The reasons why recollection came so easily when I thought of these books were:
1. East of Eden - John Steinbeck
The running theme of personal choices and resulting consequences throughout the book. The concept of "timshel" or "thou mayest", magnificently illustrated by Steinbeck, has stayed with me all these years and has helped validate my own personal philosophy. The book also has the most vivid and memorable description of true evil in the character of Cathy Ames, the chief antagonist..
2. The World According to Garp - John Irving
I identified completely with the protagonist who only felt whole and satisfied when he wrote. He also "lived" life - embracing all his gray areas and retaining an immensely positive aura about himself. There were parts of the book that left an indelible mark on me, for instance the depiction of Garp's tenderness toward his children, how he needed to kiss his children good night, every night, staring at them as they slept, in awe of their innocence, loving their sweet breath, remarking on how there wasn't a trace of bad breath in children until they reached the age of six or so. I liked how his family overcame his wife's infidelity and the loss of a child and how Garp changes and evolves as he lives his life.
3. The Clan of the Cave Bear - Jean Auel
An unforgettable epic novel, this is a moving saga about life, love and human relationships, that takes us back 35,000 years to a fictional moment during our evolution. The adoption of the five year old blue-eyed Ayla, the lost daughter of a Cro-Magnon group and her less than whole-hearted adoption by the "clan" of Neanderthals who find her blond and blue-eyed looks ugly. Jean Auel’s extensive research into those times shines through as she weaves her magic in this very modern tale of human trials and tribulations into Ice Age times.
4. The Name of the Rose - Umberto Eco:
A very compelling murder mystery set in the 14th century within a Franciscan monastery. The range of ideas represented in this book, the elaborate details of the medieval church torn apart by theological argument and the rapier-sharp, crystal clear logical deductions by William of Baskerville and his able assistant Adso in the solving of the murder mystery, leave the reader so much smarter and so much more enlightened than when they flipped open the first page. It was the most memorable murder mystery I have ever come across.
5. Unbearable Lightness of Being - Milan Kundera
My experience with this novel is akin to that of a famous line from a popular movie, “ You had me at hello….”. I was in love with the title of this book at least a couple of years before I finally picked it up to read it. The story is woven around Nietzsche’s theories of eternal return or recurrence – the weightiest proposition – the recurring themes in our lives. It is demonstrated well in the following passage from the book:
“In Anna Karenina, Anna meets Vronsky in curious circumstances: they are at the railway station when someone is run over by a train. At the end of the novel, Anna throws herself under a train. At the end of the novel, Anna throws herself under a train. This symmetrical composition – the same motif appears at the beginning and the end – may seem quite “novelistic” to you, and I am willing to agree , but only on condition that you refrain from reading such notions as “fictive”, “fabricated”, and “untrue to life” into the word “novelistic”. Because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion.
They are composed like music. Guided by his sense of beauty, an individual transforms a fortuitous occurrence into a motif, which then assumes a permanent place in the composition of the individual’s life. Anna could have chosen another way to take her life. But the motif of death and the railway station, unforgettably bound to the birth of love, enticed her in her hour of despair with its dark beauty. Without realizing it, the individual composes his life according to the laws of beauty even in times of greatest distress.
It is wrong, then, to chide the novel for being fascinated by mysterious coincidences (like the meeting of Anna, Vronsky, the railway station, and death), but it is the right to chide man for being blind to such coincidences in his daily life. For he thereby deprives his life of a dimension of beauty.”
The book is a masterfully composed tale of a young woman and her husband, an incorrigible womanizer, his mistress and the mistress’ faithful lover. It is a fine illustration of the shaping of our lives through irrevocable choices and fortuitous events, a world in which existence seems to lose its substance, its weight. Hence, we feel "the unbearable lightness of being" not only as the consequence of our private actions, but also in the public sphere, and the two inevitably intertwine.
Saturday, February 26, 2005
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Walking Tips for New York City Visitors
“It was a Monday, a day like any other day, I left a small town, for the apple in decay, it was my destiny, it’s what we needed to do, they were telling me, now I am telling you….. I am looking out for the two of us….” – Long, Long Way from Home: Foreigner
“Sprung from cages…” like in Bruce Springsteen’s song, that’s what it feels like alighting on the streets of the city every morning. When you first learn to drive, they teach you to maintain a panoramic view of that which lies ahead, to be alert and aware of whatever lies in your peripheral vision and to be considerate of those who are right behind you. Great lessons to learn for new drivers but who would have thought this applies to walkers!
