First Christmas at home with The Man, the last two having been spent making tearful long distance phone calls and vowing, next year, next year.
We trudged home with a black Christmas tree. Shiny black papery leaves. He sits now in the drawing room, full of black and gold baubles. On the stairs there are golden twinkly lights and burnished gold tinsel. Inside a golden box at the base of the tree, amidst the wreathes and wreathes of black and gold tinsel, there is a huge amount of chocolate, and a fat, black, glossy tree-book. For the rose-cheeked bookworm-prince who loves having tree-books and creature-books and star-books and all manner of other books. In the kitchen, a bottle of Schnapps and a bottle of wine.
Quiet day at home, full of firsts.
Showing posts with label Home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Home. Show all posts
Thursday, 25 December 2008
Sunday, 21 December 2008
Up at six, having slept 15 hours straight (only waking once to turn over, kiss him deeply and long and then drift back into the stars). She feels rested and can smell the air outside even through the closed window. It's fresh. But too cold to stand in, even with warm pyjamas. The birds are wide awake and there's a riot of them outside.
She walks through the house, switching on lamps, opening the front door to get a whiff of that freshness. She makes toast with cheese - a childhood ritual breakfast, unshakable. And a mug of tea. Tea, not coffee. There is no lemongrass, alas. But there is still freshness in the air and birdsong. Even, for a brief second in the darkened parking lot outside, a prowling cat for company.
What is different:
Not much, even halfway across the world. The essential elements have been brought within me: the morning air, the mug of tea, a cat's quiet company, birdsong.
This, I now realize, is how I make myself at home; it has very little to do with the exact point on any map. Collecting the impressions of a morning, I'm oriented. Hello Earth, I'm home.
She walks through the house, switching on lamps, opening the front door to get a whiff of that freshness. She makes toast with cheese - a childhood ritual breakfast, unshakable. And a mug of tea. Tea, not coffee. There is no lemongrass, alas. But there is still freshness in the air and birdsong. Even, for a brief second in the darkened parking lot outside, a prowling cat for company.
What is different:
Not much, even halfway across the world. The essential elements have been brought within me: the morning air, the mug of tea, a cat's quiet company, birdsong.
This, I now realize, is how I make myself at home; it has very little to do with the exact point on any map. Collecting the impressions of a morning, I'm oriented. Hello Earth, I'm home.
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Mumbai Airport
Is empty.
And I have Rs. 100 in my pocket, but many many pounds.
I looked from start to finish for a bookshop to buy White Tiger and find a MediaMart sales counter at my gate.
It costs Rs. 395 and they only accept Indian money.
The exchange counter is ages away.
I imagined reading it on the flight.
Humph.
I have an hour.
What to do?
And I have Rs. 100 in my pocket, but many many pounds.
I looked from start to finish for a bookshop to buy White Tiger and find a MediaMart sales counter at my gate.
It costs Rs. 395 and they only accept Indian money.
The exchange counter is ages away.
I imagined reading it on the flight.
Humph.
I have an hour.
What to do?
Monday, 15 December 2008
Bapu Zanzad*
Was my friend.
He was also - Very well loved and respected in his village. Noted for being amongst the friendliest and most honest men anyone had ever met - which, evidence my last posts, is really hard to balance, at least for me! He was a great tailor. There should have been a sign outside his shop: Will sew, darn, mend, alter, snip anything. Fast.
His shop was extremely humble. Empty except for a sewing machine, two plastic chairs and a long trestle table on which he cut his cloth and ironed the clothes with a huge steamy iron that should by rights require a weightlifter to operate. On the wall opposite his machine was a faded old picture of Mumbai - where he'd spent some time as a younger man.
He was in his late 40s.
He finished his work one day, walked home, and slept peacefully after his dinner. When he woke up at six, he went outside, and one minute he was there, the next he'd gone. I suppose that is something.
He left a wife and a son and his shop and many many friends.
*****************************************************************
We spent many hours talking when I was there for my fieldwork.
He said I was a guest in his village, and insisted on buying me a cold drink.
He asked me many questions about my life in England. The size of the houses, the state of farms, the habits of the people ("Is it true that they really don't wear any clothes?!") and about whether I was happy there. When I was there, did I miss home? Did I still think of India as my country? Are the streets really very wide? Is it true that there isn't a monsoon?! My goodness! No monsoon? What do they eat? ("Crap", I said to myself.) Do you still keep in mind everything that you learnt in this country? How come you speak Marathi? Which is more difficult - Marathi or English? If I learnt English, could I do anything? Why did the English make everything happen in their language? Isn't ours better?
And so on and so forth, through the hot summer afternoons, over a Pepsi and under a whirring ceiling fan.
When you come back, (not If. When. He knew, even if I didn't, that I'd be drawn back to this place) can you please bring me some pictures of where you live?
