I never wrote anything about my October trip to the Grand Canyon and Sedona. What can one say that hasn’t been said before? It is all true, whatever they’ve said about that part of the country and the trance like effect it can induce. It is hard to tear ones eyes away from the beauty, to try to stop oneself from walking as far up to an edge as one would dare and then to look down, unable to drag oneself away from the moment, watching eagles’ nests or other birds circling in the canyon below and the Colorado River winding its way through the canyons so far away in the distance. One seeks saturation in that unspoiled beauty, a compelling desire to be absorbed into something that is bigger than oneself: the force of nature in action.
I wanted to pen a few words to preserve the memory but my words are inadequate. Which is perhaps the reason why what is even more memorable to me than the surroundings and the effect it had on me is an almost life like rendition of the canyon – oil on canvas - that graced the walls of the gift shop at one of the scenic stations. It was large; the canvas was perhaps 200 square feet in dimension. I had to inquire about it; it was the most striking landscape I had ever seen captured in paint, on canvas.
The cashier told me that the painting had taken years to complete. I asked about the artist and how he managed such an accurate perspective and such realistic coloration. She told me that he had been living deep within the canyons for several years now, that he had felt no qualms about abandoning the stresses, strains and tedium of the lives that are only too familiar to most of us. He had walked away from it all, without a second look back. That was fascinating for me, almost as fascinating as the canyons themselves. A concept that doesn’t cease to amaze no matter how clichéd it gets: walking away. So many real and fictional men have simply walked away to do what they want, to meditate, ruminate, and seek answers or oneness with a larger entity. Leaves me wondering why one hasn’t heard of too many women taking such action; some have tried, no doubt, and have in all likelihood earned vilification for being irresponsible mothers or wives or just plain insane. The idea is fascinating all the same: living in the bottom of the canyon to paint and live and live and paint.
So I’ve carried the memories of this painting back with me along with the image of an artist at the bottom of the most incredible natural phenomenon in this country. An anchored image that serves as a launching pad for a wistfulness that is complemented by the strains of R. Carlos Nakai’s flute music that we played in our top down convertible as we descended into Sedona, watching the sun set over the burnt umber mesa. The trip felt so much more like being wrapped in waves of silken caresses, like being alive and receptive to every sensation, than a mere tourist experience. If time had stopped at this juncture there wouldn’t have been any complaints.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Just be
Sometimes a good scream works wonders. Perhaps it is a corrective mechanism, a purge of sorts. The infamous lung exertion has been followed by a sense of calm, a sense of confidence and acceptance. My present circumstances are a culmination of all the choices I’ve made for myself. It’s a chain of events, something that was put in motion several years ago and will come to its natural conclusion. Why store up angst, why complain and why expect sympathy from any quarters at all? It is so much easier and safer to just be.
It seems every now and then, perhaps once a year I realize the importance of just being. The very first post on this blog and the in fact the title of the blog, Epiphany, were a result of one such moment of realization. There was another, last year, where the sensation was close to a euphoria of sorts – that’s when I had written about the book – The Piano Tuner – I had found some connection between the storytelling in that book and my euphoric feelings, I had questioned it then, called it a mirage. These are moments of truth, glowing, reassuring moments. They are hard to describe except as a rain washed summer day, after a long dry season, when the leaves are still wet and glimmering but the sun is out. Everything seems washed clean.
This was another such day, a day of acceptance. If every moment of my day needs to be choreographed to the tee, so be it. That is the way it is.
I am reading John Fowles’s – The Magus these days. I am only half way through this intriguing and astonishing novel. Today I was reading about the character of Nicholas Urfe getting hypnotized by Conchis. There was a passage describing the effects of this hypnosis:
“…a kind of mental sun-bathing after a long dark winter, an exquisitely agreeable sensation both of being aware of light and attracting it. Of having power to attract and the power to receive light.
From this stage I moved to one where it dawned on me that this was something intensely true and revealing; this being something that drew all this light upon it. I mean it seemed to reveal something deeply significant about being; I was aware of existing, and this being aware of existing became more significant than the light, just as the light had become more significant than the wind. I began to get a sense of progress, that I was transforming, as a fountain in the wind is transformed in shape; an eddy in the water. The wind and the light became mere secondaries, roads to the present state without dimensions or sensations; awareness of pure being. ….
The reality was endless interaction. No good, no evil; no beauty, no ugliness. No sympathy, no antipathy. But simply interaction….Knowing, willing, being wise, being good, education, information, classification, knowledge of all kinds, sensibility, sexuality, these things seemed superficial. I had no desire to state or define or analyze this interaction. I simply wished to constitute it – not even “wished to” – I constituted it. I was volitionless. There was no meaning. Only being.”
I smiled when I came across this passage in the book. This is the direction in which my thoughts were leaning this morning when all morning activities were accomplished like clockwork and as I was settling into the comfort of my warm window seat in the bus, opening up The Magus to the last dog-eared page. I had just wanted to be. I had wanted to be a constituent in this drama of existence without any desire to define, state or analyze my condition. I had actually said to myself that if anyone cared to ask me how I was that day I would just say, “I am.”
And this is the way to be. Just be.
It seems every now and then, perhaps once a year I realize the importance of just being. The very first post on this blog and the in fact the title of the blog, Epiphany, were a result of one such moment of realization. There was another, last year, where the sensation was close to a euphoria of sorts – that’s when I had written about the book – The Piano Tuner – I had found some connection between the storytelling in that book and my euphoric feelings, I had questioned it then, called it a mirage. These are moments of truth, glowing, reassuring moments. They are hard to describe except as a rain washed summer day, after a long dry season, when the leaves are still wet and glimmering but the sun is out. Everything seems washed clean.