I never would have imagined that there would come a time in my life when my mindset would have to morph into that of a motorized vehicle! It seems all the rules that apply to driving, apply here to walking, in equal measure. For instance, strong peripheral and panoramic vision, quick pace, never falling below the speed limit which the natives actively enforce through a few choice expletives, such as the ever popular, “Bonehead!” An unfortunate utterance to which my very suburban better half has on occasion been subjected, much to my considerable amusement. You see he tends to be one of those people who wear the scarlet letter “T” for tourist rather prominently on their person. These unfortunate souls tend to stop mid-stride to tilt their necks at a ninety degree angle, to the vertical plane of the rest of their body, just to gaze all the way up at one sky-scraper or another!
After nine long years of being a frequent traveler to the city I am finally confident that I have my New York navigation, as a pedestrian, down to an exact science. Keen observations and studied analyses have led me to find the paths of least resistance that help me get from the Port Authority Bus Terminal to my destination, my place of work, in 12 minutes flat, every morning.
The chess-like calculation and forward planning really needs to start as soon as you emerge from your bus or your train; your gaze intent, aiming for the double doors that have a steady stream of people exiting. This way you don’t have to push open the doors and if you find the right space between the exiting mass of bodies, you won’t even have to hold the doors for the people behind you.
Once you are out on the streets you need to demonstrate an obvious determination in your stride, pulling the proverbial blinders on and gazing at an indeterminate space at least two inches above the eyes of all approaching strangers as you start walking, looking for gaps between oncoming walkers and looking out at least 15 yards ahead of you. If someone appears to be coming straight at you, you need to visibly turn your feet either to the left or the right, forcefully signaling your blatant intention of not colliding with them. Of course, if the approaching person takes a step to their right, as you take one to your left, desirous of the similar avoidance outcome, the collision may still happen. So minimal eye contact may be necessary after all!
The other lesson to be learnt and internalized to the extent that it becomes a natural reflex is the art of jaywalking. Jaywalking finesse is what separates the true, dyed-in-wool, New Yorker from a bumbling tourist. Get ready to become an elbowed, bumped, possibly stampeded outsider, if you are waiting for the sign with the little walking man to start blinking. Instead you need to be watching the intersection light. You must time your “avenue” crossing such that the light is about to turn yellow, so that as soon as you cross to the other side of the avenue, the light at the “street” crossing has just turned green for you, enabling you to cross the street and the avenue in one smooth L-shaped maneuver; experts here choose to traverse the imaginary hypotenuse connecting the two points of said L, in the interest of saving precious incremental seconds. .
Lastly, one must acquire the craft of “car thumping” as a pedestrian. This rather focused show of ire is reserved for those unfortunate cars that are attempting to complete their left or right turns or have advanced too far into the crosswalk before managing to stop at the red light. Several angry fists are sure to descend on the hood of the spotless suburban vehicle bearing New Jersey or Pennsylvania plates. The hapless driver sure to be told, in no uncertain terms, “Go back to Joisey!!” while he cranes his neck over his steering wheel to discern the extent of denting on his hood. It is the pedestrians’ uncontested right, after all, to discipline and keep in check these wayward strangers who have foolishly strayed into their Big Apple!
So all you intrepid travelers, in a mood to take on the Big Apple, in the near or distant future, learn these lessons well, they will hold you in good stead. And, while you are here please don’t forget to stuff a few greenbacks into the alligator boots of the Naked Cowboy in Times Square!
© Pragya Thakur, February 2005
“Sprung from cages…” like in Bruce Springsteen’s song, that’s what it feels like alighting on the streets of the city every morning. When you first learn to drive, they teach you to maintain a panoramic view of that which lies ahead, to be alert and aware of whatever lies in your peripheral vision and to be considerate of those who are right behind you. Great lessons to learn for new drivers but who would have thought this applies to walkers!