******************************************************************
One day, when I was sitting at his shop, the village drunk swayed in, took a look at me and said something obscene - though of course, I was never told what exactly he'd said. Mr. Zanzad drove him out of the shop. Called the chai-wallah from the tea stall next door. The milkman from across the road. The gram sevak from outside the grocery store. And they hounded him back to his house.
The next day, he said "No one will ever bother you in this village. You can go where you like. And if you have any problems, see me. Or the Sarpanch."
Wow.
*******************************************************************
When I returned for a day visit this week, there were huge posters ouside his store and just outside the village gates, announcing his sudden demise and full of good wishes for him and his family. Everyone I met mentioned what a great guy he was.
*******************************************************************
I suppose I could be accused of being too bleeding-hearted. At the slightest excuse. But somewhere, I feel... Ouch.
It feels trite to say 'loss'. But I am trying to measure what was lost. It also feels odd to say 'My friend'. But he felt like it. Even though it was just two weeks of chats across the space of a room but really across the biggest divides. I so wished to see him. His open smile, his laughing eyes, the enthusiastic wave. Someone to talk with, a friend in a faraway place who made me feel so welcome. I miss him.
*not his real name.
He was also - Very well loved and respected in his village. Noted for being amongst the friendliest and most honest men anyone had ever met - which, evidence my last posts, is really hard to balance, at least for me! He was a great tailor. There should have been a sign outside his shop: Will sew, darn, mend, alter, snip anything. Fast.
His shop was extremely humble. Empty except for a sewing machine, two plastic chairs and a long trestle table on which he cut his cloth and ironed the clothes with a huge steamy iron that should by rights require a weightlifter to operate. On the wall opposite his machine was a faded old picture of Mumbai - where he'd spent some time as a younger man.
He was in his late 40s.
He finished his work one day, walked home, and slept peacefully after his dinner. When he woke up at six, he went outside, and one minute he was there, the next he'd gone. I suppose that is something.
He left a wife and a son and his shop and many many friends.
*****************************************************************
We spent many hours talking when I was there for my fieldwork.
He said I was a guest in his village, and insisted on buying me a cold drink.
He asked me many questions about my life in England. The size of the houses, the state of farms, the habits of the people ("Is it true that they really don't wear any clothes?!") and about whether I was happy there. When I was there, did I miss home? Did I still think of India as my country? Are the streets really very wide? Is it true that there isn't a monsoon?! My goodness! No monsoon? What do they eat? ("Crap", I said to myself.) Do you still keep in mind everything that you learnt in this country? How come you speak Marathi? Which is more difficult - Marathi or English? If I learnt English, could I do anything? Why did the English make everything happen in their language? Isn't ours better?
And so on and so forth, through the hot summer afternoons, over a Pepsi and under a whirring ceiling fan.
When you come back, (not If. When. He knew, even if I didn't, that I'd be drawn back to this place) can you please bring me some pictures of where you live?
******************************************************************
One day, when I was sitting at his shop, the village drunk swayed in, took a look at me and said something obscene - though of course, I was never told what exactly he'd said. Mr. Zanzad drove him out of the shop. Called the chai-wallah from the tea stall next door. The milkman from across the road. The gram sevak from outside the grocery store. And they hounded him back to his house.
The next day, he said "No one will ever bother you in this village. You can go where you like. And if you have any problems, see me. Or the Sarpanch."
Wow.
*******************************************************************
When I returned for a day visit this week, there were huge posters ouside his store and just outside the village gates, announcing his sudden demise and full of good wishes for him and his family. Everyone I met mentioned what a great guy he was.
*******************************************************************
I suppose I could be accused of being too bleeding-hearted. At the slightest excuse. But somewhere, I feel... Ouch.
It feels trite to say 'loss'. But I am trying to measure what was lost. It also feels odd to say 'My friend'. But he felt like it. Even though it was just two weeks of chats across the space of a room but really across the biggest divides. I so wished to see him. His open smile, his laughing eyes, the enthusiastic wave. Someone to talk with, a friend in a faraway place who made me feel so welcome. I miss him.
*not his real name.
Early morning at home
Smells of:
Very fresh air outside - even if you're still inside.
Fresh coffee.
And the subtle creature-smell of the warm, furry, purry, orange, bewhiskered cat curled up asleep next to you.
Very fresh air outside - even if you're still inside.
Fresh coffee.
And the subtle creature-smell of the warm, furry, purry, orange, bewhiskered cat curled up asleep next to you.
Sunday, 14 December 2008
Old friend across the abyss.
And because I didn't shamelessly spew enough venom last night, here's some more.
***********************************************************
Thou art so lovely.
And Polished.
And probably - no, definitely - perfect.
At work, at play, at sex, at clothes, at boys, at games, at driving, at learning, at reading.
You've read all the correct books and are suitably disappointed by The Latest Big Thing because - well - that's so much cooler and cleverer than just loving it!!!