This was another such day, a day of acceptance. If every moment of my day needs to be choreographed to the tee, so be it. That is the way it is.
I am reading John Fowles’s – The Magus these days. I am only half way through this intriguing and astonishing novel. Today I was reading about the character of Nicholas Urfe getting hypnotized by Conchis. There was a passage describing the effects of this hypnosis:
“…a kind of mental sun-bathing after a long dark winter, an exquisitely agreeable sensation both of being aware of light and attracting it. Of having power to attract and the power to receive light.
From this stage I moved to one where it dawned on me that this was something intensely true and revealing; this being something that drew all this light upon it. I mean it seemed to reveal something deeply significant about being; I was aware of existing, and this being aware of existing became more significant than the light, just as the light had become more significant than the wind. I began to get a sense of progress, that I was transforming, as a fountain in the wind is transformed in shape; an eddy in the water. The wind and the light became mere secondaries, roads to the present state without dimensions or sensations; awareness of pure being. ….
The reality was endless interaction. No good, no evil; no beauty, no ugliness. No sympathy, no antipathy. But simply interaction….Knowing, willing, being wise, being good, education, information, classification, knowledge of all kinds, sensibility, sexuality, these things seemed superficial. I had no desire to state or define or analyze this interaction. I simply wished to constitute it – not even “wished to” – I constituted it. I was volitionless. There was no meaning. Only being.”
I smiled when I came across this passage in the book. This is the direction in which my thoughts were leaning this morning when all morning activities were accomplished like clockwork and as I was settling into the comfort of my warm window seat in the bus, opening up The Magus to the last dog-eared page. I had just wanted to be. I had wanted to be a constituent in this drama of existence without any desire to define, state or analyze my condition. I had actually said to myself that if anyone cared to ask me how I was that day I would just say, “I am.”
And this is the way to be. Just be.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The Scream She Couldn't Forget
Her temples were throbbing and sleep was miles away. She had tried to make herself comfortable but before she knew it she had seen the green digital letters on the clock tick sixty minutes away. There were only three hours left before she would have to drag herself from bed again in preparation for yet another dreaded day.
She tried to sleep with the lights on, with the lights off, with the television on and then off nothing offered solace, there was no comfort to be found. She turned to face her sleeping child, so peaceful in repose, breathing evenly, her stuffed bear snug in the crook of her arm. She worried about dragging her out of bed three hours from now - her eyes shot through with the red of sleeplessness as various wizened voices echoed "kids need ten hours of sleep" in her head.
She felt herself losing touch with reality, little by little, sliding closer to the edge every minute of every day. She felt sure there wasn't a sane soul around that lived the next day in its entirety the day before. She was living Monday in her mind, each decision crucial, a matter of life and death, or so it seemed in the sleep deprived hours of the night. Perhaps she should take the SUV tomorrow, the road conditions were being forecasted as deadly, with black ice, and the SUV would handle well. But then the SUV was prone to stalling, what if it stalled before she reached her bus stop? As it was she was certain she wasn't going to be in time for the 9:00 AM meeting. Had her boss scheduled a 9:00 AM meeting on purpose? When the roads were icy the bus was never on time. She would start the day off on a false note and then be unprepared for an interview for a job she wasn't even sure she wanted.
Before she knew it the day would be over, the bosses would be unhappy at her abrupt exit, the coworkers would make snide remarks or offer up raised eyebrows as they surreptitiously glanced at their watches while her mind ignored them all as it shifted gears to the next few steps in this stark choreography. In the evening the roads would be icier, the traffic stickier with a good chance that her daughter could be stranded at the daycare center. Somehow they'd get home and start worrying about dinner and other nightly chores all over again.
It was only Sunday night, rather early Monday morning, and she had already lived through the horrors that she knew Monday would bring. Why did she feel she needed to do this, why not sleep instead? But sleep wouldn't come, sleep had been scared away by the scream that rent the air the day before. The scream that her daughter would not let her forget, not anytime soon. It was an outpouring of rage, one she hadn't thought herself capable of. It left her shaken and her little five year old even more so. It was directed at him. It was aimed at a perception of callousness in the relationship, at all the accusations she felt herself facing. She couldn't face them anymore, they grated, they seemed to be stripping her skin from her flesh -the words that hinted at carelessness and indifference, the how-could-you's, the why-didn't-yous, and any number of miscellaneous fallout from a scattered life.
An expected and important caller had turned around and left at 8:00 AM on Saturday morning when the sleeping family slept right through the ringing doorbell. They weren't aware they would have a visitor at 8:00 because a voicemail message had gone unheard the night before. The accusations ranged from not caring about voicemail messages, to giving people the wrong number to call, to not keeping her cell phone around, to simply not caring. She tried calling the visitor back to apologize for not answering the door and to try and schedule another appointment. But he continued in the same vein even as she was on the phone, issuing nagging instructions. That's when the bloodcurdling scream emerged, "SHUT UP, JUST SHUT THE HELL UP! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ANOTHER WORD FROM YOU! I AM ON THE PHONE, I AM TRYING TO LEAVE SOMEONE A MESSAGE, I CAN'T DO THAT AND LISTEN TO YOU AT THE SAME TIME!!!! STOP IT, GO AWAY, I DON'T WANNA SEE YOUR FACE! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!" And then she slammed the phone down on the floor, the message incomplete.
