Something of Myself
Friday, December 15, 2006
It began purely as a journal. It turns out to be a 'real' space (yeah, intended) where I can shout, cry, weep and be myself (almost). This is the 'real' me. This is what I feel. But this also means making room for others to interpret, misunderstand and misrepresent. But hell, who cares?!
There were times when I felt a caustic need to shut it down. To hit shift and delete. But then, it wouldn't erase memories, desires, dreams, longing, lust, love, hatred, and all other vices that make me as I constantly seek to become myself.
Life is a process of becoming, isn't it? We are always heading towards something that is not. And I think our deepest sadness is born out of this unflinching desire to become something that we are not, to achieve something that we do not have, to conquer that we lust for, to rise from the ashes and seek a state of permanence.
I seek continuity. I want to make sense of all the patterns around me. I want to connect each dot with another and establish a story. Establish a sense of order that is only born out of grave disorder. The mismatch, the incompleteness, the puzzle, the dilemma, the Janus face of life - all seem to cross each other at some intersecting point.
I feel so little, almost as if I need to unlearn everything I learnt so far and begin all over again. It is a wonderfully tempting offer. Imagine getting up one day without knowing anything. And then someone comes up and teaches you how to make sense of words, gives meanings to objects around you without naming anything. So you are left in this big world, aged 30 something with the mind of an infant, with no one around to help you. You, all alone.
Like I said, it's a tempting offer. I would give up all my money to be where I can re-invent myself, and my life. May be I would end up with the same set of parents, same wife, same children, same friends, same enemies but then the joy of discovery and the sweet taste of hunger would enable me to become some one else. The process of becoming leaves you fatigued when you are 60 years old. There is nothing to become anymore. You just live to satisfy others. And wish you were not what you are.
Wish life never happened. Wish death was a little closer.
There were times when I felt a caustic need to shut it down. To hit shift and delete. But then, it wouldn't erase memories, desires, dreams, longing, lust, love, hatred, and all other vices that make me as I constantly seek to become myself.
Life is a process of becoming, isn't it? We are always heading towards something that is not. And I think our deepest sadness is born out of this unflinching desire to become something that we are not, to achieve something that we do not have, to conquer that we lust for, to rise from the ashes and seek a state of permanence.
I seek continuity. I want to make sense of all the patterns around me. I want to connect each dot with another and establish a story. Establish a sense of order that is only born out of grave disorder. The mismatch, the incompleteness, the puzzle, the dilemma, the Janus face of life - all seem to cross each other at some intersecting point.
I feel so little, almost as if I need to unlearn everything I learnt so far and begin all over again. It is a wonderfully tempting offer. Imagine getting up one day without knowing anything. And then someone comes up and teaches you how to make sense of words, gives meanings to objects around you without naming anything. So you are left in this big world, aged 30 something with the mind of an infant, with no one around to help you. You, all alone.
Like I said, it's a tempting offer. I would give up all my money to be where I can re-invent myself, and my life. May be I would end up with the same set of parents, same wife, same children, same friends, same enemies but then the joy of discovery and the sweet taste of hunger would enable me to become some one else. The process of becoming leaves you fatigued when you are 60 years old. There is nothing to become anymore. You just live to satisfy others. And wish you were not what you are.
Wish life never happened. Wish death was a little closer.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Last night, as I was turning and twisting to fall asleep, I had this sudden feeling rising in me. I felt I was going to die too soon. Well, not tomorrow but soon. I felt there was not enough time to accomplish all that was left to accomplish. I felt I had to do so much in so little time. I felt I had to meet so many people that I wanted to meet. So many promises that have to be honoured. So many lies that have to be uncovered. So many fights that have to be resolved. So many revenges that have to be exacted. So many debts that have to be re-paid.
While speaking to Ma the other day, an acute realization bit me, for the billionth time – it is only money that can give us absolute power. Those who have it, have the power to rule. Those who don’t, they are destined to be ruled. The big equation is simple after all. Marx was not an idiot and idealisms do not feed empty stomachs.
I need money.
I need power.
I need time.
I need to figure out the people who are going to stand by me, when I have none of the above.
While speaking to Ma the other day, an acute realization bit me, for the billionth time – it is only money that can give us absolute power. Those who have it, have the power to rule. Those who don’t, they are destined to be ruled. The big equation is simple after all. Marx was not an idiot and idealisms do not feed empty stomachs.
