Something of Myself
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Durgotsab
It's that time of the year again - I am always so surprised by how swiftly flies time's wings - Durga Pujo is here again and the smell is in the air.
Having grown up in a joint family for a good number of years, Pujo means much more to me than it is to many people who wear new clothes, exchange gifts and indulge in night-long 'deity-seeing.' Pujo to me, is that time of the year, when I get in touch with my roots. My family. All those people who have had some influence in making me what I am today. Some disciplined me, pushed me to succeed, taught me how to listen, made me realize that the most important thing in life is not to make money but to be a good human being. Dad, being the first one to tell me so.
I am going to try my best to not think of Dad during this time. It inevitably leaves me forlorn. But then again, how much can a man try when he is what he is because of the father that He was?!
That was a digression. This post was meant to be on Pujo. But then, I am infamous for my inconsitencies. How boring it would be if life were regimented, if words were clearly etched in our minds before appearing on paper, if emotions were programmed to deliver, if senses were coded to feel, if humans could break free from their consciousness...
It is these that make life. Intuitive logic that is flawed. Heartening sensations that are numbed. Fluttering emotions that are caged. Beauty that ages. Love that looses. Pain that causes. Death that closes.
I can hear the beat of dhaak somewhere deep inside my ears. The familiar faces - frail, old, wrinkled faces, the babies that have just been born, couples that have just fallen in love, sons who have returned home from the war, daughters who are getting married...These I see.
There are others that I don't. They play havoc inside me. As Pujo arrives...
It's that time of the year again - I am always so surprised by how swiftly flies time's wings - Durga Pujo is here again and the smell is in the air.
Having grown up in a joint family for a good number of years, Pujo means much more to me than it is to many people who wear new clothes, exchange gifts and indulge in night-long 'deity-seeing.' Pujo to me, is that time of the year, when I get in touch with my roots. My family. All those people who have had some influence in making me what I am today. Some disciplined me, pushed me to succeed, taught me how to listen, made me realize that the most important thing in life is not to make money but to be a good human being. Dad, being the first one to tell me so.
I am going to try my best to not think of Dad during this time. It inevitably leaves me forlorn. But then again, how much can a man try when he is what he is because of the father that He was?!
That was a digression. This post was meant to be on Pujo. But then, I am infamous for my inconsitencies. How boring it would be if life were regimented, if words were clearly etched in our minds before appearing on paper, if emotions were programmed to deliver, if senses were coded to feel, if humans could break free from their consciousness...
It is these that make life. Intuitive logic that is flawed. Heartening sensations that are numbed. Fluttering emotions that are caged. Beauty that ages. Love that looses. Pain that causes. Death that closes.
I can hear the beat of dhaak somewhere deep inside my ears. The familiar faces - frail, old, wrinkled faces, the babies that have just been born, couples that have just fallen in love, sons who have returned home from the war, daughters who are getting married...These I see.
There are others that I don't. They play havoc inside me. As Pujo arrives...
Monday, September 25, 2006
Something of Myself
It's coming back after ages.
I am sensing a part of myself - near, very near, but not there yet. It'll be so nice to meet up with you. The old me. Reckless. Carefree. Sensitive. Daring. Go-getting!
It feels cold - hair-raisingly cold. A certain numbness envelopes me. I surrender. All of myself. Yet another time. As if I was always ready, willing and able.
Someone's outside. I can hear the footsteps. The smell of lilies. The sweet invite. The warm embrace. The naïve smile.
I have so much to tell you. Telling stories. Heartbreaking memories. Painful encounters. Ruined relationships. Elastic compromises. Earthy promises.
I need it to rain. It always feels like redemption when it rains. A tiny amount of independence. A huge amount of boisterousness. Velocity. Spear-like.
Sudhu tomar jonno (Only for You).
I need to do so much before he comes in. I need to dress up. Need to unmask. Need to take stock of everything I have to share. Need to update the log book. Need to feel the pain again, to enable me to explain what I felt then.
Please wait for a little while. Hang around. I want to feel this thing - I want this feeling to last a while - a little while - only a lifetime! I promise, I will bring you roses in December. Only if you promise to stay around.
I need to be with you. I need to be with myself. Something of myself.
It's coming back after ages.