Her daughter started crying then telling her how nasty it was to scream, how she should never yell at her Daddy. She said that the screaming was so loud that her head hurt. Since January 15th, based on what she picked up at school, she has been telling her parents what a great man Martin Luther King Jr. was, how he believed in peace and non-violence and preached calm. She tells her Mom to remember MLK Jr. now and to never scream or throw anything again. Her Mom is thoroughly chastened, apologetic and ashamed at her outburst. She is not prone to such eruptions, she is generally known for an unstressed appearance and a calm demeanor under tense circumstances...except for an astrologer who once told her that she carries around a lot of rage inside. She had laughed that off. She doesn't recognize herself anymore.
It has been over twenty-four hours since the screaming incident but her daughter has mentioned it several times since then reminding her how the scream really hurt her ears and gave her a headache, that she never wanted to hear it again.
She won't hear it again, she's been told, she has been given that promise. But in the meantime her Mom's temples were still throbbing and sleep was still miles away with only two hours left to the night.
She tried to sleep with the lights on, with the lights off, with the television on and then off nothing offered solace, there was no comfort to be found. She turned to face her sleeping child, so peaceful in repose, breathing evenly, her stuffed bear snug in the crook of her arm. She worried about dragging her out of bed three hours from now - her eyes shot through with the red of sleeplessness as various wizened voices echoed "kids need ten hours of sleep" in her head.
She felt herself losing touch with reality, little by little, sliding closer to the edge every minute of every day. She felt sure there wasn't a sane soul around that lived the next day in its entirety the day before. She was living Monday in her mind, each decision crucial, a matter of life and death, or so it seemed in the sleep deprived hours of the night. Perhaps she should take the SUV tomorrow, the road conditions were being forecasted as deadly, with black ice, and the SUV would handle well. But then the SUV was prone to stalling, what if it stalled before she reached her bus stop? As it was she was certain she wasn't going to be in time for the 9:00 AM meeting. Had her boss scheduled a 9:00 AM meeting on purpose? When the roads were icy the bus was never on time. She would start the day off on a false note and then be unprepared for an interview for a job she wasn't even sure she wanted.
Before she knew it the day would be over, the bosses would be unhappy at her abrupt exit, the coworkers would make snide remarks or offer up raised eyebrows as they surreptitiously glanced at their watches while her mind ignored them all as it shifted gears to the next few steps in this stark choreography. In the evening the roads would be icier, the traffic stickier with a good chance that her daughter could be stranded at the daycare center. Somehow they'd get home and start worrying about dinner and other nightly chores all over again.
It was only Sunday night, rather early Monday morning, and she had already lived through the horrors that she knew Monday would bring. Why did she feel she needed to do this, why not sleep instead? But sleep wouldn't come, sleep had been scared away by the scream that rent the air the day before. The scream that her daughter would not let her forget, not anytime soon. It was an outpouring of rage, one she hadn't thought herself capable of. It left her shaken and her little five year old even more so. It was directed at him. It was aimed at a perception of callousness in the relationship, at all the accusations she felt herself facing. She couldn't face them anymore, they grated, they seemed to be stripping her skin from her flesh -the words that hinted at carelessness and indifference, the how-could-you's, the why-didn't-yous, and any number of miscellaneous fallout from a scattered life.
An expected and important caller had turned around and left at 8:00 AM on Saturday morning when the sleeping family slept right through the ringing doorbell. They weren't aware they would have a visitor at 8:00 because a voicemail message had gone unheard the night before. The accusations ranged from not caring about voicemail messages, to giving people the wrong number to call, to not keeping her cell phone around, to simply not caring. She tried calling the visitor back to apologize for not answering the door and to try and schedule another appointment. But he continued in the same vein even as she was on the phone, issuing nagging instructions. That's when the bloodcurdling scream emerged, "SHUT UP, JUST SHUT THE HELL UP! I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ANOTHER WORD FROM YOU! I AM ON THE PHONE, I AM TRYING TO LEAVE SOMEONE A MESSAGE, I CAN'T DO THAT AND LISTEN TO YOU AT THE SAME TIME!!!! STOP IT, GO AWAY, I DON'T WANNA SEE YOUR FACE! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!" And then she slammed the phone down on the floor, the message incomplete.
Her daughter started crying then telling her how nasty it was to scream, how she should never yell at her Daddy. She said that the screaming was so loud that her head hurt. Since January 15th, based on what she picked up at school, she has been telling her parents what a great man Martin Luther King Jr. was, how he believed in peace and non-violence and preached calm. She tells her Mom to remember MLK Jr. now and to never scream or throw anything again. Her Mom is thoroughly chastened, apologetic and ashamed at her outburst. She is not prone to such eruptions, she is generally known for an unstressed appearance and a calm demeanor under tense circumstances...except for an astrologer who once told her that she carries around a lot of rage inside. She had laughed that off. She doesn't recognize herself anymore.
It has been over twenty-four hours since the screaming incident but her daughter has mentioned it several times since then reminding her how the scream really hurt her ears and gave her a headache, that she never wanted to hear it again.
She won't hear it again, she's been told, she has been given that promise. But in the meantime her Mom's temples were still throbbing and sleep was still miles away with only two hours left to the night.
Monday, January 15, 2007
It's Time for Weather Talk
People trapped in the very local elevators of the tall buildings where they work would rather not talk to anyone. They'd rather stare at the changing numbers or surreptitiously glance at their neighbors' shoes or attire and glance back before being caught staring. However sometimes there's no choice. Like when one enters the elevator, looking at no one in particular, reaching out for the number of their floor only to realize it's already lit. It could only mean one thing - the presence of a coworker. Naturally one turns around to see the person and small talk becomes necessary. One grimaces and inwardly groans before muttering - "Nice weather!" or "I am freezing" or "What's with this weather? Now watch, we'll be cold all summer!"...all the while wishing our floor would hurry up and arrive because nothing follows small talk or weather talk or any such banality. After the last sentence is spoken there is only silence and frozen smiles on faces that underscore how little one really has in common with the person temporarily trapped with them in a shared space.
