If you stumble, pick yourself up and search for your place under the sun.
Make the best of everything and do all things to the best of your ability. There is a place under the sun waiting for you.
Rock the boat, but do it no harm.
Leave no footprints, Leave just legends.
Most have heard of this book. Some haven't. Let me find you some thought provoking excerpts -
**
"We who lived in concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."
"In some way, suffering ceases to be suffering at the moment it finds a meaning, such as the meaning of a sacrifice."
"It did not really matter what we expected from life, but rather what life expected from us. We needed to stop asking about the meaning of life, and instead to think of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life—daily and hourly. Our answer must consist, not in talk and meditation, but in right action and in right conduct. Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answer to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets for each individual."
**
I am beginning to realise slowly that I, perhaps, shall never find the meaning of life. But, I can make my life more meaningful. It will be more meaningful when I rise to all the challenges, moral and ethical, I face in every moment of my life. That I live up to my expectations. That I set high expectations for my sense of justice and wisdom, truth and courage, for my integrity.
That I am my own legend, in my own way, in my circle of influence.
[ Note- Apologies if the last sentence seems to have been inspired by the new Will Smith movie title.]
The other day, during one of the many arguments with Sgt Tpy, he uttered something outrageous- "Guys need to be witty, girls just need to be pretty."
No, Sisters, he is still alive. I didnt kill him. I know. I am slacking. I shall. Soon. Promise.
I am going to vacation here -
Am i excited? Sorta. Well, I cant rub it into my sister's face though cuz she beat me to a more fancy place - Hawaii.
Am I packed? About two days ago.
What will I be reading on the trip? Machiavelli's The Prince
Have I packed sunscreen? The anti tan doesnt work on me. So, I am gonna come back only 23 shades darker.
Have I cleared work? umm. ummm.
There is a secret club out there – a club that belongs to die hard fans of the movie The Lion In Winter (ever heard of this movie? At least seen the play? No? Shame on you! Weep tears of repentance this very instant!) I belong to it. Before I continue raving about it, I should probably tell you what the heck this movie is about.
The Story
King Henry II (the aging king at 50 .. hence the metaphor, the lion in winter) wants his youngest son, John (later Mad King John), to succeed him as the King of England. Eleanor of Aquitaine, his estranged Queen, wants Richard to be king (later King Richard the Lionheart). Henry's mistress Alais, sister of King Philip of France has her own ideas. Verbal assassinations, broken alliances, wanton liaisons, and sharp-tongued banter spice medieval intrigue with contemporary wit.
What LA Times said, "The Lion in Winter has more wit in every speech than some hits have in an entire evening...a growling, snarling, skin-piercing, skull rattling exhibit couched in marvellously articulate language with humour that bristles and burns." -Los Angeles Times."
The Talent
Katherine Hepburn won an Oscar for this. Never seen why people go gaga over this actresses. She is good, but she aint Bette-Davis-good in my opinion. So what if she wore pants on screen when no woman dared to in the 30s and 40s? But, after this movie, I grudgingly admit that Katherine Hepburn's performance is unparalleled and incomparable.
Now, lets get started with Peter O'Toole's performance. Words fail me.
All those people who have never seen a single O'Toole movie in his heydays, remember the recent animation, Ratatouille? Don't you think the voice of the food critic Anton Ego moved the movie from the Average lot to the Good lot? Remember the critic's monologue towards the end? "In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment…" Well do you know who rendered the voice for Ego? Peter O'Toole. So, if a voice can do so much for a movie, can you imagine what a form and a face can do? Need I say more? His bellows, his insecurities, his wily ways, his courage, his desolation and his wit...
There is this one scene in which he discovers the treachery of all of his sons. He utters the below dialogue to a room with his sons and King Philip but addressing no one in particular with a look of utter desolation and yet towering strength that .. that… well, you get the point.
"My life, when it is written, will read better than it lived.
Henry Fitz-Empress, first Plantagenet, a king at twenty-one, the ablest soldier of an able time. He led men well, he cared for justice when he could and ruled, for thirty years, a state as great as Charlemagne's. He married out of love, a woman out of legend. Not in Alexandria, or Rome, or Camelot has there been such a queen. She bore him many children. But no sons. King Henry had no sons. He had three whiskered things but he disowned them"
The Dialogues
Marvellous! Wicked! Leaves you gobsmacked! Few movies come this close to intelligent, meaningful dialogue.
A sampling of the dialogues:
[Upon seeing his wife after she arrives for Christmas Court]
Henry II: Ha! What shall we hang... the holly, or each other?
Eleanor: How dear of you to let me out of prison.
Henry II: It's only for the holidays.
Eleanor: What would you have me do? Give out? Give up? Give in?
Henry II: Give me a little peace.
Eleanor: A little? Why so modest? How about eternal peace? Now there's a thought.
Prince Richard: I am a constant soldier, a sometimes poet and I will be king.
Prince Richard: I will have the crown
Henry II: You will have what Daddy gives you.
Prince Richard <shouting>: I am next in line!
Henry II <bellowing>: To nothing!
Prince John: I thought I'd come and gloat a little.
Eleanor: Mother's tired. Come stick pins tomorrow morning; I'll be more responsive.
Prince John: A knife! He's [Prince Richard] got a knife!
Eleanor: Of course he has a knife, he always has a knife, we all have knives! It's 1183 and we're barbarians! How clear we make it. Oh, my piglets, we are the origins of war: not history's forces, nor the times, nor justice, nor the lack of it, nor causes, nor religions, nor ideas, nor kinds of government, nor any other thing. We are the killers. We breed wars.
This dialogue is really powerful, especially in the turbulent 60s with the V war and everything.
Prince Geoffrey: I know. You know I know. I know you know I know. We know Henry knows, and Henry knows we know.
[smiles]
Prince Geoffrey: We're a knowledgeable family.
I was reading Xenephon's Memorable Thoughts on Socrates the other day and was quite captivated by this certain chapter that shows Socrates in great light. Read on, you shan't be bored. At least read the bolded parts. I thought they were pretty fantastic.
CHAPTER VI. THE DISPUTE OF SOCRATES WITH ANTIPHON, THE SOPHIST.
It will not be amiss to relate, for the honour of Socrates, what passed between him and the sophist Antiphon, who designed to seduce away his hearers, and to that end came to him when they were with him, and, in their presence, addressed himself to him in these words:—"I imagined, Socrates, that philosophers were happier than other men; but, in my opinion, your wisdom renders you more miserable, for you live at such a rate that no footman would live with a master that treated him in the same manner. You eat and drink poorly, you are clothed very meanly—the same suit serves you in summer and winter—you go barefoot, and for all this you take no money, though it is a pleasure to get it; for, after a man has acquired it, he lives more genteely and more at his ease. If, therefore, as in all other sorts of arts, apprentices endeavour to imitate their masters, should these who frequent your conversation become like you, it is certain that you will have taught them nothing but to make themselves miserable."