You're cleverest of them all.
And you redefine Type A. You kick.ass. All.The.Time.
Don't you?
Divergent paths were, for us, fated.
It's in my blood: A-negative.
And though we're old, old friends and I love you (I really do. Or last night would have been farewell), I sense you see me now only through You. And I see you through my own blinding screen of stars.
When I think of home, you will always be there. And long may 2am phone calls persist. And if anyone hurt you I'd kill them. And when we've stopped fighting about this we will probably put down the phone and drive over to each other's houses and hug and cry like we always do post-fight. And everything will be fine. But between 'Hmm' and 'Wow!', may the twain n'er meet. (WHY aren't you letting me dig you out?! Is hmm really a nice place to be??!? Anyone?)
***********************************************************
Thou art so lovely.
And Polished.
And probably - no, definitely - perfect.
At work, at play, at sex, at clothes, at boys, at games, at driving, at learning, at reading.
You've read all the correct books and are suitably disappointed by The Latest Big Thing because - well - that's so much cooler and cleverer than just loving it!!!
You're cleverest of them all.
And you redefine Type A. You kick.ass. All.The.Time.
Don't you?
Divergent paths were, for us, fated.
It's in my blood: A-negative.
And though we're old, old friends and I love you (I really do. Or last night would have been farewell), I sense you see me now only through You. And I see you through my own blinding screen of stars.
When I think of home, you will always be there. And long may 2am phone calls persist. And if anyone hurt you I'd kill them. And when we've stopped fighting about this we will probably put down the phone and drive over to each other's houses and hug and cry like we always do post-fight. And everything will be fine. But between 'Hmm' and 'Wow!', may the twain n'er meet. (WHY aren't you letting me dig you out?! Is hmm really a nice place to be??!? Anyone?)
Saturday, 13 December 2008
Burning Bridges Smell Sweet
I should have admitted this years ago, but have only now grown up enough to say:
1. Dude, the reason I fell asleep when we were watching The Godfather was because I was bored. Out of my mind. At the gore, the faux 'cleverness', the 'hard' 'strategy'. But most of all, at your constant breathless faux anticipation.
2. Similarly, Guy Ritchie does nothing for me.
3. David Beckham is not hot.
4. I hate it when you say 'I know Tara' with such confidence - Maybe Tara is perverse, but you certainly didn't know about points 1, 2 and 3, above. Evidence: your reaction when I told you.
5. *sip sip on my Cosmopolitan.
How come you turned into such a corporate rat? When did you forget enthusiasm (and replace it with very shrill screeches of Yeeeah Man!!! when your football team wins)? When did you start to think that you 'need' 25 pairs of shoes 'just in case' (... there is a serial shoetheif around??)? Why do you still not know or care or ask what the fuck I'm doing for my PhD (I know: because my 'real life' will only start post-thesis when I start earning and therefore this is not worth your time.) And last - h.o.w. do you and me have a normal conversation after this when you want to 'just chill man, I've had a hard day at work', while for me 'I am still whirring - as we speak - and cannot for the life of me, be sated by any of the things that excited you tonight.
They say the best mirror is an old friend, but hell, I hope like hell when I look there I see nothing of myself.
1. Dude, the reason I fell asleep when we were watching The Godfather was because I was bored. Out of my mind. At the gore, the faux 'cleverness', the 'hard' 'strategy'. But most of all, at your constant breathless faux anticipation.
2. Similarly, Guy Ritchie does nothing for me.
3. David Beckham is not hot.
4. I hate it when you say 'I know Tara' with such confidence - Maybe Tara is perverse, but you certainly didn't know about points 1, 2 and 3, above. Evidence: your reaction when I told you.
5. *sip sip on my Cosmopolitan.
How come you turned into such a corporate rat? When did you forget enthusiasm (and replace it with very shrill screeches of Yeeeah Man!!! when your football team wins)? When did you start to think that you 'need' 25 pairs of shoes 'just in case' (... there is a serial shoetheif around??)? Why do you still not know or care or ask what the fuck I'm doing for my PhD (I know: because my 'real life' will only start post-thesis when I start earning and therefore this is not worth your time.) And last - h.o.w. do you and me have a normal conversation after this when you want to 'just chill man, I've had a hard day at work', while for me 'I am still whirring - as we speak - and cannot for the life of me, be sated by any of the things that excited you tonight.
They say the best mirror is an old friend, but hell, I hope like hell when I look there I see nothing of myself.
Thursday, 11 December 2008
Loser
4am. Alarm goes off.
Too anxious about PhD work to sleep.
Too anxious about PhD work to work.
Solution?
Lie under the blanket in a half-daze until 6.
Consider the amount of time being wasted and spiral into panic.
Freeze underneath blanket until 6:30.
Yuck.
Too anxious about PhD work to sleep.