Real interactions have been this meaningless for quite sometime now...people circulating like machines, air-kissing at parties, asking how someone has been and not waiting for an answer or asking someone's name and saying "pleased to meet you" only to meet the next day, get reintroduced and say "pleased to meet you" again, as if the introduction on the previous day never happened! One wonders why bother with parties at all if really getting to know people isn't the goal? But that's a digression, even if there is no real order or planned thought behind this particular post. But a digression nevertheless. What this post is trying to be about is the dissatisfaction with such "real" interactions and a resulting fascination with "virtual" interactions.
It was a novelty once. The idea that one could get to know so many people the world over. The people one met were more giving of themselves and more willing to listen. Innermost thoughts, feelings everything was par for the course, nothing was off limits. It was exciting. Note the past tense.
Now small talk dominates even virtual interactions, it's everywhere. One always hits a plateau. In dieting, initially the pounds fly off and then you may continue dieting but starving yourself yields no further results or exercising, unless you ramp it up, you may as well be sleeping those calories off; the dreaded plateau. The only reality. No satisfaction without escalation, in learning, in living one must reach for new highs.
I have only been an online addict for two years...but I don't even remember what I did in the hours of the evening, after all my chores were done and nothing else demanded my attention, before 2004. I didn't own a laptop. Perhaps I watched a little too much TV, maybe I read? Like I said, can't really remember. For two years, after dinner and dishes, in the morning, before leaving for work, during my lunch hour at work, I kept logging on. I found many friends online, chatted with relatives I hadn't seen in a long time, some relatives I'd never met before. It was the best thing in the world.
And now the plateau threatens. The friends have nothing new to say, the laptop stays perched on me like dead weight as I wonder why I am online. Some friends come online, starting and ending conversations the same way, as if it were a ritual. Some confide, some complain, some ask how I am doing as I sense they really wouldn't care for a real answer to the question.
Some get online and use status messages to indicate that they are busy and are not to be disturbed. Making one wonder why they are online in the first place! And wonder leads to the immediate understanding that perhaps in this age of mass consciousness, a collective like intelligence, perhaps we are all collectively plateauing. The oak tree is still standing but it's hollow inside - the computer still fascinates, there's hope that someone interesting will come a-knocking or that someone will initiate a stimulating and sustained conversation. But it's empty hope. The laptop is weighing heavier by the minute. Maybe soon, the "shut down" key will be pressed and it will be forgotten, gathering dust in one corner of the house. But something else will have to take it's place first. Until then we grit our teeth and make do with "weather talk".
Real interactions have been this meaningless for quite sometime now...people circulating like machines, air-kissing at parties, asking how someone has been and not waiting for an answer or asking someone's name and saying "pleased to meet you" only to meet the next day, get reintroduced and say "pleased to meet you" again, as if the introduction on the previous day never happened! One wonders why bother with parties at all if really getting to know people isn't the goal? But that's a digression, even if there is no real order or planned thought behind this particular post. But a digression nevertheless. What this post is trying to be about is the dissatisfaction with such "real" interactions and a resulting fascination with "virtual" interactions.
It was a novelty once. The idea that one could get to know so many people the world over. The people one met were more giving of themselves and more willing to listen. Innermost thoughts, feelings everything was par for the course, nothing was off limits. It was exciting. Note the past tense.
Now small talk dominates even virtual interactions, it's everywhere. One always hits a plateau. In dieting, initially the pounds fly off and then you may continue dieting but starving yourself yields no further results or exercising, unless you ramp it up, you may as well be sleeping those calories off; the dreaded plateau. The only reality. No satisfaction without escalation, in learning, in living one must reach for new highs.
I have only been an online addict for two years...but I don't even remember what I did in the hours of the evening, after all my chores were done and nothing else demanded my attention, before 2004. I didn't own a laptop. Perhaps I watched a little too much TV, maybe I read? Like I said, can't really remember. For two years, after dinner and dishes, in the morning, before leaving for work, during my lunch hour at work, I kept logging on. I found many friends online, chatted with relatives I hadn't seen in a long time, some relatives I'd never met before. It was the best thing in the world.
And now the plateau threatens. The friends have nothing new to say, the laptop stays perched on me like dead weight as I wonder why I am online. Some friends come online, starting and ending conversations the same way, as if it were a ritual. Some confide, some complain, some ask how I am doing as I sense they really wouldn't care for a real answer to the question.
Some get online and use status messages to indicate that they are busy and are not to be disturbed. Making one wonder why they are online in the first place! And wonder leads to the immediate understanding that perhaps in this age of mass consciousness, a collective like intelligence, perhaps we are all collectively plateauing. The oak tree is still standing but it's hollow inside - the computer still fascinates, there's hope that someone interesting will come a-knocking or that someone will initiate a stimulating and sustained conversation. But it's empty hope. The laptop is weighing heavier by the minute. Maybe soon, the "shut down" key will be pressed and it will be forgotten, gathering dust in one corner of the house. But something else will have to take it's place first. Until then we grit our teeth and make do with "weather talk".
Saturday, January 13, 2007
What Can Be Done with a Stalled Plot?