Socrates answered him in the following manner:—"You think, Antiphon, I live so poorly that I believe you would rather die than live like me. But what is it you find so strange and difficult in my way of living? You blame me for not taking money; is it because they who take money are obliged to do what they promise, and that I, who take none, entertain myself only with whom I think fit? You despise my eating and drinking; is it because my diet is not so good nor so nourishing as yours, or because it is more scarce and dearer, or lastly, because your fare seems to you to be better? Know that a man who likes what he eats needs no other ragoût, and that he who finds one sort of drink pleasant wishes for no other. As to your objection of my clothes, you appear to me, Antiphon, to judge quite amiss of the matter; for, do you not know that we dress ourselves differently only because of the hot or cold weather, and if we wear shoes it is because we would walk the easier? But, tell me, did you ever observe that the cold hath hindered me from going abroad? Have you ever seen me choose the cool and fresh shades in hot weather? And, though I go barefoot, do not you see that I go wherever I will? Do you not know that there are some persons of a very tender constitution, who, by constant exercise, surmount the weakness of their nature, and at length endure fatigues better than they who are naturally more robust, but have not taken pains to exercise and harden themselves like the others? Thus, therefore, do not you believe that I, who have all my life accustomed myself to bear patiently all manner of fatigues, cannot now more easily submit to this than you, who have never thought of the matter? If I have no keen desire after dainties, if I sleep little, if I abandon not myself to any infamous amour, the reason is because I spend my time more delightfully in things whose pleasure ends not in the moment of enjoyment, and that make me hope besides to receive an everlasting reward. Besides, you know very well, that when a man sees that his affairs go ill he is not generally very gay; and that, on the contrary, they who think to succeed in their designs, whether in agriculture, traffic, or any other undertaking, are very contented in their minds. Now, do you think that from anything whatsoever there can proceed a satisfaction equal to the inward consciousness of improving daily in virtue, and acquiring the acquaintance and friendship of the best of men? And if we were to serve our friends or our country, would not a man who lives like me be more capable of it than one that should follow that course of life which you take to be so charming? If it were necessary to carry arms, which of the two would be the best soldier, he who must always fare deliciously, or he who is satisfied with what he finds? If they were to undergo a siege who would hold out longest, he who cannot live without delicacies, or he who requires nothing but what may easily be had? One would think, Antiphon that you believe happiness to consist in good eating and drinking, and in an expensive and splendid way of life. For my part, I am of opinion that to have need of nothing at all is a divine perfection and that to have need but of little is to approach very near the Deity, and hence it follows that, as there is nothing more excellent than the Deity, whatever approaches nearest to it is likewise most near the supreme excellence."
I was googling the web for schools that adopted the Socratic Method for teaching. I was appalled to find that there were hardly any. Even not many colleges use the Socratic Method (barring laws schools and a few liberal arts college like St Thomas Aquinas College…which by the way is a pretty 'cool' Catholic college in California that has no textbooks except the 'Great Books' of great men, where there are no majors or minors or specialisations for the four years of education). Honestly! I mean, sure, Socrates can be a pain lots of times. Reading the Republic beyond Book 4 gave me a splintering headache. But, just reading his dialogue teaches Logic and Rhetoric that are no longer taught in many schools as subjects.
I found this interesting experiment a volunteer conducted in a Grade 3 classroom. It's pretty awesome how he simplified Binary Arithmetic to the third graders using nothing but questions (aka SM). I wish someone had taught me permutations and combinations in the SM :-(
Should we be proud about the achievements of our fathers and forefathers? Don't say 'of course' right away. Give it 2 seconds of thought.
I first had this argument with a couple of pals on a train. Without reaching any particular conclusion, we changed the topic after a bit, as it raised a lot more ideological differences than were necessary when embarking on a vacation. Recently, it surfaced again. So, I posed the question to a eight or so people. Most, including Mom, felt along the lines of, "Of course. But not to the point of haughtiness." There was just one who, said, "No. Maybe happy, but not proud. Because you didn't contribute to their achievements." My take exactly.
Personally speaking, I have numerous reasons to be proud about my grandpapa and even my great grandfather. But, I am not proud about them. I view their achievements with gladness and admiration. But not pride. I wonder if this is just me being the fundamentally emotionally distant person that I am. But, then again, hear me out - I have a very valid point.
How can I be proud about their achievements, when I had no relevance, not even a jot, no part, not even an iota, to play in their greatness? My soul hasn't changed for the better, nor has it struggled to achieve their greatness. I have a right to be proud if, and only if, my soul was involved in the end result.
Of course, I am 'proud' when India totally screws Pakistan in cricket. But it's a different kind of pride. This one's a superficial emotion, something that disappears after a couple of days. Something that hardly stirs my innards and glorifies my soul. Let's call this superficial emotion, Level 1 Pride.
The same rule applies to my personal achievements. I am only Level 2 proud when I have struggled. I hardly value my academic achievements (the paltry few). They have come easily. However, I am proud (Level 2) of myself for having chosen the 'ethically/morally right thing to do' instead of something I wanted to do badly during many instances of my life. I am, also, incredibly proud about the fact that I led 4 years of my life honourably, in a way that lived up to my and my parents' moral standards even when there were no social or parental restraints. Let's just say these werent as easy-as-ABC choices. I am sure, ye all have such instances too. Such instances as these are what contribute to my innate love for myself. My great grandfather's legendary generosity to the poor doesn't contribute to that.
Anyways, I digress (I am not proud (level 1 or otherwise) about my garrulous verbosity). Bottom line, I am proud (level 1) of my family. If you say I have to be proud (level 2) of my family, I say I don't have the right.
This is my take. A lot of you out there will disagree. That's okay. Let's just agree to disagree.
Note: I am still wide-eyed admiration when someone tells me about the wonderful things about their family. It's just that, I am more admiring when they tell me about their own achievements.
My sister, who lives somewhere in an undisclosed town in the Great Mid West, usually gifts me a sack full of beauty products every time she visits me. Subtlety was never her forte I suppose.
A week ago, I opened this exquisitely packed set of 'body butter' that she gave me this Feb.(Note to all boys who are reading this post: body butter is a schmanzyfancy name for moisturizer, which is something we women rub on our skin to prevent it from drying among other things) There were six medium sized tubs packaged in pastel colours and sleek black lids, quaint seeming words printed in fonts evocative of a bygone era. Each tub had a separate name, for e.g, the tub I first opened was labeled "Warm Ginger Bread".
