You don't know what to make of your days sometimes. Mine started with my phone ringing at work, I picked it up and answered, "Pragya speaking". A brusque voice at the other end of the line started speaking sans pause:
"Hello this is Dwight Srules. We recently received a resume from you. In here you state you are looking for an equal opportunity employer. Why is that exactly? Are you in a wheelchair or something? If that's the case then I got to tell you, our doorways are pretty darn narrow around here. Also it doesn't state whether it's a male or a female applicant and what with the weird names these days, we can't tell. But we are looking for girls. Don't call if you are a boy...unless...you like The Lord of the Rings or Battlestar Galactica...in that case do call. For more information about this opportunity please visit our website at..."
I was too startled by this message to make a note of the website address. The message sounded like a recording. So strange that it came to me! (ps: I don't have any resumes circulating and never in a million years would it state I am seeking an equal opportunity employer!) How bizarre!I put the phone down in complete bafflement.
Then I glanced over to my office plant on the window sill. It looked dead! Never have I seen a deader plant! What's strange about this is that the last time I glanced at it, maybe a couple of days ago, it was a healthy plant being watered once a week by the plant waterer guy. WHAT HAPPENED??
It is disconcerting enough to see a dying plant; fills one with all kinds of insecurities about ones nurturing abilities but a dead one, or a dead one that was alive till a couple of days ago? Don't know what to make of that.
Then it was lunch time and during my daily stroll to the place where I pick up a few bites to eat, what struck me as odd, even though I witness the same scenes every day, was the city moving on at a steady clip, people unconcerned about anything around them, absorbed in their pocket gadgetry and electronic leashes, in a sleep like state. It felt like a dream. The kind of dream where you could walk over and around things without being concerned about their obstacle like qualities. I skirted around a hot dog vendor who was maneuvering his hot dog cart blindly, unable to see exactly where he was headed. I crossed the streets as I always do, just before the walk sign appears and as soon as the other traffic light turns yellow, some cars and buses ended up blocking the sidewalk but I walked around them as well as if they weren't even there, the other pedestrians did the same.
The next sight is a frail old woman on the sidewalk. I have seen her before. She has been arranging her old shoes, old clothes, knick-knacks - the kind people arrange on their mantelpieces or above the crocheted TV covers - as if she's setting up shop. All the things she's so meticulously laying out are old and shabby and for sale! She appears to be selling all her meager possessions. Yet it's only my peripheral vision that's capturing this scene. My eyes are downcast as are hers, she never looks up or away from the hanging and arranging activity. I am too disconcerted to look her way and I feel ashamed. I wonder if her pride would allow her to accept money if I offered it or would she insist on handing me one of her old things for the money? I don't want to find out and I don't like myself too much for not wanting to find out.
Walking back with my lunch in my hand, I see a crowd gathered near 44th Street. The crowds didn't seem to be sleepwalking or moving about in a dream-like state anymore, they looked anxious and upset. As I got closer I saw the reason why. There were police cars all over. Yellow police tape had been placed around a large truck and there was a body covered in white in the middle of the street. People wanted to know what had happened and were asking the cops. The cops just wanted them to stand back and not interfere with police proceedings. I walked away even as I kept glancing back at the scene. I didn't know what had happened or how. I found out a few hours later that the person had been walking off the sidewalk, but close to it. A truck was trying to parallel park and was backing into a spot. The pedestrian was apparently in a blind spot for the truck driver and was hit by it as the driver was reversing. The pedestrian died on the spot.
Th clock strikes five, the work day is over and now it's time for rehearsals for the show I have talked about in earlier posts. It's at a studio that's 20 blocks away. I start walking toward the studio with two other band members. We are, once again, dodging crowds and walking, it's dark, even though it's only five. And then, out of the blue something wet and slimy lands right on the left side of my eyeglasses. Had I not had glasses on it would have landed in my eye. I still don't know what it was! It wasn't bird droppings even though it fell from up above, in fact it was the same consistency as spit. But unless someone stuck their head out of the skyscrapers and spit, there was no way spit could have landed right on me from up above. Once again I am baffled and much more than just a little bit disconcerted, not to mention completely grossed out, for want of a more appropriate expression. I took off my smeared glasses and held it at arm's length. I had to wipe some of the stuff off my forehead too and didn't know what to do with my hands. The folks I was walking with tried to reassure me that it wasn't anything nasty, that it was just water from the window air conditioners above, but the consistency was too spit-like for my comfort. I had to duck into the nearest delicatessen and use their restroom to clean my hands and face to my satisfaction (and actually I am still not satisfied!). This is also strange because just this morning as I walked to work I was upset and angry about the crowded New York streets where so many walkers didn't think twice about turning their heads and spitting. That is the nastiest habit certain humans have. I remember thinking - "Do they even look around to see if anyone is near them before they do that?" - and it seems come evening I fell victim to my worst fears!
It reminded me of an instance a few years ago. I had watched Alfred Hitchcock's - The Birds - one night. The next morning I was walkng across the University of Maryland campus, heading for class - when out of nowhere a bird flew straight at me and pecked me on the forehead, nicking me. Is this some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy or weird synchronicity?
That is the last word on this long day that still refuses to end. Goodnight all!
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Who's in Control?