Our story begins with a Dr Rahul Gulati, a son of Punjabi immigrants to the United States. Rahul was born and raised in Washington DC. He has been married before. He fell for a girl he met in college and she apparently married him for a green card. She was quick to divorce him, leaving him embittered.
Mrs. Gulati, a concerned and interfering busybody of a mom steps in. Her greatest desire is to see her only son happily married. She starts scanning India Abroad's matrimonial section for prospective brides. She isn't too ambitious, her son has been divorced once so she only circles the names of women who have been divorced before.
She initiates correspondence with the mother of a girl who fits the bill. Photographs are exchanged and a reluctant Rahul is persuaded to look through the photographs. He likes one of them. He starts a virtual relationship with a girl he believes is Harleen.
On the other side of the globe, we learn that Harleen isn't the least bit interested in marrying again. She is driven by a desire to build a career for herself and her passion and dedication to her studies is inviolable. The girl corresponding with Rahul is actually Loveleen, Harleen's married but lonely sister, a mother of two. She is married to Anand, a military man stationed in Mizoram.
The moms on either side of the globe are moving fast with their plans. Rahul's entire family is invited to Chandigarh to meet Harleen. Loveleen learns about these plans and panics. She never thought it would go so far. She believes she has no choice but to confess to Rahul. She sends him a letter of confession and an offline in Yahoo Messenger asking Rahul not to come. But Rahul has already boarded the plane before he receives either correspondence.
The Gulati family arrive and are greeted by Anand, Loveleen's husband who has just arrived from Mizoram. Loveleen is also around, waiting on the guests while the guests inquire about Harleen and are told that she isn't home. Anand and Rahul know each other, they were teenagers and classmates together before Anand ended up getting expelled from school. His family had left the US, unable to bear the disgrace. Rahul had also suffered minor consequences due to his association with Anand and Mrs. Gulati spent the entire visit staring tersely at Anand. When Harleen finally arrives she spends a few brief seconds greeting the guests before rushing upstairs to her room. She had no idea who the strangers were, why they were there. Expecting resistance from her, her parents had never told her about these plans. They had thought she would come around when she was told.
The visit had ended badly. Rahul couldn't believe how curt Harleen was with him in light of the romantic virtual relationship they had developed. He returns home, dejected. He finds the offline message and the letter of confession from Loveleen upon his return and his whole world seems to shatter. He understands the reasons for Harleen's behavior now, she didn't know him. Loveleen had made a fool of him, used him for fulfilling her fantasies.
He plunges himself into his work. He works long hours at the hospital and vows never to be bothered with les affaires du coeur. His resolve is shattered when one night he runs into Harleen at his hospital. She has been appointed the hospital administrator for the hospital at which he works. They greet each other. He reminds Harleen that he had actually been to her home in Chandigarh. She remembers, embarrassed. She had only spent a few brief seconds greeting him then. She had been too preoccupied finishing up her studies and preparing to move to the US.
This is where we left the story several months ago. What should happen next? It is clear that a story that doesn't involve all four - Rahul, Harleen, Anand and Loveleen - would feel lopsided. Their lives are intertwined and a resolution can't leave any one of them out. If this was a real life situation what might happen?
Rahul and Harleen are thrown together now. Rahul has shared virtual intimacies with Harleen's sister Loveleen. He fell in love with Harleen's photograph and Loveleen's words. But Loveleen is a married woman with kids and Harleen knows nothing about him. Besides he is still very annoyed with Loveleen for her deception.
Loveleen is clearly not happy with Anand; she seeks love elsewhere.
This is where the storyteller's beliefs come into play, I suppose. I think a marriage that is so hollow from inside shouldn't continue. However, Anand and Loveleen need to be honest with each other and talk about their difficulties. However, communication is often fraught with pitfalls. No matter how hard one tries talk often degenerates and amplifies all dysfunctional aspects. This writer has observed this particular human failure time and time again.
Rahul and Harleen, should they fall in love? Harleen is mentally less preoccupied and more settled now. Rahul thinks she is beautiful but he knows nothing about her heart, her mind. He's been burnt twice before, he's reluctant to initiate anything. But he is going to cross paths with Harleen often enough. What could this lead to? Perhaps Harleen will have to be the one to draw him out again.
What if Loveleen and Anand split up due to irreconcilable differences? What are the possibilities then? Will Loveleen make a move to the US in the hopes of getting together with Rahul? Where does Anand fit in? His character needs further definition. Perhaps he will realize how important Loveleen always was to him and make every attempt to woo her back. Maybe he'll follow her to the US and his jealousy will reignite his passion for his ex-wife? What would be an ideal ending?
I do want to complete this mixed up, potboiler of a story even though I had just started it for a larkk and no real plans. Some people have taken a liking to it and they are haunting me and taunting me (you know who you are :D ). So let's see what we can do!
Mrs. Gulati, a concerned and interfering busybody of a mom steps in. Her greatest desire is to see her only son happily married. She starts scanning India Abroad's matrimonial section for prospective brides. She isn't too ambitious, her son has been divorced once so she only circles the names of women who have been divorced before.
She initiates correspondence with the mother of a girl who fits the bill. Photographs are exchanged and a reluctant Rahul is persuaded to look through the photographs. He likes one of them. He starts a virtual relationship with a girl he believes is Harleen.
On the other side of the globe, we learn that Harleen isn't the least bit interested in marrying again. She is driven by a desire to build a career for herself and her passion and dedication to her studies is inviolable. The girl corresponding with Rahul is actually Loveleen, Harleen's married but lonely sister, a mother of two. She is married to Anand, a military man stationed in Mizoram.