I am sensing a part of myself - near, very near, but not there yet. It'll be so nice to meet up with you. The old me. Reckless. Carefree. Sensitive. Daring. Go-getting!
It feels cold - hair-raisingly cold. A certain numbness envelopes me. I surrender. All of myself. Yet another time. As if I was always ready, willing and able.
Someone's outside. I can hear the footsteps. The smell of lilies. The sweet invite. The warm embrace. The naïve smile.
I have so much to tell you. Telling stories. Heartbreaking memories. Painful encounters. Ruined relationships. Elastic compromises. Earthy promises.
I need it to rain. It always feels like redemption when it rains. A tiny amount of independence. A huge amount of boisterousness. Velocity. Spear-like.
Sudhu tomar jonno (Only for You).
I need to do so much before he comes in. I need to dress up. Need to unmask. Need to take stock of everything I have to share. Need to update the log book. Need to feel the pain again, to enable me to explain what I felt then.
Please wait for a little while. Hang around. I want to feel this thing - I want this feeling to last a while - a little while - only a lifetime! I promise, I will bring you roses in December. Only if you promise to stay around.
I need to be with you. I need to be with myself. Something of myself.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
The Business of Life
Yes, indeed, I do not understand the idea of 'love.' I understand only 'pain.' Hell, at least I possess that ability.
Some people forget easily. Others have short-lived memories. Whichever way you see it, it's either half empty or half full. You cannot negate the half. The split makes it beautiful. The emptiness makes it a subject of discussion. An object of wonder. Did you ever think like that? Did you ever stop and ask yourself, if you really understood human emotions?
Why do people fall in love? Why do people hate each other? What happens when you are trapped in a situation that you hate? Wherefrom does repulsion stem? Why do we get angry? Why do we lust? Did you ever give away everything for a person? Did you take away everything from someone? What does happiness mean? Isn't life nothing but a base deal and all of us businessmen? Or are we pimps? Trading whores? Making deals? Selling flesh? Selling desires? Selling ourselves? Buying out others? At the cost of our lives. Or perhaps at the cost of others.
Why do we even think? What makes us think?
When will this cease? This sluggish, morbid, lewd, uncouth, boisterous existence filled with hypocrisy and convenience. The convenience of the self. Damn, it's all about conveniences. Base. Baser. Basest.
And yet, even after all this, they look at you and pass judgements. They point at you, at their convenience. The only exception is when you nurture an embryo in your womb for all those months. That's not about convenience. It's about pain. And the joy associated with the pain.
That is why I understand 'pain' and not 'love.' I choose to be this way because this is the safest, securest way of doing the business.
Yes, indeed, I do not understand the idea of 'love.' I understand only 'pain.' Hell, at least I possess that ability.
Some people forget easily. Others have short-lived memories. Whichever way you see it, it's either half empty or half full. You cannot negate the half. The split makes it beautiful. The emptiness makes it a subject of discussion. An object of wonder. Did you ever think like that? Did you ever stop and ask yourself, if you really understood human emotions?
Why do people fall in love? Why do people hate each other? What happens when you are trapped in a situation that you hate? Wherefrom does repulsion stem? Why do we get angry? Why do we lust? Did you ever give away everything for a person? Did you take away everything from someone? What does happiness mean? Isn't life nothing but a base deal and all of us businessmen? Or are we pimps? Trading whores? Making deals? Selling flesh? Selling desires? Selling ourselves? Buying out others? At the cost of our lives. Or perhaps at the cost of others.
Why do we even think? What makes us think?
When will this cease? This sluggish, morbid, lewd, uncouth, boisterous existence filled with hypocrisy and convenience. The convenience of the self. Damn, it's all about conveniences. Base. Baser. Basest.
And yet, even after all this, they look at you and pass judgements. They point at you, at their convenience. The only exception is when you nurture an embryo in your womb for all those months. That's not about convenience. It's about pain. And the joy associated with the pain.
That is why I understand 'pain' and not 'love.' I choose to be this way because this is the safest, securest way of doing the business.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Ghosts
How do you keep ghosts away? Real ones, not the scary ones. Murdered ghosts. Creeping up from everywhere. Watching you. Looking over you, at you and through you.
As a child I was never afraid of them. But now I am, as they re-appear and re-surface in my closet, bathroom, kitchen, socks, handkerchiefs, scarves, coffee cups, pens, pillows, desktop screen and even on the scroll button on the mouse.