Poetry is what I want to write. I don’t believe what I need to say can be said in a prosaic way. It’s about the recent surreality of events. It is about sitting in a living room with scattered toys, a blaring TV, street noises down below, dripping wet watercolors freshly painted by a little girl with words that say how much she loves her Grandma and Grandpa, while the objects of her affection, her Grandpa and Grandma sit facing each other. They’re pensive. There’s relief etched on one of those faces and fear on the other. My own thoughts are homeless; they don’t know which way to turn.
The relief stems from a feeling that the worst is over, that the chapter can finally be closed on this frightening episode. The fear comes from feeling that this is just the beginning of whatever else may still be in store. The fear is voiced in words that speak of entering the deep, dark woods. The relief thinks in terms of emerging at the other side of the woods.
A deterministic attitude prevailed here before. Science was the savior, science was God, choices, consequences and being in control of ones destiny were the way things were. Now there’s talk of fate. Now one wonders about that which has been written and who the writer is. The question of control comes up again, who has the control? Is there such a thing as a grand design and a master manipulator?
We seek parallels in our histories, our mythology; we observe patterns and believe that the patterns would lead to an answer, an answer that may lie somewhere in the near or distant future, ever elusive but out there. We prepare ourselves for an exploration, a journey, a decoding adventure. But just when we get ready to dig in our heels, a voice within urges us to live in the present and take things a day at a time, to do away with the feelings of nostalgia for the present.
But when has it ever been possible to live our lives one day at a time? It sounds good, it sounds sound, but the future has a nasty way of encroaching on the present, of showing us the skeletal versions of faces that are animated and full of life today, of wrinkled skins and rheumy eyes, of unremembered histories and unfulfilled expectations.
The relief stems from a feeling that the worst is over, that the chapter can finally be closed on this frightening episode. The fear comes from feeling that this is just the beginning of whatever else may still be in store. The fear is voiced in words that speak of entering the deep, dark woods. The relief thinks in terms of emerging at the other side of the woods.
A deterministic attitude prevailed here before. Science was the savior, science was God, choices, consequences and being in control of ones destiny were the way things were. Now there’s talk of fate. Now one wonders about that which has been written and who the writer is. The question of control comes up again, who has the control? Is there such a thing as a grand design and a master manipulator?
We seek parallels in our histories, our mythology; we observe patterns and believe that the patterns would lead to an answer, an answer that may lie somewhere in the near or distant future, ever elusive but out there. We prepare ourselves for an exploration, a journey, a decoding adventure. But just when we get ready to dig in our heels, a voice within urges us to live in the present and take things a day at a time, to do away with the feelings of nostalgia for the present.
But when has it ever been possible to live our lives one day at a time? It sounds good, it sounds sound, but the future has a nasty way of encroaching on the present, of showing us the skeletal versions of faces that are animated and full of life today, of wrinkled skins and rheumy eyes, of unremembered histories and unfulfilled expectations.
Friday, November 17, 2006
"Beat" Back the Blues
It has been a great couple of days with news that Dad was steadily improving and the situations I found myself in.
I enjoyed rehearsals again on Thursday night. I probably did marginally better than the last time, in that I got a sense of how singing in unison on back up vocals (BVs in the rock band lingo) and singing a different key, while harmonizing, works. I was able to do that well enough. But I still didn’t do as well as the music director expected on keeping the beat. He kept showing me different ways of doing it, tapping my foot four times, or taking a deep breath at the pause or listening for the snare drum on the backbeat (terms I didn’t even know until last night!) but no matter what he tried I either came in a fraction of a second sooner or later. At one point I felt I was being punished as the music director set a new exercise for me. He said keep counting one…two…three…four and clapping each time you count, keep going until I ask you to stop. Well!! That is not an easy thing to do! You try doing it some time! It is like being told to write 50 times on the blackboard – “I will not miss a beat…I will not miss a beat…” I thought he would never ask me to stop. But when he saw beads of sweat trickling down my forehead he must have taken pity.
Another member of the band was nicer. He coached me on the basics of rock. Most rock music is a four beat affair he said. He suggested the best way to get a sense of the rock beat was to sit on your speakers at home or to go to any disco joint. If neither was an option and if the only place where you could listen to the music was your car then the best thing to do was to crank up the volume, and turn the bass all the way up. The thump, thump, thump, thump of the speakers would then tell you exactly where the beats were. He asked that between now and December 15th, the day of our show, I should make thumps a part of my inner constitution…like listening to my own magnified heart beat. For the next three weeks I am required to eat, drink and breathe rock.