The moms on either side of the globe are moving fast with their plans. Rahul's entire family is invited to Chandigarh to meet Harleen. Loveleen learns about these plans and panics. She never thought it would go so far. She believes she has no choice but to confess to Rahul. She sends him a letter of confession and an offline in Yahoo Messenger asking Rahul not to come. But Rahul has already boarded the plane before he receives either correspondence.
The Gulati family arrive and are greeted by Anand, Loveleen's husband who has just arrived from Mizoram. Loveleen is also around, waiting on the guests while the guests inquire about Harleen and are told that she isn't home. Anand and Rahul know each other, they were teenagers and classmates together before Anand ended up getting expelled from school. His family had left the US, unable to bear the disgrace. Rahul had also suffered minor consequences due to his association with Anand and Mrs. Gulati spent the entire visit staring tersely at Anand. When Harleen finally arrives she spends a few brief seconds greeting the guests before rushing upstairs to her room. She had no idea who the strangers were, why they were there. Expecting resistance from her, her parents had never told her about these plans. They had thought she would come around when she was told.
The visit had ended badly. Rahul couldn't believe how curt Harleen was with him in light of the romantic virtual relationship they had developed. He returns home, dejected. He finds the offline message and the letter of confession from Loveleen upon his return and his whole world seems to shatter. He understands the reasons for Harleen's behavior now, she didn't know him. Loveleen had made a fool of him, used him for fulfilling her fantasies.
He plunges himself into his work. He works long hours at the hospital and vows never to be bothered with les affaires du coeur. His resolve is shattered when one night he runs into Harleen at his hospital. She has been appointed the hospital administrator for the hospital at which he works. They greet each other. He reminds Harleen that he had actually been to her home in Chandigarh. She remembers, embarrassed. She had only spent a few brief seconds greeting him then. She had been too preoccupied finishing up her studies and preparing to move to the US.
This is where we left the story several months ago. What should happen next? It is clear that a story that doesn't involve all four - Rahul, Harleen, Anand and Loveleen - would feel lopsided. Their lives are intertwined and a resolution can't leave any one of them out. If this was a real life situation what might happen?
Rahul and Harleen are thrown together now. Rahul has shared virtual intimacies with Harleen's sister Loveleen. He fell in love with Harleen's photograph and Loveleen's words. But Loveleen is a married woman with kids and Harleen knows nothing about him. Besides he is still very annoyed with Loveleen for her deception.
Loveleen is clearly not happy with Anand; she seeks love elsewhere.
This is where the storyteller's beliefs come into play, I suppose. I think a marriage that is so hollow from inside shouldn't continue. However, Anand and Loveleen need to be honest with each other and talk about their difficulties. However, communication is often fraught with pitfalls. No matter how hard one tries talk often degenerates and amplifies all dysfunctional aspects. This writer has observed this particular human failure time and time again.
Rahul and Harleen, should they fall in love? Harleen is mentally less preoccupied and more settled now. Rahul thinks she is beautiful but he knows nothing about her heart, her mind. He's been burnt twice before, he's reluctant to initiate anything. But he is going to cross paths with Harleen often enough. What could this lead to? Perhaps Harleen will have to be the one to draw him out again.
What if Loveleen and Anand split up due to irreconcilable differences? What are the possibilities then? Will Loveleen make a move to the US in the hopes of getting together with Rahul? Where does Anand fit in? His character needs further definition. Perhaps he will realize how important Loveleen always was to him and make every attempt to woo her back. Maybe he'll follow her to the US and his jealousy will reignite his passion for his ex-wife? What would be an ideal ending?
I do want to complete this mixed up, potboiler of a story even though I had just started it for a larkk and no real plans. Some people have taken a liking to it and they are haunting me and taunting me (you know who you are :D ). So let's see what we can do!
Friday, January 12, 2007
Idle Mind...Ranter's Paradise
It hasn’t been too cold this year, call it El Niño or global warming, something’s up. But I am not complaining, if winters were always like this I would be someone who is heard saying – I love the changing of seasons. It’s all a part of living in the present and forgetting for the moment that this could signal a very bleak future for us during our lifetime. But I better stop before I get carried away with this “nostalgia for the present”.
This has been an easy day so far. A half day at work, lots of time to write. I should make the most of it. Yet I sit here making plans about what could make this a perfect day. The clock ticks as I make these plans. There is probably a little person inside my brain, scribbling something in a notebook then scratching out what she’s written, tearing the page from the notebook and balling it up to play trash can basketball. I am sitting here catching up with all the daytime soap operas. I get to see these maybe 2-3 times a year but the story is almost always at the same place, no one ages, no one changes, The Young and The Restless are forever young and restless and so are the bold and the beautiful. I channel surf a little bit. I stop at Doordarshan which is now a part of my cable TV line up. Homi Adijania, the writer of Being Cyrus is being interviewed by a guy called Ashok Vyas, who is trying to sound as if he knows the distinction between w and v sounds. Homi talks about writing the story as a narrative and thus having complete control of the script and the plot as a result. He’s asked about his decision to stay from the standard Bollywood format of breakout song and dance sequences.
That gets me pondering Hindi films and their long tradition of break out song and dance sequences. How did this operatic style come about? Generations of Indians have grown up around classic musicals and know the names of the movies, the lyricists, the music directors and singers. It is a passion for many, yours truly included. But when I think about all the black and white classics that were broadcast over Delhi Doordarshan every Sunday as I was growing up, I remember being entranced and never once thinking (even as a more grown up and rational person) how out of place or unnatural it was to see actors and actresses mouthing serious, romantic or humorous dialogues one minute and singing and dancing the next. To my mind, the songs always fit in, they enhanced the story telling, those movies wouldn’t have been the same without their music. Now I watch Salman Khan and some unrecognizable and skimpily clad new Indian actress (they all look the same) energetically dancing on the cobble-stoned streets of some European city and wonder where things went wrong, when they stopped seamlessly complementing the story.
