The wagtail tells me....

I was just browsing through the Insti e-Notice Boards this morning on the internal messenger, when I came across this post titled, “Winter is here!”. It proceeded to give me a description of how the wagtail from the Himalayas had been spotted at the Louis Kahn Plaza, and there could be no better indication of the same. The wagtail, a small sparrow like bird comes down to the warmer climes of the plains in the winter, it stated. Further more, there was a picture to go with the post.

Memories came flooding back - of all those childhood scouting adventures, to see this bird and that; of reading a zillion Enid Blytons that introduced you to the English countryside following which you hoped in vain for daisies and lilies and daffodils to spring up at your doorstep; of discovering little sparrow nests on the store room fan in grand ma’s dilapidated home every summer; of nursing baby squirrels that had fallen off tree boughs.

Where have all those times gone? Whatever happened to being curious every moment about everything around you? Why don’t I stop to see those birds and flowers anymore?
And so today, the wagtail told me -

"indeed, as in the poem, by William Henry Davies
What is life if, full of care?
You(we) have no time to stand and stare"

Tell me what you think...

It's been a long time since I posted something not personal on the blog. Well, that would actually be the wrong adjective to use, because most of all I write affects me at some deep level. BUt then, I've noticed, each time I write something about women, or anything with remotely feminist tones, even the meagre 1/2/3 comments dry up. I wonder why.

I have heard a lot about being the quintessentail feminist, and about being incapable of thinking objectively when it comes to issues on women. I've given up trying to deny all of this. Isn't it natural to feel a little more for something that affects women, given you're one? It's like trying to defend someone's choice of India as best cricket team, simply because it's yours (let's set aside dismal present)! You feel a wee bit more strongly than normally.

Anyways, I often wish something that I write on this whole subject of women would be even mildly controversial enough to provoke some reaction; from ANYBODY. Evidently, I am either way too intimidating, or simply not good enough a writer. But I am trying, this time round because this whole controversy over a spate of incidents in Chennai kicked up a lot of fuss on my College discussion forum. The drama unfolds in perfect series of cliches.

A celebrity (who else but an actress, do we have any outside that fraternity?) voiced her opinion on pre-marital sex, and she was burnt in paper a thousand times over. The usual 'moral dress code'(will I ever understand what moral dress is? ) enforced in Engineering Colleges throughout Anna University added fuel. And the 'outrageous' women groups drinking in a 5 star hotel's bar and kissing their boy friends on the dance floor.

The stories are so drab I wonder how they still manage to kick up some semblance of a passion to moral police in the protagonists. Yes, so the women were reduced to unreproducible abuses. They were termed blots on the rich Tamil culture. They had defied the good tamil ponnu, and been worse than men(wonder why taht would be a benchmark!).

It set me thinking. I've been through this whole college moral dress code crap. I think the two years when I was in such an institue were my most regressive. I couldnt be more glad they were sandwiched between times spent at reasonably forward looking Bhavan's and fairly open minded BITS. I use qualifiers for both schools because nothing is a generalisation. The intolerant and narrow minded, as would fit my definition existed there too.

There are arguments about how when you are seventeen, you don't know what's good for you. That even if you did, your actions affect a larger group of youngsters who're out to ape you, and so it isn't ok to be seen in rising hems. That's a lot of nonsense to dish out.

Your ability to discern what is right and wrong, what is appropriate and what's not is a direct function of your upbringing, and no one else's. If you didn't learn it from your folks, you'd still be smart enough to pick up acceptable stuff from your environment. If you aren't, I think people around and the environment itself is smart enough to teach you. It's just that the foundation's gotta be right. And if it isn't, you're screwed any which way. You'll find the hard way out. So why put everyone through some crazy rule set when you're old enough to be using a sane head!

To argue that provocative dressing is what gets the men started is to tell those men not to be bothered with imbibing the right set of values and attitudes. When everything is just a reaction to external stimulus, why bother with getting anything internally right? And when questioned about the rationale, the response is that dress codes are equally applicable to men and women.

