Something of Myself
Monday, September 13, 2004
Wasteland
I will show you fear in a handful of dust - TS Eliot, "The Wasteland."
Do we need to fear "something" or "someone"? Or can we just fear fear itself?
The fear that a child experiences when he loses sight of his parents in the crowded streets of London...Fear of the unfamiliar. Fear of loss. The fear that a man experiences when he is about to die - he sees glimpses of his life, faces of his beloved ones, faces, terrible faces, beautiful faces...and he doesn't want to die. Death seems to him to be the worst part of life (if it is a part of life) and he fears it - the absolute gut wrenching fear, the throat dries up, the inner walls of the stomach cramp and the blood vessels swell up. These are cases where people fear something.
Then there are those who have lived in fear - fear of not knowing whether they will live to see tomorrow; fear of not knowing whether tomorrow they will get to eat supper; in short - fear of the future. And that fear is so deeply ingrained in them that they begin to fear fear itself. The very experience, the pump of the adrenalin, the palpitation of the heart, the expansion of the pupil, the rapid breathing - they fears that - the experience of fear.
I have known Fear through a very intimate relationship that we share. Having known each other for years, sometimes I am oblivious to the fact that he is here, right here, right now as I punch-in the keys, standing right behind me like a scene out of a Hitchcock movie - the older version, deathly stillness and this time without any background music.
I wait patiently for him to go away. I don't treat him. I don't ignore him but of course, I am aware of his presence. It's raining outside right now. Drops on the leaves, drip, drip, drubb...The street outside is empty. The drunkards have gone home, all the shouting is over, music no more. Only fear and me. Me and Fear.
How conscious is Fear of me? Can he see me too? Is he bothered about my presence too? Have I intruded in his private time? Can I ask for forgiveness?
Does Fear have a memory? Or does it just exist in present, real-time.
Now here, now gone, now over, never coming back again....Does my memory permit Fear? If so, why? Am I Human or am I just one of a kind - mankind, womankind and fearkind.
I will show you fear in a handful of dust - TS Eliot, "The Wasteland."
Do we need to fear "something" or "someone"? Or can we just fear fear itself?
The fear that a child experiences when he loses sight of his parents in the crowded streets of London...Fear of the unfamiliar. Fear of loss. The fear that a man experiences when he is about to die - he sees glimpses of his life, faces of his beloved ones, faces, terrible faces, beautiful faces...and he doesn't want to die. Death seems to him to be the worst part of life (if it is a part of life) and he fears it - the absolute gut wrenching fear, the throat dries up, the inner walls of the stomach cramp and the blood vessels swell up. These are cases where people fear something.
Then there are those who have lived in fear - fear of not knowing whether they will live to see tomorrow; fear of not knowing whether tomorrow they will get to eat supper; in short - fear of the future. And that fear is so deeply ingrained in them that they begin to fear fear itself. The very experience, the pump of the adrenalin, the palpitation of the heart, the expansion of the pupil, the rapid breathing - they fears that - the experience of fear.
I have known Fear through a very intimate relationship that we share. Having known each other for years, sometimes I am oblivious to the fact that he is here, right here, right now as I punch-in the keys, standing right behind me like a scene out of a Hitchcock movie - the older version, deathly stillness and this time without any background music.
I wait patiently for him to go away. I don't treat him. I don't ignore him but of course, I am aware of his presence. It's raining outside right now. Drops on the leaves, drip, drip, drubb...The street outside is empty. The drunkards have gone home, all the shouting is over, music no more. Only fear and me. Me and Fear.
How conscious is Fear of me? Can he see me too? Is he bothered about my presence too? Have I intruded in his private time? Can I ask for forgiveness?
Does Fear have a memory? Or does it just exist in present, real-time.
Now here, now gone, now over, never coming back again....Does my memory permit Fear? If so, why? Am I Human or am I just one of a kind - mankind, womankind and fearkind.
'From time to time - and this is probably true of all people - there is a sentence that comes into my head, and the sentence is, "It's time for me to go back home now."
'Home is, I suppose just a child's idea. A house at night, and a lamp in the house. A place to feel safe.'
That was VS Naipaul - from an interview for the Guardian. After I have come to India and have managed to hook up with people the parties seem to be never ending. And after all the torture that my sinful liver goes through somehow the urge to write takes a backseat. But I have decided not to drink for a week at least after a night of lager, whiskey, tequila and rum (in that exact order).