So back to the writer of Being Cyrus, a young person, confident in his abilities to step away from the run-of-the-mill absurdities, willing to create something that can garner fame and international recognition, rejecting all stereotypes. But once again, why isn’t this a seamless transformation? Why is there an air of trying too hard? Of wanting people to applaud ones desire to be different? Is applause the goal? Is appearing different the goal? Why does this seem insincere to me, as if doing meaningful things isn’t a natural extension of oneself, as if being better in comparison is the goal?
This thought leads to another one about vegans. I was reading something in the news about vegans. They shun leather, silk, fur, meat, even shoes where the glue was animal product based. The ideals are commendable, environmentally conscious, and more humane. But then there’s talk of advertising campaigns, marketing campaigns, new stores, new promotions that are focused on making the vegan lifestyle appear “sexy”, “coveted”, in turn enriching companies and corporations that will add the consumerist touch to it all. The same goes for the ubiquitous pink bags, purses, bracelets or any number of pink accessories and clothing. One buys these in the hopes that they are doing their bit for breast cancer in an effortless, painless way. One can continue ones indulgent behavior with the promise of trickle down charity in the background. What portion of this obscene spending actually ends up going to the intended cause?
However, I didn’t intend for this to be a rant. My glass house keeps me from casting too many stones. Although I can’t help wondering about the woman in Florida who was so tempted by a long and luxurious looking chinchilla fur coat on the cover of a glossy magazine that she flipped the covers to find the 1-800 number of the store that sold it and placed a phone order for this $65,000 extravagance! My daughter used to own a pet chinchilla, an adorably soft and cuddly animal, about half the size of a rabbit. This ankle length fur coat had several 6”X2” panels of fur stitched together. I was wondering how many chinchillas had to be killed so someone could spend $65,000 for a coat they would never need in sunny Florida. It’s an eye-popping story for me!
Such thoughts naturally lead to the millions of hungry men, women and children dying from hunger, disease, lack of medicines, misappropriated aid funds, corrupt, vested interests and to an article in The Economist about the Indian state of Bihar where kidnappings for ransom are supposedly down from 214 in a year to 166 under the new CM Nitish Kumar’s watch. Certainly something to celebrate, what say? The article also quotes a police official making a case for progress by saying that crimes were committed in the daytime before and are now restricted to the hours of the night. I am sure nighttime crimes are infinitely more preferable to the residents of the state than daytime ones. There was also some mention of 54% of this state’s under-fives being malnourished; higher than the 47% rate found outside the state of Bihar, which in itself is worse than sub-Saharan Africa! This in a country whose economy is allegedly booming, where four satellites were launched in one go, a land of any number of corporate successes, a nation that is certainly considered newsworthy by business publications the world over, a country I love and hate to see as possessing the leading edge in a malnourishment statistic, beating out sub-Saharan Africa. Let’s hope Mr Nitish Kumar can do more for this sorry state of my ancestors (pun intended) than chasing Laloo and Rabdi’s old cows away from the chief minister’s residential compound and replacing Remington typewriters with computers in government offices.
I see that the little person within my brain has found a lot to rant about; she hasn’t balled up scrap pieces of paper in sometime. Meanwhile, several more hours have gone by, the sun is about to set, a whole minute later than it set yesterday. That is certainly cause for cheer. The days are getting longer as life gets more pathetic. I suddenly realize that never before have I paid such close attention to the exact time of sunsets and sunrises, or the phases of the moon or worried about planning my attire a night earlier, after listening to the weather channel. When did these things become important? Maybe it is the phase that precedes the geriatric predilection with circadian rhythms and routines, bowel movements and other bodily functions or malfunctions. Maybe in mid-life one starts with worrying about external minutiae and as the years go by the attention is turned more and more inward, as if one was imploding, or getting swallowed in within ones own being.
A part of me is celebrating this three day reprieve. It’s a long weekend and I am full of hope at this moment with plans to use it “wisely”. That’s in quotes because I haven’t defined that word for myself yet. I know I am always left with a strange sense of regret at the end of every long break, mourning the wasted time, the lost hours of inertia that served to heal absolutely nothing and the cold plunge into the upcoming mindless work week that promises to be no different from that of a hamster’s time on its wheel.
Maybe I’ll write something I can be proud of, maybe I’ll end the procrastination on some pending projects, or maybe I’ll just concentrate on getting at least six hours of sleep everyday. Any number of those things could be considered “wiser” than the most likely possibility of paralyzing inertia. Let’s see how it goes.
This has been an easy day so far. A half day at work, lots of time to write. I should make the most of it. Yet I sit here making plans about what could make this a perfect day. The clock ticks as I make these plans. There is probably a little person inside my brain, scribbling something in a notebook then scratching out what she’s written, tearing the page from the notebook and balling it up to play trash can basketball. I am sitting here catching up with all the daytime soap operas. I get to see these maybe 2-3 times a year but the story is almost always at the same place, no one ages, no one changes, The Young and The Restless are forever young and restless and so are the bold and the beautiful. I channel surf a little bit. I stop at Doordarshan which is now a part of my cable TV line up. Homi Adijania, the writer of Being Cyrus is being interviewed by a guy called Ashok Vyas, who is trying to sound as if he knows the distinction between w and v sounds. Homi talks about writing the story as a narrative and thus having complete control of the script and the plot as a result. He’s asked about his decision to stay from the standard Bollywood format of breakout song and dance sequences.