That has never been too difficult for me. The first exposure to the Beatles, twenty something years ago and I was hooked. There was no turning back. It was the most addictive music I had ever heard. I never was able to describe the reasons for this affinity; I just knew I loved it, just as much as I loved the old Hindi film music I had grown up listening. Now I realize it is this beat, the four beats 1,2,3,4 that just get into your system and get everything thumping. I was just too much of an approximist and too distracted to pay any attention to what was going on in the BVs, the drums and the guitars. I have spent the last few hours learning about terms like downbeat (when beats 1 and 3 are stressed) and upbeat or backbeat (when 2 and 4 are stressed). Why, it works exactly like metered poetry is supposed to work! Perhaps this is why David Israel, whose creativity on this board inspires me, thinks in terms of “beats” when writing his poetry. Poetry is primarily about recitation so beats or stressed and unstressed syllables are equally important. I get it! And that snare drum, I didn’t even know which part of the six-part drum set was known as the snare drum, which is where the backbeat hangs. I am thrilled at this new learning; things that were always there for me to pick up but never before caught my attention. No wonder Bob Seger was inspired to sing – Just take those old records off the shelf/I’ll sit and listen to ‘em by myself/today’s music ain’t got the same soul/I like that old time rock ‘n’ roll – now I can hear each beat as I hum this song. This got me thinking about my other favorite type of music too – old Hindi film songs and lately Indian classical. The focus on beats in rock brought me back to my old frustration with talas. For many months now I have sought some guidance on this subject. Richa was kind enough to enlighten me a few months ago. She had also mentioned in passing, while going over Dhaa Dhin Dhin Dhaa… and teentala, that most rock music worked on this system. My only reaction then was a stunned, “Really??” Now I see it, another revelation. Ever since I started watching the effects of a pumped up bass on the shaking windows of my parked car I see her point, here are the four beats! Such are the fascinating connections that a musically illiterate person stretches to make, rock music another form of teentala??
Certainly lots of scope for idle thinking here, but it certainly lightened the mood quite a bit. And then came the best possible news – my Dad is now off the ventilator, breathing on his own, off the dialysis machine, awake, responsive and talking to us! So off to Canada we go, can’t wait to see him tomorrow. Will be listening to a thumping beat all the way as I look forward to saying – “this too has passed!"
I enjoyed rehearsals again on Thursday night. I probably did marginally better than the last time, in that I got a sense of how singing in unison on back up vocals (BVs in the rock band lingo) and singing a different key, while harmonizing, works. I was able to do that well enough. But I still didn’t do as well as the music director expected on keeping the beat. He kept showing me different ways of doing it, tapping my foot four times, or taking a deep breath at the pause or listening for the snare drum on the backbeat (terms I didn’t even know until last night!) but no matter what he tried I either came in a fraction of a second sooner or later. At one point I felt I was being punished as the music director set a new exercise for me. He said keep counting one…two…three…four and clapping each time you count, keep going until I ask you to stop. Well!! That is not an easy thing to do! You try doing it some time! It is like being told to write 50 times on the blackboard – “I will not miss a beat…I will not miss a beat…” I thought he would never ask me to stop. But when he saw beads of sweat trickling down my forehead he must have taken pity.
Another member of the band was nicer. He coached me on the basics of rock. Most rock music is a four beat affair he said. He suggested the best way to get a sense of the rock beat was to sit on your speakers at home or to go to any disco joint. If neither was an option and if the only place where you could listen to the music was your car then the best thing to do was to crank up the volume, and turn the bass all the way up. The thump, thump, thump, thump of the speakers would then tell you exactly where the beats were. He asked that between now and December 15th, the day of our show, I should make thumps a part of my inner constitution…like listening to my own magnified heart beat. For the next three weeks I am required to eat, drink and breathe rock.
That has never been too difficult for me. The first exposure to the Beatles, twenty something years ago and I was hooked. There was no turning back. It was the most addictive music I had ever heard. I never was able to describe the reasons for this affinity; I just knew I loved it, just as much as I loved the old Hindi film music I had grown up listening. Now I realize it is this beat, the four beats 1,2,3,4 that just get into your system and get everything thumping. I was just too much of an approximist and too distracted to pay any attention to what was going on in the BVs, the drums and the guitars. I have spent the last few hours learning about terms like downbeat (when beats 1 and 3 are stressed) and upbeat or backbeat (when 2 and 4 are stressed). Why, it works exactly like metered poetry is supposed to work! Perhaps this is why David Israel, whose creativity on this board inspires me, thinks in terms of “beats” when writing his poetry. Poetry is primarily about recitation so beats or stressed and unstressed syllables are equally important. I get it! And that snare drum, I didn’t even know which part of the six-part drum set was known as the snare drum, which is where the backbeat hangs. I am thrilled at this new learning; things that were always there for me to pick up but never before caught my attention. No wonder Bob Seger was inspired to sing – Just take those old records off the shelf/I’ll sit and listen to ‘em by myself/today’s music ain’t got the same soul/I like that old time rock ‘n’ roll – now I can hear each beat as I hum this song. This got me thinking about my other favorite type of music too – old Hindi film songs and lately Indian classical. The focus on beats in rock brought me back to my old frustration with talas. For many months now I have sought some guidance on this subject. Richa was kind enough to enlighten me a few months ago. She had also mentioned in passing, while going over Dhaa Dhin Dhin Dhaa… and teentala, that most rock music worked on this system. My only reaction then was a stunned, “Really??” Now I see it, another revelation. Ever since I started watching the effects of a pumped up bass on the shaking windows of my parked car I see her point, here are the four beats! Such are the fascinating connections that a musically illiterate person stretches to make, rock music another form of teentala??
Certainly lots of scope for idle thinking here, but it certainly lightened the mood quite a bit. And then came the best possible news – my Dad is now off the ventilator, breathing on his own, off the dialysis machine, awake, responsive and talking to us! So off to Canada we go, can’t wait to see him tomorrow. Will be listening to a thumping beat all the way as I look forward to saying – “this too has passed!"
Friday, November 10, 2006
Dad...Get Well Soon...Please
Something didn’t feel right about this trip to Las Vegas even though we have always enjoyed this particular destination in the past. The tickets had been booked several weeks ago but the initial excitement had long since faded. A and A were looking forward to this vacation and couldn’t stop talking about the fun they were going to have. It was supposed to be all work for me and I was stricken with unease on top of it all. I put it down to general exhaustion and tried to appear enthused.