Now, this got me charged. This is a possible digression, but seriously, we're all harping about equality all the while. Even the men are! But what do we make of this business? To me, it's all really simple. In my head there are three sets into which all work and deed can be divided. You respect the men for all that they can solely do. The men respect the women for all that the are solely capable of achieving. And you learn to accept the fact that there is stuff both of you can do equally well, whatever the metric. And though this may not have been the case early on, it is today, and you accept that gracefully, and get on with the job! It is really isn't a constant one- upmanship game. No.

Anyways, coming back to the Chennai thing. There's lots on who does and does not have a right to wield the moral whip. I don't think anyone does. Actually, honestly I don't care. That's besides the point.

To my mind, the problem is more fundamental. It's about the way you are brought up. It's about the formal systems that exist in the average Tamil family for example that instill certain stereotypes in the young mind. The formal dealings between sister and brother the moment they are teenagers, is a case in point. You may argue about still being able to physically fight your older sister, but please pause and probe a little deeper, and you'll see what I mean.

Why are we so hell bent on establishing clearly defined roles for everyone to fit into? Why must we always have preconceived notions and pictures of what we want our daughters, sisters, mothers, sons, brothers, etc to be, irrespective of the individual? If we didn't know by the time we were 15 exactly what to expect of our wife 12 years down the line, we wouldn't look at every potential woman at College and evaluate her against this set paradigm. If we weren't brought up to believe we own certain individuals, simply beacuse they fulfil certain roles in our lives, we wouldn't go ballistic about their attributes being sized up by some other man. We wouldn't feel threatened by their 'independence streak', beacuse we wouldn't extrapolate their drinking/smoking or late night partying to some extraordinary, frivolous behavior. We would be wise enough to look at an individual's trait for what it is, and take it or leave it.

That in essence is the issue, to my mind. This failure to discern one individual from another; to see him or her as someone beyond and above the role. At first level, it's the daughter/son, mother/father stereotype. At the second, it's the boy/girl stereotype. And you have to transcend both before you begin to cease passing judgment, and view things in free spirit and mind.

This one's special.

I don’t know why I am writing this. It just seems to me that it’ll always be a job half done. I could never write well enough to convey all that I want to. And yet, at this moment, I feel like I simply must.

There are certain people who just make that big impression on you. It could be wrong or right. And very often, it wants to be both; alternating all the while. It’s fun getting to know them, because they affect the way you think all the while. You evolve. The way you think evolves. It’s pretty.

And then there are times when you just can’t stand their guts. Yeah, you know they can’t stand yours either. But what the heck? They seem to want to drill holes into your every argument. They always take the opposite side when you have something to say. It’s almost as if you’ve had a strange day if the great daily confrontation hasn’t occurred.

He’s just one of those guys. When I was first introduced to him, I thought to myself, “Here’s one of those typical boys’ school products.” I spoke to him when situations threw us together. I was very amused when he used to get all uncomfortable with the silly juvenile teasing.

Second year in college loosened up things a bit. And we got talking. He has this insane urge to tease you about anything that catches his attention. And he’s good at it. I am a decent sport. So we hit it off. It’s beautiful when you build a rapport with a potential friend. Soon you begin to predict what the other person will say, and semantics of a different kind take over. I built that with him through semester three, and we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. Over this and that. He even did some outrageous stuff like spill the beans over my only crush ever. And I don’t think I quite forgive him for that even today. But it was all fun.

That’s not to say the arguments didn’t happen. They were perennial. And in retrospect, the foundations of a very firm friendship. But boy, did I go through a phase when I thought I couldn’t dislike someone more. For his disinterest in the events of my life. For his dismissiveness of problems that were insurmountable to my mind. For his infinite capacity to label me this and that.

He was worse. Not only did he hate me, he couldn’t even bear to talk to me. Honestly, I’ve never sat and thought about what I could have done to spark off something so strongly disagreeable. And yes, perhaps we both thought we’d hit an impasse.

But then there’s this thing about special friendships. They just don’t die. And they love to bounce back. So, so did this one. And beautifully.

And it grew with each passing moment. It’s a little funny how it all happened, when there was hardly any time to spend together. There were departments to be run, and project exhibitions to be won. And yet, through all that, there was unspoken support and just being there. Not that either of us really needed it. Actually, I don’t know about me. But we’d hit the comfort zone. And it needed no effort.