That gets me pondering Hindi films and their long tradition of break out song and dance sequences. How did this operatic style come about? Generations of Indians have grown up around classic musicals and know the names of the movies, the lyricists, the music directors and singers. It is a passion for many, yours truly included. But when I think about all the black and white classics that were broadcast over Delhi Doordarshan every Sunday as I was growing up, I remember being entranced and never once thinking (even as a more grown up and rational person) how out of place or unnatural it was to see actors and actresses mouthing serious, romantic or humorous dialogues one minute and singing and dancing the next. To my mind, the songs always fit in, they enhanced the story telling, those movies wouldn’t have been the same without their music. Now I watch Salman Khan and some unrecognizable and skimpily clad new Indian actress (they all look the same) energetically dancing on the cobble-stoned streets of some European city and wonder where things went wrong, when they stopped seamlessly complementing the story.
So back to the writer of Being Cyrus, a young person, confident in his abilities to step away from the run-of-the-mill absurdities, willing to create something that can garner fame and international recognition, rejecting all stereotypes. But once again, why isn’t this a seamless transformation? Why is there an air of trying too hard? Of wanting people to applaud ones desire to be different? Is applause the goal? Is appearing different the goal? Why does this seem insincere to me, as if doing meaningful things isn’t a natural extension of oneself, as if being better in comparison is the goal?
This thought leads to another one about vegans. I was reading something in the news about vegans. They shun leather, silk, fur, meat, even shoes where the glue was animal product based. The ideals are commendable, environmentally conscious, and more humane. But then there’s talk of advertising campaigns, marketing campaigns, new stores, new promotions that are focused on making the vegan lifestyle appear “sexy”, “coveted”, in turn enriching companies and corporations that will add the consumerist touch to it all. The same goes for the ubiquitous pink bags, purses, bracelets or any number of pink accessories and clothing. One buys these in the hopes that they are doing their bit for breast cancer in an effortless, painless way. One can continue ones indulgent behavior with the promise of trickle down charity in the background. What portion of this obscene spending actually ends up going to the intended cause?
However, I didn’t intend for this to be a rant. My glass house keeps me from casting too many stones. Although I can’t help wondering about the woman in Florida who was so tempted by a long and luxurious looking chinchilla fur coat on the cover of a glossy magazine that she flipped the covers to find the 1-800 number of the store that sold it and placed a phone order for this $65,000 extravagance! My daughter used to own a pet chinchilla, an adorably soft and cuddly animal, about half the size of a rabbit. This ankle length fur coat had several 6”X2” panels of fur stitched together. I was wondering how many chinchillas had to be killed so someone could spend $65,000 for a coat they would never need in sunny Florida. It’s an eye-popping story for me!
Such thoughts naturally lead to the millions of hungry men, women and children dying from hunger, disease, lack of medicines, misappropriated aid funds, corrupt, vested interests and to an article in The Economist about the Indian state of Bihar where kidnappings for ransom are supposedly down from 214 in a year to 166 under the new CM Nitish Kumar’s watch. Certainly something to celebrate, what say? The article also quotes a police official making a case for progress by saying that crimes were committed in the daytime before and are now restricted to the hours of the night. I am sure nighttime crimes are infinitely more preferable to the residents of the state than daytime ones. There was also some mention of 54% of this state’s under-fives being malnourished; higher than the 47% rate found outside the state of Bihar, which in itself is worse than sub-Saharan Africa! This in a country whose economy is allegedly booming, where four satellites were launched in one go, a land of any number of corporate successes, a nation that is certainly considered newsworthy by business publications the world over, a country I love and hate to see as possessing the leading edge in a malnourishment statistic, beating out sub-Saharan Africa. Let’s hope Mr Nitish Kumar can do more for this sorry state of my ancestors (pun intended) than chasing Laloo and Rabdi’s old cows away from the chief minister’s residential compound and replacing Remington typewriters with computers in government offices.
I see that the little person within my brain has found a lot to rant about; she hasn’t balled up scrap pieces of paper in sometime. Meanwhile, several more hours have gone by, the sun is about to set, a whole minute later than it set yesterday. That is certainly cause for cheer. The days are getting longer as life gets more pathetic. I suddenly realize that never before have I paid such close attention to the exact time of sunsets and sunrises, or the phases of the moon or worried about planning my attire a night earlier, after listening to the weather channel. When did these things become important? Maybe it is the phase that precedes the geriatric predilection with circadian rhythms and routines, bowel movements and other bodily functions or malfunctions. Maybe in mid-life one starts with worrying about external minutiae and as the years go by the attention is turned more and more inward, as if one was imploding, or getting swallowed in within ones own being.
A part of me is celebrating this three day reprieve. It’s a long weekend and I am full of hope at this moment with plans to use it “wisely”. That’s in quotes because I haven’t defined that word for myself yet. I know I am always left with a strange sense of regret at the end of every long break, mourning the wasted time, the lost hours of inertia that served to heal absolutely nothing and the cold plunge into the upcoming mindless work week that promises to be no different from that of a hamster’s time on its wheel.
Maybe I’ll write something I can be proud of, maybe I’ll end the procrastination on some pending projects, or maybe I’ll just concentrate on getting at least six hours of sleep everyday. Any number of those things could be considered “wiser” than the most likely possibility of paralyzing inertia. Let’s see how it goes.