Too anxious about PhD work to work.
Solution?
Lie under the blanket in a half-daze until 6.
Consider the amount of time being wasted and spiral into panic.
Freeze underneath blanket until 6:30.
Yuck.
Sunday, 7 December 2008
Post 26/11
When the dust settles, when the heat goes off and the lights come on, we're going to finally see who's to blame. All the blood on our hands will give us away.
In the land of karma, we're blaming everybody else and passing the buck.
Sad.
In the land of karma, we're blaming everybody else and passing the buck.
Sad.
Burning the midnight oil and assorted notes.
11:30 pm on a Sunday night. Working on PhD.
Relief from the tedium comes from:
Road noises (rickshaws - someone is going home on a peaceful eveing),
Passing traffic, (especially trucks - someone else is working, and harder than me)
and an orchestra of crickets in the garden (the magic garden, is alive and awake with song always).
----------------------------
M.
Miss him.
More than anything, anywhere.
Studying be damned (no!). I hope he comes online. I could stay up all night talking to him even if I was dropping with exhaustion. And right now he is just home from taking pictures up the river. God, I want.
-----------------------------
Energy: Where is mine gone??
-----------------------------
Shopping at your favourite store: Is overrated, especially if you're doing it with a grumpy mother. (Who this time, did not tell me to turn around and walk away - but instead, almost did it herself. I think we shall avoid shopping together as a mutually enjoyable potential activity and practice macing each other in the garden instead. Still, love her.)
Relief from the tedium comes from:
Road noises (rickshaws - someone is going home on a peaceful eveing),
Passing traffic, (especially trucks - someone else is working, and harder than me)
and an orchestra of crickets in the garden (the magic garden, is alive and awake with song always).
----------------------------
M.
Miss him.
More than anything, anywhere.
Studying be damned (no!). I hope he comes online. I could stay up all night talking to him even if I was dropping with exhaustion. And right now he is just home from taking pictures up the river. God, I want.
-----------------------------
Energy: Where is mine gone??
-----------------------------
Shopping at your favourite store: Is overrated, especially if you're doing it with a grumpy mother. (Who this time, did not tell me to turn around and walk away - but instead, almost did it herself. I think we shall avoid shopping together as a mutually enjoyable potential activity and practice macing each other in the garden instead. Still, love her.)
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
A Sapling's Plea
Papa:
Why so impatient?
As a child when I laughed and screamed, I remember you lifting me into the air and throwing me into the clouds
Our joy shouted, screeched, swayed wildly into the sky.
Your branches always sheltered; but they also let light seep right in.
But now:
My roots should have growed deeper, you say
And the wild swaying and sashaying should have stopped
Your branches too large to toss in any wind,
you've grown above storms
but also far, far above me
Can't you see though.
I'm still light green and I still dance in the breeze.
Still free.
Won't you concede your peace just a little bit,
and dance again with me?
Why so impatient?
As a child when I laughed and screamed, I remember you lifting me into the air and throwing me into the clouds
Our joy shouted, screeched, swayed wildly into the sky.
Your branches always sheltered; but they also let light seep right in.
But now:
My roots should have growed deeper, you say
And the wild swaying and sashaying should have stopped
Your branches too large to toss in any wind,
you've grown above storms
but also far, far above me
Can't you see though.
I'm still light green and I still dance in the breeze.
Still free.
Won't you concede your peace just a little bit,
and dance again with me?
Tuesday, 2 December 2008
Today
This evening, I saw I saw:
- Two old friends. With the first one, she's the same, but we have changed. We still loved getting a cup of coffee. With the second, she's different, I'm different, we're different, I love coffee, she hates the stuff but we're soul sisters anyway and she is coming over after work to sit.
- 3 different levels of pink in one sunset: The light of the clouds furthest from the horizon - bleached pink ice against a pale mint sky. Then, the light of silvery fire painting the lower horizon. And much closer, much much closer, the golden flame of fuchsia coloured frangipani constellations clustered amidst thick swathes of shiny emerald leaves.
- My mother and father, sitting at the table, looking tired.
- My reflection in the mirror, looking like I have a long way to go before feeling as tired. So what's my excuse today?! :P
- Two old friends. With the first one, she's the same, but we have changed. We still loved getting a cup of coffee. With the second, she's different, I'm different, we're different, I love coffee, she hates the stuff but we're soul sisters anyway and she is coming over after work to sit.
- 3 different levels of pink in one sunset: The light of the clouds furthest from the horizon - bleached pink ice against a pale mint sky. Then, the light of silvery fire painting the lower horizon. And much closer, much much closer, the golden flame of fuchsia coloured frangipani constellations clustered amidst thick swathes of shiny emerald leaves.
- My mother and father, sitting at the table, looking tired.