Other labels were, "Vanilla Pound Cake" "Caramel Something Something", "Crabapple Eatable Thingie" and "Vanilla Yada Yada". And, just below the label was an old school recipe for warm ginger bread or vanilla pound cake or caramel-something-something with simple directions.
I was amused by the pretentiousness. That was before I opened the tub. After I pried the lid open, the whiff of warm ginger bread wiped the cynical smirk off my face and my rolling eye balls faltered mid way. For a micro-second, I was back in Georgetown Mercantile, a tiny store in the sleepy town of Georgetown tucked in the foothills of the Colorado Rockies. It was right after Christmas and the store was awash with Yuletide decorations and brimming with mouth watering freshly baked candy/goodies on sale. There was holly everywhere and the warm store smelt of heavenly warm ginger bread . If you haven't already guessed, more than sights and sounds, the olfactory senses trigger memories better. (read this)
I quickly ripped open the rest of the tubs. And sure enough, each one smelled like those grandma's recipes from some mid western town or the Old Country.
While, I was impressed with the marketing genius of these products, a thought occurred - isn't it plain awful that we no longer smell ginger bread baked in their grandmother's kitchen? Instead we have to settle for smelling in a wad of moisturizer? Do any families, Indian or American, have recipes handed down through generations of mothers and daughters, anymore? Or have we begun to get them off a tub of moisturizer too?
Remember those beautiful miniature wooden ships inside these old glass bottles as kids? Do you remember being fascinated by them as a kid? Couple of years ago, during one of my trips to Walmart, I saw a cheap plastic ship-in-the-bottle. Worse, the plastic bottle had a latch at the bottom which could be flipped open and voila, the ship slipped in and out. It was like discovering there's no Father Christmas, or that the Tooth Fairy is really your dad. The beauty about those ships-in-the-bottle is that you are supposed to marvel how the ship got into the glass bottle in the first place.
Auden is to be read sitting beside your window, during the silence when the creaking crickets pause for breathe on a moonless night, with a golden lamp lighting the page and a green snake twirled around your neck for company -
But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you
You cannot conquer Time.
"In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.
"In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.
"Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver's brilliant bow.
"O plunge your hands in water
Plunge them up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you've missed."
"The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.
"Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer
And Jill goes down on her back."
"O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless."
"O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbor
With your crooked heart."
It was late, late in the evening
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
And the deep river ran on.
You should read this - whether you are a fan or a critic of the last pope. Even if you couldnt care less. Read it.
Skip the first 20 paragraphs and begin reading where you find the B&W picture. The first few paras are dripping with a little too much Polish nationalism for my taste.
Noticed how people are generous only when their comfort isn't
threatened, courteous only when in good humour?
John Constable is often relegated to the back benches when we talk
about great painters. I like him. I don't care if his settings are
usually parochial or too country-ish. I rather spend an evening
looking at his works than getting nightmares over Picasso or Dali's
work. Constable, is a marvellous painter.
To illustrate my point, below is one of his best paintings (imho), At Hadleigh Castle:
Can you hear the gulls cawing? Sense the clouds gliding across the
evening sky? Hear the sheep bleating? Hear the hollow whispers of the
wind in the ruins?
Well, if you don't, its probably because, you are looking at a low
resolution image of a cheap duplicate that I stole from some site.
When you actually stand in Tate Britain gazing at the huge painting,
you shall hear them all.
Recently, a couple of pals accused me of being uncompromising and that I do not make exceptions. (This was in the context of how if I didn't want to do something, I wasn't going to do it for anybody's sake).
But isn't compromising an overrated Asian virtue? If one begins to compromise on the small things, can one live life the way one wants to? Too often we give up things for our foolish-rational-twin, for the brats, for the bosses, for the pals, for the partners, for the folks (this is forgivable I think), for society. I am no rebel, but must I really compromise for the little things, and one day wake up to find that I am an unfulfilled person?
Remember the old myth about the origin of the nursery rhyme of "Ring-a-ring-a roses, pocket full of posies, …" ? The story goes that it's a dark rhyme about the Black Plague back in the 1600s or the first Plague in the 1300s. (There is another less popular story that it's about the children in the mining towns up North in the Isles). It's a load of hooey. The rhyme was only recorded in Mother Goose in the 1800s, about 500 years after it was began?? Surely, not.
A convincing theory is that, the nursery rhyme has actually something to do with the puritanical wave that swept across New England. Dancing and revelry, incld. square dances, were frowned upon. Even banned in some places, actually. Young people found a way around these bans by calling the square dances, play-parties. Play-parties had lots of ring games with holding hands and dancing in circles.
But, there are others that state that there are actually two versions of the nursery rhyme. One has its roots in Middle English, while the other is a la Americana. Anyone, wants to play professor? (Why don't they research these kind of things anymore, instead of researching things like how many calories you burn if you chew gum 24/7/365?)
And oh, there is a fairly consistent theory of origin of the another popular rhyme (especially in the place I was born in as where the monsoons were bad),
"Rain, rain go away,
Come again another day,
Little Johnny wants to play;
Rain, rain go to Spain,
Never show your face again"
It originates from the Elizabethan era. Umm…the first Elizabethan era, not the current one :-) The Spanish Armada set sail to conquer England in the 1580s. The English underdogs defeated the Armada thanks to some nifty seamanship as well as to help from incredibly foul weather that dispersed the Armada fleet.
The other day, I was talking to a friend when he confessed that he disliked Yes Minister. I positively went wild with indignation. How can anyone not like clever plots, intelligent cynicism, acerbic wit? I vowed to convert him into a Yes Minister-ite. And you, readers of my blog, as well.
For the uninitiated, Jim Hacker is a politician. In fact the Minister of Administrative Affairs (a fictitious department). Bernard Woolley is his Private Secretary and Sir Humphrey Appleby is Permanent Secretary of State for Jim Hacker's ministry. Jim Hacker is a publicity seeking, albeit well intentioned, insecure politician. He is hapless compared to the devious Sir Humphrey. Sir Humphrey and Bernard are civil servants/bureaucrats, by the way.
Here are some of my favourite parts -
Minister Jim Hacker: "What am I going to do with all this correspondence?"
Bernard Woolley: "You do realize you don't actually have reply to, Minister."
Minister JH: "Don't I?"
Bernard Woolley: "Not if you don't want to, we can draft an official reply."
Minister JH: "What's an official reply?"
