Rare is the occasion when you catch a glimpse of a smile on the shadow of your face. You know that you are alive. It is truly a rare moment.

You know you have hit middle age when your memories become more important that your dreams. - DH, S-8

The ghosts of people who had been a part of her life, were gazing upon her as she passed. They watched her as they watch every one, always hoping that the living could put aside their raging sorrow, bitterness and regret. These ghosts watch, wanting people to remember that even the most desperate life is sometimes oh so wonderful. - DH, S-8

Observations - 5

I get a total of 1 hour of non-work time on the laptop. Each day. And I spend that again in front of my other laptop. Hah.

For the last one week, I have watched Valentine's Day and Love Actually in a loop. No, I am not mooning and pining and lovesick. I am just not in the mood of anything cerebral. I finished A Fine Balance (Rohinton Mistry), The Remains of the Day (Ishiguro), Best Short Stories of Maxim Gorky and a part of Fali S Nariman's autobiography, Before Memory Fades. I admit, I read some author's works not because I know anything about them, but for the sheer need to show-off to my own self that I am reading literary fiction.

I think I have found my new love. Benedict Cumberbatch of Sherlock. Well, not typically my idea of a heartbreaker, but he looks incredibly good with dark hair instead of the horrible shock of blonde hair. The sharp and well-cut clothes only help in creating the aura that Sherlock's character is. Refreshing takes on some of ACD's most famous stories of the detective and creating new extensions, having text messages on screen rather than a cut-away shot of the hand holding the phone, Sherlock speaking as though trying to keep-up with his racing mind, the friendly (mistaken by others as gay) relationship between Sherlock and Watson (that has been the subject of much speculation but never been depicted on the screen out-rightly). Taking the cake is the writer's depiction of Moriarty, the child-like "consultant criminal" who looks at the London Tower and sticks his tongue out. It isnt hard to feel his malevolence when he says, "I will burn the heart out of you".

I have been going to a lot of movies, alone. A friend said once there is a theory that tries to observe why women find it hard(er) to go for movies alone than men. Is it because women care more for appearances than men and going to movies alone makes one look a bit (or quite) pathetic, lonely and sort-of, the quintessential middle-aged-spinster-in-dire-need-of-(male)company ? But isnt it one of those cool, being the 21st century woman-ly thing to do ? (there ought to be a sarcasm font). The truth is, I usually dont have time over the weekends and I hang-out with people who don't wait for each other to catch a movie. So, I have learned the hard way that either catch the movie at your own convenient time or miss it altogether. Tough call eh ?

Someone said that not having a place to come back to, after a hard day's work could be quite depressing. True that. What if the only place in the world that you could call home becomes an alienated place to you ? What if that place no longer feels home ? And worse still, what if you realize that you do not care anymore ? I'd say it is time to pack the bag and the baggage and move -on. Literally and otherwise.


Again, I wonder why I write this blog. Is it because of the need to show-off my writing skills (if any) ? Maybe. I would like some unknown person to come across my writings and maybe be able to connect with this part of my life that I write about. Writing helps me to order the chaotic mess of my thoughts and helps me to  remember small details of some days that might have gotten overshadowed in the rush. Most importantly, as the poet and cultural critic Matthew Arnold said, in his piece, Absence:

And we forget because we must, and not because we will.  

****
In my moments of despair, I try to recollect a conversation where you said that I am "gentle". I have come to believe in a smart piece of saying which goes, "The kindest word in all the world is the unkind word, unsaid." Call it a wisdom that comes with age, late realization or a desperate attempt to hold on to your memory.

To the Little One: From her mother and the rest of the family.

Ironically you were named after the goddess of strength. Day after day your mother would look at you and wonder if it was possible that science had erred for the better. Surely, there were scores of cases where babies fought against the odds and went-on to survive and grow-up and have a normal life. Could she dare to dream the same for you, her tiny little one ? Before going to sleep, the last sight she would have was that of you, sleeping peacefully in your cot and she would tick-off another day. Another day you had survived. Or lived ? She willed herself to not dream about the distant future where she would teach you to read and write, bequeath her huge collection of books to you, arrange your birthday parties and have heart-to-heart mother-daughter conversations. She bargained with God that she would not ask anything for herself, if only God would let you live. Surely that wasn't too much for a mother to ask for ?

During her moments of despair, she would look with at you with a single-minded concentration, as if trying to memorize every little detail of your being and consign them to her memory. She knew she would need them. Photographs weren't enough. She would whisper words of encouragement in your ears, and clasp your tiny hands in hers, as if those words and the physical connection would somehow magically transform into strength that you so needed. She would hold you to her heart and hoped that you would know how much you were loved and needed in her life.

As you began to lose the fight for your life, your mother talked to you about her own childhood and growing-up, the work she did, the aspirations she had, knowing that there was so much to tell you and so little time. She wanted you to leave the world with some memories, if it were at all possible for a two-year old to have any.  Even on the last day, she held back her tears, remembering that you would always looked around to jump into someone else's lap the moment your mother would cry, as if you could not stand her crying. As she held your hand for one last time, her lips moved in a silent prayer. Perhaps she prayed for you, for one last time, for a safe journey into the other world. Or perhaps she finally prayed for herself, for the strength she would need to fight her grief.