- My reflection in the mirror, looking like I have a long way to go before feeling as tired. So what's my excuse today?! :P
Monday, 1 December 2008
Accounts
Total cost of food/drink/outings/transport/household expenses for the past one week in India: 0
Total expenditure of emotional energy: ∞
Total expenditure of emotional energy: ∞
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Two(?) solutions(?) to two(?) different(?) problems(?)
We need to consume! Show the bastards they haven't taken away our will to live (read: spend)
Versus
Dying of consumption (read: therefore, (we) "must now give way to a renewal of saving and investment. That's the best hope for economic recovery..."
********************************
Are these solutions or soothing ointment for a burn?
Are these two different problems or just aspects of the same one?
Are they problems or just natural outcomes of our globalised, interconnected, parochial global village?
Versus
Dying of consumption (read: therefore, (we) "must now give way to a renewal of saving and investment. That's the best hope for economic recovery..."
********************************
Are these solutions or soothing ointment for a burn?
Are these two different problems or just aspects of the same one?
Are they problems or just natural outcomes of our globalised, interconnected, parochial global village?
Saturday, 29 November 2008
An evening on the couch in front of the TV
NDTV 24X7. 14:38 GMT. Random questions raised by some of the news flashes on the bottom of the screen:
(On which, by the way, I think the words 'Breaking News' have been running for a record 3 days. Come off it now. Too much live news = no real new information.)
- Mumbai Police: Terrorists between 18 and 28 years old
When did the youngest start training? At 16? When did he start swallowing whatever poison so fills you with hate? At 15? 14? Younger? Was he born with it? Or just born into an inevitable trajectory? (And therefore, aren't we all complicit even if he is entirely to blame?)
- 183 dead, over 300 injured in Mumbai attack
It's not the number; it's the fact that there was a Finn, Israelis, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, chefs, karate teachers, a food critic, businessmen, students, doctors, lawyers, receptionists, commuters, backpackers, millionaires, wives, husbands, lovers, friends, relatives, with things to say and do and forgive and be forgiven for and people to meet and people to leave and travels to take, books to read, walks to take, a life to live. It was people who travel by over packed l0cal train to work and people who fly across the world for business meetings. It was people who grew up in small co-operative societies in quiet towns and people who had a silver spoon in their mouths all along.
People who never speak across the divide died in the same room.
183 people gone means an unknown number of individuals in 183 families grief-stricken and an unknown number of friends circles grief stricken. An attack of this nature means everyone with a TV, newspaper or pair of eyes is deeply unsettled. The dichotomy between 'direct' and 'indirect' effects seems too crass to make at this point. We can, however, say that we observe the insidious and sinister ripple, ripple, ripple that highlights the connections between us all.
- 'Terrorists planned to kill 5,000 people'
(I'm really not sure how they - either the terrorists or the media arrived at this figure, but I'm guessing it's just approximate?) One is too much. One terrorist giving up his or her (err.. curious - have there been any female terrorists?) life, one victim being robbed of his or hers - is too much.
- R.R. Patil / Mumbai Police: Terrorists had college ID cards
Ah, this pricks, for some reason.
*******************************************
MANJULA BAI: "This is all Pakistan's work, isn't it"
ME: "I don't know."
MANJULA BAI: "I do. It was written in the newspaper this morning."
I didn't ask, but I should've: What if my newspaper said otherwise? Would our newspapers fight? If the newspaper said it was actually little green men (ahem), would their faces suddenly turn emerald?
*******************************************
Vikram Chandra on a panel asking 'How we can win' against 'the Terrorists': If you were given a blank piece of paper, could you write on it, onetwothree, these are the things that we should do.'
Wow. Is there really one 'we' versus one 'them'?
My sister wants to know "...who are we REALLY fighting???"
Here's my list of things we need to change (not fight):
- Our own prejudices and pigeonholes
- Our purchasing decisions
- Our public services and infrastructure which are about as inclusive as the eye of a needle
- Our inferiority complex as a country: we can't even call this the worst attack we've ever suffered. We have to qualify it by saying it's "our" 9/11. We have to suggest that we have something like the US Department of Home Security because 'they' could 'successfully' prevent a terror attack since 9/11, so why can't we. They haven't fought terror, dudes, last inkling I had, they live in constant fear.
- Our tendency to point a finger at everyone but ourselves. We're a democracy. Ideally, this means rule of the people by the people for the people. An informed (not necessarily literate) polity. And above that, a concerned and united polity. A polity who cares sporadically will sporadically be shaken and shocked sporadically, their only option at that time being to throw their hands up and blame two constructed 'thems': the terrorists and the politicians. We're the polity in the politician. Pick a paper and read it and be curious enough to follow up stories that grab you. Volunteer, to teach someone to read. Smile at a stranger. Resist at every turn being reactionary (says a blogger), or angry before you're curious, or knee-jerk before you've considered what's going on and why. Change your mind every time you find yourself forcing someone into a pigeonhole just because of how they live, who they pray to or what they wear or what language they wear.