BW : "It just says The Minister has asked me to thank you for your letter and we say something like The matter is under consideration, or even if we feel so inclined under active consideration."
Minister JH: "What's the difference?"
BW: "Well, under consideration means we've lost the file, under active consideration means we're trying to find it."
Or this …
[Minister wants a controversial petition on electronic surveillance to disappear]
Bernard Woolley: "Shall I file it?"
Minister JH: "File it? Shred it!"
Bernard Woolley: "Shred it??"
Jim Hacker: "Nobody must ever be able to find it again."
Bernard Woolley: "In that case, Minister, I think it is best I file it."
And this absolute gem about the EEC …
[Sir Humphrey Appleby is anti EEC, while Minister JH is pro-EEC]
Minister JH: "Europe is a community of nations, dedicated towards one goal."
Sir Humphrey: "Oh, ha ha ha."
Minister JH: "May we share the joke, Humphrey?"
Sir Humphrey: "Oh Minister, let's look at this objectively. It's a game played for national interests, it always was. Why do you suppose we went into it?"
Minister JH: "To strengthen the brotherhood of Free Western nations."
Sir Humphrey: "Oh really. We went in to screw the French by splitting them off from the Germans."
Minister JH: "So why did the French go into it then?"
Sir Humphrey: "Well, to protect their inefficient farmers from commercial competition."
Minister JH: "That certainly doesn't apply to the Germans."
Sir Humphrey: "No no, they went in to cleanse themselves of genocide and apply for readmission to the human race."
Minister JH: "I never heard such appalling cynicism. At least the small nations didn't go into it for selfish reasons."
Sir Humphrey: "Oh really? Luxembourg is in it for the perks; the capital of the EEC, all that foreign money pouring in."
Minister JH: "But its very sensible central location."
Sir Humphrey: "With the administration in Brussels and the Parliament in Strasbourg (Luxembourg)? Minister, it's like having the House of Commons in Swindon and the Civil Service in Kettering."
And this one…
Minister Jim Hacker: "When did a civil servant last refuse an honour?"
Bernard Woolley: "Well I think there was somebody in the Treasury that refused a Knighthood."
Minister Jim Hacker: "Good God. When?"
Bernard Woolley: "I think it was in 1496."
Minister Jim Hacker: "Why?"
Bernard Woolley: "He had already got one."
In order to understand the next one, you need to know that yearly, the Queen bestows honours on people, including civil servants, for various reasons. Among them is the Most Distinguished Order of Saint Michael and Saint George, a British order of chivalry founded by George IV. The Order includes three classes, in descending order of seniority:
[Talking about the abbreviations of the honours CMG, KCMG and GCMG]
Bernard Woolley: "Of course in the service, CMG stands for Call Me God. And KCMG for Kindly Call Me God."
Minister Jim Hacker: "What about GCMG then?"
Bernard Woolley: "God Calls Me God."
Pick a fight, go to war,
Leave the hero in the bar.
Fight a lion, climb the peak,
Let no one guess you are weak.
Very true, innit? Auden speaks to me from his grave.
I am truly exasperated. I don’t understand women who offer their hearts to emotional cowards and let them make mince meat out of them. Why, they practically serve it up on a platter with strawberries and cream on the side. Good Gawd! What is wrong with you women folk. Protect yourself!
If he can’t discipline his roving eye, discard him after you've blinded him. If he can’t decide between you and another poor woman, why are you even waiting around for him to choose? Is he Indie Jones picking the Holy Grail?? Go attend to the 15 men who are serenading outside your window. If he comes knocking at your door with roses and a charming smile, slam the door on his face, preferrably after you've punched him. You forgive once, and he will make you make a habit of it.
Go, lead your life with passion but without maudlin sentimentality.
Now run along, and don’t come looking for tea & sympathy from your Agony Aunt. I have little sympathy for I understand too well that you gave him the right to play with you. Take responsibility, powder your nose and move on.
Things I Dislike:
dyed hair,
lipstick on teeth,
coffee breath,
pregnant women,
garden salad,
sharp elbows,
olives,
tousled hair,
tobacco,
creases in pants,
smell of alcohol,
bananas,
loud music,
cell phones,
Things I Love:
old-books shops,
old clocks
wrinkles (on other people),
diners,
cream soda,
gramophones,
cloth bags,
open-air theatres,
large earrings,
wet dogs,
gales,
stormy seas,
lighthouses
lawn sprinklers
B&W movies
pickled jalapeños,
musty libraries
BBC World Service,
gardens
How do you un-trivialize a trivial life? Pursue an education? Pack up your bags and search for your Lake Isle of Innisfree? Drink tea and discuss literature? Compulsively scrub floors? Go to the talkies to plug the leaks? Obsess over solving NYT's cryptic crosswords? Knit, crochet and marry a stranger?
Travel to be disappointed, sleep to forget, read to escape, write to grieve.
Is that all there is to it?
Edna St Vincent Millay was right – "Life isn't one damn thing after another. It is one damn thing over and over". And in spite of this, why do I refuse to stop hoping and plotting?
Right after beheadings, custom required raising the severed head to the crowd. This was not, as popular belief would have us think, to show the head to the bloodthirsty crowd. It was actually to show to the head the crowd and the body it was severed from. You see, consciousness remains for at least 5 -6 seconds before the head dies due to lack of oxygen.
Ever wondered how your family got those funky surnames? Well, for that matter, how did the Akasapus get their name? Well below is a piece of recorded family history. My family history. At least, my mother's family history.
Firstly, akasam in Sanskrit and Telugu means sky. So, Akasapu means 'belonging to sky' or 'of sky'. Family history has it (written on talapatras that existed till my grandfather was about 10 and then were later lost during ancestral wealth distribution) that the clan of Akasapus were master weavers. They were famous in their land for creating the most exquisite cloth of their times . Lore has it that they once weaved a saree out of exquisite, delicate silk with such finesse that they could fold it neatly and tuck it into a matchbox and present it to the king.
The king (I forget the name, but basically, a king before the era of Sri Krishnadevaraya of Vizanagara kingdom) was so impressed by their feat, and touched by their humbleness that he stated that they could ask for anything. The humble clansmen replied that they desired no ephemeral, worldly rewards, but wished for their name to be eternal and sasvatham. The king pleased by their reply, decreed that, from that day forth, they will be known as the Akasapu, people as eternal as the sky.
And thus, the Akasapus came to existence.
"Went to claim my microphone from the office (my ex-office desk) where it was hibernating all these months, only to realise that somebody used it and left a note saying "Thanks, but I'm sorry I broke it". So, yes, a new one will be shipped from the neighboring galaxy and you'll have to spend some light years waiting just to hear my 'hello' :).The Gods have found a way to ban all surprises, flowers at doorsteps, messages in voice mail and most importantly 'a single red rose' from my life."