I never would have imagined that there would come a time in my life when my mindset would have to morph into that of a motorized vehicle! It seems all the rules that apply to driving, apply here to walking, in equal measure. For instance, strong peripheral and panoramic vision, quick pace, never falling below the speed limit which the natives actively enforce through a few choice expletives, such as the ever popular, “Bonehead!” An unfortunate utterance to which my very suburban better half has on occasion been subjected, much to my considerable amusement. You see he tends to be one of those people who wear the scarlet letter “T” for tourist rather prominently on their person. These unfortunate souls tend to stop mid-stride to tilt their necks at a ninety degree angle, to the vertical plane of the rest of their body, just to gaze all the way up at one sky-scraper or another!
After nine long years of being a frequent traveler to the city I am finally confident that I have my New York navigation, as a pedestrian, down to an exact science. Keen observations and studied analyses have led me to find the paths of least resistance that help me get from the Port Authority Bus Terminal to my destination, my place of work, in 12 minutes flat, every morning.
The chess-like calculation and forward planning really needs to start as soon as you emerge from your bus or your train; your gaze intent, aiming for the double doors that have a steady stream of people exiting. This way you don’t have to push open the doors and if you find the right space between the exiting mass of bodies, you won’t even have to hold the doors for the people behind you.
Once you are out on the streets you need to demonstrate an obvious determination in your stride, pulling the proverbial blinders on and gazing at an indeterminate space at least two inches above the eyes of all approaching strangers as you start walking, looking for gaps between oncoming walkers and looking out at least 15 yards ahead of you. If someone appears to be coming straight at you, you need to visibly turn your feet either to the left or the right, forcefully signaling your blatant intention of not colliding with them. Of course, if the approaching person takes a step to their right, as you take one to your left, desirous of the similar avoidance outcome, the collision may still happen. So minimal eye contact may be necessary after all!
The other lesson to be learnt and internalized to the extent that it becomes a natural reflex is the art of jaywalking. Jaywalking finesse is what separates the true, dyed-in-wool, New Yorker from a bumbling tourist. Get ready to become an elbowed, bumped, possibly stampeded outsider, if you are waiting for the sign with the little walking man to start blinking. Instead you need to be watching the intersection light. You must time your “avenue” crossing such that the light is about to turn yellow, so that as soon as you cross to the other side of the avenue, the light at the “street” crossing has just turned green for you, enabling you to cross the street and the avenue in one smooth L-shaped maneuver; experts here choose to traverse the imaginary hypotenuse connecting the two points of said L, in the interest of saving precious incremental seconds. .
Lastly, one must acquire the craft of “car thumping” as a pedestrian. This rather focused show of ire is reserved for those unfortunate cars that are attempting to complete their left or right turns or have advanced too far into the crosswalk before managing to stop at the red light. Several angry fists are sure to descend on the hood of the spotless suburban vehicle bearing New Jersey or Pennsylvania plates. The hapless driver sure to be told, in no uncertain terms, “Go back to Joisey!!” while he cranes his neck over his steering wheel to discern the extent of denting on his hood. It is the pedestrians’ uncontested right, after all, to discipline and keep in check these wayward strangers who have foolishly strayed into their Big Apple!
So all you intrepid travelers, in a mood to take on the Big Apple, in the near or distant future, learn these lessons well, they will hold you in good stead. And, while you are here please don’t forget to stuff a few greenbacks into the alligator boots of the Naked Cowboy in Times Square!
© Pragya Thakur, February 2005
Monday, February 14, 2005
Controlled Chaos
“We are not permitted to choose the frame of our destiny. But what we put into it is ours.”
- Dag Hammarskjold
Controlled chaos to me, is akin to the dynamism of our destiny. Our actions and inactions, the choices we make and the consequences we face as a result of those choices. This “chaos” is only “controlled” by Dag Hammarskjold’s perception of the “frame of our destiny” or the world that Richard Wilbur’s “heart’s crayon” sought to “spangle and fulfill” [see poem below].
Sometime ago, during a moment of lazy introspection on a long bus ride home, I got to ponder about life, destiny and predestination. My thoughts strayed to the rather prevalent fatalistic understanding of our eastern philosophy. A layman’s interpretation that implies predestination and our abject powerlessness in the grander scheme of things.