I arrived at the Bellagio on Wednesday, for the first time not in the least bit impressed with this glittering bubble of a place that rises right out of the desert, this one spot of tackiness in the middle of nowhere. I have spent the last two days in conference rooms, listening to dull speeches and panel discussions. I kept thinking I would try to enjoy whatever Las Vegas had to offer on Friday, but the unease remained. Friday morning, as I tried to force down a bite or two of the continental breakfast and coffee before the three hour long conference, my cell phone rang. It was from the 613 area code. All sorts of thoughts raced through my head within the seconds that intervened between my registering the number and answering the phone. A call from Ottawa, at 9:00 AM in the morning couldn’t possibly bear good news. It was my brother. He sounded shaken up. My Dad had been taken to the emergency room of Ottawa General Hospital the night before. The doctors had told him that my Dad’s condition was as serious as serious got. They had said he couldn’t possibly get any sicker. My brother had been asked to contact all family. His voice broke up; he was in tears before he could finish his last sentence. He handed the phone to my Mom who couldn’t get a single word out through her tears. I told them I would find a way to get to Ottawa as soon as possible.
I excused myself from my colleagues and called the airlines to see if I could fly today instead of tomorrow afternoon. I asked them to find me a flight to Ottawa but they weren’t able to. They were, however, able to move up my reservation to a 2:30 PM flight today, flying into Newark airport and landing at 10:13 PM. I am writing from the plane four long hours before I land. I plan to get home by midnight, pack a few things and then drive to Ottawa. I’ll be driving all night and will reach Ottawa by 7:00 AM Saturday morning. I keep repeating the mahamrityunjaya jaap to myself, with my Dad’s smiling visage in mind as I fly, I am not able to do much else. I am only writing because I am not ready to be assailed by the thoughts that will fill my head if I don’t write.
I spoke to my brother before getting on the plane. He said the doctors had induced a comatose condition and were doing their best to get him to respond to antibiotics. He has severe pneumonia. It’s as if his immune system has given up on him completely. I am hoping he will be awake and lucid by the time I reach Ottawa tomorrow. I can’t keep the tears at bay as I think of my brother’s and my Mom’s words spoken through tears. Then I think of the conversation I had with my Dad on Tuesday, before leaving for Las Vegas.
There was a tremendous sense of urgency in his tone. I had called to check on them and make sure they were doing alright before I left for 4 days. I knew there were problems with Dad’s kidney function; his creatinine levels were high at 342. He told me that the doctors had told him that if the levels hit 500 then there would be cause for alarm, until then there was nothing they could do but monitor the levels. He had also mentioned in passing that his White Blood Cell count was very low according to his latest blood test results. But none of it sounded alarming enough for me to anticipate a drastically altered condition of health within 4 days. He sounded strong although the nature of our conversation depressed me no end. He said he was going to India in two weeks with the sole purpose of putting up the Delhi home for sale. He said that it was the only way for him to be able to support themselves in Canada, in an apartment of their own. He had given much thought to his living expenses and believed that the proceeds of the sale could cover a less than lavish existence in Canada for fifteen or so years and that he didn’t think he had fifteen years remaining.
I had told him that I was saddened beyond belief at their decision to sell that home. I find it hard to put in words the feelings that I have for the home in Delhi, but they run deep and, in some far-fetched way, they stop me from feeling unmoored sometimes. I remember how we waited several years for DDA to finish building our flat while we lived in various rented homes in Malviya Nagar. It was a proud moment indeed when Daddy took possession of the flat in 1986. Our pleasure was immense. I recall our elation and have fond memories of the day Daddy, Somi and I went to a light fixture outlet in Greater Kailash 2’s M-Block market. We hand-picked the fixtures for the light above the front door, the living room, the balcony, the terrace, our bedroom, my parents’ bedroom and the dining room…the special light that hung low over the dining table. I remember the customized furniture built by Khemchand. I recollect with pride my painting the front door a rich shade of mahogany and being commissioned to paint permanent rangoli at the doorstep of our neighbor Mrs. Satyavati. I loved it there. I loved knowing all the neighbors and listening in on the conversations as all the neighborhood women got together every afternoon to gossip with my Mom. Every room was special; the colors of the walls picked out with care after reaching familial consensus on which shade suited which room the best. I had never imagined that my parents would consider selling this home in Mandakini Enclave. I am not ready to get unmoored in this manner.
Dad sounded chagrined at my expression of regret at his decision to sell. He said, “Well, what do you propose instead? You never talk to us, you never suggest alternatives. So your Mom and I discuss things and do what we think would be best. We talked to your brother too. He seems to be in favor of selling the home. He says we should wrap things up and make a permanent move to Canada. We had a discussion a couple of days ago about our current living situation. Your Mom brought up the feeling of banishment and he angrily reminded us that we would have continued a stressed and distressed existence had we not taken this step. He reminded us that we had our dignity, our pride and our independence now. He is right, of course he is right. So now we only have one choice, we must sell the house…unless you can think of an alternative.”