In the summer of 2002, I was in Cambridgeshire for a day. I spent some time walking around Cambridge before hopping on a bus to a little village near Cambridge, a village by the name of Lode. I had heard from someone on the coach from London that there is a pretty little abbey and a mill, called Anglesey Abbey, in Lode. Sure enough, the former priory was pretty, the grounds were impeccable. But it wasn't the abbey, I remember most about Lode. It was the Old Man of Lode.
Satisfied with the Abbey, I was heading back to the bus stop to take the bus back to Cambridge. As there was plenty of time to kill for the next bus, I walked along the country road to the next bus stop, enjoying the sun and the wind.
Upon reaching this bus stop I still had 15 minutes to kill. So, I walked along the road to find a lane, more like a dirt path, that took me through the fields. It was a windy day, and the fields sighed and whispered, beckoning me to enter. I did. The butterflies seemed flustered by my entry. The path took me right past the backyards of some homes/farms. Believe me, country home backyards are fascinating. There were kennels, tubs, lawn chairs, flower beds, wrought iron swings, willow trees with rubber tires for swings, mini greenhouses, conservatories … Fascinated, I took more time than I meant to. I headed back. The bus was no where in sight. It was now 5 past the hour. I waited.
There is something about the countryside that slows time. No matter how much there is to see and do, time creeps and crawls in the country. I walked up and down the road, kicking pebbles and chewing on grass. It was now about 20 minutes past the hour. I threw a pebble into the fields. Two hares jumped out.
Then I saw an old man walking towards the bus stop. Dressed in tweeds and a deerstalker hat. Small, slightly bent, wrinkled, about 80. He nodded at me. I nodded and smiled back. I had resumed strolling up and down. When I was near enough, he said that I had missed the bus when I had taken the walk in the fields. I was a tad bit taken aback but was polite enough to make small talk "Are you going to Cambridge, sir?"
He took a minute to answer, "No, I am not going anywhere. [Pause] I didn't know youngsters still called us old folks 'sir'. Where are you from?
I told him a little bit about my being Indian. Then he asked me why I was in these parts of England and I soon found myself telling him about living in Singapore and studying in the-place-i-studied and how I plan to go to the Highlands come next winter yada yada yada. His eyes twinkled. The blue of his eyes was marred by cloudy grey that comes with the years.
I asked him back where he was from. Slowly and eventually, he told me about how he spent most of his life in Cambridgeshire, and had never really done much of anything other than farming and how his wife died about 20 years ago and that he had few surviving relatives, and how he doesn't drive anymore because he cannot understand why people are always in a rush to get somewhere and honk so much, and how he used to enjoy going to the talkies, but now he cannot stomach all the noise and blood, and that how life in England has so drastically changed that he doesn't feel he belongs anymore, and how he stopped going to town (Cambridge) unless it was absolutely necessary and how he once went to London a long time ago and absolutely hated it, and how he feels unwanted in his own country in spite of fighting for it during the Great War (he meant the second one), and how he wishes that he will not wake up one day not because he is depressed, but because he sees little purpose in his life.
I listened for a long time without any pity, but with growing desolation. With every syllable he uttered, I was engulfed in my own emptiness. In spite of such desolation, he spoke with such perfect equanimity and quiet dignity that it very nearly broke my heart bit by bit.
He asked me why I seemed to agree with him, though I was young. I told him something along the lines of – Of the little I've seen, I found little comfort in women for there is too much malice in them, I found little comfort in men for there is too little sensitivity in them, I found little comfort in children for there is too much selfishness in them and that I often wonder whether there is such a thing like the simple people or the simple life and whether it was really ever simple, and if it was, how come it wasn't simple any more or had I just 'missed the bus'.
He laughed. A sound of mirth, sadness and surprise. He nodded and said, 'You've seen right.' I probed him with more questions, and he answered all of them with great frankness. He didn't show the usual English reticence when it comes to discussing personal life. He advised me to visit the White Cliffs of Dover if I ever get a chance to. I said, I would. He added that there are some things comforting because that do not change, and shall remain the same for all eternity, and one of them are the White Cliffs of Dover. He recited the lyrics of the song (There'll be bluebirds flying over the white cliffs of Dover) a little and I finished it a little for him. And we stood there on the dusty country road smiling and nodding at each other.
Then he asked me whether I would like to have some tea and biscuits, as it was a hot summer day. He pointed towards the stonewall adjacent to the road, and said, his farm was beyond the wall and this (a berry tree bent over the wall onto the road) was his berry tree. His mother had planted it when she was a lonely bride, new to Cambridgeshire. But just as he uttered the invitation, a red bus rumbled in the distance.
I was very touched by his invitation. I very much wanted to take a walk with him in his farm and ask him about his life, about the War, about growing up in Cambridgeshire, about his loves, his children, his young hopes, his travels, his faith. I wanted to know everything. I saw his quiet dignity in his loneliness and his kindness in his bitterness and a wisdom that comes from living through the decades.
But I had to board that red bus. Before I could turn him down, he spoke, "Oh, there's your bus.
Run along now before you miss this one too." I mumbled something about being awfully glad that I met him, and would have liked to have tea.
To which he said something very perceptive and beautiful, 'You're a good girl. Don't be sad thinking of old age and the bygone times. It is a job for the old. Now you take good care.'
Bidding adieu, I hopped onto the bus and found a seat at the rear. As the bus rumbled along, I looked back and saw him, in his tweeds and deerstalker cap, standing beside the winding road, right underneath his mother's berry tree. He made a desolate picture. I waved. He raised his hand in reply.
There are times when you feel that you are in the right place at the right time and that life isn't completely meaningless (you know this by theory, but you don't feel it often) and that you are part of a grand plan and nothing is a coincidence. Meeting the Old Man of Lode was one of those times for me.
I wonder if he still comes by the country lane to talk to people who missed their buses. I would like to think that he came just for me.
Let me fly,
hop, skip, leap, dash
Let me outrun the brook,
Let me chase the rainbow
and the butterflies.
Let me enter the woods at dusk,
and walk in the rain
Let me sit by the fire,
by the sea
Set the kite free from the tree top,
let it flutter and kiss the skies
as I cannot.
Let it be free,
as I am not.
If I had a restaurant, I would name it Fly In the Soup.
If I had a fastfood chain (though, on second thoughts, I would never do humanity such a disservice), I would call it Hole In the Wall.
If I had a footwear retail store, I would call it Pebble In the Shoe.