But something within me refused to believe in this fatalistic outlook. At that instant, looking back at how my life had shaped up thus far, I wanted to think that I have control over my destiny, that I have never been powerless, that I can forge my own destiny. But again, I did some rethinking and the agnostic in me wanted to say, “What If?” So, I settled on the possibility that perhaps it is all predestination after all, with a twist.
Perhaps we all enter this life with a blank outline of how things would be. Essentially a pencil sketch on a wide-open, blank canvas, unimaginably infinite and beyond comprehension. And we are also given the tools – the paintbrushes, the colors, the painting medium, a palette and then it is up to us to make the choice of colors, of mediums of what we want to express. The essential element is probably the power to choose. And each choice we make dictates what our next step will be. A large and growing, “if-then” tree of choices and consequences, with the branches spreading in every possible direction, without any noticeably discernible pattern.
My stray thought, as I read more and learnt more, seemed to find an echo in the works of several authors and poets who I admire, leading the charge – John Steinbeck, in his East of Eden (pages 301-303). Excerpt quoted below:
[Lee said,] “The King James version [of The Bible] says this — it is when Jehovah has asked Cain why he is angry. Jehovah says, ‘If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? And if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.’ It was the ‘thou shalt’ that struck me, because it was a promise that Cain would conquer sin.”
Samuel nodded. “And his children didn’t do it entirely,” he said.
Lee sipped his coffee. “Then I got a copy of the American Standard Bible. It was very new then. And it was different in this passage. It says, ‘Do thou rule over him.’ Now this is very different. This is not a promise, it is an order. And I began to stew about it. I wondered what the original word of the original writer had been that these very different translations could be made ...
“My [elders] felt that these words were very important too — ‘Thou shalt’ and ‘Do thou.’ And this was the gold from our mining: ‘Thou mayest.’ ‘Thou mayest rule over sin.’ ...
“The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel — ‘Thou mayest’ — that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’ — it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ ...
“Now, there are millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.”
Yes, we always have the choice and as long as we have the choice, we have the tools to forge our own destiny, to fill our destined frame and the limitlessly limited canvas of our destiny with the colors of our choice.
Richard Wilbur, the poet seems to be making the same point in his poem – At Moorditch, in the final verse of the poem:
"Now," said the voice of lock and window-bar,
"You must confront things as they truly are.
Open your eyes at last, and see
The desolateness of reality."
"Things have," I said, "a pallid, empty look,
Like pictures in an unused coloring book."
"Now that the scales have fallen from your eyes,"
Said the sad hallways, "you must recognize
How childishly your former sight
Salted the world with glory and delight."
"This cannot be the world," I said. "Nor will it,
Till the heart's crayon spangle and fulfill it."
So, obviously, my daydreaming thought was not an epiphany or a unique idea but something that has occurred to folks infinitely wiser than me during the course of history.
Destiny then, is not static or fatalistic. We cannot assign anything to “kismet” or to a nonchalant, laissez-faire attitude that is resigned to it “being written”. It is not written, it needs to be written. It is a dynamic destiny. There is a plan, it’s boundaries lost in eternity, in infinity, unfathomable and unknowable. And the plan probably encompasses several lifetimes and not just the one that is of immediate concern to us. It is in essence, controlled chaos, with the lines of control existent but invisible.
- Dag Hammarskjold
Controlled chaos to me, is akin to the dynamism of our destiny. Our actions and inactions, the choices we make and the consequences we face as a result of those choices. This “chaos” is only “controlled” by Dag Hammarskjold’s perception of the “frame of our destiny” or the world that Richard Wilbur’s “heart’s crayon” sought to “spangle and fulfill” [see poem below].
Sometime ago, during a moment of lazy introspection on a long bus ride home, I got to ponder about life, destiny and predestination. My thoughts strayed to the rather prevalent fatalistic understanding of our eastern philosophy. A layman’s interpretation that implies predestination and our abject powerlessness in the grander scheme of things.
But something within me refused to believe in this fatalistic outlook. At that instant, looking back at how my life had shaped up thus far, I wanted to think that I have control over my destiny, that I have never been powerless, that I can forge my own destiny. But again, I did some rethinking and the agnostic in me wanted to say, “What If?” So, I settled on the possibility that perhaps it is all predestination after all, with a twist.