It's not easy, and I haven't done it yet.
But I have a feeling that no amount of money, guns, Homeland Security or NSG commandos can
protect us from our neighbours and vet our friends and flush our restaurants and give us a good night's sleep. We need to win this first in our own hearts and minds, even if they win battles against urban guerrillas in our hotels.
(On which, by the way, I think the words 'Breaking News' have been running for a record 3 days. Come off it now. Too much live news = no real new information.)
- Mumbai Police: Terrorists between 18 and 28 years old
When did the youngest start training? At 16? When did he start swallowing whatever poison so fills you with hate? At 15? 14? Younger? Was he born with it? Or just born into an inevitable trajectory? (And therefore, aren't we all complicit even if he is entirely to blame?)
- 183 dead, over 300 injured in Mumbai attack
It's not the number; it's the fact that there was a Finn, Israelis, Indians, Englishmen, Americans, chefs, karate teachers, a food critic, businessmen, students, doctors, lawyers, receptionists, commuters, backpackers, millionaires, wives, husbands, lovers, friends, relatives, with things to say and do and forgive and be forgiven for and people to meet and people to leave and travels to take, books to read, walks to take, a life to live. It was people who travel by over packed l0cal train to work and people who fly across the world for business meetings. It was people who grew up in small co-operative societies in quiet towns and people who had a silver spoon in their mouths all along.
People who never speak across the divide died in the same room.
183 people gone means an unknown number of individuals in 183 families grief-stricken and an unknown number of friends circles grief stricken. An attack of this nature means everyone with a TV, newspaper or pair of eyes is deeply unsettled. The dichotomy between 'direct' and 'indirect' effects seems too crass to make at this point. We can, however, say that we observe the insidious and sinister ripple, ripple, ripple that highlights the connections between us all.
- 'Terrorists planned to kill 5,000 people'
(I'm really not sure how they - either the terrorists or the media arrived at this figure, but I'm guessing it's just approximate?) One is too much. One terrorist giving up his or her (err.. curious - have there been any female terrorists?) life, one victim being robbed of his or hers - is too much.
- R.R. Patil / Mumbai Police: Terrorists had college ID cards
Ah, this pricks, for some reason.
*******************************************
MANJULA BAI: "This is all Pakistan's work, isn't it"
ME: "I don't know."
MANJULA BAI: "I do. It was written in the newspaper this morning."
I didn't ask, but I should've: What if my newspaper said otherwise? Would our newspapers fight? If the newspaper said it was actually little green men (ahem), would their faces suddenly turn emerald?
*******************************************
Vikram Chandra on a panel asking 'How we can win' against 'the Terrorists': If you were given a blank piece of paper, could you write on it, onetwothree, these are the things that we should do.'
Wow. Is there really one 'we' versus one 'them'?
My sister wants to know "...who are we REALLY fighting???"
Here's my list of things we need to change (not fight):
- Our own prejudices and pigeonholes
- Our purchasing decisions
- Our public services and infrastructure which are about as inclusive as the eye of a needle
- Our inferiority complex as a country: we can't even call this the worst attack we've ever suffered. We have to qualify it by saying it's "our" 9/11. We have to suggest that we have something like the US Department of Home Security because 'they' could 'successfully' prevent a terror attack since 9/11, so why can't we. They haven't fought terror, dudes, last inkling I had, they live in constant fear.
- Our tendency to point a finger at everyone but ourselves. We're a democracy. Ideally, this means rule of the people by the people for the people. An informed (not necessarily literate) polity. And above that, a concerned and united polity. A polity who cares sporadically will sporadically be shaken and shocked sporadically, their only option at that time being to throw their hands up and blame two constructed 'thems': the terrorists and the politicians. We're the polity in the politician. Pick a paper and read it and be curious enough to follow up stories that grab you. Volunteer, to teach someone to read. Smile at a stranger. Resist at every turn being reactionary (says a blogger), or angry before you're curious, or knee-jerk before you've considered what's going on and why. Change your mind every time you find yourself forcing someone into a pigeonhole just because of how they live, who they pray to or what they wear or what language they wear.
It's not easy, and I haven't done it yet.
But I have a feeling that no amount of money, guns, Homeland Security or NSG commandos can
protect us from our neighbours and vet our friends and flush our restaurants and give us a good night's sleep. We need to win this first in our own hearts and minds, even if they win battles against urban guerrillas in our hotels.
Facebook Note To Everything In General
How to fight the sadness and fear that only comes afterwards??