A pal once said, “Ech, remind me never to ask you for advise when I need to name my company.”
With Death by my window,
I slumber in his shadow,
He yawns and coughs,
spies and waits
for the wheel to grind to a halt,
the water to slow to a trickle,
the shadows to cease their dances
and the dinghy to be adrift.
The clocks have struck,
the bells have rung,
the hour has come,
I hear him at the door.
The hour has come
for a rue laden heart to
to ponder the eternal verities.
Couple of weeks ago, I woke up realizing that I was being strangled. Initially I thought it was my folks (they don't like me to be in bed after 4 am). For an eternal second, I flailed and writhed like a hapless rag doll, gasping for air. Then, thanks to the spark of brilliance within, I realized that my hands were actually free. So, instead of clawing the air, I began to claw whatever was squeezing the life out of me. Within milliseconds I was saved. The killer lay limp in my hands – defeated. It was Snake.
Snake is my bedfellow - a longish green soft toy with a wicked, pronged, red flannel tongue, black patches for eyes with one eye missing (I had gouged it out in sleep). This one-eyed-dopey-tongued-green-tailed-one-metered hideousity tried to end the divine spark within me.
Now let me come to the point of my post. Never buy this for your child. Them toys can be ungrateful and can betray you. Just like your kids. If you have to buy 'em, make sure the toys cannot strangle, asphyxiate, poison, blind, retard the child. Best bet is to not buy any toys. With Mattel recalling millions of Made-In-China toys even Barbies (!!), the last safe place on Earth, that is your child's nursery, doesn't seem safe anymore. So, don't buy them. Anyway, your ingrate of a brat doesn't deserve them after that made-in-3-minutes-on-scratch-paper greeting-card he gave you for your birthday.
That reminds me, I have to make a couple of calls to my aunts (as I exported 3 Snakes in all for my some of my cousins in India).
Read Jayesh's post on Monday 1 Oct 2007 at http://www.the-unarticulate.blogspot.com before you read on.
Well, I think Jayesh is making a hullabaloo and cribbing about nothing. As I told him yesterday, he has to count his blessings that he has been mistaken for a Sunny Mangolassiwala or Frankie Boy or even Lucky Lou, instead of say, a Shelly Mangolassiwala or Frannie Girl or Lucky Lucy.
Just this Sunday aftie, I had the misfortune of facing such a traumatizing situation. Believe you me, it does dreadful things to one's ego.
I invited a few pals and an insufferable cad (you will know who soon enough) for Sunday lunch. Being the considerate host that I am, I was wasting lots of energy trying to get Sir Sgt 'un-lost' over the phone. He was walking towards my apartments and was clearly confused by the many bends of The-road-I-live-on Rd and was hence, sulking (because he likes to be in-charge). To be fair to him, if you take a left on The-road-I-live-on Rd, it is still The-road-I-live-on Road. You take a right, it is still The-road-I-live-on Road, you walk straight it is still The-road-I-live-on Road.
Anyways, so, I was directing him over the mobile phone to walk past the park on his left and to kindly if he could please not get distracted by the many Filipino maids in the neighbourhood (he has a thing for Filipino dames, and Australian chicks, and plump diving instructors from LA and….) in order to catch sight of me. I was, at the same time, peering over the skinny bushes around me and eagerly enquiring "Do you see me? Do you see me?" After a frustrating minute or two, he finally yelled into the phone, "Yes! I see you."
But I couldn't see an inch of him. So I did a 360 degree turn, in the process stepped on the toe of the guy who was right behind me and tripped on the skirt I was wearing. I still couldn't see him.
Meanwhile, his voices cackled on the phone again, "No wait, that isn't you. That's an old man."
First, my reaction was this – '!'
Then it was – '!!!'
Then it was - '$%@%^!@%#&@#$&*(@#%^!$#^%&@*^@%@^&#%&%&*#%@$#^$@%!'
A second of stunned silence from my end was broken when the heartless cad spoke again to explain - "He was walking like you." Apparently this was a perfectly reasonable explanation.
Being a lady who could handle anything with utmost equanimity and dignity, I inquired in a very civil tone (my voice only hit the 150dB mark and was only audible to the man on the 30th floor three streets away as opposed to the man on the moon) what did he mean mistaking a Gangly Old Man for me, and how dare he mistake a Gangly Old Man for me, and what was he thinking of by mistaking a Gangly Old Man for me.
But before he could reply, I caught sight of same Gangly Old Man in question and my heart dropped into my pit. I whined into the phone, "But his limbs are flying all over the place"
To which Sir Sgt succinctly replied, "Exactly."
I didnt know whether to throw a godawful tantrum right there and then (which I thought was the more mature option) or to run up to him (I caught sight of him by now) and clobber the bejezzus out of him.
Well, what happened next is not the point of this post. Suffice to say that rumour hath that I have a heavy hand for such insolence.
So, you ain't got nothin' to complain about, Frankie Boy..err, I mean Jayesh.
Testing...123
Just a test post to see if this gets published. Fingers crossed. I am posting it via the email-to-blogger service.
My bigbrother-esque office firewall blocks blogspot. So, I cannot even read, let alone post on from work...ahem..not that I would, mind you ahem..I mean, I have perfectly high work ethics...ahem
The best way to get over hurt, or not being hurt is to stop playing the victim.
If you didnt get that promotion, challenge 'em. If you didnt get good service, demand it. If he didnt call back, ditch him and conquer the other 3 billion men. If you were sexually/racially/ethnically discriminated, shove it back down their throats and move on. If you didnt get into that school, well admit that you wrote a shitty essay. If you didn't lose those 5 lbs, then be prepared to keep them. If fate seems to treat you nastily, get off that couch and write your own fate.
Anything but playing the victim.
We live in a self-absorbed world. Nobody has too much time these days to victimise you. So perhaps, then, you will stop feeling that shit happens in life and it usually always happens to you.
I love Google.
Make no mistake.
But it has ruined me in a lot of ways. One of the most discernable way is I no longer remember facts. With Google around, I don’t have to. Therefore, I have come to the days where I can no longer remember how to convert Celsius to Farenheit, I forget if I am supposed to boil the water before adding tea leaves or the milk, I don’t remember any jokes, I fail to recall if “Not Marble nor …” is Sonnet #55 or Sonnet #15.
Google also makes me stupid …
Person 1: “Hey, whats 9x8?”
Me: “Let me google.”