Perhaps we all enter this life with a blank outline of how things would be. Essentially a pencil sketch on a wide-open, blank canvas, unimaginably infinite and beyond comprehension. And we are also given the tools – the paintbrushes, the colors, the painting medium, a palette and then it is up to us to make the choice of colors, of mediums of what we want to express. The essential element is probably the power to choose. And each choice we make dictates what our next step will be. A large and growing, “if-then” tree of choices and consequences, with the branches spreading in every possible direction, without any noticeably discernible pattern.
My stray thought, as I read more and learnt more, seemed to find an echo in the works of several authors and poets who I admire, leading the charge – John Steinbeck, in his East of Eden (pages 301-303). Excerpt quoted below:
[Lee said,] “The King James version [of The Bible] says this — it is when Jehovah has asked Cain why he is angry. Jehovah says, ‘If thou doest well, shalt thou not be accepted? And if thou doest not well, sin lieth at the door. And unto thee shall be his desire, and thou shalt rule over him.’ It was the ‘thou shalt’ that struck me, because it was a promise that Cain would conquer sin.”
Samuel nodded. “And his children didn’t do it entirely,” he said.
Lee sipped his coffee. “Then I got a copy of the American Standard Bible. It was very new then. And it was different in this passage. It says, ‘Do thou rule over him.’ Now this is very different. This is not a promise, it is an order. And I began to stew about it. I wondered what the original word of the original writer had been that these very different translations could be made ...
“My [elders] felt that these words were very important too — ‘Thou shalt’ and ‘Do thou.’ And this was the gold from our mining: ‘Thou mayest.’ ‘Thou mayest rule over sin.’ ...
“The American Standard translation orders men to triumph over sin, and you can call sin ignorance. The King James translation makes a promise in ‘Thou shalt,’ meaning that men will surely triumph over sin. But the Hebrew word, the word timshel — ‘Thou mayest’ — that gives a choice. It might be the most important word in the world. That says the way is open. That throws it right back on a man. For if ‘Thou mayest’ — it is also true that ‘Thou mayest not.’ ...
“Now, there are millions in their sects and churches who feel the order, ‘Do thou,’ and throw their weight into obedience. And there are millions more who feel predestination in ‘Thou shalt.’ Nothing they may do can interfere with what will be. But ‘Thou mayest’! Why, that makes a man great, that gives him stature with the gods, for in his weakness and his filth and his murder of his brother he has still the great choice. He can choose his course and fight it through and win.”
Yes, we always have the choice and as long as we have the choice, we have the tools to forge our own destiny, to fill our destined frame and the limitlessly limited canvas of our destiny with the colors of our choice.
Richard Wilbur, the poet seems to be making the same point in his poem – At Moorditch, in the final verse of the poem:
"Now," said the voice of lock and window-bar,
"You must confront things as they truly are.
Open your eyes at last, and see
The desolateness of reality."
"Things have," I said, "a pallid, empty look,
Like pictures in an unused coloring book."
"Now that the scales have fallen from your eyes,"
Said the sad hallways, "you must recognize
How childishly your former sight
Salted the world with glory and delight."
"This cannot be the world," I said. "Nor will it,
Till the heart's crayon spangle and fulfill it."
So, obviously, my daydreaming thought was not an epiphany or a unique idea but something that has occurred to folks infinitely wiser than me during the course of history.
Destiny then, is not static or fatalistic. We cannot assign anything to “kismet” or to a nonchalant, laissez-faire attitude that is resigned to it “being written”. It is not written, it needs to be written. It is a dynamic destiny. There is a plan, it’s boundaries lost in eternity, in infinity, unfathomable and unknowable. And the plan probably encompasses several lifetimes and not just the one that is of immediate concern to us. It is in essence, controlled chaos, with the lines of control existent but invisible.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Ruled by Mercury (Hg)
Mercurial appeal,
Quicksilver charms,
Making them kneel;
Inevitably disarmed.
Speeding through life,
A mother, a wife!
Untouched, unfazed,
Unmarred, unscathed.
No signs of adhesion,
No lasting impressions,
All touches tangential,
No impact substantial.