I need money.
I need power.
I need time.
I need to figure out the people who are going to stand by me, when I have none of the above.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Black and White
They used to frequent the pubs fairly regularly. She used to have vodka and orange juice, and he stuck to his 'Pint of Carlsberg.' They never conceived it as a 'date' but eventually seeing them, everyone would come up and compliment how wonderful a couple they made. Race sells after all!
She was the quiet type. He - forever boisterous, thinking but loud. He couldn't help it, bongs were supposed to be like that. He used to admire her. Never did he for once feel that he loved her in the traditional sense of the term. There was no lust and there was no love lost. And that was pretty much the end of the story. However, nothing is as it seems...text messages were exchanged, glances remained unrequited, half-words died somewhere between the vocal chord and the receptors. It was magic. She said it so many times. He felt it at times. But the very possibility of a romantic relationship with a white girl was shocking. Jaat noshto hoye jabe. Bangla bujhbe na. Culture bhujbe na. Lakkhi pujor din mod kheye badi phirbe. Durga pujo te hangover niye shuye thakbe. Baba manbe na. Ma chomke jabe.
But it lasted. For 20 years. They kept in touch even when he left the shores. He didn't get an opportunity to bid her farewell. He had so many things to tell her. He never told her how beautiful she was. Although he broke down many a times in front of her, he never quite got to share his deepest secrets with a white woman who would understand the pain of being a black man. The contrast was evident - on-your-face - black and white.
He called me last evening - wept; for he was missing her dearly - she was the one person who would listen to him for hours and hours, even after dinner was cooked and it went cold during one of the chilly London nights. Donner Kebab and After Shock. Raj India chips and the sweet smell of Christian Dior. When she bought a dress for the ball, he was the first to know. When he triumphed in his battles, she couldn't resist her pride.
They were one of a kind. Friends forever. But there was this underlying, unsaid, undiminishing tension in the chemistry. Sex or celibacy? Love or friendship? Desire or admiration?
To admire you have to stand a little far away. Desire gets you closer.
She is travelling now. In a Virgin train. From Birmingham to Plymouth. Dried leaves lie on the track. She reads a book. It's called, Anna Karenina.
They used to frequent the pubs fairly regularly. She used to have vodka and orange juice, and he stuck to his 'Pint of Carlsberg.' They never conceived it as a 'date' but eventually seeing them, everyone would come up and compliment how wonderful a couple they made. Race sells after all!
She was the quiet type. He - forever boisterous, thinking but loud. He couldn't help it, bongs were supposed to be like that. He used to admire her. Never did he for once feel that he loved her in the traditional sense of the term. There was no lust and there was no love lost. And that was pretty much the end of the story. However, nothing is as it seems...text messages were exchanged, glances remained unrequited, half-words died somewhere between the vocal chord and the receptors. It was magic. She said it so many times. He felt it at times. But the very possibility of a romantic relationship with a white girl was shocking. Jaat noshto hoye jabe. Bangla bujhbe na. Culture bhujbe na. Lakkhi pujor din mod kheye badi phirbe. Durga pujo te hangover niye shuye thakbe. Baba manbe na. Ma chomke jabe.
But it lasted. For 20 years. They kept in touch even when he left the shores. He didn't get an opportunity to bid her farewell. He had so many things to tell her. He never told her how beautiful she was. Although he broke down many a times in front of her, he never quite got to share his deepest secrets with a white woman who would understand the pain of being a black man. The contrast was evident - on-your-face - black and white.
He called me last evening - wept; for he was missing her dearly - she was the one person who would listen to him for hours and hours, even after dinner was cooked and it went cold during one of the chilly London nights. Donner Kebab and After Shock. Raj India chips and the sweet smell of Christian Dior. When she bought a dress for the ball, he was the first to know. When he triumphed in his battles, she couldn't resist her pride.
They were one of a kind. Friends forever. But there was this underlying, unsaid, undiminishing tension in the chemistry. Sex or celibacy? Love or friendship? Desire or admiration?
To admire you have to stand a little far away. Desire gets you closer.
She is travelling now. In a Virgin train. From Birmingham to Plymouth. Dried leaves lie on the track. She reads a book. It's called, Anna Karenina.
