Something of Myself
Monday, August 28, 2006
Untitled
My horoscope for the day says, "Be open about your feelings and feel free to air them." Now, that would be a really scary proposition in a space such as this, which can potentially be read by pretty much anyone! But the strange thing is this: yesterday night I was thinking of writing (or is it dedicating?) a post on someone who has been my friend, philosopher and guide...someone who has really seen me grow as an individual and made sure I became what I am today. But then, I dropped the idea. It's too personal. Blogs cannot be mirrors.
All the thoughts that actually appear in this blog are a curious mixture of fact and fantasy, fiction and exaggeration. That's a sweeping statement, but I always leave it to my readers to decipher the ruins of my life, the fragments of my self...
She is on her way to my second home. England.
Richard II, Act II, Scene I ("This royale throne of Kings, this sceptred isle...This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.")
I cannot lie and pretend that I felt like this from the day I landed in England. It was unwelcoming at first sight. I was unbecoming as days went by. For the first time, I became acutely aware of the colour of my skin. Would that decide my fate, in England?
But months made way for years and after four and a half years, when the time came to suddenly uproot myself, I felt as if I was being exiled. Almost. As if, I was leaving behind a part of my self. So many lives, so many people, so much to learn, so many places unseen - together with the fond memories of triumph and victory. Of learning and un-learning. Of creating. Of re-writing.
It was during the later days that I realised that England and it's history was changing. That the times of the Anglo Saxons were over. That British historiography had, like with all families and countries, undergone severe changes. Changes that were not noticed. Just recorded. Zadie Smith was a success not because she was a good writer but because she was an incredible historian who put her finger on the pulse of England. Archie Jones and Samad Iqbals made England. It was evident on a busy Oxford Street. It was evident on a trip to Oxford University. It was evident at the Argos stores. It was evident at the tube stations. It was evident at the Victoria's Inn.
Somewhere with all the fears of dilution and disapperance, there was a strong urge of assimilating myself with the culture and people of a country that had given me more than I could ever return.
I wonder if this gratitude is an immigrant's dominant feeling. Or is it just content at being able to settle oneself after being displaced? The question, for the time, will have to remain unanswered.
My horoscope for the day says, "Be open about your feelings and feel free to air them." Now, that would be a really scary proposition in a space such as this, which can potentially be read by pretty much anyone! But the strange thing is this: yesterday night I was thinking of writing (or is it dedicating?) a post on someone who has been my friend, philosopher and guide...someone who has really seen me grow as an individual and made sure I became what I am today. But then, I dropped the idea. It's too personal. Blogs cannot be mirrors.
All the thoughts that actually appear in this blog are a curious mixture of fact and fantasy, fiction and exaggeration. That's a sweeping statement, but I always leave it to my readers to decipher the ruins of my life, the fragments of my self...
She is on her way to my second home. England.
Richard II, Act II, Scene I ("This royale throne of Kings, this sceptred isle...This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.")
I cannot lie and pretend that I felt like this from the day I landed in England. It was unwelcoming at first sight. I was unbecoming as days went by. For the first time, I became acutely aware of the colour of my skin. Would that decide my fate, in England?
But months made way for years and after four and a half years, when the time came to suddenly uproot myself, I felt as if I was being exiled. Almost. As if, I was leaving behind a part of my self. So many lives, so many people, so much to learn, so many places unseen - together with the fond memories of triumph and victory. Of learning and un-learning. Of creating. Of re-writing.
It was during the later days that I realised that England and it's history was changing. That the times of the Anglo Saxons were over. That British historiography had, like with all families and countries, undergone severe changes. Changes that were not noticed. Just recorded. Zadie Smith was a success not because she was a good writer but because she was an incredible historian who put her finger on the pulse of England. Archie Jones and Samad Iqbals made England. It was evident on a busy Oxford Street. It was evident on a trip to Oxford University. It was evident at the Argos stores. It was evident at the tube stations. It was evident at the Victoria's Inn.
Somewhere with all the fears of dilution and disapperance, there was a strong urge of assimilating myself with the culture and people of a country that had given me more than I could ever return.
I wonder if this gratitude is an immigrant's dominant feeling. Or is it just content at being able to settle oneself after being displaced? The question, for the time, will have to remain unanswered.
7 Comments:
"Be open about your feelings and feel free to air them."
if you cant write it here, maybe you should mail it to the one it was intended for. not eat it up, like that looooong letter i heard so much about ...
why r u like this? koto kotha khaabe ... mota hoye jaabe. pet phete jaabe. go back to england. follow ur friend. go back where ur heart is. how long will u fight it? why are you fighting it?
i, on the other hand, am hating to go back. nothing left for me there now. everyone who was there has gone away. and for me maybe the people make the place.
go in my stead and be with ur friend & be happy :)
love.
Hi Prero. Welcome back!
You ask some relevant yet rhetorical questions. Relevant cause I know where you are coming from and know that you mean well. Rhetorical cause this is JUST the way I am! I am pathetic at expressing myself. I fear people might use it against me. I do not want to make myself vulnerable. To anyone. The moment you let them in, you know rape is inevitable! I am sure you know that better than me. :-)
My heart aint in England sweet. It is homeless.
As I write this I am reminded of one of your posts on Home, or was it mine?!
I agree that the people make the place, but then again, there are so many people to be found, like lost wisdom, precious and waiting.
Btw, Prero please send me your gmail id. I do not have it and I know that u dont have access to your office id. xxx
A very interesting post Pele. And intriguing comments too. It is always hard to be displaced even within your 'own' country. Any kind of movement can cause a huge tumult of emotions. And then...to settle and have to move again...very unsettling. And where we live does have an influence on 'what' and 'who' we are.
To fight against your expression...you shouldn't. Be free to write what you want. When you fight it...it eats you whole. The heart is always in the art...as I have learnt to my cost. I just let it guide me and inform my writing. When I repressed it...it only did harm.
I hope you find what you are looking for.
Hey Molly - thanks for your comment. I love it when you say -"The heart is always in the art." I completely agree with you. It reminds me of a Shavian expression - "I'd rather write for myself and have no public, than write for the public and have no self." :-)
I like the displacement within your own country perspective. It's something that I am experiencing in real time these days! ;) But then, with time, the mind gets accustomed to get acclimitised to changes. I think the key lesson for us is to realise that change is the only constant in our lives (yeah, I know that's cliched but it's true)...
I've written way too much. Sorry! :P
Yes, the mind can become used to almost anything. Even in extreme situations, we learn to adjust and cope. And if you want to return...return. Everything turns in cycles and we usually end up where we should be. That Vico had it right. Life in cycles.
mail toh korle na - shudhu shudhu id ta chai li - shala!
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