Here's the insiduous, sinister thing about terrorism: It works even if it doesn't personally shatter you by darkening the world just a little bit, unsettling you before you have a chance to steel yourself. And when you feel like that, beautiful things do not lift you, they just wound. Smiles pinch. A beautiful day, a beautiful store, your mother buying duppattas, a little boy running around (God, I so want a child. God, I am so NOT having one - how do you protect and raise it in a world such as this?!). All these sights and sounds strip away that silly defiant veneer of rage and you feel naked and sad and utterly exposed. The world was shaken just a little bit and your insides rocked as well.
**********
While it was all going on, I was defiantly happy. I felt that they could not would not should not take away our lives and joy and capacity to trust and love and jump and scream and be silly, be creative, take risks, love fearlessly, travel fearlessly, learn about the world, love the world, fly.
I still feel this way.
But today, standing with my mother in the store, I was dismantled completely for a minute and thought I'd burst into tears. For no reason. Just.
You see, a necklace did it.
I was standing next to the counter and a stream of glass beads captured the grey blue light of a pre-rain sky. And they clinked gently against each other in the breeze of an opening door and they swayed when I touched them and their light changed; grey, blue, grey, blue, grey, grey, blue, blue, blue, green, blue.
And I forgot to fuel my smile, I was distracted.
And when they stopped swaying, I got a glimpse of my insides before the steel smile came back up. I saw broken glass and grenades and shrapnel and splinter wounds and stress fractures and gunshots and torn curtains and ripped hearts and uneaten meals and days and days and days of some people just seeing grey grey grey blue blue blue.
Still. They're not getting one tear out of me. Yet. Until another necklace or another friend or another bomb dismantles me.
Here's the insiduous, sinister thing about terrorism: It works even if it doesn't personally shatter you by darkening the world just a little bit, unsettling you before you have a chance to steel yourself. And when you feel like that, beautiful things do not lift you, they just wound. Smiles pinch. A beautiful day, a beautiful store, your mother buying duppattas, a little boy running around (God, I so want a child. God, I am so NOT having one - how do you protect and raise it in a world such as this?!). All these sights and sounds strip away that silly defiant veneer of rage and you feel naked and sad and utterly exposed. The world was shaken just a little bit and your insides rocked as well.
**********
While it was all going on, I was defiantly happy. I felt that they could not would not should not take away our lives and joy and capacity to trust and love and jump and scream and be silly, be creative, take risks, love fearlessly, travel fearlessly, learn about the world, love the world, fly.
I still feel this way.
But today, standing with my mother in the store, I was dismantled completely for a minute and thought I'd burst into tears. For no reason. Just.
You see, a necklace did it.
I was standing next to the counter and a stream of glass beads captured the grey blue light of a pre-rain sky. And they clinked gently against each other in the breeze of an opening door and they swayed when I touched them and their light changed; grey, blue, grey, blue, grey, grey, blue, blue, blue, green, blue.
And I forgot to fuel my smile, I was distracted.
And when they stopped swaying, I got a glimpse of my insides before the steel smile came back up. I saw broken glass and grenades and shrapnel and splinter wounds and stress fractures and gunshots and torn curtains and ripped hearts and uneaten meals and days and days and days of some people just seeing grey grey grey blue blue blue.
Still. They're not getting one tear out of me. Yet. Until another necklace or another friend or another bomb dismantles me.
Friday, 28 November 2008
Thank you, God.
Everyone I love is safe.
M. is in his little Scottish village, curled up with an evolution book and a hot water bottle in a warm house with his parents.
Neither my sister nor I were there. We very well could have been - at my insistence.
Shiv was in Andheri and nowhere near the attacks and actually picked up his phone when I called.
My parents didn't go to visit my Uncle who was in hospital, because they'd have dined in the area. There.
For this, I am grateful.
And for my gratitude, I feel guilty as hell.
If I - the most withdrawn person in my high school class, the person with a tiny group of friends, who doesn't go out much and certainly doesn't have 200 friends on Facebook - now knows two people who died, then everyone knows someone who died.
If not yesterday or the day before, then a while ago, somewhere else, sometime else.
Two of the chefs at the Taj were known to me, one of them was a school-time buddy. His grandmother taught me and my sister yoga when we were little. We'd get teased by him, and chased around the parking lot. I never saw him much after, and I won't see him ever again now.
I don't suddenly remember him fondly because he's gone: I just remember that I knew him once, and now there is no chance that I can look back and say: Hey! Remember when...!?!? Wasn't that fun?! His parents travelled to Mumbai in the morning when they heard he'd been shot. Halfway there, they heard that he'd passed away (such a MiddleEarthish phrase - what's it doing in this Hell?) I can't imagine getting bad news on the Expressway. You can't even stop the car! There's nothing but hills and valleys. I wonder if they heard on the ghats. I wonder who was driving. I wonder if his mother cried, or screamed, or if her years and years of yoga have taught her to be Buddha-esque, or if maternal instincts or love transcend Buddha-esque-ness.