Naipaul's words doesn't have a whole lot of relevance to what I am writing but I put it because - a) I thought it was brilliant b) I am technically "home" (or so I think) and can appreciate the beauty of N's thoughts.
Anyway, went to our village yesterday - was wonderful. Lush green khet (this is our Indian countryside, is it?), the cattle, birds, muddy roads, smell of earth, rivers, canals, huts and of course the people themselves - rural India, illiterate India, genuine India - the real India. My day was particularly made by a group of children who were playing cricket on a wet, muddy field with three stumps (which were painted white). Among them was this tiny chap who was fielding and at one point his anger at his fellow mate's misfielding would put Saurav Ganguly to shame! They were great - and what surprised me most was their knowledge about the game.
And then there was our home - amader paitrik baadi - the place where my great grand pa was born, and after him my grand dad and of course his children (including my father). The bunglow might be dipalidated now but it somehow speaks to me when I go there. Normally I am not at all moved by buildings and houses and concrete stuff but this house has a special place in my heart.
So much for the village.
Life here is going good. I no longer think of UK though I watch the English Premiership with an avid interest. The friends that I have left there are "friends" - beyond definitions of boundaries and borders - thus I remember them, miss them. However, some of the friends that I have made here keep me quite occupied. These guys are different from the general Indian youth. This is because I personally feel that the Indian youth (middle class and upper middle class) has lost all its sense of ..... well, never mind...who am I? Does it matter? (I wonder).
Going off to my aunt's place day after. Won't be back until the next saturday. This time around I am yet to be moved by Calcutta. Sounds strange but it is true. Calcutta has changed a lot. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that it would....but it has, and it will...My image of Calcutta was a constant one, unchanging and therefore flawed. But somewhere deep in my heart I wish I could get a glimpse of my old city, my companion, my lover and my best mate. I am confident that I will strike the same chord which was there when I left this place four years back - it's just a matter of time.
With time I will change, like Calcutta...and I will break through my cocconed perception of my own city. Our city. As of now, Naipaul will keep me busy.
'Home is, I suppose just a child's idea. A house at night, and a lamp in the house. A place to feel safe.'
That was VS Naipaul - from an interview for the Guardian. After I have come to India and have managed to hook up with people the parties seem to be never ending. And after all the torture that my sinful liver goes through somehow the urge to write takes a backseat. But I have decided not to drink for a week at least after a night of lager, whiskey, tequila and rum (in that exact order).
Naipaul's words doesn't have a whole lot of relevance to what I am writing but I put it because - a) I thought it was brilliant b) I am technically "home" (or so I think) and can appreciate the beauty of N's thoughts.
Anyway, went to our village yesterday - was wonderful. Lush green khet (this is our Indian countryside, is it?), the cattle, birds, muddy roads, smell of earth, rivers, canals, huts and of course the people themselves - rural India, illiterate India, genuine India - the real India. My day was particularly made by a group of children who were playing cricket on a wet, muddy field with three stumps (which were painted white). Among them was this tiny chap who was fielding and at one point his anger at his fellow mate's misfielding would put Saurav Ganguly to shame! They were great - and what surprised me most was their knowledge about the game.
And then there was our home - amader paitrik baadi - the place where my great grand pa was born, and after him my grand dad and of course his children (including my father). The bunglow might be dipalidated now but it somehow speaks to me when I go there. Normally I am not at all moved by buildings and houses and concrete stuff but this house has a special place in my heart.
So much for the village.
Life here is going good. I no longer think of UK though I watch the English Premiership with an avid interest. The friends that I have left there are "friends" - beyond definitions of boundaries and borders - thus I remember them, miss them. However, some of the friends that I have made here keep me quite occupied. These guys are different from the general Indian youth. This is because I personally feel that the Indian youth (middle class and upper middle class) has lost all its sense of ..... well, never mind...who am I? Does it matter? (I wonder).
Going off to my aunt's place day after. Won't be back until the next saturday. This time around I am yet to be moved by Calcutta. Sounds strange but it is true. Calcutta has changed a lot. I never imagined in my wildest dreams that it would....but it has, and it will...My image of Calcutta was a constant one, unchanging and therefore flawed. But somewhere deep in my heart I wish I could get a glimpse of my old city, my companion, my lover and my best mate. I am confident that I will strike the same chord which was there when I left this place four years back - it's just a matter of time.
With time I will change, like Calcutta...and I will break through my cocconed perception of my own city. Our city. As of now, Naipaul will keep me busy.