I can’t count on my fingers, toes and everything else put together ten times over, the number of times I have wanted to crib about the silliest thing. It’s painful to remember the times I’ve wanted to feel like the sole victim walking the earth. It’s scary to imagine how outrageous and inconsolable I must’ve sounded, explaining the zillion things that haunted my mind. And yet, each time, in not the kindest, yet the most sensible ways he taught me to DEAL with life. To face it upfront, to be honest to myself, and most importantly, to always believe.

Life’s moved on. Today, as I live a relatively calmer, more settled second year in business school; he’s braving a second year’s tryst with robotics. Boy, did he see me through a hellish first year at IIMA! There wasn’t a single thing I didn’t feel like complaining about, and there wasn’t one of those things he couldn’t rationalize, justify and explain to me to be most natural and hence acceptable. He pampered me in my most difficult moments, and never let me feel silly or small about anything.

And again, as clichéd and repetitive as I might sound, I want to risk it. Again, he made me believe in myself, in my capacity to do a good job, in my ability to use my judgment when it came to relationships. He believed in my honesty towards causes, certain actions. He began to understand like no one else my need to be silly, do downright dumb stuff, every now and then. He saw why I did the things I did, and just let me be. It gave me strength to believe more and more strongly in the concept.

I hate to sound this sentimental. I can almost predict my best buddy’s reaction to this post. He’s probably the only one who reads my blog. I’ve had issues with telling the world I write. But this one time, I hope everyone else reads too.

There are going to be addendums to this post. Firstly, because I simply can’t put all that I want together. Secondly, because I just don’t anticipate growing up, and giving up the silliness and the stupidity in the longest time. And finally, because every now and then, I know there will be in me this undeniable urge to chronicle all that he’s done for me, and all that I know he’ll always do for me, whenever I need it.

Here’s to slow cycle rides, Sank. Love you lots.

2042 - an Introduction to my autobiography.

It is a warm summer morning, in a little corner of Bangalore. The year- 2042. The first day of February. As the sun shines through the wooden chequered glass window, and forms patterns on thick handmade paper, I settle down in the tall hard backed chair that looks out.

The matching sturdy deep brown raw wooden amoeba table is cluttered. Sheafs of paper cover the minature laptop, which is my latest gizmo acquisition. The outlook ver 52.03 shows up a million darkened subject lines. They all read the same. They wish me well as I begin a new life. My ancient cell phone lies on the side, popping up a list of calls unattended to. A few books lie strewn around, some still ensconced in wrapping paper. My tall glass of tea squirms, jostles and settles down amidst all this.

Music plays in the background. Soft, melodious Kanada on the flute. Soon, the system that occupies most of this special room will play Simon and Garfunkel. Dangling Conversation, may be? Well, speculating on song lists still retains its charm.

White smoke wafts into the room. It’s almost surreal. There is a beautiful blend of the old and the new. A perfect mix of tradition and modernity. A wonderful atmosphere that breathes the present, while it listens to nostalgia.

Indeed, it’s a milestone. Not obvious or one that makes a statement. Not one that clearly demarcates one era from another. Yet, turning sixty has been a celebration for as long as I can remember. It may not be a grand Sashtiabdhapoorthi. But the cake shall be cut, the candles shall be blown, and the dinner had outside with family.

It’s also time to action the promise, made somberly many years ago. To write about the life I have lived. I thought I would have a string of adjectives to qualify it. Long? Well, it hasn’t seemed so in 21915 days. Accomplished? I can’t even begin to not refute that. All that incomplete work lying around me is staring back in indignation. Perfect? My ego wouldn’t let that pass. I have to leave a little space to feel victimized, you see. Demanding, disappointing, hopeless simply aren’t allowed. Beautiful? It comes to mind. Timid, suggested with the merest whisper. Umm…hmmm…ah…well…may be. Hell! Actually. At least it comes close. May be I am glossing over a lot of uncomfortable times. May be its just acceptable because it’s comforting.

But it fits. Intuitively. And so, it qualifies. Temporarily? Perhaps. On a relative scale? Certainly. In sadness and in joy? Affirmative.

Life is beautiful.

And I wonder if I thought as much when I was twenty three. It was the first time I tried to chronicle my few days of being. Did I think as much about the perfect word to describe my life when I was twenty three? Did I imagine what it would be like? Did I dream without restraint, and promise, without deliberation?