So much to say, so much to think, nothing to do but sit and stare numbly at the TV (am resisiting, for many reasons) or out the window, or at disgusting Facebook and news sites.
The world feels cardboardy. Stale and inflammable and so fragile. I can't breathe. I don't want to let them do this to me. The only thing to do is make a conscious attempt to enjoy the coffee this morning. Play with the cats. Smile. Drink a Scotch (or two, last night, with family. Best evening I've had at home so far. We huddled around the TV, drinks in hand, cat on the sofa with us, aunts, uncles, cousins, Papa (who dozed off in the middle! Wisdom? Age? Both?), Mama and I. We watched, we even found things to laugh about (Tara! Is that a Scotch?! Are you a man or a mouse! Fill your glass!!) Text M. Tell him how much I.. you know. Look at the leaves. Take in their greenness. Fetishise every small tiny pretty, peaceful and loving thing and raise that act to an artform, make a martial training schedule of it, as pervasive as an in-breath.
God. Home, home, home.
M. is in his little Scottish village, curled up with an evolution book and a hot water bottle in a warm house with his parents.
Neither my sister nor I were there. We very well could have been - at my insistence.
Shiv was in Andheri and nowhere near the attacks and actually picked up his phone when I called.
My parents didn't go to visit my Uncle who was in hospital, because they'd have dined in the area. There.
For this, I am grateful.
And for my gratitude, I feel guilty as hell.
If I - the most withdrawn person in my high school class, the person with a tiny group of friends, who doesn't go out much and certainly doesn't have 200 friends on Facebook - now knows two people who died, then everyone knows someone who died.
If not yesterday or the day before, then a while ago, somewhere else, sometime else.
Two of the chefs at the Taj were known to me, one of them was a school-time buddy. His grandmother taught me and my sister yoga when we were little. We'd get teased by him, and chased around the parking lot. I never saw him much after, and I won't see him ever again now.
I don't suddenly remember him fondly because he's gone: I just remember that I knew him once, and now there is no chance that I can look back and say: Hey! Remember when...!?!? Wasn't that fun?! His parents travelled to Mumbai in the morning when they heard he'd been shot. Halfway there, they heard that he'd passed away (such a MiddleEarthish phrase - what's it doing in this Hell?) I can't imagine getting bad news on the Expressway. You can't even stop the car! There's nothing but hills and valleys. I wonder if they heard on the ghats. I wonder who was driving. I wonder if his mother cried, or screamed, or if her years and years of yoga have taught her to be Buddha-esque, or if maternal instincts or love transcend Buddha-esque-ness.
So much to say, so much to think, nothing to do but sit and stare numbly at the TV (am resisiting, for many reasons) or out the window, or at disgusting Facebook and news sites.
The world feels cardboardy. Stale and inflammable and so fragile. I can't breathe. I don't want to let them do this to me. The only thing to do is make a conscious attempt to enjoy the coffee this morning. Play with the cats. Smile. Drink a Scotch (or two, last night, with family. Best evening I've had at home so far. We huddled around the TV, drinks in hand, cat on the sofa with us, aunts, uncles, cousins, Papa (who dozed off in the middle! Wisdom? Age? Both?), Mama and I. We watched, we even found things to laugh about (Tara! Is that a Scotch?! Are you a man or a mouse! Fill your glass!!) Text M. Tell him how much I.. you know. Look at the leaves. Take in their greenness. Fetishise every small tiny pretty, peaceful and loving thing and raise that act to an artform, make a martial training schedule of it, as pervasive as an in-breath.
God. Home, home, home.
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
Five Minute Postcard.
Heat and dust.
Golden fields with stacks of hay.
A hundred birds in the garden.
Green bamboo outside my mother's bedroom.
Drongos, bee-eaters, robins, bulbuls, parakeets and mynahs all aglow and a-wing, flitting on the wire fencing around the fields.
Light and leaf shadows, light and wing shadows. Green and darker green and brown. Pink and blue and gold. Butterfly wings, moth wings. Dragonflies and wasps and bumblebees. Birds and damsel flies and midges.
Ten types of tree in every window frame. Babbler calls and parakeet screeches and a dozen different small, intricately painted birds. Wing shapes all different, all silky iridescence in the sun.
So much life.
Wish you were here.
Golden fields with stacks of hay.
A hundred birds in the garden.
Green bamboo outside my mother's bedroom.
Drongos, bee-eaters, robins, bulbuls, parakeets and mynahs all aglow and a-wing, flitting on the wire fencing around the fields.
Light and leaf shadows, light and wing shadows. Green and darker green and brown. Pink and blue and gold. Butterfly wings, moth wings. Dragonflies and wasps and bumblebees. Birds and damsel flies and midges.
Ten types of tree in every window frame. Babbler calls and parakeet screeches and a dozen different small, intricately painted birds. Wing shapes all different, all silky iridescence in the sun.
So much life.
Wish you were here.
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