of an ace archer; and boy has it struck home!!

Not a very racy writer, but Rand successfully made me persist through the 700 odd pages with her glorification of ‘my’ elements. With infallible logic, Rand made a virtue of selfishness and a vice of altruism – as I nodded my head in greedy agreement.

Rand’s argument against those ‘do-gooders’ is that, the prerequisite for doing good for someone is for that someone to suffer. The defence of the egotist, in Rand’s words, is his complete independence – in act and in motive. The creators and the second handers is what Rand calls the egotists and the altruists respectively by virtue of the style of their existence. The second handers are those parasites that feed on the ideas of other men for survival. The world is almost full of these leeches – the kind where one man depends on the thoughts / opinions / judgements of his neighbour; and his neighbour depends similarly on his neighbour, till it comes back a full circle. The few who stand out of this parasitic chain are the originators – those men and women of genius who start from ground zero. They have nothing to take and nothing to give. Creation, for them, is an end in itself with no proclamations of purpose. It is they that swim against the current and smirk internally at pointed fingers. It is they who defy the accepted that are condemned, stoned, jailed, exiled, or better still killed – but there’s never a trace of self doubt. This is the soul of the sacred, the innocent, the selfish, the egotist. Rand strips the preachers of sacrifice and bares their lust to be serve; for where one serves, there is one to be served. She condemns the relationship of bargain, its premises of give and take and its implications of a slave and a master. She speaks of the co-existence of two ‘independents’ as the only form of an equal and open relationship. The truly independent man’s will is free; his purposes entirely for himself. His actions stand alone, independent of the needs of other men. This is the celebration of conceit – of thinking ‘too much of oneself’ - in all honesty.

This is where the cord struck and this is where it has reverberated with the most. People who know me well enough have heard me call myself ‘selfish’ – and with considerable pride. But I was really never able to accept myself as such completely. Teachings, learning and conditionings had been playing their parts in managing to plant that one inconspicuous little seed of guilt, each time I acted in my interest. Duty, albeit impregnated with distaste, kept nagging until I did what I was ‘supposed’ to do. I bore the weight of my dishonest smiles and their fake gratitude. I let ‘me’ take a backseat and social expectations rule the roost when the stakes seemed high. I ask myself now how high these stakes are really - A severed/embittered relationship? A lost job? Gossip? Are these really worth dragging my integrity/independence to the sacrificial altar?

Have I strength enough, like a Howard Roark, to be put to trial by society time and again? Learn to be unmoved by criticism because I trust myself in all entirety? Can I really ever learn to not compromise or co-operate (and take kudos for it), for they are not really possible (not in the real sense of the term)? Can I really live for myself as all those of an independent spirit ought to?

Lessons from Ma

I had a fight of sorts with someone last night. 'Of sorts' because what meant to be a pacifying intent between the two original parties of the fight initially; became my fight. I know now that I shouldn't have raised my voice - as I knew then as well. But the art of controlling ones emotions, (of which temper tops the list), is something I'm trying to acquaint myself with. I managed to keep the curses in check despite of cannons of those being spewed by the other side. The curses, of course, were meant for the original other of the fight. I was just trying to calm my acquaintance down. But, before I knew what was happening, I caught a few tears dribbling down my right eye. Moments later I walked away, having obviously failed in my mission, with a proud silence.

But my eyes betrayed my intent as they kept reflecting my turmoil inside.

I realised after a while that the pain was that of shock. I'd never before seen anyone curse or swear so much, in person. I mean, movie characters and roadside hooligans had played their parts giving me reality bytes; but to see someone I felt a lot of affection for behave like that was totally uncalled for. Curses against the person I could take; but curses directed towards somebody's parents broke my heart.

I often pride myself in not being very attached to my parents; and probably for the greater part - the superficial one - I'm not. But I'm slowly getting to realise that I'm so deeply indebted and attached to them, that I'd be ready to cry murder if someone even does as much as point a little finger at them.

As I sat thinking, so many things that my mom had told me assumed a new importance. Her words had remained with me, but the meanings behind them struck me like thunder. "It's no big deal to put the other down", she'd say. "True valour lies in making the other realise his mistake with grace, silence and most of all, respect". The importance of not speaking foul and more importantly, of speaking well dawned upon me. The proverb - 'Words have a life of their own....' - assumed an entirely new meaning. I realised how lucky I'd been never to have been forced to face people who had no control over their speech. What a blessing it was to not have had to listen to foul language even in the bittermost of fights.

