Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Going Back

Do you sometimes go back to re-read your very own “great works” - essays you penned, papers you wrote for classes, etc? And when you do that, are you frequently let down by them when you discover that they are not as wonderful as you remember them to be? Usually I am. But there is one exception.

Well yesterday was one of those Long Nights. I had nothing much to do. So I decided to post excerpts of this paper that I am very proud of. I wrote this paper for an English class (American Myth and Oral Tradition) in my sophomore year at Rice. This class was taught by Dr XX, who is notorious for being measely about giving ‘A’s (gives an 'A' once every two years to one or two students). After not being successful for two semesters, I took his class (you basically have to kill to get into his class).

To say the very least, you could say, I slogged for this class. I used to take long walks around the campus loop at 1 am to agonise over the next word in the sentence. And I wrote like the Devil was behind me. I even requested books from a Canadian library on Prince Edward Island (via our Rice’s Interlibrary Loan … an awesome service for research). I slept in the library. I hounded him at his office hours, and thought out loud my muddled thoughts, he would patiently, sarcastically put up with me, and dismiss me when I began to blubber like an idiot. He didn’t think very much about him, cuz he knew I was an Elec and an Econs Major. He rather nurture someone who was an English major, than one who was taking his class just for the heck of it.

And finally I typed the last sentence about 5minutes before the deadline, and emailed it to him. In a week, the paper was in my hands – marked. In the first page, right next to my introduction, he scribbled in red “Ambitious beginning. Too grand.” I knew he would crush me by the time he was through with the last page. So I turned to the last page, lacking the courage to bear his acerbic remarks. I saw a red ‘A’.
And beside this unbelievable sight, he scribbled
"Are you sure you are not an English major? See me."

I wept. I danced.
I hopped,
I skipped.

Yesterday night was a Long Night. I re-read that paper. I couldnt believe that I wrote something as insightful, as precise, as ambitious. I had forgotten what I learnt in his class. I remember his tweeds, his sarcasm, him bullying us to perform better. I don’t remember his words, but I remember the effect they had on me. But, reading the paper, I couldn’t believe that he inspired me to achieve something as ambitious as this paper. Mark you, it wasn’t interesting – the paper is a dull affair. A dreadful bore, frankly. But scholastically speaking, it was good.

When I went to see him, I explained to him why I couldn’t be an English major – I simply didn’t trust myself to be one.

I told him in the lines of “I am inspired today, this moment - by you. I cannot trust myself that I will continue to be inspired. English could just be a new toy. A new affair. I cannot afford to walk the path to find out. I rather be safe and choose something that will pay me even if I am not passionate about it.”

When I walked out of his office that day, he knew as well as I did that neither of us was convinced. But there is free will. And there is foolish rationality. I exercised both.

Sunday, May 27, 2007

The Long Nights

I am back from the faraway cold lands. Tonight, Sleep is sulking and does not wish to come to me.
On long nights such as these, I think of that A E Housman short:

When the bells justle in the tower
The hollow night amid,
Then on my tongue the taste is sour,
Of all I ever did.

Sunday, May 06, 2007

Flute and Home

Lazy Sunday morning.
I can hear someone playing a flute right now. Something very Indian. Is it Chaurasia on CD?

Muffled through the walls. 'Tis transporting me back to home.
I am home right now.

Grandmama must be getting ready for an hour of puja. Grandpapa would be finishing up the last page of the 'Varta". My cousin must have left for school wearing mismatched socks and the belt buckle un-done even before her day begins. Aunt must be hurrying with her maid to dish out breakfast for grumbling stomachs. My uncle would have gone out to the market/temple/?

Definitely not the time to call them.

Saturday, May 05, 2007

The White Bird

Yesterday I saw a snow-white bird.
Pristine white wings, riding the wind. Like the sails reaping the winds on the Godavari.

I was running in the bleak rain to work.
Stepping over the filth everywhere – rotten produce, piled rubbish, decomposed meat, soggy marigolds (this is Buffalo Street at 7.15am).

I looked up.
Then I saw it – white and pure, soaring against the grey rain.
For an all too short eternity, I soared with it.

Then, I didn’t notice the filth around me.

Thursday, May 03, 2007

The Loot

Birthdays are excuses to loot others through subtle relationship blackmail. People have become trained to be blackmailed that, these days, one hardly needs to lift a finger for one’s birthday.
Exasperated pal: “What do you want for your birthday?”
Me: “24 gifts. Each for one year of my age.”
With such subtlety, it’s hard to not to collect a bit ‘f loot, if you know what I mean. Here goes:

Sister's card will reach me in another 7 days. It was mailed in a hurry the night before my Bday. The mere fact that I haven’t murdered her yet, speaks volumes about the deep love I have for my sister.

Mama, braved a killing backache and a splintering migraine, to dish out a dinner for some special friends on the eve of my b'day. Pa bought this. (<-----)

Clearly, RR, could no longer stand my frenzied searches for the same book of AE Housman poems in my every library expedition. I jumped for joy upon unwrapping it and discovering this gem. The poems will be on my bed for a long time – only the favourites become my bed time reads.
















An exquisite set of black beaded cum metal earrings from a classy female social chameleon. By an insanely bizarre, happy coincidence, I was looking for black earrings. Now I can wear that black number and make a killing (I hadn’t been able to due to the absence of the perfect earrings.)


Mammoth Tintin trivia book.
It’s no surprise that my love for insults started with Captain Haddock’s sailor language.
So, it’s no surprise that my eyes popped upon seeing this Tintin atlas.
But its an astounding surprise that Sgt Tpy had not pocketed (figuratively) it for himself. He claims that this sacrifice is second only to Karna’s kavacha-kundala sacrifice. For once, I grudgingly admit that he is right.

Such was my reckless temptation that I even took time out at work in the ladies restroom to glimpse into the breathtaking world within the book. I arm twisted him into giving me something else too, something spectacular. But that calls for a separate post. Soon.

Within a few minutes of declaring my undying love for Borders, I received this from JOH and XL. Believe you me, I nearly had a seizure imagining going on a Borders buying spree. Extravagances such as these are bad for my health, JOH & XL.


The pink delivery created a mini commotion in my cubicle region and drew looks from passer-bys on the way home. The delivery man couldn’t be more dramatic, the timing couldn’t be more bad – my boss was walking by at the very instant! But what a happy shocker on my Bday. The flowers: gorg, the chocs: sinful.

The poem was sitting in my inbox. CF's poem this year was as good as my 21st Bday poem. But I shant copy paste it here, as I know CF will publish all the poems in the coming years. Having two poems written about me by a serious poet is a delirium inducing honour to accomplish.
What next? Having a book dedicated to me? Anyone? :-)

And what about all the kind words from various other pals and playmates, friends and foes? They have remembered the best of me on my birthday. I cant take photos of the gladness your words have evoked.

Merci beaucoup, for the priceless loot - in gesture much much more than the goods.