I wasn’t able to come up with an alternative; my mind was abuzz with all kinds of white noises and distress signals. I kept thinking of how we went about decorating and making a home out of the house at Mandakini Enclave all those years ago. We always tried to reach consensus. My parents always solicited our opinion. We moved forward as a family. Why has life now fragmented us so? I excused myself from this phone conversation with Dad, I needed to get back to work. He asked then, “Are you tired of listening to me? Ok then, enjoy yourself in Las Vegas.” It was an unforgettable conversation, one that I keep replaying in my head as I fly eastward and as my eyes keep clouding over with tears.
I can’t help but think of the story I was reading during my trip to Las Vegas – Paul Auster’s – The Invention of Solitude. He started his story remarking on how days go by, each one the same as the one gone by until the one day there’s a phone call from a familiar place, at an odd hour, on an odd day and you know in your heart it can’t be good news. His story was about the day he heard the news about his Dad. His news wasn’t good. I choose to believe my news carries hope and that 7:00 AM tomorrow morning will be a glorious new day after which life will once again return to “normal”.
I arrived at the Bellagio on Wednesday, for the first time not in the least bit impressed with this glittering bubble of a place that rises right out of the desert, this one spot of tackiness in the middle of nowhere. I have spent the last two days in conference rooms, listening to dull speeches and panel discussions. I kept thinking I would try to enjoy whatever Las Vegas had to offer on Friday, but the unease remained. Friday morning, as I tried to force down a bite or two of the continental breakfast and coffee before the three hour long conference, my cell phone rang. It was from the 613 area code. All sorts of thoughts raced through my head within the seconds that intervened between my registering the number and answering the phone. A call from Ottawa, at 9:00 AM in the morning couldn’t possibly bear good news. It was my brother. He sounded shaken up. My Dad had been taken to the emergency room of Ottawa General Hospital the night before. The doctors had told him that my Dad’s condition was as serious as serious got. They had said he couldn’t possibly get any sicker. My brother had been asked to contact all family. His voice broke up; he was in tears before he could finish his last sentence. He handed the phone to my Mom who couldn’t get a single word out through her tears. I told them I would find a way to get to Ottawa as soon as possible.
I excused myself from my colleagues and called the airlines to see if I could fly today instead of tomorrow afternoon. I asked them to find me a flight to Ottawa but they weren’t able to. They were, however, able to move up my reservation to a 2:30 PM flight today, flying into Newark airport and landing at 10:13 PM. I am writing from the plane four long hours before I land. I plan to get home by midnight, pack a few things and then drive to Ottawa. I’ll be driving all night and will reach Ottawa by 7:00 AM Saturday morning. I keep repeating the mahamrityunjaya jaap to myself, with my Dad’s smiling visage in mind as I fly, I am not able to do much else. I am only writing because I am not ready to be assailed by the thoughts that will fill my head if I don’t write.
I spoke to my brother before getting on the plane. He said the doctors had induced a comatose condition and were doing their best to get him to respond to antibiotics. He has severe pneumonia. It’s as if his immune system has given up on him completely. I am hoping he will be awake and lucid by the time I reach Ottawa tomorrow. I can’t keep the tears at bay as I think of my brother’s and my Mom’s words spoken through tears. Then I think of the conversation I had with my Dad on Tuesday, before leaving for Las Vegas.
There was a tremendous sense of urgency in his tone. I had called to check on them and make sure they were doing alright before I left for 4 days. I knew there were problems with Dad’s kidney function; his creatinine levels were high at 342. He told me that the doctors had told him that if the levels hit 500 then there would be cause for alarm, until then there was nothing they could do but monitor the levels. He had also mentioned in passing that his White Blood Cell count was very low according to his latest blood test results. But none of it sounded alarming enough for me to anticipate a drastically altered condition of health within 4 days. He sounded strong although the nature of our conversation depressed me no end. He said he was going to India in two weeks with the sole purpose of putting up the Delhi home for sale. He said that it was the only way for him to be able to support themselves in Canada, in an apartment of their own. He had given much thought to his living expenses and believed that the proceeds of the sale could cover a less than lavish existence in Canada for fifteen or so years and that he didn’t think he had fifteen years remaining.
I had told him that I was saddened beyond belief at their decision to sell that home. I find it hard to put in words the feelings that I have for the home in Delhi, but they run deep and, in some far-fetched way, they stop me from feeling unmoored sometimes. I remember how we waited several years for DDA to finish building our flat while we lived in various rented homes in Malviya Nagar. It was a proud moment indeed when Daddy took possession of the flat in 1986. Our pleasure was immense. I recall our elation and have fond memories of the day Daddy, Somi and I went to a light fixture outlet in Greater Kailash 2’s M-Block market. We hand-picked the fixtures for the light above the front door, the living room, the balcony, the terrace, our bedroom, my parents’ bedroom and the dining room…the special light that hung low over the dining table. I remember the customized furniture built by Khemchand. I recollect with pride my painting the front door a rich shade of mahogany and being commissioned to paint permanent rangoli at the doorstep of our neighbor Mrs. Satyavati. I loved it there. I loved knowing all the neighbors and listening in on the conversations as all the neighborhood women got together every afternoon to gossip with my Mom. Every room was special; the colors of the walls picked out with care after reaching familial consensus on which shade suited which room the best. I had never imagined that my parents would consider selling this home in Mandakini Enclave. I am not ready to get unmoored in this manner.