Born detached,
Ostensibly attached,
Volatile, intemperate,
Unbonded, separate!
Quicksilver charms,
Making them kneel;
Inevitably disarmed.
Speeding through life,
A mother, a wife!
Untouched, unfazed,
Unmarred, unscathed.
No signs of adhesion,
No lasting impressions,
All touches tangential,
No impact substantial.
Born detached,
Ostensibly attached,
Volatile, intemperate,
Unbonded, separate!
Saturday, February 5, 2005
I Hate You - I Love You!
“I hate you!” she said, kicking at the tires of her 1980 Ford Escort, “you rotten piece of junk!”. What was she to do now? The car had come to a sputtering, stuttering halt as she barely managed to steer it to the shoulder of Interstate 95. Now it just wouldn’t start and she was at least 55 minutes away from the job interview that meant everything. She knew nothing about cars, she had only just learnt how to drive one. The world underneath the hood was an alien one of engine, spark plugs, battery, radiator and popping the hood just to stare at them was not going to help. Heck, she wasn’t even sure she knew how to pop open the hood! She kept sliding her finger in to find the latch that would slide over so that the hood could be propped open. But her nervousness and soaring stress levels made the task well nigh impossible. But she had to find a way to at least do that! If people saw a broken down car at the side of the road perhaps they would stop to help!
She finally succeeded in propping up the hood and then helplessly sat down on the driver side, the door open and her long, silk – stocking clad legs and stiletto - heeled feet dangling outside, making random patterns on the sand and gravel. She had taken pains dressing for this interview. She had shampooed, conditioned and blow-dried her hair to a glorious sheen framing her face and enhancing her best features. She wore a blue career suit, its skirt barely skimming her knees and a white blouse with a neckline that complemented the three string pearl necklace that her Mom had given her as a parting gift when she left home. She had blown a pretty penny buying herself this ensemble and she looked refined and elegant and felt quite unstoppable when she left home this morning. Nothing was going to stop her from getting this job. Her entire future depended on it. Her resources had dwindled to the point where she wouldn’t even be able to buy a one-way ticket back to New Delhi, to the sheltered cocoon of a life that she had led there. Waiting patiently for an acceptable groom to come along who would marry her and take her away to be no more than a glorified domestic servant in his parents’ household. It was either that or taking several boring civil services or bank entrance exams preparing her for a lifetime of dull servitude to the Indian government. Either possibility filled her with dread. She had to make a go of it in the US. Nothing else would do.
She had been doing the rounds of several employment agencies for six weeks now. Every where she went they used to ask her if she drove a car or if she knew how to type. No one cared that she had a Masters degree in Economics from a rather prestigious school in India. The degree was the most irrelevant piece of paper she had ever earned in her life, in her current context. Discouraged, she decided to take driving lessons. She stumbled a bit and failed the test once for her inability to parallel park correctly but persistence paid and she got her license on the next try. Armed with license, and at the tail –end of the financial reserves that her Dad had been gracious enough to leave her, she had invested in this tiny, red, ten year old car which the used car salesman had convinced her was ideal for her. She fell for the pitch and bought the car without bothering to get anything inspected or checked. When it came to being wise or impulsive she had, after all, always favored impulse.
Once she learnt how to drive, the employment agency told her that they had an entry-level sales representative job for which they wanted her to try. She was excited beyond belief. The initial phone interview had gone really well and she had been asked in for an in-person interview. And now this!The thought of missing this interview sent cold beads of sweat running down her spine. She could now feel her silk blouse slick with sweat, sticking to her body. She felt like crying, her careful dressing, the elegant attire was going to come to naught as dishevelment and nervousness slowly set in while she waited for help. But crying wouldn’t have done. If there was any chance of making it to the interview she couldn’t risk getting there with mascara running down her face, the raccoon-eyed look wasn’t one that would impress a potential boss.