Google makes me uncool…
Person 2: “Here’s the joke: An American, a Russian and an Indian went to a World Telecommunications Confe- .…”
Me: “Hey, I know that one. Came across that one on Google. Ha!(superior smirk)”
Google renders me an incompetent Agony Aunt.…
Friend 1: “I cant figure out if he said “I’ll call you back” in a “I-dont-want-to-talk-to-you-ever-again”-I’ll call you back, or in a “I-am-too-busy-checking-out-pamela-anderson-on-google-to-talk-to-you”-I’ll call you back. Help me.
Me: I don’t rightly know. Perhaps if we google ….
And the worst –
Person 3: “How are you doing?”
Me: “I am feeling lucky” (You didn’t get it didja? Shame! A true Googler worth his salt would have.)
But wait, I forget. The bottom of the pile really is that my uber dull conversations have now become dismal.
They have begun to sound like this:
“You know there is dude called…whatshisname…this French sounding name, I think its Zulu-something, whatever, u know these French names....well he wrote this editorial in this Paris tabloid, I forget its name, but well, it was sorta against the imprisonment of this guy...err, some military guy like General Dreyfus or whatever, forget what exactly he was imprisoned for, but u know sorta wrongfully done so…. in like u know sometime in the 1920s or was it the 1860s..like whatever…”
Back in the days without Google, it would have sounded like this:
“Emile Zola, shocked Parisians, one morning in 1898, with his front page article “J’accuse” in the Paris newspaper L’Aurore. He accused the government of judicial discrimination against Jews in the Dreyfus Affair. This article polarized France, put his career and life under threat and paved the way for judicial equality and political liberalization.
You bet Google did me a disservice.
me: meow. i know red button = busy. but just saying meowKinky: woof. woof me: vokays. now that we had a very meaningful conversation, let's say byeAnd yet another:
me: why are u flying blind - u might run into a telephone pole [referring to his status message "Flying Blind"]Kinky: its a referenceme: to some lame song? [referring to a previous status message of his which was the Beatles walrus song]
Kinky: to how i do my workKinky: x(walrus is a bloody good songgo im not talking to ucheap womango dieme: vokay. vokay. i give up. walrus is a gud song.
I read The Turn of the Screw a couple of days ago. Probably one of the most discussed, ambiguous and enigmatic American novellas of the 20th century. I am sorry about the superlatives. But it is. Critics are divided into two camps of interpretation of this book - the Hallucinationists, and the Apparitionists.
By and far, I believe that the Hallucinationist theories are a tad bit over the top, brought about by reading too much Freud. But certain sentences made me wonder and question the sanity of the narrator and whether she was a sexually repressed governess, overly suspicious about the corruption of the children. If it was so, I pity them. The terror they had to live in, one minute smothered by her volatile affections, in another braving her violent suspicions.
Even if it was meant to be a literal, old fashioned ghost story, it is still disturbing. Henry James, never comes right out to spell the evil that Miles was corrupted with. Loss of innocence is vaguely grasped by the reader. But what really was it that was being insinuated? The cloying ambiguity is as terrifying as the ghostly apparitions.
I was baffled by the book. I was frustrated, too. Henry James crafted an ambiguous tale where it is left up to the narrator to wonder and to draw conclusions. It is the reader who imagines the evil. This story remains as disturbing as it was in the 1890s because our capacity to imagine various Evils never sits well with our moral training.
Rarely have I been this constant in my love for a book. Rarely. "I,Claudius" had such an impact on me that I cannot begin to write it here for I shall embarrass myself in my attempts. Instead, let me write here of some of the wisdom that lies within.
"I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus, this-that-and-the-other who was once, and not so long ago either, known to my friends and relatives and associates as "Claudius the Idiot", or "That Claudius", or "Claudius the Stammerer", or "Clau-Clau-Claudius" or at best ..."
~the famous first line.
"I had perhaps traveled farther, hobbling on my lame leg, than most men would have traveled on a sound pair, because only too conscious of my disability I allowed no halts or slackening of pace."
"You eat too much and drink too much. You must stop that. Make a rule to rise from the table without an unsatisfied longing for just one little thing more." ~ Xenephon, a Cos physician of Emperor Claudius
"And my advice to you, my friend Silas, is never to remind people of services that you have done them in the times past. If they are grateful and honourable men they will not need any reminder, and if they are ungrateful and dishonourable, the reminder will be wasted on them"
~ Herod Agrippa in "Claudius, the God"
"Things must be far worse before they can be better" ~ Pollio, the last of the Romans
"Pollio said (to young Claudius): "What's that you're reading, boy? Trash, I'll be bound, by the shamefaced way you hide it. Young fellows nowadays read only trash."
He turned to Livy: "I'll bet you ten gold pieces that it's some wretched 'Art of Love' or Arcadian pastoral nonsense, or something of that sort."
"I'll take the bet" said Livy. "Young Claudius is not that sort of young man at all. Well, Claudius, which of us wins?"
I said stammering to Pollio: "I'm glad to say sir, that you lose."
Pollio frowned angrily at me: "What's that you say? Glad that I lose, eh? Is that a proper way to speak to an old man like me, and a senator too?
I said:"I said it in all respect, sir. I am glad that you lose. I should not like to hear this book called trash. It's your own history of the Civil Wars and, if I may venture to praise it, a very fine book indeed." "
"Phaemon's dog was right." ~ Vitellius's last words referring to Phaemon the philosopher's dog.
"I meant, of course, that the fellow was concealing his immunity from what every honest man considered a very thankless and disagreeable duty and he threfore was almost certain to have crooked intention." ~ on the infamous remark"He want to be a jury man. Strike him off."
What they say during meetings, and what they mean....especially in the Civil Services..
What they say: "I shall review and revert in two weeks"
What they mean: "I shall promptly forget about this for two weeks and then hastily make some changes to the indenting and add a couple of lines to the 346 paged document and submit it for your approval again"
What they say: "The progress is on schedule"
What they mean:"I havent actually gotten around to checking the progress as I was busy typing 4 mile long emails to my bosom buddy from kindergarten and squabbling with my wife over the phone as to who gets to pick up the monster-brats from school."
What they say: "We are looking into solving the issues"
What they mean:"We are hoping that the issues will disappear if we continue to ignore them long enough."
What they say: "I am happy to answer any questions"
What they mean:"Lets all just get the hell out of here as it is lunch/tea/coffee/nap/brunch/noon break. Even if you care enough to ask a question, which I know you dont as i caught you dozing off when I was on my 235th ppt slide, I wont be able to answer as my flunky who put this 357 slides presentation together at 2am this morning as I remembered about this meeting at 7.30 pm yesterday and told her about it at 8.30pm is not here as she is busy right now trying to get her heart working again in the ICU."