Dad sounded chagrined at my expression of regret at his decision to sell. He said, “Well, what do you propose instead? You never talk to us, you never suggest alternatives. So your Mom and I discuss things and do what we think would be best. We talked to your brother too. He seems to be in favor of selling the home. He says we should wrap things up and make a permanent move to Canada. We had a discussion a couple of days ago about our current living situation. Your Mom brought up the feeling of banishment and he angrily reminded us that we would have continued a stressed and distressed existence had we not taken this step. He reminded us that we had our dignity, our pride and our independence now. He is right, of course he is right. So now we only have one choice, we must sell the house…unless you can think of an alternative.”
I wasn’t able to come up with an alternative; my mind was abuzz with all kinds of white noises and distress signals. I kept thinking of how we went about decorating and making a home out of the house at Mandakini Enclave all those years ago. We always tried to reach consensus. My parents always solicited our opinion. We moved forward as a family. Why has life now fragmented us so? I excused myself from this phone conversation with Dad, I needed to get back to work. He asked then, “Are you tired of listening to me? Ok then, enjoy yourself in Las Vegas.” It was an unforgettable conversation, one that I keep replaying in my head as I fly eastward and as my eyes keep clouding over with tears.
I can’t help but think of the story I was reading during my trip to Las Vegas – Paul Auster’s – The Invention of Solitude. He started his story remarking on how days go by, each one the same as the one gone by until the one day there’s a phone call from a familiar place, at an odd hour, on an odd day and you know in your heart it can’t be good news. His story was about the day he heard the news about his Dad. His news wasn’t good. I choose to believe my news carries hope and that 7:00 AM tomorrow morning will be a glorious new day after which life will once again return to “normal”.
Friday, November 3, 2006
A Day with Princess Aurora
It was still dark outside, the stars were out and she was probably in the final stages of the deepest part of her sleep cycle. I was wide awake and dressed, rushing around collecting my keys, my gloves and other things that get dumped into the cavernous spaces of my large, brown, leather bag. I was probably going to miss my bus again and I knew I was forgetting something. I ran through the list of things that I always needed to carry and couldn’t think of a single missing thing, but the feeling remained. I decided to leave. As I was walking out I caught sight of her legs. They had poked out of the blanket. I had left them there in that position as I had extricated myself from their possessive comfort about an hour ago, those tiny legs that stayed flung across my belly all night long. I smiled at her nightly request, “Mommy, can you please come to bed now so I can throw my legs around you?” And that’s where they stayed through every turn and changing of sides. For the rest of the day all I would have of her would be the memory of those cute, yet graceful legs that were peeking out from under the blanket this morning.
Another one of those days that would see us separated by 54 long miles. I would have no way of knowing how her day was going. Miss Maguire would stuff her backpack full of notes that I wouldn’t find or read until it was too late. She always draws smiley faces next to a polite request that we open up our child’s backpack for important messages from the teacher. I remember to do it three out of the five days of the week. It still hasn’t become a habit. I can foresee a time when the notes would end with frownies instead of smileys. Meanwhile the neighborhood kids are registered in gymnastics, ballet, tennis or karate classes. Their moms are dutifully transporting them from one event or another to the next thing in their busy little schedules. My daughter is surrounded by little ballerinas, black belts or gymnasts while I field stern gazes and sanctimonious lectures from the neighborhood delinquent mom patrol. I have women telling me how important it is for me to be with my child, another who wants me to do something to ease my husband’s levels of stress, apparently it’s his stress that’s making such a smoker out of him. He needs his cigarettes you see, a need of which I am unaware.
The sanctimony of gossipy neighbors aside, I was open enough to the suggestion that my family is probably not getting as much attention from me as they should be. There are signs of frayed nerves everywhere, signs that we all need our lives to take a different course. The realization that baby steps in the right direction would help me get there allowed me to spend Halloween at home. It would have been too much to ask hubby to be in charge of the costuming and make-up of Princess Aurora’s trick-or-treating day as I lived it up as a cubicle fixture at work. It was probably the best decision I had ever made. Trick-or-treat was a delight, a pure treat for me.
I had been hearing about Princess Aurora for months now. The figurine at the end of her pink umbrella was Princess Aurora I was told. I asked who Princess Aurora was and never got an answer that went beyond, “She is a princess!” No one I knew had heard of this princess, yet this is who she wanted to be for Halloween. Someone then asked if it could be Princess Sleeping Beauty and sure enough a Google search confirmed it! So now we knew! I woke up early and made sure my Princess Aurora looked pretty in pink, not a hair out of place and the tiara perched atop. Sleeping Beauty was awake, excited and radiant. This was the first time in five years that I actually took the time to enjoy Halloween with her. It isn’t an Indian celebration and it has never been a day for which I cared. I didn’t bother to dress her up as a pumpkin or a honeybee the first two years. In her third year I adapted a black sweater of mine to serve as a witch’s outfit for her, no one knew what she was supposed to be, poor thing! Last year I wasn’t around but her Grandma made sure she went out to collect her treats dressed as Cinderella, I only saw pictures. So this year was my first mother-daughter Halloween experience. It also was the first time that I waited with her at the bus stop, saw her climb up the stairs, find herself a seat in the yellow bus and wave to me for a long time as she shouted, “Bye Mommy!” while the bus pulled away. Yes there was a pressure behind my eyelids and tears were straining to spill.