****

As I write this, I know you will have gone far far away from us. You have been a brave baby, you have fought hard and shown strength and resilience that we adults can only imagine and hope to have. Perhaps the source of your name was not so ironical after-all. But it was just not enough. When I was first told that you were going to come into this world, and the due-date was near my birthday, I wanted your mother to have you on the same day that I was born, so that you and I could celebrate the day together. But I guess you were in a bit of a hurry to arrive and you did, a full 48 hours in advance. You were the 21st-century baby of our family and I felt a little more older and wiser as I held you in my arms. For the record, I could foresee your mother being the strict parent, so I made full plans of spoiling you rotten.

As I write this and think about you, I can only pray and hope that you think that your time in this world has been worthy, in-spite of the pain and suffering that you endured. We all take strength from thinking that you are in a better place now without any of the suffering that you went through. You leave us with a lifetime of happy memories, making the world we live, a bit more poignantly beautiful place.

The Last Memory

I saw you that day and realized what love might be like, even ten years from now. You were standing there, as usual, waiting. I crept-up from behind and tapped you on the other shoulder. It would be cliched to say that time stood still for those three hours. And in those three hours, I wanted to fit-in the time I lost with you. My mind was trying to form the things I wanted to say to you, putting them into words and then rejecting them, thinking it would sound silly. I did not want to interrupt you speak so that I could hear your voice.

It took me three years to come to this, the idea of loving you, which would not be overwhelming, all-consuming, trying or tiring. Instead, for the first time in a really long time, I felt relief. There was no hesitation, only a wonderful realization. Were you still waiting for me ? I did not know. But it felt right to love you, no matter what the consequences would be, no matter if I had missed the proverbial bus. I could not stop smiling thinking of this. Waiting at the bus-stop, for my bus which would take me home, I realized that you were home.

Loving you gave me courage and strength. I knew my usual moments of insecurity and doubt would soon rear its head, but I was ready to deal with them. Getting to know you was like getting to know my city. The city grew-up on me and I took time to fall in love with it. But once I did, there was no going back.

I know I haven't been honest about myself with you and for that, I only have my deep regrets and anger at myself. Talking about myself has never been a strong point of mine, especially not when it involves my misdeeds and my follies.

Yet, I did. Not because I needed to share it with someone and lessen my burden, but so that you could know me at my worst. I would do anything to undo that. Sadly that is the biggest lesson one learns, that you cannot undo your actions or take back your words.

Perhaps that day, those three hours are going to be my last memory of you, with the city I love. I regret not going back and telling you how much you mean to me.

As I roam about in this city and think about our conversations, of the places I said I would take you to, relive those three hours in the coffee shop, I realize that you have become inseparable from this city. Perhaps many many years later, it will be okay visiting that coffee shop again and it will be possible to think about Lost  Palaces of the North without thinking about you. Perhaps then I will not try to find you anymore.

Three years back, you were there and I was there.

Today, I am back there.

Life goes on.

"That was the best you could ever have, a short space of perfection. Leave it like that and move on."

My Brand of Reality

The more I find acceptance with people, the more I realize I am losing my steam. I find that I have not much to fight against and life seems to be going in the general direction of boredom, mediocrity and  pointlessness. I think it is because I have very little bargaining power as far as any other aspect of my life is concerned. I have been fighting for acceptance since quite a long time. It is one of the things that occupied most of my thoughts and being. It was almost fun to know that I am swimming against the tide and I have a long way to go. I channelized my anger and angst into thinking that I am smarter, better, superior than others. It made me rationalize that I am fighting for something and not treading the usual path. I am different. And it is the inability of people to accept differences that made me feel better about my choices.

On the other hand, it is not at all a comforting thought that I need angst to make myself interesting. And more importantly, perhaps people really do not care about who you really are. Rightly so because it is too taxing and time-consuming. As long as you are what they want you to be, it is fairly easy to live. It is a remarkably easy attitude to develop, mainly because one acquires so many layers in their personality that it is simple easy for others to accept what is shown to them. I am no different. I find it easier to shrug and accept what is shown to me and refuse to go beyond that. I take refuge in the notion of "letting people be and leaving them alone and accepting them as who they really are".

Ben Okri said, in the context of his writing being tagged as "magical-realism", "Everyone is looking out of the world through their emotion and history. Nobody has an absolute reality. Everyone's reality is different."

Maybe I will keep-up my all-important angst and fight. Till I realize there wasnt much to fight against. After all you cannot win against someone who does not realize there is a fight. Or maybe I will come across my moment of victory only to realize how insignificant it really is. As usual, I try to find some resolution through this writing and more often than not, it gets me nowhere.


:)

Sometimes you have to fight for what you believe in. Even if you know you will lose the battle and fall on your face.