I thought for a long time...about my parents, about how much they mean to me, about the invaluable lessons they'd taught me, thanking God and praying that I may responsibly pass these lessons to my next gen...before sleep claimed me for its own.

Gut wrench

Ambulances always do this to me - this unbearable gut wrench albeit for a few minutes. Perhaps it's selective perception, but I always seem to see an ambulance, blaring its sirens, pass by when I'm on an evening out. And for the next ten minutes, this 'low' weighs down heavily on me, as thoughts of 'what terrible time that family must be going through at this moment' start going round and round in my head. There are no personal associations (as yet.. touch wood), no bad memories, yet this terrible sinking feeling.. quite inexplicable.
Last evening as I was driving back home from work, I heard some noises - siren like. I looked at my rear view mirror. Nothing. And I shrugged it off as I might some unpleasant auditory hallucination. Kept driving. But the sound wouldn't stop; and before I had the time to check the rear view mirror again, it got louder, convincing me that yet another ambulance was close. Very close this time. I could hear the frantic honking of the driver along with the feeble siren (of a feeble van of some feeble little nursing home) as he drove fast - as fast as the office hour road traffic would permit. The ambulance overtook me and left me shivering as this chill ran down my spine. It drove past me and drove on. The rash and swift rider that I am, I followed close at heels. Once the ambulance was ahead of me, I tried peering inside, to see who the unfortunates were. The next instance, I was loathing myself for wanting to be a mere spectator to someone's misfortune. The ambulance's honks jerked me out of my reverie. I saw the vehicle try desperately to get some space to overtake a car...and it was sometime before the car gave it some leeway. Those were the moments that were of greatest anguish to me... In utter helplessness, I cursed the car driver to give way. Of course, no one heard. If I could, I would manually lift the ambulance and get it to its destination...
Until, I took the other fork of the crossroads, I was numb. Numb with the gut wrench, my longest ever.

Thinking aloud

I'm suddenly on the edge of the expanse of my patience. It's like this unspeakable restlessness has grabbed me by the throat and I really am at a loss of all thoughts. I'm blank and thats the end of it. This thoughtlessness is stifling me. It's patience with my job, my boyfriend, my life, my colleagues, the fake in the guise of my boss.. everything in short. My only solace is in my writing. It's my substitute for physically running away. I want to run..run, run away to somewhere. Run away from my self, run away from everything I know. Not trying to reach thoughtlessness..no..not that for certain, but to reach a place which has the power to awe me, amuse me, thrill me.. in every sense of the word. It seems ages since I've felt something new. New knowledge comes across everyday, but they seem stale when felt with the same old emotions. I want to scream now..at the top of my voice...yet there are no words coming out when I try to. I want to jump off a cliff...a bottomless cliff...to keep falling, falling, falling. I'm oscillating between wanting to feel and not to feel... but something, anything. Help!

Music Divine

This song called ‘Maula mere Maula’ from the movie Anwar has become a recent favourite of mine – my daily dose of a high and a few stray tears. It is a beautiful blend of the Sufi and Quawali genres, sung by Roop Kumar Rathod with the music direction of Mithoon. Keeping aside the creators, who’ve all delivered their arts flawlessly, I find myself tempted to talk about the creation – this priceless piece of music. The song literally has me swooning with its addictive background score and the chants of ‘Maula mere Maula’. My not-so-favourite singer Rathod almost pours liquid silk on the profound lyrics. The song almost pleads in pain for the love it feels. The words of praise sound more like prayer. The boundaries of mortal love and the love divine seem to merge into each other whilst a mystic union takes place. The sentiment of covetousness seems natural and desire seems innocent. Adulations are absolute, yet intact in self respect. The sanctity of sensual descriptions is preserved as it smells of the purity of the purest of loves. The aftertaste of those soulful violin and flute notes is close to reverence. As the voice-work of Rathod tugs at the strings of your soul, the tabla beats become one with your heart beats. At the end of it, the power of music is humbling as you ride the waves of emotions with the rise and fall in pitch.