I counted the hours on Halloween, staring at the clock, waiting for sunset so I could take her a-begging for treats and showing the Princess off to the neighbors. I picked her up from school, touched up her make-up and off we were! There were oohs and ahs all around as people told her how pretty she looked and dropped candy in her bag. She was beaming and I was beaming right back at her. It was a sweet day indeed.
Now it’s two days later, I couldn’t sleep past 4 AM. I am typing away, her legs are still draped around me. I stared at her for an hour before picking up the computer, observing the rapid eye movement stage of her sleep. Her eyes are moving, they are half open, I am wondering where she is in her land of dragons, unicorns, princesses and fairies, for there is a mysterious wisp of a smile on her face. And then her hand reaches out and curls around my neck.
It is still dark outside but the clock says it’s five, the time to pull myself away from the tiny limbs draped around me, leaving tiny feet peeking out from under the blanket. But I know baby steps will get me there.
Confessions of an Approximist
There is a sensation that is hard to describe. The clichéd words “deeply satisfying” may work for want of something better but it goes deeper than that. It’s what I, for one, feel when I hear The Doors – Riders of the Storm – for instance, after the words are over and in the extended version the music goes on for a very long time. The lyrics are impressive enough with their rich imagery and the wonder they create. And then the words end and the most amazing electric piano interlude continues. It penetrates each cell of your brain, the music seeps in and saturates. Sometimes getting a deep-tissue full body massage has the same effect, a feeling of satisfaction and contentment so pervasive that the masseur needs to issue a warning before you get yourself in a vertical plane again. Nothing is as deeply satisfying as perfection.
This was how I felt at the rehearsals last night, a sense of awe at the talent hidden within the people I pass by in the hallways or with whom I share a smile in the elevators. There is someone in the band who can play twenty-one instruments, the banjo being the only one he couldn’t master. Even during rehearsals he switches between the acoustic guitar, the bass guitar and the mandolin and he can sing too! There are eight musicians in the band: a drummer, three people on electric guitar, one on mandolin, a piano player and a girl on bass guitar who picked it up for the first time about six months ago. I am one of the three female back up vocalists. This is the first time I have ever been involved in such a thing and what an experience it is!
The music is fun, the people are great and the superficial aspect of the experience is as enjoyable as I had hoped it would be. However, as I sit there, observing and absorbing, I open myself to various insights and realizations about myself, about how I have been approaching this life of mine and my serious shortcomings. The other night I gave myself a new name, one that hasn’t made itself into any dictionaries yet – I think I am an approximist.
If I search my memory and relive old experiences I find that approximate has always been good enough for me. In school if the teacher asked that I “trace” out a map of Africa and bring it in the next day I felt no qualms about simply sketching it, I knew I could draw and sketch well and thought nothing about missing the nuances that the trace would have captured. I was so proud of my drawing and at the close approximation that I was stunned when my teacher deemed it unacceptable. The same trends continued throughout. I focused on the fundamentals and absorbed the big picture, details were not for me, I didn’t have enough patience for the inner workings of things. Perfectionists always bored me, most of the times I failed to see the point of the extra energy needed to render things absolutely perfect. I decided against becoming a doctor because even though life sciences fascinated me I knew a doctor was a person who could not afford to gloss over the details, something I would naturally tend to do.
But I am older now and not necessarily wiser, but trying to be, and every time I watch this attention to detail in action I find myself fascinated. Just as I have been confident in my ability to draw, sketch and paint, I have always been complacent in the realization that there isn’t a tune out there that I couldn’t pick up and sing exactly as the original was rendered. Of course I never sang to the accompaniment of an instrument and never had to pay any attention to the beats, the timing or being in sync with the musicians. I just sang and that was good enough for me and my audience of close friends and relatives. Then one day the CEO of a company I worked for a few years ago spoke to us at an annual event. He talked about being passionate about what we did – the speech wasn’t much different from your standard corporate pep talk – but as part of his presentation he played for us a recording of the making of the Beatles’ classic – Strawberry Fields. This was mesmerizing, perhaps I was the only one mesmerized, but it is quite unforgettable to me. One could hear John, Paul, George and Ringo tuning their instruments, finding the right notes, the right sounds, even the right lyrics over several iterations. They scrapped their efforts so many times before coming up with the perfect version that we hear today.
The music director and the musicians at our band were doing the same. With 11 of us in the room, the director was instructing minute revisions and combinations of harmonies, melodies, acapella segments with such frequency and such skill that we felt as if he was painting a portrait with just the right mix of colors, perspective and brushstrokes, an artist at his finest. How attuned his ears must be to the sound, to the effect our performance was likely to have on the audience! How did he know when to kill the music and go acapella and when to let the guitar or the base guitar happen and when the drums would make all the difference in the world? It was an eye-opener for me, especially since I don’t do anything with such care and such nurturing.
This was evident in my own performance. I was managing my backup vocals well enough until I was told to sing two lines from the song – Love Train by the OJs – solo: “The next stop that we make will be England/Tell all the folks in Russia and China too…”. I knew I had to do these lines solo and had been practicing in the car, in the shower, anywhere I could, all week. I thought I had the tune just right but I was to get my comeuppance at rehearsal that night. I was asked to repeat the lines ten or more times and I still couldn’t get it right. My debacle was the transition between the first and the second line. After the first line I was supposed to pause for about four beats and start the second line soon as a “clang” on the drum sounded. I was always either too quick or too slow in the transition. On another occasion I was asked to do a duet with a guy who was on guitar and standing behind me. I was required to come in at the same time as him after a lead vocalist finished harmonizing. But since he stood behind me, I could never manage coming in at the same instant, had I been attuned to listening the musical cues I wouldn’t have had this problem. Someone suggested I face him but the music director nixed that idea stating quite sternly that on stage band members should be able to coordinate without having to face each other.