So she waited, looking distraught, feeling utterly hopeless and helpless without a clue as to what the future would bring. She held her head in her hands, feeling like she had been sitting there for an eternity, the increasingly hot sun beating down on her, this hot summer day. The cars just whizzed by, no one was inclined to stop. It was a cold, indifferent world, where people didn’t seem to care for each other. Why did she even want to live here so badly! She was desperately trying to hold her tears at bay, looking down at the ground, when she suddenly heard a very deep voice calling out to her, “Miss, miss, are you alright? What’s wrong? Can I help?” She looked up to glance at him. This tall man, dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt that stretched across a strong, lean and muscular frame. She looked up to find the kindest pair of deep blue eyes, full of genuine concern and a face framed with thick dark hair, staring back at her. She got up from the car and said, “Please, would you? My car seems to have died. I have no idea what happened. It just wouldn’t start! And I have a job interview in 30 minutes. I am at my wits end, I don’t know what to do!” He put a firm hand on her shoulder as if to say it would all be alright and walked around to the hood. He bent down peering over the jumbled machinery in there, twisted a few knobs, jiggled a few wires and then asked her to get inside and try starting the car. It still refused to start. He worked at it a little more and then gave up, telling her it needed to be towed away to the shop.
She felt her shoulders slump, last reserves of composure draining out of her as her eyes welled up and she tried thanking him in a choked up voice. He looked at her and asked, “Where do you have to go miss? Would you let me give you a ride?” She looked up at him again. She had been warned about taking rides from strangers. She wasn’t at all sure she could hop into his pick-up truck and be safe but his eyes looked too kind and she reasoned with herself thinking someone who stopped, to help a girl in distress, couldn’t possibly be bad. But then appearances are often deceptive. She quickly glanced at her watch as she deliberated and realized that even if he drove fast enough he could probably drop her off at her destination in time for the interview. So she decided to risk it, to take this chance, her much-coveted future was at stake. She accepted his offer. He led her to his pick-up truck and opened the passenger side door for her.
He drove well above the 70 mph speed limit. He asked her where she was headed, what sort of a job she was going for and what had brought her to the US. She found she could chat with him with ease. She loved his deep voice, his kindness, and found herself wishing he wasn’t just a random event in her life. He brought her to her destination in twenty minutes sharp. She still had ten minutes before her interview. He pulled into the parking lot and walked over to her side to let her out. She scrambled out of the truck, briefly teetering on her very high heels. He grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. She steadied herself, feeling very foolish. She looked up at him and they both burst out laughing at the situation. She wanted to say, “Thank you” but the words that left her mouth sounded awfully close to, ‘I love you!”
She finally succeeded in propping up the hood and then helplessly sat down on the driver side, the door open and her long, silk – stocking clad legs and stiletto - heeled feet dangling outside, making random patterns on the sand and gravel. She had taken pains dressing for this interview. She had shampooed, conditioned and blow-dried her hair to a glorious sheen framing her face and enhancing her best features. She wore a blue career suit, its skirt barely skimming her knees and a white blouse with a neckline that complemented the three string pearl necklace that her Mom had given her as a parting gift when she left home. She had blown a pretty penny buying herself this ensemble and she looked refined and elegant and felt quite unstoppable when she left home this morning. Nothing was going to stop her from getting this job. Her entire future depended on it. Her resources had dwindled to the point where she wouldn’t even be able to buy a one-way ticket back to New Delhi, to the sheltered cocoon of a life that she had led there. Waiting patiently for an acceptable groom to come along who would marry her and take her away to be no more than a glorified domestic servant in his parents’ household. It was either that or taking several boring civil services or bank entrance exams preparing her for a lifetime of dull servitude to the Indian government. Either possibility filled her with dread. She had to make a go of it in the US. Nothing else would do.
She had been doing the rounds of several employment agencies for six weeks now. Every where she went they used to ask her if she drove a car or if she knew how to type. No one cared that she had a Masters degree in Economics from a rather prestigious school in India. The degree was the most irrelevant piece of paper she had ever earned in her life, in her current context. Discouraged, she decided to take driving lessons. She stumbled a bit and failed the test once for her inability to parallel park correctly but persistence paid and she got her license on the next try. Armed with license, and at the tail –end of the financial reserves that her Dad had been gracious enough to leave her, she had invested in this tiny, red, ten year old car which the used car salesman had convinced her was ideal for her. She fell for the pitch and bought the car without bothering to get anything inspected or checked. When it came to being wise or impulsive she had, after all, always favored impulse.