Dr Malcolm Gillis, our then president, declared on that day, “If people insist on calling us cool, then maybe we should act the part. At least part of the time.” He asked all Owls (Rice students) to wear shades both inside and outside for a week or two as badges of coolness. So asking, he fished out his shades from his blazer and put ‘em on. (This explains my wearing-shades-inside-buildings habit)
"Jack" is the Rice term for a prank, often an elaborate one. A simple jack might be replacing "you are here" campus map with a map of an amusement park. A well-known jack in the 1980s was "stacking" a commons, in which students went to the commons of another college late at night and stacked all the tables and chairs on top of each other, forcing the residents to disassemble the stack when they came down for meals the next morning. During Willy Week, large-scale jacks are often organized by one college on another college.
The most notorious and legendary jack in Rice history was the turning of William Marsh Rice's statue in the Academic Quadrangle in April 1988. After several months of detailed planning, a group of Wiessmen [as the name says, from Weiss college] succeeded in lifting the bronze statue (using a hoist mounted on an A-frame), rotating it 180 degrees, and setting it back down undamaged on its stone pedestal. [8]. The university hired a contractor to turn Willy's statue back to its original position. While the students apparatus cost only a couple of hundred dollars, the contractor used a hydraulic crane, charging several thousands of dollars, and managing to bend one of the pins in the process. The culprits were fined the cost of the job. They raised more than enough funds by selling t-shirts printed with the blue prints of the a-frame structure. This jack instantly gained national publicity for Rice. Today the turning of the statue stands out as the epitome of a successful jack: creative, elaborate, highly visible, and harmless. In later years, legends evolved that the students were protesting a planned tuition increase or that the stunt symbolized the Founder turning his back on the administration in Lovett Hall. In fact, the prank was merely that--a prank.
What Wikipedia didn’t mention is that, jacks are highly organized secret missions. If a Jacksman is caught discussing his college’s intended jack over a pint of beer, he will become a social pariah and be forced to transfer to Martel College or something equally bad.
I was personally involved in one cool jack we Hanszen-ites pulled off on
I shall talk about one of the most memorable jacks during my time at Rice. It was a jack on Sid Richardson
Sid Rich had its revenge the very next year, in 2004. This is another cool (but not legendary) Beer Bike jack during my time. Sid Rich jacksmen systematically stole Lovett students’ information (through devious means and connections within the Administration as well as some moles in Lovett) and wrote to every Lovett student’s parents a letter, in a very official tone, complete with Rice logo and the jazz. A letter saying something along the lines of:
“…..Owing to the following reasons:
- the Lovett College Chef ABC has been shipped off to oversee the meals at XYX State Penitentiary,
- the building’s bomb-shelter-type-architecture being an eye sore on the Rice campus, has prompted the Board of Trustees to allow the demolition of the college building,
your son/daughter will no longer belong to the soon-to-be-annihilated Lovett College, and his/her accommodation will be arranged at the nearest Motel 8, which has been deemed luxurious enough for a Lovett-ite”...
!
(Note: the quality of a college chef is an extremely important, and touchy status symbol for the colleges. And may I add that Hanszen’s Chef Roger was Italian, and ranked second to some Hilton Hotel chef in the South-West or something equally impressive. So popular was he that the Administration added a Cooking with Chef Roger course into the syllabi at Rice
Also note: Motel 8 rating is probably minus 4 stars. No offense meant to anybody who stayed in a motel with a number for its name at some point in your lives. I confess, I did too. )
Soon, Lovett College received about 200 calls over the next few days from puzzled, worried, befuddled and amused (since some parents were Rice alums, and they suspected it was a jack), parents asking what the hell was going on!
Ah! The Jacks! The glory of a successful jack!
Things I Want to do Right Now
I had forgotten how enraged I was when I first learnt about Wounded Knee. I am writing to remember. Wounded Knee, 1890 - the last of the Indian Wars. Old Big Foot's pneumonia ravaged body ridden with bullets. Sitting Bull already murdered. The Ghost Dance movement more or less in shambles. Mass grave of 350 Lakota Sioux at the foot of the Wounded Knee hill. The fall of a crumbling nation.
How maddeningly infuriating it is to have the faces on Mt Rushmore, faces that represent the institution that massacred the Lacota Sioux, towering over their very own land. I cant wait for the completion of the Crazy Horse monument. A fitting, long overdue reply. Perhaps only symbolic. But it is something.
Think happy thoughts Harika!
The tang of blueberry marmalade on sour dough pancakes, dripping with salty butter reminds me of the evening when I walked up to a 4o something man at IHOP (International House of Pancakes) and said, “Hi, My name is Harika and I was wondering whether you could marry me?”
While leaving, the man gave me a friendly Texan wink.
Mediocrity
In thought and deed, in humor and tragedy, in love and enmity, in life and death.
It is terrifying.
This seems to be a season of talking about family :-)
******************
I and my dad constantly bicker. Over everything.
Dad clogs up the laptop with guzillion web browsers talking about the latest political scandal rocking the old country in three languages (English, Hindi, Telugu).
Dad belongs to the generation that considers work as the essence of life. Well, ethics too. And also, honour. And integrity. And..well, nevermind, let me get on.
Dad can be as quiet as a cat when he wishes to sneak up to you and catch your greedy hand in the ice-cream tub. He reserves all his clumsiness, breaking unbreakable plates, banging into furniture for the wee hours of the morning. Even his morning Yoga exercises cause weird noises that awaken the stray cats in our building.
Dad gives 200% to anything that he decides to do. Seva, yoga, friendship, piety, learning, anything.
He has a remarkable ability to fall asleep whenever and wherever he wills – during a dinner party, in the cinema, on the couch while reading
Dad is the most disciplined man 1 degree north of the Equator. A time for everything, everything on time.
Dad lived a hard life. He made some very hard choices in life.
Dad belongs to the minority sex at home. With two daughters and a wife, you would think that he doesn’t get his two cents worth in. But you’ll be surprised. If there exists a feud between Mom and him, I and akka jump to his defense, if the feud’s between me and him, Mom rises to the occasion, if the feud’s between my sis and him ..wait a minute, them two are thick as thieves (their last feud was when she was ten). So, being a minority is mighty advantageous.
Dad never lies. I have never, ever, ever heard him lie. Period.
Dad drives me up the wall every time I wear a twenty year old dress (that fits) and he is seized with this gentlemanly urge to compliment me (usually if he wants me to be his steno and prettify his official documents) and says, “Nice new dress”. He also makes me bang my head against the wall when I ask him for feedback about my hair-do:
Me
Dad
And, we have been doing this ever since I was in first grade. Neither of us ever learns.
W