They mock at me. They question me. They pity me. They laugh at me with scornful looks.
The ghosts of the dead. One, two, three, four…so many of them. They arrive in a group. They have formed their own coterie.
Can we drive them away? Can we scare them?
What does it take to ensure that ghosts do not revisit? They are a tricky bunch you see, un-harmful yet piercing through you, questioning your identity.
Are we simply ghosts of the present – living in a different world from the others? Are we ghosts to-be?
Ghosts. They do not even let me write. Creeping up here, now, standing and walking in a swaggering manner, swaying their hands, gesticulating their presence. Numbness fills me. I am cold. Cold as I could be.
It’s almost like the kiss of death. Of yet another ‘me’ – leaving no trails behind, no footprints, save a tinge or a hint of a feeling.
How do you keep ghosts away? Real ones, not the scary ones. Murdered ghosts. Creeping up from everywhere. Watching you. Looking over you, at you and through you.
As a child I was never afraid of them. But now I am, as they re-appear and re-surface in my closet, bathroom, kitchen, socks, handkerchiefs, scarves, coffee cups, pens, pillows, desktop screen and even on the scroll button on the mouse.
They mock at me. They question me. They pity me. They laugh at me with scornful looks.
The ghosts of the dead. One, two, three, four…so many of them. They arrive in a group. They have formed their own coterie.
Can we drive them away? Can we scare them?
What does it take to ensure that ghosts do not revisit? They are a tricky bunch you see, un-harmful yet piercing through you, questioning your identity.
Are we simply ghosts of the present – living in a different world from the others? Are we ghosts to-be?
Ghosts. They do not even let me write. Creeping up here, now, standing and walking in a swaggering manner, swaying their hands, gesticulating their presence. Numbness fills me. I am cold. Cold as I could be.
It’s almost like the kiss of death. Of yet another ‘me’ – leaving no trails behind, no footprints, save a tinge or a hint of a feeling.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
The precipice of memory. The grandeur of loss.
I was reading this piece on BBC News on the memories of 9/11. This man nearly escaped death. This is what he has to say:
"As a kid, you worried about the monsters under your bed, and you'd hear a noise and it would spook you a little bit and your mom or dad would come in and say 'everything's okay, don't worry'. You check with a flashlight under the bed and there's no monsters hiding underneath there.
"Well, I got a bunch of little gremlins.
"I think anybody who is in New York, or who lost somebody or who paid witness that day, has a bunch of little gremlins under their bed, and every once in a while those gremlins leap out and they taunt you and they bite you and they want to play with you.
"So you play with them and then you put them back under your bed and maybe it's five minutes, maybe it's five days, maybe it's five months till they come back out and play, but you've got to confront your gremlins and then say 'You know what, folks, it's time to move on, I'll see you in six months'."
I found it touching. I found it relevant. The precipice of memory. The grandeur of loss. Like Katherine Mansfield said, 'Love Something One Must,' but at THIS cost?At the cost of knowing that no matter what you love and how much you do, it is going to end untimely. Or rather, the object of your love will be snatched away from you.
'Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.'
- Alfred God Tennyson
I was reading this piece on BBC News on the memories of 9/11. This man nearly escaped death. This is what he has to say:
"As a kid, you worried about the monsters under your bed, and you'd hear a noise and it would spook you a little bit and your mom or dad would come in and say 'everything's okay, don't worry'. You check with a flashlight under the bed and there's no monsters hiding underneath there.
"Well, I got a bunch of little gremlins.
"I think anybody who is in New York, or who lost somebody or who paid witness that day, has a bunch of little gremlins under their bed, and every once in a while those gremlins leap out and they taunt you and they bite you and they want to play with you.
"So you play with them and then you put them back under your bed and maybe it's five minutes, maybe it's five days, maybe it's five months till they come back out and play, but you've got to confront your gremlins and then say 'You know what, folks, it's time to move on, I'll see you in six months'."
I found it touching. I found it relevant. The precipice of memory. The grandeur of loss. Like Katherine Mansfield said, 'Love Something One Must,' but at THIS cost?At the cost of knowing that no matter what you love and how much you do, it is going to end untimely. Or rather, the object of your love will be snatched away from you.
'Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.'
- Alfred God Tennyson