What a blow to my arrogance, my complacence! Now I know that the last thing good music and singing is all about is having good vocal chords and the ability to carry a tune, timing, coordinating, being in sync go so much further and add so much finesse to that which one is creating. Choreography, concert, perfection are not to be glossed over if one is to be passionate about ones life, loves, interests…a message a certain professor conveyed to me at a musical evening in Bangalore earlier this year as well.
This was how I felt at the rehearsals last night, a sense of awe at the talent hidden within the people I pass by in the hallways or with whom I share a smile in the elevators. There is someone in the band who can play twenty-one instruments, the banjo being the only one he couldn’t master. Even during rehearsals he switches between the acoustic guitar, the bass guitar and the mandolin and he can sing too! There are eight musicians in the band: a drummer, three people on electric guitar, one on mandolin, a piano player and a girl on bass guitar who picked it up for the first time about six months ago. I am one of the three female back up vocalists. This is the first time I have ever been involved in such a thing and what an experience it is!
The music is fun, the people are great and the superficial aspect of the experience is as enjoyable as I had hoped it would be. However, as I sit there, observing and absorbing, I open myself to various insights and realizations about myself, about how I have been approaching this life of mine and my serious shortcomings. The other night I gave myself a new name, one that hasn’t made itself into any dictionaries yet – I think I am an approximist.
If I search my memory and relive old experiences I find that approximate has always been good enough for me. In school if the teacher asked that I “trace” out a map of Africa and bring it in the next day I felt no qualms about simply sketching it, I knew I could draw and sketch well and thought nothing about missing the nuances that the trace would have captured. I was so proud of my drawing and at the close approximation that I was stunned when my teacher deemed it unacceptable. The same trends continued throughout. I focused on the fundamentals and absorbed the big picture, details were not for me, I didn’t have enough patience for the inner workings of things. Perfectionists always bored me, most of the times I failed to see the point of the extra energy needed to render things absolutely perfect. I decided against becoming a doctor because even though life sciences fascinated me I knew a doctor was a person who could not afford to gloss over the details, something I would naturally tend to do.
But I am older now and not necessarily wiser, but trying to be, and every time I watch this attention to detail in action I find myself fascinated. Just as I have been confident in my ability to draw, sketch and paint, I have always been complacent in the realization that there isn’t a tune out there that I couldn’t pick up and sing exactly as the original was rendered. Of course I never sang to the accompaniment of an instrument and never had to pay any attention to the beats, the timing or being in sync with the musicians. I just sang and that was good enough for me and my audience of close friends and relatives. Then one day the CEO of a company I worked for a few years ago spoke to us at an annual event. He talked about being passionate about what we did – the speech wasn’t much different from your standard corporate pep talk – but as part of his presentation he played for us a recording of the making of the Beatles’ classic – Strawberry Fields. This was mesmerizing, perhaps I was the only one mesmerized, but it is quite unforgettable to me. One could hear John, Paul, George and Ringo tuning their instruments, finding the right notes, the right sounds, even the right lyrics over several iterations. They scrapped their efforts so many times before coming up with the perfect version that we hear today.
The music director and the musicians at our band were doing the same. With 11 of us in the room, the director was instructing minute revisions and combinations of harmonies, melodies, acapella segments with such frequency and such skill that we felt as if he was painting a portrait with just the right mix of colors, perspective and brushstrokes, an artist at his finest. How attuned his ears must be to the sound, to the effect our performance was likely to have on the audience! How did he know when to kill the music and go acapella and when to let the guitar or the base guitar happen and when the drums would make all the difference in the world? It was an eye-opener for me, especially since I don’t do anything with such care and such nurturing.
This was evident in my own performance. I was managing my backup vocals well enough until I was told to sing two lines from the song – Love Train by the OJs – solo: “The next stop that we make will be England/Tell all the folks in Russia and China too…”. I knew I had to do these lines solo and had been practicing in the car, in the shower, anywhere I could, all week. I thought I had the tune just right but I was to get my comeuppance at rehearsal that night. I was asked to repeat the lines ten or more times and I still couldn’t get it right. My debacle was the transition between the first and the second line. After the first line I was supposed to pause for about four beats and start the second line soon as a “clang” on the drum sounded. I was always either too quick or too slow in the transition. On another occasion I was asked to do a duet with a guy who was on guitar and standing behind me. I was required to come in at the same time as him after a lead vocalist finished harmonizing. But since he stood behind me, I could never manage coming in at the same instant, had I been attuned to listening the musical cues I wouldn’t have had this problem. Someone suggested I face him but the music director nixed that idea stating quite sternly that on stage band members should be able to coordinate without having to face each other.
What a blow to my arrogance, my complacence! Now I know that the last thing good music and singing is all about is having good vocal chords and the ability to carry a tune, timing, coordinating, being in sync go so much further and add so much finesse to that which one is creating. Choreography, concert, perfection are not to be glossed over if one is to be passionate about ones life, loves, interests…a message a certain professor conveyed to me at a musical evening in Bangalore earlier this year as well.