Once she learnt how to drive, the employment agency told her that they had an entry-level sales representative job for which they wanted her to try. She was excited beyond belief. The initial phone interview had gone really well and she had been asked in for an in-person interview. And now this!The thought of missing this interview sent cold beads of sweat running down her spine. She could now feel her silk blouse slick with sweat, sticking to her body. She felt like crying, her careful dressing, the elegant attire was going to come to naught as dishevelment and nervousness slowly set in while she waited for help. But crying wouldn’t have done. If there was any chance of making it to the interview she couldn’t risk getting there with mascara running down her face, the raccoon-eyed look wasn’t one that would impress a potential boss.
So she waited, looking distraught, feeling utterly hopeless and helpless without a clue as to what the future would bring. She held her head in her hands, feeling like she had been sitting there for an eternity, the increasingly hot sun beating down on her, this hot summer day. The cars just whizzed by, no one was inclined to stop. It was a cold, indifferent world, where people didn’t seem to care for each other. Why did she even want to live here so badly! She was desperately trying to hold her tears at bay, looking down at the ground, when she suddenly heard a very deep voice calling out to her, “Miss, miss, are you alright? What’s wrong? Can I help?” She looked up to glance at him. This tall man, dressed in blue jeans and a white T-shirt that stretched across a strong, lean and muscular frame. She looked up to find the kindest pair of deep blue eyes, full of genuine concern and a face framed with thick dark hair, staring back at her. She got up from the car and said, “Please, would you? My car seems to have died. I have no idea what happened. It just wouldn’t start! And I have a job interview in 30 minutes. I am at my wits end, I don’t know what to do!” He put a firm hand on her shoulder as if to say it would all be alright and walked around to the hood. He bent down peering over the jumbled machinery in there, twisted a few knobs, jiggled a few wires and then asked her to get inside and try starting the car. It still refused to start. He worked at it a little more and then gave up, telling her it needed to be towed away to the shop.
She felt her shoulders slump, last reserves of composure draining out of her as her eyes welled up and she tried thanking him in a choked up voice. He looked at her and asked, “Where do you have to go miss? Would you let me give you a ride?” She looked up at him again. She had been warned about taking rides from strangers. She wasn’t at all sure she could hop into his pick-up truck and be safe but his eyes looked too kind and she reasoned with herself thinking someone who stopped, to help a girl in distress, couldn’t possibly be bad. But then appearances are often deceptive. She quickly glanced at her watch as she deliberated and realized that even if he drove fast enough he could probably drop her off at her destination in time for the interview. So she decided to risk it, to take this chance, her much-coveted future was at stake. She accepted his offer. He led her to his pick-up truck and opened the passenger side door for her.
He drove well above the 70 mph speed limit. He asked her where she was headed, what sort of a job she was going for and what had brought her to the US. She found she could chat with him with ease. She loved his deep voice, his kindness, and found herself wishing he wasn’t just a random event in her life. He brought her to her destination in twenty minutes sharp. She still had ten minutes before her interview. He pulled into the parking lot and walked over to her side to let her out. She scrambled out of the truck, briefly teetering on her very high heels. He grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. She steadied herself, feeling very foolish. She looked up at him and they both burst out laughing at the situation. She wanted to say, “Thank you” but the words that left her mouth sounded awfully close to, ‘I love you!”
I Love You - I Hate You
I love you!
Three simple words,
Suspended in air,
Disembodied, unheard,
They didn’t belong there.
They hung, appealing,
Seeking an echo
To twin your feeling
And lighten your woe.
She’d loved you too,
And said it before,
Looking into your eyes
In days of yore.
Now forlorn, she cries,
At words that don’t ring true,
And love drifts into skies
Of desolate blue.
Her world shattered by deceiving,
Nothing can redeem you:
No amount of grieving
Will alter her “I hate you!”
Three simple words,
Suspended in air,
Disembodied, unheard,
They didn’t belong there.
They hung, appealing,
Seeking an echo
To twin your feeling
And lighten your woe.
She’d loved you too,
And said it before,
Looking into your eyes
In days of yore.
Now forlorn, she cries,
At words that don’t ring true,
And love drifts into skies
Of desolate blue.
Her world shattered by deceiving,
Nothing can redeem you:
No amount of grieving
Will alter her “I hate you!”
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